#HE'S A MODEST SNAKE AFTER ALL....

[winterdesu]

the idea is, what if yakumo wore a qipao.

[merakiui]

[0] 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢.

yandere!twst x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, non-consensual touching, power imbalance, abuse of power, descriptions of religious imagery, attempted non-con, hypocrisy, solitary confinement, rollo is immensely creepy, archaic mindsets and logic masterlist // prologue (you are here) // one

Without a shred of sympathy, discarded like dross, you are thrown before Father Flamme’s feet.

You have enough grace and dignity to resist the urge to grasp at his robes and beg for forgiveness. Instead, you condemn yourself to silence, allowing his piercing stare to stab through you with a judgment so precise it might just slice the skin from your skeleton. Your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips, and you can almost taste his disapproval, much like a snake might parse chemical witchery in the air.

“Lift your head, if you would,” he commands gently, and you do as you’re told. He folds his arms over his chest and looks on, cold as winter’s frost. You watch his finger tap out a soundless rhythm. “I must ask of you, Sister, to provide reason to your recent absences. As a child of God, you have taken oath to follow His wise teachings and devote yourself to serving this church. Am I wrong?”

“You speak wise and true.” You rise to your feet and, ignoring the brutes who so rudely cast you forward in the first place, bow your head in apology. Father Flamme waves them out without sparing so much as a second glance. “You are right that it is my duty to serve the church. I ought to be doing just that and yet I have failed to do so. Undeserving I may be, I ask that you pardon my negligence.”

Father Flamme hums. Standing in front of the altar, backdropped by a stained glass depiction of the crucifixion, he is bathed in a colorful, angelic array. He strides towards you, covering the short distance in just a few clicks, and places his hand upon your shoulder. You’re led from the steps and down the aisle. It feels more like you’re being brought away for slaughter, a lamb primed for punishment.

“There is no doubt you are genuine in all that you do,” he notes, sliding his hand down your arm. Those slender, spidery digits curl into your woolen sleeve. “You are impartial and well-bred, a woman of impressive patience and virtue. Qualities of which arouse an admiration most potent.”

You know the rest of your convent is much the same, which is why it puzzles you that Father Flamme should praise your humble name in such a sickeningly fond manner.

“You are too kind, Father,” you acquiesce. “As a modest servant of God, it’s my pleasure to devote myself to Him, the church, my fellow sisters, and the community.”

“Hmm. A laudable outlook.” His lips quirk up in a smile. Strangely, it looks sharp and predatory. It does not reach his eyes.

Father Flamme steers you in the direction of another stained glass window. This scene is of The Resurrection of Christ. You gaze at His face and wonder if there truly is something up there, watching over the world’s sheep as they live out cyclical days in their pastures.

Immediately, you realize you should commit yourself to writing lines to chase that doubtful notion away.

Father Flamme rests his hand on your other arm to hold you in place. “A quote paraphrased from the Gospel of Matthew, chapter twenty-two, verses thirty-six through thirty-eight, if you’ll listen: ‘When asked which is the great commandment of all in the law, Jesus would reply, ‘You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the first and great commandment.’”

You nod mechanically, only half-listening. After observing you closely, he frowns.

“What troubles you, Sister?”

“It is hardly a burden worth shouldering. I assure you I’m of sound health. My recent habit of absence is most unbecoming of a sister. I should sooner confront the great shame of my actions than let it fester within.”

“There is still time to atone. You must seek counsel and, having taken it in your arms just as God embraces all, you will know forgiveness.”

You rest your hand upon Father Flamme’s, which has somehow found its home at your hip. “And how do you suppose I do that?”

He smiles that empty smile again. “If He is to provide for you, you must first lay yourself bare before him. I am no fool, Sister. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I have been truthful, Father. I would never lie under this sacred roof, nor would I have the gall to do so in your presence. It would be an offense so beastly I could not bear to let it weigh heavy on my heart.”

“Yet, rather than scorch your tongue with a dissolution of the truth, you evade the simplest of queries.” His fingers toy with the knots of your cincture. “What manner of tale will you spin to mystify me next?”

Reacting on instinct, you rip yourself from his immoral grasp. The nave is as silent as the grave, so stuffy it’s suffocating. Father Flamme narrows his eyes at you. His gaze cuts through you like blood swirling through the cracks in ice—like a scalding brand pressed onto flesh.

A thick tension blankets the air. You merely stare at him, and he levels you with the same calculating intensity. Both of you are searching the other’s face, hoping to find an explanation for such polar opposite behavior.

You’re courageous enough to break the quiet first.

“If it would please you, Father, I will graciously offer myself up for confession. There is no reason or need to circumvent the Lord.”

“Sister (Name), if you may spare the time, I entreat you to take a short stroll with me.” Before you can object, he offers his arm. “All children are lost lambs who will soon find their way when following the path illuminated by God’s brilliant light. You are no different. It is my duty to see that you are no longer led astray by temptation and the litany of filth propagated by the fiend.”

Sensing no other option, you link arms with him and subject yourself to his whims. “I’ve a frightful feeling. Most frightful indeed.”

“By all means, confide in God and trust that He will provide shelter. Under His sacred roof, He will lend an ear just as I am doing now.”

You inhale a steadying breath. At this moment, Father Flamme is all you have. In the depths of your heart, you’re aware he’ll never understand. He will never know the morbid secrets that dwell in darkened corners, swept expertly away. And if he knew, you would never be welcome in the church again. Your fellow sisters would certainly turn their noses up at you, loathing the sin of your very existence.

Even as you walk alongside the righteous bishop, you feel an overwhelming itchiness.

“Recent events have led me to believe—though I pray it isn’t true—that my heart has been possessed with a ghastly malady. Umbras waltz in my peripheral—no trick of the light, I assure!”

“Perhaps it is merely a case of wicked dreams?” he posits, leading you through the aisle like a father might accompany a bride on her wedding day. You shake your head insistently, and so he holds his hand up to soothe your frazzled disposition. “Peace, Sister. The songs of night are naught but whimsical folly weaved from the silk of zealous minds. You would do well to shake yourself free of their deceitful shroud.”

“I shall do so most ardently.”

“To rectify this trouble, might you consider attending evening mass? It can only do you good.”

You step up towards the altar, keeping pace with Father Flamme’s casual gait. “Oh, I couldn’t. As of late, I’ve felt uneasy in my solitude. I fear my shadow is not my own…”

His verdant eyes are so stark against the pallor of his face that it reminds you of coins placed over those of the dead. His arm slips away from your waist and, gathering your hands in his, he assesses you more carefully. Under the watchful stare of both Father Flamme and a crucified deity, you feel as if someone has taken a spoon to your soul and scraped it out. And then, for extra, unnecessary measure, they’ve flattened it out on a table for dissection in hopes of picking apart each of your dirtiest secrets.

“Oh? Do elucidate.”

Hazarding a glance at the cross situated grandly in multicolored glass, you lower your voice so as to not be heard by any outside parties. Paranoia grips you in a clenched fist.

“Something—what it may be, I could not begin to form ample conjecture—is hunting me.”

He does not grace you with a reply, and this only incenses the unrest bubbling within you.

“How say you, Father? What is it that causes me such nocturnal torment?”

His features are set in perfect neutrality; it’s impossible to glean any sort of emotion from the way he acts. He coaxes you closer, pulling you along towards the altar. 

“It is with great devastation that I must behold you as you are,” he says, breaking the suspense. “Tainted with the despicable sins of the world outside, young and promising as you are… I shall remedy that.”

You open your mouth to voice concern, but in one swift motion he shoves you against the altar. You land with a thud, your back colliding against sturdy mahogany. It happens in a flash, like the final expulsion of breath from your lungs in the wake of the end. He’s between your flailing legs, pushing you up and onto the cloth-covered surface. Brass candlesticks scatter in a haphazard clatter. Globs of wax bespatter stone floors.

In the quaint tranquility of the church, the struggle is louder than a newborn’s cry.

Your chest heaves in a panic. 

Gracious God above, I implore you—save me from this wretched devil!

Your pupils flit wildly, assessing every area within your range. There must be a means to escape! Above the ornate display, his head hung, your god looks on silently. He does not offer a whit of protection.

“Father—”

Frigid fingers crawl upon your legs like a flurry of scurrying rats. You blink up at him, helplessly hopeful.

He inhales a long, steadying breath and shuts his eyes. “God, have mercy. Have pity on this wayward soul. May she be cleansed beneath my fingertips, pure as freshly fallen snow, and may you forgive her every transgression.”

You sputter an incoherent noise.

He opens his eyes and smiles serenely. “Amen.”

Squirming beneath him, you resist his touch like it’s flickering flame. “Father, I beg of you… Quell your frustrations and release me at once. I am innocent.”

He sighs, unconvinced. “You are exquisitely venust, Sister. As sweet as the first buds of spring. You must know it is impossible for beauty to exist freely when there are fiends who wish to tarnish it—who will trample upon the virtuous garden in which you bloom and pluck you by the root, rough as barbarians. Thus, it is my duty to see that you are scrubbed of their detestable influence. May God pardon my iniquity.”

His hands slide up your calves beneath your habit. You watch, prickled with horror, as he parts your legs. 

“Belle chose, unfurl your petals so that we may make feet for children’s stockings.”

He leans over you, reaching to secure your wrists with one hand. The other climbs higher in its rapacious pursuit of a place most sacred. In the midst of your ferocious thrashing, you espy His divine eye once more.

I adjure you, Lord… Save me from this demon. You must. Please, Lord…

Silence. A haunting, engulfing silence. 

There is no salvation to be found beneath the cross. None for you, as it appears so disturbingly clear.

“Unhand me! Unhand me at once!” you snap, tearing your arm free. “You would allow yourself to fall lower than the ground you trod upon—to so flagrantly commit sacrilege in His hallowed home?!”

“It is not I who is to be scorned so. I am guiltless,” he sneers. But then he smooths his scowl into that of pristine, practiced patience, and he speaks in a soft, pitying tone. “Oh, Sister, you have allowed them to tip poison into your precious ears… Your perception is clouded with the cobwebs of that uncouth crowd.”

“To stand at his feet and reveal your malice in such a grotesque manner… You are no better than swine!”

“You shall see there is no better solace to be found than with me.” Tenderly, he fits his hand, cold and skeletal, in yours. “I shall shelter you from all that is cruel and unjust. You need only take my hand.” His fingers flicker at your inner thigh, waltzing in circles. His incessant petting sends a shudder wracking through your body. Paralyzed as you are, you recognize the monster lurking just beneath human flesh. A demented desire flashes in his eyes. You’ve never felt more lost. “And your sins shall be forgiven.”

Father Flamme leans down, chancing to catch the scent at your neck. You reach between your bodies, searching for the garter secured around your thigh, and unsheath the dagger from beneath your habit. It’s thrust at his throat, the sharpened edge pressed close enough to pierce through the collar of his alb and draw the slightest pinprick of blood. Clasping the ivory handle in a trembling fist, you face him with a fire burning in your fear-filled visage.

Perhaps it is his own disbelief that prompts the rattle in his chest—an ominous chuckle. 

“You are a bride of Christ, yet you dare turn a blade on me?”

“You’re a man of God, yet you besmear His holy name with the sin of your incorrigible lust?”

“You are mistaken, Sister.” He grabs hold of your fist with both hands and folds his fingers over yours in mock prayer. As if intending to stoke your ire, he tilts his head in taunt. “Let my blood run red on this altar and you shall know of my humanity.”

“Defile the Lamb of God and you are no shepherd but, rather, the wolf who adorns himself in woolen mendacity.”

Before he can utter a response, the doors burst open. Father Flamme releases your hand and climbs off of you, brushing the wrinkles from his robes. An icy gale claws at the interior, and with it two men arrive in a whirlwind rush.

“Your Excellency, forgive our intrusion!”

Your arm falls to your side and, with a mounting sense of defeat, you gaze at the ceiling. You don’t feel soothed, but you must compose yourself. And so, shoving your frenzied emotions to the side, you sheath your blade and scramble to make yourself presentable once your feet are back on the floor. Brightening at the sight of the two villagers, you cradle your rosary and pray silently.

Dear God, may you smite he who spreads abhorrent rot with his fingertips and, in witnessing a most magnificent death flail, gralloch him without mercy.

“Ah, gentlemen, what fortuitous timing,” Father Flamme greets them, smiling. “Do come in. I’ve a task for you, if you would be so inclined.”

You linger behind, cautious like a gare-fowl often is when at the receiving end of a hunter’s rifle.

“Your Excellency, you need only ask and we are at your service.”

“Before that, you must accompany us to the hogs,” the other interjects. “Death has soiled these grounds, Your Excellency. A sight so barbarous it forebodes only the worst! You must come—come and behold the infernal darkness which has cursed this village!”

Father Flamme glances between the both of them, assessing the urgency of the situation that has been so cryptically illustrated.

“As you have described, the present circumstances appear dire. Oh, but I do require your assistance before that, gentlemen. It shan’t be too arduous a task.” He turns on his heel and indicates you with an outstretched hand. “Sister (Name) totters at the precipice with her fickle faith. As it is my duty to ensure all are well in the arms of God, I must take…caution—you might say—in sorting such a sensitive matter.”

The men exchange bewildered looks.

“You imply…punishment, sir?”

“Nay, I think not!” you interrupt, striding forwards. You’re stopped by Father Flamme’s arm, held just in front of your chest to keep you in place. “Father, I am steadfast in my faith. I have—”

“If such were the truth, you would not speak nullifidian filth.”

Pushing past him, you plead with the men: “Sirs, he knots his tongue and utters dishonesty! You know of my virtue—my loyalty to Him. And of my father, who has provided comfort and care, the means by which I was raised into the woman you see before you, I am justly proud. As the daughter of (Last Name), I sicken with the thought of bringing dishonor to my father, my faith—all of which I hold true in my heart. Sirs, you must believe in—”

Father Flamme lifts his hand to silence you, but you’re aware of his cunning machinations. “I ask of you this, good sirs. When sailors set out at sea, do they allow themselves to fall prey to the song of the siren? Just as those wretched sea-beasts sing, so, too, does honey pour spoiled from the mouth of a sinner. Her words serve to chart a course for ill-founded temptation.”

“Sister, your virtue I do not question.” The villager addresses Father Flamme next, disregarding your presence entirely, as if you are naught but a worthless speck. “What shall we do, Your Excellency?”

A smile curls on his lips. “Take her to the tower just beyond the village. She shall remain in solitude for seven days. That shall provide her with ample time for contemplation.”

The men approach you without a hint of remorse on their lips. Cornered, you look to Father Flamme for guidance.

“Father, I beg of you—you mustn’t send me away! I shall repent! I shall do so before you now.”

“It serves me no satisfaction to subject you to solitary confinement.” He folds his hands in front of him and observes the spectacle of your resistance. “You have proven to me your doubt in the capabilities of the Lord. It is my right to correct your contumacious thoughts. I’m certain your father would share this sentiment. No daughter should empty her mind of His valuable teachings.”

“Do not speak as if you have dined with my father,” you hiss, wriggling in the firm hold of both men.

Father Flamme steps closer and smiles. “Let us away.” 

You are dragged, struggling all the while, out of the church and down the steps. There is a ferocious bite to this year’s autumnal weather. Father Flamme is gracious enough to drape his cloak over your shoulders just before you’re lifted onto a horse. He mounts his stallion and, with the crack of a whip, the four of you are off towards the decrepit tower at the rugged foothills of the mountains. No words are exchanged. You’ve said more than enough and you still remain the accused, guilty due to distorted logic.

The tower, which had once appeared so distantly out of your mind, gains striking clarity as you approach. You gaze helplessly at the man transporting you. He offers nothing of substance, his gaze focused squarely on the dirt footpath ahead.

When you were but a babe, the tower served as a warning for all children in the village: Those whose souls are stained with the sins of their atrocities shall wither away in silence.

There was once a raving madman who was imprisoned there in your youth. A heretic, he was called. Driven to his end, his sanity thin as a hair, he scraped at the walls and pulled loose bricks free until his fingernails cracked and blood trickled down his hands in rivers. When he had created a sizable opening for himself, at the peak of his derangement, he climbed out to meet the sun’s soft rays, a singular blessing owed for years of captivity. And then he threw himself from the tower, landing in a broken spattering at the very bottom.

In the years following, the tower housed numerous prisoners. It is a cold, unforgiving place, existing solely for the ugly and the crooked. And, now, the misunderstood. The wrongfully accused.

As you’re helped down from the horse, you ponder how many have been sent here to live out time for unfair accusations.

You’re joined by the second villager shortly, and they flank you like soldiers as they shove you along.

“Have you no sympathy, sirs!” you snap, shaking yourself from their grip. “To treat me so callously when my devotion is fervent and true! I am no fabulist.”

The men say nothing and amble onwards, pushing you closer to the tower. One of them attempts to seize your wrist; you evade him gracefully. Father Flamme observes your outright stubborn refusal and hums his disapproval.

“Unhand me! I’ll go of my own accord. I’ve feet for a reason, and thus they shall work as God intended. I need not the assistance of fools. My legs shall be the ones to carry me.” Punctuating that with an indignant huff, you stride ahead.

What brutish handling… These doltish fiends sit under the tree of knowledge and yet not a single fruit falls into their laps. To think this is how they would treat someone sworn to the church—and a lady, no less!

The latch is weather-worn, and it creaks a discordant note when lifted. You peek into the shadowed entrance and frown. Before you are subjected to the impatience of the men at your side, you step into the dimness. It is alight with the red-orange slivers of a setting sun.

“You shall wait here. I will accompany this misguided Sister to the very top. After which, we shall return to the village and I shall accompany you to the hogs.”

The men nod and stand at attention.

If you’re so dedicated to foolish play, you would be wise to salute, you think with a sardonic tut.

Father Flamme offers his arm. “Shall we?”

Ignoring his attempt at chivalry, you lift your habit so as to not trip on it and begin the lengthy ascent up the spiraling staircase. He chuckles and follows your lead. Every wooden step creaks under your weight. Something brushes your face—dust, perhaps. You swat at your face, grimacing. The scent of mold and rot clings to the bowels of this tower like maggots on a corpse, impossibly redolent in ways you shall avoid giving thought to.

I must not breathe so deeply, lest I wish to savor the taste of decay and bitter rage.

You carry on, ignoring the creeping revulsion and the stench of death as it clouds the air, accompanying you on your journey. A door waits for you at the top. You note it is without a lock.

“A bird will not fly in captivity,” Father Flamme advises, pushing it open to reveal a sparsely furnished room. It’s equipped with the essentials a common prisoner would need. You can’t help feeling less than human the moment you pass through the threshold.

It is enough of a sight to wear on my eyes and render them woefully sore.

He meets you at the door and offers an embroidered reticule. “I shall retrieve you in seven days’ time.”

You eye him dubiously and, upon sensing no additional malevolence, swipe the reticule from him. “May you rest guilty on your bed of lies.”

He leans in close, his voice as faint as a phantasm. “May you reflect on what it is you hold dear, for I assure you it is well within my reach.” He pivots and begins his descent, his footsteps tapping out a resounding rhythm. “You will learn a glorious lesson here. Treasure it as you would a child.”

Minutes later, the door below shuts and the latch is dropped into place. The noise races up the stone spiral in echo, filling your ears with its haunting reverberation.

Now you’re truly alone.

“How boorish he must be to condemn me to this prison!” You slam the door in your anger and drop the reticule onto the bed. In an effort of appraisal, you feel the lumpy mattress. It’s packed full of straw. “I am not nameless, nor am I a harlot. Yet I am gifted the opulence of peasants. I can scarcely accept such generosity.”

Alas, this is your new misfortune.

To busy your idle hands, you open the reticule and peer inside at its contents. A thumb Bible rests beside a bulk of misshapen cloth. Gingerly, you unwrap it to find bread, cheese, and salt pork. Somehow—and you have every right to be fastidious—you doubt this modest portion will be enough for seven days.

“And not a drop of water!” you announce to the empty room. “He has an astounding amount of faith in me if he thinks I will surrender so simply. One day he shall get his gruel. I’ll make sure of it.”

Until then you will never know peace.

Bundling the rations, you place them within the reticule alongside the Bible. Perhaps you should have requested writing implements or a book—anything to preclude the impending accidie. 

Beyond the window, which is sized perfectly for the smallest bird, the sun disappears below the horizon. Ink spills across the sky, darkening the surroundings outside the tower and leaving room for stars to speckle the vastness. You sit at the edge of the bed and wrap your fingers around your rosary.

“Dear God, you know I am faultless and so I ask that you guide me in understanding your ways. Father Flamme speaks of protection in your home and yet when danger is knocking you are not there to answer.” You tug anxiously at the beads. “If you are there, show me… Show me that you hear my prayers. Show me that I am not alone. That even I, imperfect as I may be, am deserving of your sanctuary and forgiveness. Amen.”

Shrugging the cloak off, you fold it into a neat square and set it at the end of the bed. Your veil and coif are next to go, and you take immense care in handling both. You slide your dagger out of its sheath and set it on the bed. The night is cool and so you resolve to remain dressed as you are, in your robes and chemise.

“I will endure these seven days. Each one, night and day, I will be strong. My faith will never falter. I will never waver,” you whisper, repeating this oath like a mantra. You settle into bed, sparing a final glance at the square cut into the brickwork, where a starry sky wraps the world in a celestial counterpane. “Perhaps then you might acknowledge me.”

Clutching the rosary close to your chest, comforted with the weapon at your side, you drift into dreamless slumber.

[sizzlingcloudmentality]

slow

pairing: Dave York x f!reader

wordcount: ~1.7k

summary: Dave is not the type for slow morning sex and struggles his way through cock warming. He's just a guy <3

warnings: smut, explicit, no use of y/n, established relationship, mild d/s dynamics, unprotected p in v, cock warming, pussy pronouns, pet name (honey), female masturbation (teensy tiny bit), a couple of affectionate ass smacks, Dave trying to be a strong man™️ and not fuck you silly

a/n: it started as a blurb but it got big. Sorry not sorry. Don't come for me, come for him. Literally. Even if he says no. Forever and always grateful for @guiltyasdave for the hyping and the beta. 💛

divider: @saradika-graphics

There is no such thing as a slow morning with Dave. Slow evenings and nights, yes. But not the mornings. 

The mornings are for getting up early, going for a run, taking a shower, getting ready and giving you a forehead kiss while he's already halfway through the door on his way to work.

And it's not that you didn't try to get up as early as him, tried to make him breakfast, tried to bring him a coffee to bed before his alarm even went off. You did all this and he was grateful. 

But you disturbed his morning ritual, and his rituals are sacred. If one thing doesn't go like the ritual dictates, his whole day feels off. 

He knows you crave the slow mornings. With coffee in bed and his cock in your pussy. But he simply can't. Dave is a creature of habit and you know that, accept it and support him by not being in his way. 

But when Dave got the opportunity to work from home for a day a week he agreed immediately. Not because he is a big fan of working from home, he prefers the office setting by far. But Dave knew it would make you happy to see him during the day, maybe eating lunch together, maybe having a coffee break in the kitchen. 

The first day of working remote comes and everything happens as always. Getting up, going for a run, taking a shower, he even puts on his suit. You get the kiss on your forehead while you are still tangled up in the bed sheets. 

It's not even 6:30 in the morning and Dave is already having a call with someone somewhere in Europe. You hear his voice faintly, it creeps around the corners of the hallway, paired with the smell of coffee. 

The words are inaudible but the sound of his voice... You sigh and your hand slowly snakes between your legs, just like the authoritative tone, his professional laughter, the competence oozing from him. It's not about making yourself come to his voice, it's about the pleasure and comfort of knowing him close to you today. 

With your movements too sluggish and too modest you slowly drift into sleep again. When Dave opens the door to the bedroom with a coffee for you, he finds you like this, sleeping on your side with one hand in your panties.

He doesn't have the time, he's having another call in 15 minutes but God, this is so tempting. You are so tempting. He's torn between waking you up and handing you your coffee or waking you up and making you moan. 

His dick twitches at the thought and his free hand tugs himself back in place. 

He's in control of every aspect of his life. Even you, because you gladly play after his rules. But his dick... that's the one thing he has little control over, especially when it comes to you.

Dave doesn't like being weak, being put in his place because clearly, his place is at the top and no one else puts him there but himself. 

But for you? He's weak for you. He's soft for you, and tender, and it scares him sometimes. If you knew how much you have him wrapped around your finger, you could easily use it to your advantage. 

You wouldn't do it. He knows that. You're good, good for him, good to him, his good girl. Maybe too good for him. 

He shoves the thought aside and seizes your ankle, a touch between a tickle and a pull. You stir in your half sleep and his cock stirs in his briefs. 

God, he's so fuckin' weak for you. 

He paws at you, at your soft calf, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed while you sleepily turn onto your stomach, sweetly groaning and whining. 

"Wake up," he orders, still in work mode, used to be obeyed for payment and you groan again because his command reverberates in your achingly empty cunt. 

"I'm awake," you murmur and feel his ridiculously large hands gripping your hip and hoisting you up on your knees. One hand follows the curve of your spine between your shoulder blades, pushing your chest back onto the mattress, the other hand impatiently tugs and pulls your panties to the side. 

"That's what you do all morning when I'm not at home? Playing with yourself?" His palm lands on your ass, it's not painful, you know he simply likes the visual of your soft flesh jiggling and rippling under the impact of his body. 

A clink of his belt buckle, the low hiss of his zipper, the grunt when he pulls himself out of his boxers and pumps himself out of habit. 

"Answer me." Another order and you clench. 

"No. I don't." You arch your back more, stick your ass out more, not caring about how needy you are already after just waking up. 

"Such a shame," Dave murmurs and gives you another smack, kneading your ass cheek until he pulls you open for him. 

"You really should play with yourself. Gets you nice and ready for me." 

He checks the clock. T-10 until the next call. Fuck. No slow morning for you and him, again. 

He nudges his tip between your folds and runs up and down and up and down again and again to hear your sweet gasps and whines and pleas. Oh he lives for the muffled please, please, fuck me. 

The thick head of his cock disappears inside of you, welcomed by the squeezes of your cunt. You're still sleepy but she's wide awake. She always is for him.

“Sorry, honey, got no time to properly fuck you,” he mutters and slowly, painfully slow, pushes into you. Torturous for you and for him. He gives you the time to stretch around him, to fully wake up to his cock buried in your tight heat. And he allows himself the luxury to hide his own neediness behind your back.

Your warm, soft butt pressed against him, your sleep-warmth seeping through the fabric of his slacks. Your cute cotton panties pushed to the side, the waistband cutting into your plush hips… Dave's thighs twitch from the effort of not pulling out and thrusting back into your pussy again. “Just need to feel you. Just for a couple of minutes. Don't!”

A sharp clap echoes through the room when you try to rock your hips against Dave. He kneads the stinging skin on your butt, already feeling a little sorry. So. Fucking. Weak.

“Can't have you ruin my slacks.” Can't have me giving in.

He needs a lesson in discipline. In staying strong. He can't run around, always hard, just because you're in the same room and breathing. He can't be a slave to your cunt, even though he is.

Another glance at the clock, he has five minutes left at best. Five minutes to stay strong. But you don't need to suffer, you did nothing wrong.

Dave doesn't move, doesn't budge an inch, his jaw is clenched and every time your sweet little pussy clamps down on him he grunts. He won't move. Need. To stay. Strong.

You're being so good. You just stay still, needy, sleepy, confused. Why won't he move? Not even a little bit? His hands run over your back, so damn slow, the weight of his palms heavy on your skin, his blunt nails barely grazing you.

“Touch yourself for me, sweet girl,” he grits through his teeth, thinking he might be able to endure the next phase of his stupid self-inflicted disciplinary action. “But don't move, do you understand?”

You nod your head, your cheek rubbing against the bed sheets that smell like you and Dave. “Yes,” you murmur and when your fingers find your clit you bite into the sheets, groaning out another ‘yes’ with drawing tight circles over your sensitive bud. 

You clench around him, gripping him and your already tight and snug cunt starts feeling like Dave's personal heaven. If only he could fuck you thoroughly. Don't.

He grips the flesh of your rear again, concealing his trembling fingers with pulling and holding you close against him. God, the way you squeeze him, the way he fits so perfectly…

Dave always enjoyed cock warming. Nothing better than having you sit on him, needy and soaking, while watching a movie or eating dinner, balls deep inside of you. But not today. Today is torture. Today he is the one not being allowed to feel too much pleasure.

But you, on the other hand, enjoy yourself immensely. It isn't ideal, you like the movement more, the friction, the pounding, the way your whole body gets shaken with every thrust. But being stuffed full and working on yourself is nice, too. Really nice. Every one of his throbs and his hissed curses push you closer to the edge. Just a little bit more, just a little longer, just a-

“Oh hell no,” he snarls and pulls his hips back, both of you wince when the connection between you breaks. “Didn't tell you to finish.” He knows you well, knows exactly how your cunt acts when you're about to come. And he knows his dick, this traitor. The weak link.

“Dave… Please?” You whine, wiggling your ass for him, offering your bare self to him, trying to lure him back into you and a bead of sweat trickles down his forehead. He's so needy, he hates it.

“Not this time, honey, sorry.” His cock is covered in your arousal, glistening, coated from the tip to his balls, but he doesn't bother wiping himself clean. He simply pulls his briefs and slacks back up, his fingers tenderly drum on your butt one last time before he turns for the door as if he was on the run. 

The fucking call starts in two minutes. He feels your sticky slick messing up his briefs, he knows he's leaking. Your cunt, that's what he will smell the whole time, every time he spreads his legs. He will actually smell you all day long. 

That'll do it, though. Teach him the lesson about discipline. Because he surely can't be this hard the whole day. He won't be weak for you the whole day. He won't give in to his dick that so desperately wants to be buried in any of your holes.

Turns out, he's not hard the whole day. Just until lunchtime, when he finds you in the kitchen and asks you to get on your knees because you have to clean up your mess you left on him.

There truly is no such thing as a slow morning with Dave.

reblog and/or comment to warm Dave's cock (or to make me happy, whatever you like best, I'm not judging)(I'm deffo keeping his cock warm, sorry @/myself)

find my Dave York masterlist here

read part 2 slower here

part of the in the sheets collection

find my general masterlist here

[painted-flag]

OF FLOWERS AND DEATH - Aemond Targaryen

☾⋆⁺₊✧ dark elf!Aemond Targaryen x f!human!reader series.

☾⋆⁺₊✧ Summary: A taint twists through the kingdoms of man and elf, killing all life in its wake. Your father, a brilliant mind, had worked tirelessly for a solution to fight that evil. However, you are left shouldering the burden of his research after he mysteriously disappears.

A newfound companion lands you a position working under the watchful eye of elf healers. You struggle to hold yourself together in the dark woodland kingdom of elves ruled by their merciless king - Aemond Targaryen. Secrets breed more secrets, and figuring out who to trust is more difficult than ever - especially when you cannot even trust yourself.

It is a race to find a cure while unravelling the secret behind your father's disappearance, the origin of the taint, and the troubling stirrings in your heart caused by the elf king. The impending war between humans and elves drives tensions further, casting a dark veil over your endeavours.

Moreso, when death itself seems to come knocking upon your door.

It can also be found on my Ao3, right here.

☾⋆⁺₊✧ Chapters:

Chapter 1: The Laws of Humans and Elves Chapter 2: A Modest Proposition Chapter 3: A Study in Death Chapter 4: A Night of Song and Dance Chapter 5: The Young Elf Chapter 6: A Snake in the Garden Chapter 7: The Dark Woods Deep Chapter 8: Marked Flesh Chapter 9: Home and Hearth Chapter 10: The Art of Potion Making Chapter 11: A New Ally Chapter 12: Death's Sting Chapter 13: Of Taverns and Bathhouses Chapter 14: The Saphire Chapter 15: Know Your Enemies Chapter 16: Every Little Thing Chapter 17: The Winds of War Chapter 18: Past, Present, and Future Chapter 19: The Scars of Betrayal Chapter 20: An Elf's Rage °｡⋆˚⁺ November 24 Epilogue: An Elf's Devotion ⁺˚⋆｡° November 27

☾⋆⁺₊✧ Content warning: 18+ depictions of violence/gore, eventual smut, warfare, sickness/disease, some moments of misogyny, mentions of alcohol consumption, and Criston Cole (yikes).

☾⋆⁺₊✧ I am extremely excited to begin releasing this series! Ever since season one was released, the concept of writing an elf-based story on Aemond has been living rent-free in my head.

There will be weekly updates to this series. While I have extensive outlines for each chapter, I wish to take this at a slower pace when it comes to releasing. This way, I can balance other works on this page as well. (along with my uni coursework).

Thank you all for the support! <3

☾⋆⁺₊✧ If you want to be added to the taglist, click here!

[izvmimi]

cw: fluff/comfort-ish although it's an overall mild conversation. mention of kidnapping.

Luffy is acting strange.

A little strange might be the baseline for him, of course, but what you’ve noticed in the past 12 hours or so is a bit different than his normal flavor of strange - he’s being odd when it comes to you. 

Your shadow as always, but oddly stiff, Luffy has been navigating around you far too carefully, as if you were to shatter the moment he touched you. His hands hover gently over any part of your body but he avoids touching you unnecessarily; you notice he’s hesitant to hold your hand, and from the moment you woke up this morning, disoriented slightly by the sudden rock of the ship by an unexpectedly large wave, you noticed his modest distance, his forehead gently pressed against the back of your head and his arm loosely draped over your hip, rather than coiled around you like a snake.

Careful, gentle.

It’s so unlike him it makes you nervous. 

“Luffy,” you start finally, once the two of you have a quiet moment, hanging back in the kitchen. Everyone has left by now for their own pursuits after dinner - a few comments about Luffy’s appetite being slightly less terrifying than usual notwithstanding, he was relatively normal. But he’s lingered, crossing his legs on his chair in that familiar pose of his. You didn’t rise, Robin being kind enough to help clear all the dishes, even the half-eaten meal before you (again unthinkable with Luffy around).

The longer you think about it, perhaps the two of you were left alone here on purpose.

Luffy doesn’t respond immediately to the sound of your voice and you repeat his name again, letting your head rest on his shoulder. You can tell he has something to say but is unsure what, and coax him gently to speak by running your hand down the length of his forearm, interlacing your fingers together once you reach the hand.

He turns slowly to you, and the look on his face is apologetic more than anything, surprising for a man who limits emotions more complex than anger and joy in his expression.

“I’m happy you’re safe,” he says, simply.

Yesterday you were kidnapped on your stroll through the city, while Luffy had deviated off your path for a moment to peer at all things shiny and good-smelling. You didn’t immediately follow, and used to Luffy’s lazy but alarming practical yoinks of your body in space, snapping towards his side, you weren’t too automatically surprised when your feet suddenly left the ground.

Until you were face to face with an individual that was decidedly not Luffy at all.

The aftermath of all of that was settled quickly, a flurry of fists and yells quickly resolving the issue, but that wasn’t the part that lingers in Luffy’s psyche.

“I wasn’t in any danger, really,” you insist, and you mean it, not even a singular bruise on your skin, or a hair out of place.

You squeeze Luffy’s hand then smile at him brightly, trying to raise his spirits, even if only in the way the moon reflects back the sun’s shine. He knows it’s true even if it doesn’t necessarily fix things.

He twists his mouth to the side.

“That’s not the problem, is it?” you ask, sensing his continued discomfort. “You can’t expect things like that to not happen, we all have bounties, and-”

“You thought it was me.”

You blink, taken aback, and Luffy lets go of your hand for a moment as he turns fully to face you.

“I came out right when you got grabbed, and you didn’t scream at first until you saw it wasn’t me.”

You pause, letting his implication sit in.

“Luffy, what are you trying to say?” you ask.

He pauses for a moment, mulling the words in his mouth again, and your eyebrow furrows.

“You’ve said I was too rough with you before, but I didn’t think I was that bad.”

You open your mouth and close it, considering the fact that you wouldn’t be surprised if he threw you off a cliff with the promise to catch you at the bottom, as it wouldn’t help. 

“I trust you, Luffy,” you say instead, unexpected Gum-Gum Rockets aside. “It’s okay if you get excited, I know that you love me and would never hurt me.”

He pauses for a moment, eyeing you as if to detect any softening of the truth, and perhaps you are smoothing over the truth, but you are telling the truth.

The rowdy man before you, a little too strong for his own good, perhaps passionate as ever, never means to hurt you, and loves you terribly.

“I’m sturdier than you think,” you remind him. With that, you offer him a kiss on the cheek, which warms him, and he’s quick to take your own face in his two hands, the grin back on his face.

“I’ll be more careful,” he still promises anyway.

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be a little playful at all,” you remind him, your hands gently covering his.

“I want you to feel safe with me,” he finally says, in a soft voice and you offer him back the biggest widest smile.

“There’s no safer place than when I'm with you.”

[hiraethwrote]

contents : MDNI, no pronouns used but written with feminine reader in mind, horny satoru, suggestive, one curse word, no use of y/n, very rushed, probably some writing errors wc < 1k

an : got an opening shift in a few hours, but i just woke up and can’t fall back asleep so enjoy this

imagine spa night with satoru.

he’s very much onboard with the idea, because he knows you’ll be wearing one of his t-shirts that hangs over your criminally short pyjama shorts — it drives him absolutely crazy.

you’re sat straddling him, and he rests his big hands on your soft thighs, his fingers slowly creeping under the edge of your shorts — but he’s not allowed to travel any further before you quickly pluck one of his stray eyebrow hairs, his hands reactively squeezing your flesh.

your giggles fill the room, teasing and taunting him, calling him such a baby for his over-the-top reaction — it was just a little hair, after all.

it earns you a dramatic pout, eyebrows knitting together as if he is requesting sympathy for his immense pain. you just continue to laugh at him, before going in for another pluck.

this time his strong hands squeeze harder, causing you to yelp. you capture his face in your hand to keep him directed towards you. he’s unable to hide how he’s a little amused by the sound he caused, unintentionally (or so he says).

“sit still”, you demand. you readjust yourself to get a better angle of his eyebrows, accidentally applying pressure to his crotch, feeling how it slowly causes his bulge to grow. “you’re so easy,” you tease, sucking in your cheeks. inching closer to his face with the tweezers, you desperately try to ignore the very prominent pressure under you.

his expression is changed now, frustration switched out with playfulness — satoru is no longer interested in spa night. his digits make their way further under the fabric with clear intent, tugging softly at your panties. it’s his turn to chuckle, when he feels the staggered breath you let out in order to calm yourself down, brush against his face.

just as you’re about to go in for another hair, his hands secure around your legs in a firm grip before he abruptly stands up. “satoru,” you squeal, arms snaking around his shoulders for support.

he sits you down in the bathroom sink, wincing when the cool porcelain gets in contact with your naked skin. placed snuggly between your legs, he leans forward, ignoring your cute complaints as he captures your lips in a lustful kiss.

you’re flush against his bare chest, heat seeping of him in waves while his fingers dig into your thighs with a sense of urgency, leaving modest indents in your skin.

a shy whimper escapes him when you pull away from his affection. “thought you wanted spa night-“

“oh, fuck spa night,” he breaths, instantly going in to reconnect your kiss, that quickly turn deeply passionate — needy. your fingers start to grasp at his shoulders, just as desperate to feel him as he is you. with a self satisfied smirk, he catches your bottom lip between his teeth, pulling the cutest sounds roll past your your tongue which has his blood boil.

spa night with satoru always ends in the bedroom.

©hiraethwrote 2024 . all rights reserved. reposting, translating and otherwise plagarisim is prohibited

[vavoom-sorted-art]

Of Kings And Kids - Chapter 1

Welcome to @gaiaseyes451 and my Christmas collab! We'll be publishing a chapter every day, whith the fifth and final chapter going up on the 26th of December!

Head to AO3 to read the entire chapter.

*~*~*

Aziraphale stood at the town’s well, clay cup in hand, and drank, grateful for the cool water. While the journey from Nazareth hadn’t been particularly arduous, the angel was happy for an opportunity to rest after traversing the loamy, rolling hills; especially after guiding a flock of sheep and goats for the last five days. Michael had assured him, when she was briefing him on the Mission Messiah assignment, that Heaven had an alias prepared this time. Somehow, Silas the shepherd who was leading his flock of bovids to Bethlehem for the autumn livestock auction was not precisely the backstory Aziraphale had expected. Nevermind that Bethlehem had never held a livestock auction before, best not to question these things.

Bethlehem was built around the town’s well which stood in the center of a courtyard. Most inns and lodging houses surrounded the well while private residences were scattered among the slopes. The city was surrounded by a modest wall with roads granting access from the North and South. The land itself was lovely rolling hills with lush grasslands and natural grottos, perfect for grazing livestock. It would have been conspicuous if a shepherd had moved at the same pace as a woman who was about to give birth, so Aziraphale had arrived ahead of the holy family. He was glad for the chance to get acquainted with the town and for the brief respite before the real work started.

Preparing for the arrival of the Messiah really was quite stressful.

Having filled his waterskin, Aziraphale was about to head off to one of the rest houses to sample the local cuisine when a familiar voice called out.

“Hello, angel!”

Aziraphale stopped short. While he was always happy to see this particular demon on his assignments, having him this close to the savior’s birth was a tad disconcerting. He turned and greeted him warmly, even if his smile was a bit cautious. “Crawly! Hello.”

“Ah, actually, call me Crowley.” He said, casually.

“Oh, have you changed your name?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nah, not officially. Just tryin’ it out for a bit. ‘Sides, little odd to have a nobleman called ‘Crawly’.” He said, gesturing to himself.

Aziraphale took a moment to take in Crowley’s garb.The demon was wearing his hair a bit longer, russet waves held out of his eyes by a beaded headband. He was clothed in his preferred hues in a deep charcoal robe and cloak made from fine linen with patterns embroidered in red at the neckline and hem. The cloak was fastened at the shoulder with an onyx snake broach and synched at the waist with a burgundy leather belt with a serpentine fastener. The robe drew his eyes down to strappy sandals that accentuated Crowley’s calves. His wrists were adorned with wide, silver cuffs that emphasized his svelte arms and long fingers.

Aziraphale dragged his eyes back to Crowley’s face and attempted to make eye contact through the dark lenses. “Well, hello, Crowley. What brings you to Bethlehem?”

*~*~*

Keep reading on Ao3 to see additional illustrations! We'd love to hear your thoughts! Find all chapters and additional content for this story here.

big thanks to @goodomensafterdark for the support!

Happy Holidays and Happy Reading!

[gojo-enthusiast]

Arranged Marriage — Hiromi Higuruma

series master list

cw: smut | 18+

Kissing is Okay?

Month one was completed, you both had now been sleeping together in the same bed for 1 week now, and now have fallen into a nice little routine. You both would sit in the bed, as you read, and he would listen, or you two would put on a movie, or show. 

“Whatcha wanna watch?” Hiromi said as you were already snuggled in the sheets. “I actually want to do something else.” You said as he got in the bed, and snuggled close to you. The difference between you and Hiromi, is Hiromi has no filter, he would be the one to suggest anything intimate, with a straight face, but his ears would burn red, while you were more on the modest side, and would suggest innocent things.

“What is that?” Hiromi questioned. “Can w-we kiss? If not... It's okay, I just thought that maybe...” You stammered, feeling yourself growing red and shy, you turned to look at him, the silence deafening. Hiromi’s eyes got big with shock— “What?” He nearly bursted in shock. “Don’t look at me like I’m some baby, I know about kissing and stuff like that…" You rolled your eyes, now extremely embarrassed, and feeling rejected.

"I mean I am majoring in Literature.” You scoffed, about to turn over. “Just kissing?” He questioned. “...Yes- if... that's okay?" You lightly giggled, squeezing his nose. “Okay.” He said as he pulled your waist to him, making you flush against himself. 

Your breath hitched, realizing this was actually your first time. “Hiromi.” You whispered, your eyes looking into his. If it weren’t for the moon peeking through, you wouldn’t have been able to see his expressions, “Yeah?” — “I have… I actually… Well…” you stutter trying to find your words. “I know.” He pecked your nose. “I’ll lead.” He smiled, as he began kissing your cheek, then your forehead, then your nose, then your chin, putting his hand on your chin, he brought it down, his lips grazing yours, and he looked into your eyes, then both of you closing them at the same time, he finally kissed you, burying his hands into your hair on the side and back of your head.

He was slow at first, letting you ease yourself into it. After about 10 minutes, you felt him almost attack you in kissing, he began pushing his tongue into your mouth, and he gripped your waist, pulling you ungodly closer. “Fuck.” He groaned into your mouth, as you moaned into his. He was ravishing your lips, making you breathless— he kept up with the passionate lacing of your lips, pushing his tongue in once again, tasting you. ��H-hiromi.” You moaned, into his mouth, as his thick thigh was in-between your legs, intertwining with your legs. You felt something in your core, heat up and becoming needy, you continued to let him ravish you, any bit of innocence you once had, was being stripped away with his tongue. Stripping down your defenses, you began to rock your hips into his thigh, trying to get some relief in your aching heat. “Fuck, if you do that, I'm gonna fuckin' bust.” He groaned as his manhood was achingly hard. “It feels good.” You moan, latching your lips back onto his, now pushing your tongue into his mouth, making him groan into your mouth.

“Suck on my tongue.” He groaned, you looked at him bewildered. “What?” You gulped. “Do it.” He said as he pulled your head back to his, kissing you again. You did just as he commanded you, sucking on his tongue, then pulling away, seeing his eyes dripping in lust. He needed more, he wanted more, it was taking every bit of him to restrain his need to be inside of a cunt he has yet to feel—

“I need you.” He said into your ear. “We don’t have to go all the way, just… Let me touch you." He groaned, as he was grinding against you. “Okay.” You moaned, as his hands that were once on your waist, they were now on snaking up your shirt, to your perky breast. “Ah—“ You moaned out. You felt your shirt being taken off of you, and his lips attaching to your nipple in an instant. “Hiro—“ You moaned loudly, as you rubbed your needy cunt on his thigh. “Fuck—“ He groaned into your breast. “Sit— sit on my face.” He groaned, pulling you on top of him. “What?” You blushed brightly. “Please, fuck, I need to taste you.” He was pleading with you at this point, this man was foaming at the mouth on how much he needed you. 

You looked at him with your innocent green eyes, and you gulped, "That... That doesn't sound safe..." You blushed brightly, you had read in books of what he was talking about, but now that you are straddled on this mans lap, your head was thoughtless. "It is safe..." He groaned, as he lightly thrusted his hips into your clothes core, making you moan out. "Are-are you sure?" You questioned, covering your breast with your arms. "So safe, I'll tap your thigh like this... see... if I tap three times, that means to get up... I promise you I won't need you too though... I promise..." he pleaded, hearing your concerns but then reassuring you that it was okay... You looked at him, nervous but then nodding.

You felt him tug at your panties, pulling them down, then slipping them off your ankles, bringing the wet fabric to his nose. “Hiromi!” You yelped in embarrassment. “You smell delicious my dear.” He groaned, pulling you up to him. He laid back, his head on the pillow, as you needy core was above his mouth, you knew a lot about sex, but you didn’t think this would be something you two would ever do, this was still so new.

He got tired of your reluctance, that he finally pulled your hips down, and your pussy right into his mouth. He began lapping his tongue all around your burning heat, taking in your sweet taste. “Shit.” You moan out, throwing your head back, while you gripped the head board. You felt him tug at one of your arms, pulling it to his head, lacing your hands into his hair. “Ride my face baby. Like you did my thigh.” He moaned as he sloppily made out with your cunt. You were in pure ecstasy— you simply wanted to innocently kiss him, but it led to him making out with your cunt. This man was much more vulgar than you expected, after this, he was going to be the biggest simp he ever imagined, the great bachelor Hiromi Higuruma was about to be wrapped around your finger, you were now his Queen, and he was your loyal subject. 

You kept rocking your hips, as his tongue fucked your hole, and his nose was on your clit. “I- feel weird.” You moaned out, trying to lift your hips off of him, but he only held onto you, feeling your clit fluttering, and your hole tightening. “Cum for me baby.” He moaned into your cunt, while his cock was on the verge of busting. You felt something in your stomach twisting and stretching, until you felt yourself come undone, completely snapping. Your body weakened, as you rode out your orgasm. Your breath was heavy, and you finally lifted yourself off of him, sitting on his hips. “Stay right there.” He urged you, as he grasped his cock from his boxers, and started to jerk himself off. “Fuck.” He groaned, as his licked your essence off his lips, and wiping his chin. “You look good like that.” You said into his ear, now planting kisses on his neck, and sucking lightly, something you learned in a book.

“You minx.” He hisses, as he let go of his cock, and slapped your ass. You moaned into his ear, feeling your core opening, wanting him to fill you. “Put it in.” You moaned into his mouth, as you kissed him. You were surprised by your own boldness, you felt this intense sense of peace, and overwhelming love for a man you were newly married to.

“Not yet baby, not yet.” He groaned, as he fisted his cock once more. “Please.” You groaned, as you scooted your cunt down to his cock, feeling against your wetness. “Baby slow down.” He gasped, he pulled his hand off of his cock, trying to calm you. Rubbing the sides of your arms, cooing you to be patient, and that he would finish you off with his fingers.

“No, I want it.” You moaned, as you brought your core to this tip of his cock, and sat down on it, letting it sink deep deep into you. You felt the pain of the stretch, but you were so wet, and aroused, that you didn’t care of the stretch, you sat upright, as your core had swallowed him whole. He looked at you in amazement, looking down at to where you both were connected, seeing blood at his base, and your eyes sealed shut, while little whimpers left your lips, as you rocked your hips like when you were rubbing against his thigh. “So-So good.” You moaned. He was astounded— “This little innocent thing just sank right onto me… What am I gonna do with you?” He chuckled, as he sat up and sucked on your breast once again— “Lift up a bit, let me help you.” He whispered into your ear. You lifted yourself up, still having his cock in you— You felt him slowly thrust upward, hitting your sweet spot so deliciously. Where did this little creature come from? Hiromi thought to himself. 

One minute you were sitting on his lap, then the next, he had you on your back, your legs wrapping around his lower back, as he sunk his cock deep into once again. “Ah!” You moaned, “Hiromi.” You moaned, as you squeezed your legs harder around his waist, and pulled him down by his neck, planting a kiss on your lips. “I’m gonna cum.” You moan as his hips were brutally ravishing your sweet spot. “Me too baby.” He grunted, looking deep into his eyes, while both of your mouths were open and breathing heavily. 

“Fuck.” He groaned, as he pushed his hand between your legs, rubbing your clit quickly. He’d be damned if he didn’t make sure you were pleased first, and that you were, that string once again snapped, and you squeezed around his cock as you came undone, which only made him come undone with you, milking him dry, you felt thick ropes shoot inside of you, both of you moaning into each others mouth as you latched your lips onto his… It all started with these sweet kisses, now here he is, balls deep inside, spilling everything. 

“Wow.” He said as he took a big breath in the crook of your neck, still inside of you. You were playing with his hair, as he lied there on top of you. 

“Hiromi?” You said after a few minutes of both of you catching your breath. “Hmm?” He hums as he kisses the crook of your neck. 

“I’m falling in love with you… No… I am in love with you.” You said as you continued to play with his hair. You felt his breath come to a halt, and he leaned up looking at you. 

“I’m in love with you too…” He smiled sweetly.

That was how your first kiss went with Hiromi. 

[phoward89]

Based on this ask

Senator!Coriolanus Snow x Baker!Reader

Senator Coriolanus Snow is a very wealthy man. Being the Plinth heir, due to some unfortunate circumstances during the summer of his 18th year, he had more money then the gods and could afford anything his black, dead, withered up, too small heart desires. Most of his desires were luxury sedans, luxury penthouses, high end fashion, and a permanent place in the governing politics of Panem.

And talk about politics, Senator Snow’s currently running for President of Panem- on the Old Guard Party ticket. His opponent’s some up and comer that's new money and has ties to district blood. Snow cringes at the thought of a district blooded fool from the Liberty & Labor Party beating him and ruling the country; corrupting Capitol City with extreme and revolutionary views.

Views that infringe on those traditions that Panem was founded on; everything that the Old Guard stands for. Being from ‘Old Money' and one of Panem's most esteemed, respected, and founding families, Coriolanus views himself as a Capitolite that's above those of District birth. Especially after spending the summer of his 18th year in the Peacekeepers amongst the savages of 12.

Coriolanus has the means to buy anything he wants that's high quality, but he finds himself visiting your modest bakery every morning for some pain au chocolat and sweet coffee. Your morning customers usually look all wide-eyed or feel a bit nervous when the regal senator walks in and right up to your counter only for you to smile and give him a friendly wave.

The door chime going off signals his arrival every morning. You can't help, but smile at the man who your father, Colonel Javani Halvir, is endorsing for president. And after your father brought Senator Snow, who you remember attending the Academy with a few years back, to your bakery for a quick morning business meeting, well, Coriolanus was hooked on both the goodies you make and you.

Yes, the imposing platinum blonde senator that's got a demeanor as cold as his name: Snow, has quite a crush on you.

“Senator Snow, your usual?” You ask, greeting the man who had just walked up to your counter with a smile, before turning to grab a small paper pastry bag.

“Yes, darling, I'll take my usual.” Coriolanus nods, watching you go over to the display case that the chocolate filled croissants are in. “But, please, call me Coriolanus or Coryo even.” He orders, although it seems like a request with how his baritone seems lighter then it's usual octave, as you bag up his croissant.

“Coryo?” You question before quickly realizing that it's a shortened form of his name- Coriolanus. Placing his pastry bag down on the counter, you wonder, “Do a lot of people call you that?”

“Nobody that did is left in my life.” The regal platinum blonde man confessed. Honestly, his confession took him aback since he would've lied to anyone else if they asked him that. But there was just something about your doe-eyes that had the lie dying on his tongue; had him being truthful with you.

And that's a rarity considering Coriolanus is a snake that charms and lies to everyone.

Everyone, but you it seems.

“Y/N, I only let my closest friends and family call me Coryo; perhaps we could further explore a friendship starting tonight during a business dinner your father invited me to?” You hear him tell you as your back:s to him while you're fiddling with the coffee press; filling him up a to go cup of coffee. Black with sugar- the only way he'll drink it.

Did you want to explore a friendship with Senator Snow, the presidential hopeful and frontrunner that your father, Colonel Javani Halvir's endorsing? It would surely make your dad happy, having you befriend the son of his late best friend- General Crassus Snow. But you're not sure if you want a friendship with a man who's life is in a political microscope.

It's no secret that the press stalks Coriolanus. Since he seems like a choir boy, you highly doubt that he is, the press is trying to find something on him to expose. And you don't need that kind of bullshit in your life.

Not after your bakery is finally seeing some success. The last thing you need is a friendship with Senator Snow wrecking the hard work; all the blood, sweat, and tears you put into making the Sunrise Bakery into a success. Into more than a hobby that's sucking up your father's money- those were your mother's exact words for how she feels about you being a baker.

“I won't be home for that dinner, Coriolanus. I'll be here prepping some things for tomorrow morning.” You tell the platinum blonde, who is low key scaring away your customers cause of how imposing of an aura he has, while turning around and placing his coffee on the counter.

The senator masks his disappointment with a tight pull of his lips. Pulling out his wallet and handing you his card, as he does every morning, he tells you, “You should go home for dinner, Y/N. You do need to eat and I'm sure you can always come back here and do your prep work once dinner's over.”

You don't even know why, maybe it's the slight sparkle on Coriolanus' icy eyes, but as you take his card you slightly smile and say, “Well, I guess I might be able to make it home for dinner.”

“I'll see you then, and if not then I'll surely see you here tomorrow morning for my breakfast.” He smiles, showing off his pearly white manically, while taking his card from you and putting it back into his wallet. Grabbing his pastry bag and coffee, he simply smiles and wishes you a good day before walking away from you.

Before he can reach the door, you call out to him. “Coryo, I hope you enjoy your pain au chocolat and sweet coffee.”

A triumphant smile crosses his was as he looks over his shoulder, giving you a nod and wave goodbye before exiting your bakery. Coriolanus knows deep in his soul that you calling him Coryo was a step in the right direction. That, before long, he'd be making you as obsessed with him as he is with you.

And he as all the time in the world to make his feelings for you turn into a mutual attraction since, after all, the senator frequents your bakery everyday.

Patience is a virtue that Senator Snow possesses and he's determined to wear down your senses with it by visiting you every day until you see that his obsessive love is exactly what you need in your life. Just like the pain au chocolat you bake is one of the things he needs in his life, the other being you.

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[theonceandfuturequeenoftarts]

It happens by chance, and while Harry wishes it hadn’t, this will at least clear up any lingering uncertainty for him.

There’s a skirmish between Harry and some friends from the Order and Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and a couple stray curses happen to catch him – one slices shallowly into his upper arm, the other sends him rolling across the ground. The upshot of this is that the left shoulder of Harry’s shirt is now in ribbons and hanging down around his waist, leaving his chest – and soul mark – bare to the world. Including Voldemort.

Who looks like he’s having one doozy of an emotion.

And that basically confirms the dark wizard hadn’t known, but right now Harry’s bleeding sluggishly and wants to go home and have a drink and pass out for at least a few hours, so Voldemort can rage on his own time. Everyone else from his side has already buggered off, so he’s not abandoning anyone if he does the same.

Unfortunately, the blood loss – while not severe – is enough to slow his reaction time, which leads to him apparating himself and the Dark Lord latched onto him to his flat. Not ideal.

There are a tense few moments of staring at the snake man, waiting to see if he’ll attack or start destroying Harry’s home, but when he doesn’t take advantage – when he just stares and frowns and stares some more – Harry decides he’s too tired for this shit.

“You are just impossible to ward out, aren’t you?” he sighs. The curse of being so physically and magically intertwined with the other man. (Well. And at the soul level, too, but he tries not to think of that.)

Voldemort yanks him by his uninjured arm towards the kitchen light that comes on automatically and stares at Harry’s chest, and the elegantly written Tom Marvolo Riddle thereupon.

Harry scowls when the staring drags on. “Oi, could you quit perving on me and piss off already?”

“You were never going to tell me?” Voldemort demands, ignoring Harry’s half-arsed attempt at distraction.

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “Why the Hel would I? Either you already knew and it didn’t matter to you, or you didn’t – and I wasn’t about to risk baring my soul to someone who has a history of wanting me dead.” He shrugs. “I’m reckless, not suicidal.”

Voldemort opens his mouth with an angrily indignant look, and Harry looks to the ceiling for patience before pulling out of the other man’s grip and opening his emergency bottle of firewhiskey, hidden in the pantry, because this conversation needs alcohol. He pours two glasses (his to the brim) because he tries to be a good host, even to the bane of his existence. And if Voldemort doesn’t want it, well, it’ll save Harry getting the bottle out again.

All throughout this, Voldemort is ranting at him. Harry tunes most of it out – he’s had to hear enough of the man’s monologues to know he doesn’t need to listen to the preamble; the meat of his diatribe won’t come until a couple minutes in, at least.

After he casts a quick episkey on the cut on his arm, Harry leans against the counter, watching Voldemort pace around his modest kitchen. He takes a long, slow drink, welcoming the fire flowing down his throat and warming his belly. And either the other man is taking even longer than usual to get to the point or Harry’s more exhausted and irritable than he’d thought, because he’s suddenly completely out of patience with this situation.

He cuts in boredly, “It’s not like it changes anything. It doesn’t matter.”

Voldemort is immediately before him, looming and enraged. “It matters to me!”

“Why?”

“I’ve waited decades for you,” he says vehemently, leaning closer in an attempt to physically intimidate or pin Harry in place.

Harry barks a harsh laugh. “You waited for a fantasy. You’ve spent my whole life killing and hurting the people most important to me. Some silly mark doesn’t change that – it doesn’t make it better, it won’t make me love you.” He takes a sip and rasps through the burn. “It won’t change who you are.”

“I never received a mark–”

“And that’s unfortunate. Clearly it affected you. But plenty of people don’t get soul marks and they don’t commit mass murder and incite civil wars.” He gives Voldemort a dismissive look, standing up straight and slipping out from between the dark wizard and the counter. He can almost hear the other man grinding his teeth. 

“You have no idea what it’s like, not having a mark,” Voldemort hisses caustically, face contorted in a furious snarl. “The contempt, the ridicule I had to endure. I was denied one of Magic's basic gifts and they took it as proof they were better than me, those worthless fools.”

It’s difficult to know how he would’ve reacted to not having a mark. His burden has been to have the mark of the worst possible person, and he thinks he’s handled it far better than anyone could’ve expected of him. Having no mark would’ve confirmed that he’s meant to be alone, that there’s no one out there meant just for him, but having Voldemort’s mark as Harry Potter essentially means the same thing.

“Maybe you mutilated your soul too much to deserve a mark,” Harry says in a fit of cruelty. Behind the wrath crackling in the other man’s eyes, he can see the misery bloom. As good as it feels to score a hit against Voldemort, he regrets it even more. And isn’t that the exact reason why this damn war has dragged on for so long?

(Harry pushes that thought away wearily.)

“You had choices, Voldemort, and you made yours,” he says quietly but firmly. “I’m making mine, and it’s that I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“This is not a unilateral decision,” Voldemort says, the frustration in his tone edging close to desperation. “Do my wants mean nothing?”

"Your wants." Harry slams his almost empty glass down on the table; his voice comes out dangerously even. “Alright then. Can you bring my parents back to life? No? How about Cedric, or Sirius, or any of the dozens of others whose lives you’ve cut short?”

Voldemort’s mouth is pinched shut, a thunderous frown on his face.

“Hel, let’s start small. Stop this war, swear to never harm another person and get your followers to do the same. You want me to care about what you want? Start by addressing all of that.”

“You ask this of me and promise nothing in return?” Voldemort says bitterly.

“That’s the bare minimum it would take for me to see you as anything more than a murderous, blood-supremacist monster. And I honestly don’t think you can do it, but feel free to prove me wrong.”

That puts an unsettling gleam in the other man’s eyes. Harry thinks back on what he might’ve said to cause that reaction and feels his stomach drop. Oh bother. He’d challenged Voldemort. Harry knows exactly how he'd react to someone saying that; apparently Voldemort is equally competitive (and motivated by spite – he should’ve guessed that).

“...If I am able to–”

“You won’t–”

“When I fulfill your requirements,” Voldemort arrogantly says, face intense. “You and I will explore our connection, and you will meet with me frequently to do so.”

And now Harry is in a quandary. If Voldemort does what he’s been asked, Harry will have achieved what he’s been fighting for all six years of his adult life; if Voldemort doesn’t, Harry’s no worse off than he was before. And he knows the dark wizard won’t give up his cause simply because his soulmate asked, but if Voldemort does…

“You do realise that your soulmate is me, yeah?” Harry clarifies, unnerved by the shift in the other man's demeanour. “You don’t like me. At all.”

“Nonsense,” Voldemort says, waving off Harry’s really very logical point. “We simply haven’t had a chance to become properly acquainted.”

“...Because you’re always trying to kill me.”

“Details, details.” 

Harry would very much like to strangle the megalomaniac who is still in his apartment. “...Uh-huh. Sure, you become a completely different person and we’ll talk.”

He sometimes forgets that magic occasionally disregards sarcasm. This appears to be one of those times, as the heaviness in the air snaps tight around them, signifying Harry’s flippant “sure” just turned this discussion into a magically binding agreement. Merlin’s pierced nipples. So much for intent over phrasing.

Catching sight of Voldemort’s smug smirk, Harry suddenly feels genuinely homicidal for the first time in his life. Sensing his non-existent welcome is well and truly worn out, Voldemort says, “I look forward to it,” and apparates away. Harry pitches a cushion through the space the dark wizard just occupied. It helps settle his irritation a little.

He drops onto his couch with a deep, bone-tired sigh and tosses back Voldemort’s untouched glass of firewhiskey. 

He wonders if he’ll feel disappointed or relieved when Voldemort realises he’d rather keep trying to subjugate Magical Britain than have Harry as his soulmate.

Three days later, the war ends.

[sleepyhutcherson]

Can you do a post about how each character reacts to you getting cussed out by your parents for no reason? Please pookie 🙏🙏

a/n: i made this super quick so im sorry if it’s rough.

mike schmidt would glare at them from across the table. in this scenario, you would be at dinner over at your parents’ place. mid dinner they would find a reason to scold you in a harsh manner, you become tense and embarrassed not even wanting to glance over at mike. he would notice this, he would hate the tone your parents used with you, he would drop his silverware down onto his plate not caring about the annoyingly loud sound that comes from his utensils and the porcelain plate. he wouldn’t say anything to them, he would glare at them, his brows furrowed and his eyes piercing black and then stand up, the chair screeching horribly against the tile. “we’re leaving,” he’d announce, grabbing your hand. he knew you didn’t want to be in the situation, he knew you didn’t deal well with being scolded but especially being insulted by your own parents. he would apologise, telling you how you don’t have to go back there if you don’t want to, how he’ll make sure to take care for you.

derek danforth is usually a dickhead let’s be real. but. the moment he catches your parents telling you off from afar he’s quick to approach you. “what the fuck is going on?” he asks, clearly upset. you look over at derek ready to apologise on behalf of you and your parents, then: “get the fuck out before i fucking call security.” he grabs you, snaking his arm around your waist and pulling you away from the scenery, he could tell how overwhelmed you were by the situation with the mere look on your face. “you alright, sweetheart?”

peeta mellark will hate hearing them tell you off. like mike, he’ll say nothing but definitely excuse the two of you. when your parents call after you, he’ll turn around to them, shielding you with his body, his hand intertwined with yours. “don’t,” he’ll warn, glaring at them. he’ll take you home, he’ll bake you your favourite pastry, and apologise to you. you tell him he has nothing to apologise for, that you’re used to it but he’ll insist it’s not fair you’re so used to being treated like that by them.

josh futterman is definitely surprised. his parents have never told him off once so when he hears the tone your parents use with you…and the words they use…he goes still. his brows furrow, eyes flickering towards you and your parents. “hey, don’t talk to her like that,” he scoffs at them. then he’ll look over at you, eyes going soft for you: “do you wanna go?” he’ll be so gentle with you, he can see how horribly you’re feeling. he’ll make sure to pepper kisses all over your face when your home, reminding you how much he loves you.

billy (burn 2019) will not hesitate to tell your parents off lmao. he has a temper, remember? he doesn’t care about being polite or “modest” anymore, the moment he heard the way they spoke to you all respect he had for your parents is gone. you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so angry. he’ll drag you away from them handling you gently, of course. on the drive back home, he’ll hold your hand, and though his gaze his focused on the road he’ll go off telling you how he can’t believe your parents, how you didn’t deserve to be treated like that, how unfair they were, and so on. he’ll apologise later for losing his temper, kissing you softly.

clapton davis won’t say anything at all. i mean, he can’t really interfere here. but, he’ll try his absolute best to make you feel better. he’ll take you to his place, he assumes you probably want to be away from home, and once you agree he knows he was right. he lays with you in his bed, your head on his chest while he comfortingly pets your head while you tell him about your parents and how awful you feel about their words. he comforts you the entire time, telling you sweet nothings along with making a couple horrible jokes that end up making you laugh.

[joelswritingmistress]

You Scare Me, Professor: Chapter 9

Summary: The reader is taking graduate classes at a local university in the wooded upstate New York. She is drawn to her professor, Dr. Joel Miller, though she is also inherently aware that he has something dark about him that she can't quite put her finger on. As the reader's attraction grows deeper, she has to decide whether to endure the danger or run away as fast as possible. 

Pairing: Professor Joel Miller x f!reader 

Dr. Miller’s voice snapped my eyes open. The setting was perfect. It felt like a movie. What could possibly be better than this? 

The fire, the dim light, the luxurious living room, the champagne. It all felt too perfect to take it someplace else.

Before I could even protest, Dr. Miller was taking my hand and towing me away from the enchanting scene he had set. Certainly there was more to this amazing residence and I did want to see it - really, I did. But right then I could only focus on one desire.

He glanced over his shoulder once with the tiniest smirk and we soon climbed up a stairwell that was enclosed on both sides by the same stone structure that the house was made of. 

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. 

I stopped mentally counting after five steps when the staircase winded, rounding upward to the next level. Te swirling stairwell added to the dreamy atmosphere. I half expected to awake in my own bed the following morning not knowing if I had been in a dream or reality.

Okay, I was more curious now. What did the second floor entail? There was a charming and, contradicting, dark mystique to Dr. Miller's home. It was almost as enticing as his persona; a perfect fit.

A faint glow illuminated a room straight away as we reached the top of the stairs. On our whisk by, I got a quick flash of a modest-sized room and could tell it was his home office.

Trailing off to the left we passed by two closed doors until reaching the master bedroom at the far end of the hallway.

Dr. Miller reached for the dimmer on the wall a step inside the door and a dim glow gradually took on the oversized space. 

“Wow.” I couldn't keep the word from my mouth as I crossed through the threshold. Now I knew why he wanted to relocate. 

The bedroom was lavish with a fireplace of its own and a flatscreen that sat atop a stone mantle. A king-sized bed was positioned directly across it. Odds and ends filled the spaces, and ceiling-to-floor curtains hung over what I assumed were a pair of windows against a far wall.

Dr. Miller casually strolled in and loosened up the buttons on his collar. I continued to marvel in the enchanting nature of the room that was only comparable to those I had seen in fancy catalogs, or lavish movie settings.

But that wasn't what had me awestruck. It was my professor. It was my enticing, sexy, older professor who was staring right at me as he slowly began to undress himself in the near-darkness.

“Come here.” Dr. Miller’s strict demand forced a shallow gasp from my lips. Once my eyes were locked on his again I felt like a wolf honed in on its prey.. only that prey was a bigger, badder wolf. What a paradox.

The walk to him was only comparable to what I could describe as dice dancing on a tabletop at a casino. What would happen once they rolled to a stop? That was the type of thrill we all secretly chased. The anticipation of what was to come in the most intense situations; your heart pounding, hands unsteady, face hot and a tingle running throughout every facet of your body. 

Our lips met and I tasted the champagne on his tongue. Naturally, Dr. Miller's hand rested gently on the front of my neck. It made me pursuit him harder, kissing him with a heat that forced him to take a breath.

His hands snaked up under my sweater and he ran his warm palms the length of my torso from the bottom up until the shirt was thrown up over my head.

I was expecting him to pull me into his arms, for our lips to connect in the same fiery way as before. When I reached for him, his hand gripped my wrist so tight that an ache immediately spread in both directions up and down my arm. Without warning he shoved me down onto the oversized bed and I let out a deep breath as I stared up at him in his fully aroused state.

The clank of his belt buckle as he began to undo it was enough to make my bottom lip separate from my bottom one. My tongue danced across my lips. I couldn't wait to devour him - or let him devour me. Either way, I didn't care.

With his pants off his hips just enough to get a glimpse at the tented bulge in the front of his boxer-briefs, Dr. Miller leaned down, placing his hands on either side of me as he spoke against my lips.

“I'm going to fuck you now.” His voice was stern. His dark eyes locked on mine. He wasn't asking for permission, though he knew by now that I wouldn't deny him; I couldn't. 

My eyes closed when I felt his fingers against the skin by my waist, swiftly undoing the button of my jeans in a craftily, effortless manner. 

I didn't know if I sighed or moaned when he began to glide my pants down before fingering my panties and taking them along for the ride.

When I failed to respond  to his racy demand he let his nose brush against mine and kissed me so firmly on the lips that it hurt.

“Say, okay Dr. Miller,” he demanded now.

I swallowed hard.  “Okay, Dr. Miller.”

“Good girl.”

The world might as well have stood still when our bodies were entwined. Never, not once in my life, had an intimate encounter left me feeling so out of touch with the rest of the world. 

Explosions of passion transpired in every kiss, every touch, every careless whisper only to be shared between the two of us. I felt it. I knew Dr. Miller felt it, too.

At times he was patient, numbing me with his fingers as he slowly and carefully turned my thighs to Jello. Other times he was forceful and hard, leaving me unable to even choke out a moan because my body was tense and tight and I was on the verge of exploding. He stopped each time he could tell I was close to my climax, controlling the pace of the foreplay, the lovemaking and everything in between.

Fuck, the stamina on this man!

Details of the night would be forever ingrained in my mind. The squeezes of his hands against mine. The firm hold on my throat that I encouraged through a chorus of moans each time he did it. The look in his eyes that alternated between dominant and desperate as he thrusted hard on top of me.

I had no idea how much time had passed when we finally laid quietly together with nothing but the sounds of our own breathing to fill the air. For several minutes I laid there with my eyes closed holding him close. Dr. Miller was a hot, sweaty mess on top of me. I was certain I felt and sounded and looked the same way.

If there was one thing I worried about it was the aftermath of a sexual encounter. Would the man want to cuddle? Would he ask you nicely to leave? Was it just about the sex? Did men worry about any of that stuff?

Dr. Miller’s arm was locked around my naked waist. It was possessive, and from him, alone, I craved that. I wanted to be his. I wanted him to be mine. That may have been wrong, or too intense for the length of time we had been in each other's lives; but that's how I felt. I realized, now, that I couldn't do this once. I couldn't do it twice or three times. I wasn't going to be the girl he called on occasion for a random hookup. None of that was possible - not for me. There would be no getting enough of this. The chemistry that existed between us was on a level I had no prior experience with.

My chest heaved up and down with a deep sigh. It prompted him to finally loosen his grip on me as his head lifted from the pillow we were sharing.

Moment of truth, I thought. I could usually read what a man's intentions were; at least I thought I could. Was Dr. Miller as into me as I thought he was? I couldn't be reading this all wrong, could I?

I wasn't about to let misplaced doubt kill the moment. I bit down on my bottom lip and slowly smiled, prompting him to do the same. When a low chuckle escaped him I echoed it with a giggle of my own.

He propped himself up on his forearm now and hovered above me with pillow-tossed hair. Such a beautiful, rugged mess he was. For a moment neither of us said anything; though did we really need to?

I let out another flustered breath as he leaned down and touched his lips to mine, staying there as if it would be the last time. Simultaneously, my hand found his bearded cheek, the other gently roamed through his messy hair.

We sighed together as the kiss broke off and I knew something had to be said.

“Dr. Miller-”

“Call me Joel,” he cut me off, referring to himself in such a different way than he had in the verbal foreplay that had kicked off our encounter.

I knew it would be difficult referring to him by his first name. In my quiet thoughts, fears and fantasies he would always be Dr. Miller; but I certainly couldn't continue to refer to him in that way.

“Joel..” I smiled again and sighed. That was it. That was all I had. I couldn't think of a coherent sentence. Not when my body still ached for all we had just done and more.

“(Y/N).” His gravelly voice ignited something inside of me - even more so when the weight of his body still blanketed mine.

For a moment I just held him. With our current, uncertain circumstances I had no idea if I would ever truly get this chance again. My hand rested on his cheek and then I leaned my head forward and kissed him again.

His next question made me feel safe and secure - a contrast to the hot-and-bothered, reckless way I had been feeling all night. “What side of the bed do you want?”

I was sure the diameter of my smile stretched my face to the limits. He officially asked me to stay.

“Either side.” I didn't care. I would have slept in the stiff, decorative chair in the corner of the room if he asked me to.

With a chuckle, he pushed himself away and slunk out of bed, slipping just his boxer-briefs back on. “Well decide. I have to go put the fire out downstairs.”

I let out a light flutter of laughter and agreed to his terms, watching him as he exited the room. I was alone with my thoughts, now, smiling at the ceiling. The sheets felt cool against my hot skin. 

I could still feel a sting on the right side of my buttocks where Dr. Miller had indulged in perhaps the most pleasurable spanking of my life. My hand fell over the area and I smiled again, covering his hand print with my palm to feel the warmth he left there.

“Fuck..” I whispered the word to myself in the tastefully, exhausted state he had left my body in. If I died right then, I would die happy.

When he returned, my eyes drank in his physique. Chest hair trailed down the center of his rugged form down below his belly button. A lone scar decorated the top of his left arm and his typically perfectly-styled hair had been tugged in all different directions, leaving him with the most adorable fashion faux-pas.

Dr. Miller pressed the dimmer all the way down and closed the door, replacing the picture-perfect image in front of me with just a silhouette. When he slid back in behind me, my body naturally melted into his.

“Hope you don't mind the right side of the bed,” he said quietly in my ear, slipping one of his feet between mine as he pulled me against him even tighter.

“Mmm..” My eyes closed, “I don't mind.” I was exhausted, but I didn't want the moment to end. Despite the heaviness of my eyes I fought it. It wasn't until I heard Dr. Miller's quiet snores in my ear that I finally gave in. In the warmth of his bed with his body wrapped securely around mine, I got the best sleep of my life.

CLICK HERE FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER

@untamedheart81 @suttonspuds @cesspitoflove @michilandcof @amyispxnk @grogusmum @morallyinept @akah565 @brittmb115 @magpiepills @poodlebae @gobaaby-blog-blog

[batwritings]

Kinktober Day 15 - Mirror Sex

Some more Obey Me to balance out the military men! Enjoy!~

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Asmodeus asking you to try on clothes he’d picked out for you after a heavy day of retail therapy was absolutely nothing new. It actually became a bit of a bonding experience for the two of you. “You’ve got to add more color to your wardrobe Y/N!” He’d cheer, absolutely giddy when you tried on something outside of your normal attire.

So when he texted you to swing by his room for a bit of a fashion show, you weren’t exactly surprised. What did surprise you however, was the choice of clothes sitting against his bed sheets. “Uh Asmo?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “This is uh…an interesting choice for a fashion show.”

“Oh don’t be modest,” the demon purrs. It was getting harder and harder to tell by the day when Asmodeus was trying to charm you and when he wasn’t. “You’d look stunning in it darling! Just try it on, please? For me?” You look over and see those pretty sunset eyes looking at you so expectantly and sigh heavily. 

“Fine, fine,” you groan. Slowly but surely you undo your uniform until you’re completely undressed. You can see Asmodeus lick his lips, but that’s also nothing new, not to you at least. You blush regardless, quickly starting to pull the ensemble on. It’s a lovely lace bodice with matching garter and sheer underwear. “Well? How does it look?”

“Hmm,” the avatar of lust muses softly, looking you over. In the dim light of his room, you manage to miss the darkening of his eyes and how his pupils dilate like a beat eyeing it’s prey. “Come stand in front of my mirror, let me see better.” 

A little embarrassed, you do as he asks. Asmo’s floor length mirror doesn’t miss a thing on your body. How the fabric hugs all of your curves, how the sheer fabric does little to actually cover your body where it lays. It actually feels kind of nice against your skin, even the most intimate parts, but you push that thought down quickly.

The demon snakes his arms around your torso with a thoughtful hum, his head resting on your shoulder. He makes eye contact with you in your reflection, a knowing smile on his lips. “You look absolutely divine in that you know?” He tells you, voice practically dripping with desire.  “Almost as good as myself.

You’re so caught up in his honeyed words, you don’t even notice his hands sliding down your legs. You see how Asmo relishes your gasp as perfectly manicured fingers caress your sex beneath the sheer fabric. You immediately bite your lip; between the touches and the energy radiating off the demon behind you, it’s hard not to make noises from the pleasure.

“Now now darling, don’t hid those pretty noises from me,” he coos. “You know you sound just as pretty as you look.” His warm tongue licks behind the shell of your ear before nipping at your earlobe. 

“A-Asmo…!” you whine, hips bucking forward. You knew this little song and dance all too well by now. Foreplay was nice, but the fallen angel was sooner to work you up to your peak and keep you there for as long as he saw fit. 

Lithe fingers worked your sex in a slow but steady pace. Sinful words dripped from perfect pink lips, every so often leaving a sweet kiss or a nip against your neck and shoulder. Asmo’s free hand slid up underneath the light fabric of the bodice to thumb over your nipple. He giggles sweetly at your reaction, your head falling back against his shoulder.

“My my, how easily you fall apart for me sweetheart,” he teases. The hand on your nipple leaves, causing you to groan at the lack of attention. He comes to lightly hold your jaw, adjusting it so you can see yourself in his mirror. “See? See how lovely you look?”

Your eyes were glazed over in arousal, brow knitted together as your body craved more and more. Your knees were wobbling, trying to hold yourself up as pleasure coursed through your veins. You distantly wondered how much of this was actually feeling good and how much as due to Asmodeus’ influence as the avatar of lust. That thought was immediately wiped away as that telltale coil in the pit of your stomach tightened to it’s breaking point.

“Asmo…!” You moaned, trying to tear your eyes away from your reflection. “So close, so c-close..!” Your hips were bucking up erratically into the demon’s hand.

Asmo kisses your cheek sweetly. “Go ahead sweetie,” he tells you, voice low in your ear. The hand holding your jaw goes back to toying with your chest. “Let me feel that raw energy from you~”

You’re not in any position to deny him. Your knees buckle as pleasure overtakes you, a long moan that mixes with a cry leaving your throat. The narcissistic fourth born supports you easily, letting your weight rest against him. You can hear him chuckle softly behind your panting.

“Looks like we’ll have to have fashion shows in the mirror more often hmm?~”

[ultrainfinitepit]

Town of Puddle: Vampires

Last updated 08/14/2023

In the world of Puddle, vampire is a catch-all term for any humanoid creature that needs to consume something from a human to survive - usually human flesh or blood, but some subsist on other things such as emotions, dreams, etc. The most common vampire is the classic undead vampire. Vampires are usually immortal or very long-lived. 

While vampires are thought to have any number of origins, there is in fact one singular origin from which they descend. The first vampires were nephilim, the children of the demon Asherah and the angel Rapha. Asherah was the queen of a kingdom named Hell. Tales of this kingdom and her rule would pass through the ages and become distorted into mythology. Rapha was an angel of blood with a terrible hunger his children would inherit. Both are long dead and gone, but their influence on their descendants lingers. Common vampiric powers, such as glamours and shapeshifting, come from these ancient ancestors.

Asherah and Rapha’s children were destined to rule, for a time anyway, over all corners of the earth. Some were more suited to the forests or mountains or cities, others to the sea or even the skies. These first vampires would eventually give rise to all the different types of vampires we see today.

The kingdoms of vampires were matriarchal, modeled after Asherah’s own kingdom. Matriarchs are a special type of vampire suited to rule, and childbirth. Mundane vampires have difficulty bearing children, most being completely infertile. Natural-born vampires are thus rare but not unheard of. Most vampires nowadays are turned, from human to vampire as other creatures are immune or will simply die to vampirism.

A childe (plural, childer) is a vampire that has been turned by another, who is their sire. One of the few remaining widespread cultural norms for vampires, is that a sire has some degree of responsibility for their childer shortly after they are turned, and it is good practice to teach them local vampire rules, history, and etiquette.

While most vampires prefer solitary existences, many vampires form groups for mutual support. These groups often vie for power in shadowy undergrounds that exist away from human eyes. A vampire group might be called a gang, a pack, or a coven.

Below are my named vampires so far. If you’re curious about even more, @wyrmzier also has their own Puddle vampire characters you can ask about.

Vivian Moon used to be human, but she was turned into a vampire. She is like a siphonophore, a colony inhabiting a human form. Because she is a colony of organisms she can survive grave injuries or even dismemberment, for short periods of time. When her limbs are separated from her body they have their own intelligence, like an octopus’s. Vivian works as a forensic consultant for a special precinct dedicated to investigating monster-related crimes. 

Ethel Stone is Vivian’s friend in City Hall, who keeps her informed of political goings-on and secretly helps out her fellow vampires. Ethel is a lamprey vampire.

Teutho Melua is a vampiric pirate captain with a love of theatrics and parties. He is Vivian and Mordecai’s sire. Teutho is initially very narcissistic and bloodthirsty, but after some character development he becomes slightly less narcissistic. He is still bloodthirsty.

Mordecai Esadze is Teutho’s first mate. He is dark, serious, and grumpy, to balance Teutho’s more flashy personality. Mordecai is responsible and secretly more of a softie than he lets on.

Adelaide is Mordecai’s childe, his only one. As a human she sought the change, vampires call these sorts of humans “bite-chasers.” Now she manages a modest network of underground clubs and casinos, and in her spare time enjoys breeding snakes.

Lilian Heather is the adopted daughter of Samuel, and an up-and-coming actress.

Melanthios is an ancient vampire, thousands of years old and now more monstrous than humanoid. He is Menodora’s mate.

Malakos was the youngest of Menodora’s children, a cruel and egotistical vampire who controlled a small criminal empire on the Black Sea. He was Teutho’s sire, and was killed by Teutho and Mordecai.

Hyacinth is another of Malakos's childer, who pursues Teutho for a time.

Chise is Vivian’s mother, a bakeneko vampire. She abandoned Vivian at a young age, leaving her with no knowledge of her heritage.

Lycan was an ancient vampire, a child of Rapha and Asherah. His pursuit of a cure for vampirism led to the creation of werewolves.

Felisity is an ancient cat vampire, and a Matriarch. She was a queen of a small kingdom and was worshipped as an aspect of the goddess Bastet for many years, but eventually was dethroned and went into hiding.

[two-white-butterflies]

you're losing me (two) | am. targaryen and j. velaryon

Description: The 'fake-relationship' begins. Social media is taken by storm. Rating: General Audiences part one

Aemond was a gentleman - he always made sure that he was paying you his full attention. "Do you want to go shopping?" he asked, pointing at the shop in front of him. It was a small boutique - popular only to those that could afford the pieces inside. "Yes," you smiled, pulling him closer inside the building.

He didn't need to tell you twice.

"What are your parents like? Are they uptight or cool?" you inquired, dismissing the sales associate that wanted to help you. He took a deep breath - trying to find words that could explain his parents. "My dad is old, he's traditional in a sense - but my mom is trendy. She'll warm up to you." he smiled, watching as your eyebrows bumped into each other. Traditional and modest attire it is then.

There was a vintage white dress on the rack, you've seen it in one of the vogue covers from a few decades ago. It was an iconic piece, but not famous enough that it would seem tacky. His hands snake around your waist, "What?" you ask and he nudges your body slowly, pointing at the paparazzi that were standing outside of the door.

"Kiss me," he demanded, pulling your body closer - until you could smell his perfume. "You're demanding, you know that?" you tease, reaching to cup his cheeks. The paparazzi's outside of the window were having a seizure - making sure to take a picture of every moment. "- but you like that." he paused, pressing your lips together.

He tasted like black coffee and cherries. It was intoxicating - a taste that was new to your tongue. You couldn't help but let a moan seep through - he smirks through the kiss before letting you go. He pretends to be shocked that the paparazzi were outside. "Let's go," he mouthed, pulling you into a deeper part of the store where the 'media' couldn't see.

ynkittenworld: Y/N spotted with mystery man (two separate occasions), new album soon? world tour soon? WHO IS THIS MAN!!! side note: happy for you mommy 😺

100 comments 23,909 likes

reinaynworld: MOM EXPLAIN?

thegreatwar: I'm going to auntie bella's house ☹️

boogeyman: acc. to some ppl that saw them the man is aemond targaryen and he owns this tech startup that's worth billions. UR WELCOME AND THANK YOU FELLOW Y/N'S KITTENS

Aemond sits on your blue sofa, sipping his tea while browsing through social media. "Your fans are crazy, dude." he hummed - watching as people shared his face all around various platforms. He wasn't aware that he was famous enough to be discovered. "They even found my instagram account." he complained, seeing follow requests from people that he didn't know.

"If you can't handle the fire, don't go to the kitchen." you shrug, placing a piece of pastry on the round table. He was a gracious guest, always helping you around with household chores - after the whole scenario with the paparazzi, he was spending all his time inside your little hotel room. "Helaena's blasting my phone, she a big fan of you." he smiled, replying to his sister with a GIF of you laughing. "Helaena?" you ask while lying on his lap.

His fingers comb through your hair, untangling the knots that your hairbrush couldn't fix. "My older sister." he answered - staring deep into your features. He couldn't deny that you were beautiful, and that your personality stirred something inside of him - but you were just a summer thing, right? Something that would allow him to inherit all of his father's fortune.

"I know nothing about your family to be honest. Google didn't have anything other than your dating history and zodiac sign." you state, wanting him to talk about his family more. It was interesting to see a stoic and conniving man smile when he spoke about family. "- what's my zodiac sign?" he questioned, not knowing the answer.

"Gemini," you answer immediately. "- and you used to date Lindsay Lohan." you add with a smile. He was older than he looked. He places a strand of your hair away from your face. "Stalker," he mumbled - and you sat up straight, glaring at him playfully. You were about to tickle him, but your phone rings. 'Jacaerys' it read out, and you placed your phone in your pocket.

"We should hard-launch each other," you suggest and he raised his eyebrows. "What's that?" he inquired - unfamiliar with the word. "Posting each other on social media." you replied and he nods.

It would work perfectly with his plan.

(your first name) : our secret moments, in a crowded room...they got no idea about me and you. @officialaemondtargaryen

8,920 comments 1,238,098 likes

maybemaybemaybe: Rue, when was this?

officialaemondtargaryen: there is an indentation, in the shape of you😉 - (your first name) : 100% not typed by me using his phone

You couldn't stop giggling as his phone was bombarded with messages and calls from your fans. He could hardly use the thing properly. "They have got to stop." he sighed, while his phone buzzed and vibrated on the coffee table. "You need a new phone," you chuckle - watching while he tried to get rid of the messages.

"I have a private account, how are they doing this?" he sighs, all the while Aegon and Helaena keep calling his phone. Another laugh escapes your mouth - he defeatedly settles the phone on the table.

"You poor thing," you giggle, a small pout graces his lips. "You are going to be the poor thing after what I do to you." he chuckles, placing his hands on your waist. For a second you believe that the feelings between you were genuine - not because of the need for money. "What are you going to do?" you ask, and he smirks.

Hands trailing down to your sides and tickling you.

(your first name)

Very bored today, #AskMeAnything

wendychoi: what is your hairstyle called? - (your first name): doggy style

pinturilla23: Where did u meet dad? - (your first name): we met at a hotel garden 😁

yournamefan: Are you going to make an album about Aemond? - (your first name): yes he's gonna make a handsome muse 😉🥰

Lucerys stuffed a large piece of vanilla ice cream on his mouth. "(Your Name) is dating our uncle, how do you feel about that?" he teased, moving his body away so that Jace couldn't do anything to him. "I don't care," Jace huffed, reaching for a spoon to take a piece off his brother's ice cream. "He doesn't care but he's turning red." Joffrey piped, giggling loudly while eating his strawberry ice cream.

"I wonder if he'll take her to the reunion." Joffrey adds, and a sigh escapes from Jace's mouth. 'Give you my wild, give you a child.' turned to dust - and never to return. He knew that it was not his fault - your personalities just managed to clash with each other.

You were the kind to fight for something - to beg for him to fight for the relationship. He was the opposite of that.

If it was meant to be - then you wouldn't need to fight for it.

part three

@minaxcarter @glame @xcinnamonmalfoyx @winxchesters @yentroucnagol @hotchnerswife @itsabby15 @mxxny-lupin @joliettes @kemillyfreitas @mxtantrights

[gaiaseyes451]

Of Kings and Kids - A Good Omens Christmas Story

I'm super excited to announce that Chapter 1 of Of Kings and Kids is officially live on AO3! This is a collaboration with the incredibly talented @vavoom-sorted-art. We will release one chapter a day until all five chapters are available - the last release will be on 26-Dec.

Head to AO3 for the full Chapter AND additional, gorgeous illustrations!

An Excerpt:

----

Aziraphale stood at the town’s well, clay cup in hand, and drank, grateful for the cool water. While the journey from Nazareth hadn’t been particularly arduous, the angel was happy for an opportunity to rest after traversing the loamy, rolling hills; especially after guiding a flock of sheep and goats for the last five days. Michael had assured him, when she was briefing him on the Mission Messiah assignment, that Heaven had an alias prepared this time. Somehow, Silas the shepherd who was leading his flock of bovids to Bethlehem for the autumn livestock auction was not precisely the backstory Aziraphale had expected. Nevermind that Bethlehem had never held a livestock auction before, best not to question these things.

Bethlehem was built around the town’s well which stood in the center of a courtyard. Most inns and lodging houses surrounded the well while private residences were scattered among the slopes. The city was surrounded by a modest wall with roads granting access from the North and South. The land itself was lovely rolling hills with lush grasslands and natural grottos, perfect for grazing livestock. It would have been conspicuous if a shepherd had moved at the same pace as a woman who was about to give birth, so Aziraphale had arrived ahead of the holy family. He was glad for the chance to get acquainted with the town and for the brief respite before the real work started.

Preparing for the arrival of the Messiah really was quite stressful.

Having filled his waterskin, Aziraphale was about to head off to one of the rest houses to sample the local cuisine when a familiar voice called out.

“Hello, angel!”

Aziraphale stopped short. While he was always happy to see this particular demon on his assignments, having him this close to the savior’s birth was a tad disconcerting. He turned and greeted him warmly, even if his smile was a bit cautious. “Crawly! Hello.”

“Ah, actually, call me Crowley.” He said, casually.

“Oh, have you changed your name?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nah, not officially. Just tryin’ it out for a bit. ‘Sides, little odd to have a nobleman called ‘Crawly’.” He said, gesturing to himself.

Aziraphale took a moment to take in Crowley’s garb.The demon was wearing his hair a bit longer, russet waves held out of his eyes by a beaded headband. He was clothed in his preferred hues in a deep charcoal robe and cloak made from fine linen with patterns embroidered in red at the neckline and hem. The cloak was fastened at the shoulder with an onyx snake broach and synched at the waist with a burgundy leather belt with a serpentine fastener. The robe drew his eyes down to strappy sandals that accentuated Crowley’s calves. His wrists were adorned with wide, silver cuffs that emphasized his svelte arms and long fingers.

Aziraphale dragged his eyes back to Crowley’s face and attempted to make eye contact through the dark lenses. “Well, hello, Crowley. What brings you to Bethlehem?”

----

A warm thanks to @goodomensafterdark for the support on this project with thanks also to @sohoscribblers