#Test muse: Velvet

[talesofourworlds]

@thosetaleskids liked for a test muse starter (Velvet!)

The group ultimately had agreed to remain in the area around Merchio to train. Get some last minute additional strength before going to make the journey to try and put an end to things with Artorius and Innominat. The Lord of Calamity couldn't afford to look weak when she went to end the precious Shepherd once and for all.

It took some searching around the snows of Merchio, and much complaining from Magilou the whole while, but eventually they found something. Velvet led the charge against a particularly strong looking daemon. Rokurou sounded convinced it was a code red daemon, and with how strong it looked? She wouldn't have been surprised at all if it was. The thing looked like a weird cluster of crystals. Surely it couldn't have been that sturdy, Velvet thought as she'd lashed out with a Rising Falcon, but when her arte connected it felt like the arte didn't even connect the way she thought it would.

Golden eyes grew wide. What the hell was this thing made of? Velvet could only say in the air so long before having to land, and she landed right at the wrong time. The daemon launched its attack, some kind of blast of energy, that knocked her back where she'd come from. Pain coursed through the therion woman's body and, despite her efforts to keep from doing so, a cry escaped her as she landed in the snow. She lifted her head to see the others trying to land hits on the thing, too. Everything seemed to just bounce right off of it. Was it taking any damage at all?

"Dammit, this isn't working!" Eizen's voice rose over the others. "We can't win this, Velvet!"

Velvet grit her teeth. Phi... where was Phi? She didn't immediately see him, but she hoped he had the sense to stay back and cast his artes from a safe distance. Rokurou seemed to be suffering the same fate as she had moments before. Magilou also was met with a blast, interrupting her attempted Final Embrace, and Eleanor? No better off than Rokurou.

"Dammit!" Velvet grit her teeth and forced herself to stand. Rokurou wasn't going to like this, but... what choice did they have? They were going to get wiped out if they kept trying to fight this thing. "Retreat for-"

Another blast struck Velvet from behind. Again, she couldn't stop herself from giving in to the pain. The idle thought floated through her mind as she was knocked into the snow again. How nice would it have been if what she'd lost when she became a therion was her ability to feel pain?

Oh well. No sense in thinking about it when she was laying there, grimacing and trying to force herself to stand again. She felt like she had to struggle just to do that much. Still, Velvet had to make herself speak. If the others could get away, that was good enough. She'd figure something out.

"Run!" Velvet finally yelled the order. Magilou already was doing so, only glancing back for a moment before doing so. Eleanor was next, and she saw Eizen dragging Rokurou away. Phi...

Finally, she saw him.

"Phi, run! I'll catch up!" Somehow. Forget the pain and move. That was what she was trying to make herself do. So why was it so damn hard to move? Had that daemon paralyzed her with that arte?

[empirelead]

Kuvira DIDN'T LOOK BACK when Zaofu finally disappeared from view , hidden from the world ; hiding away behind large mountains that stood above all those who came crossing the land. The city finally furled to once more to cower from what she now sees as the truth —— the Earth Kingdom is in dire trouble and the only person who could lead its children has betrayed them all. The bitter taste on the very tip of her tongue was foul , swallowing down the lump that formed in her throat before she could ever allow her emotions to get the best of her. IT IS WHAT SUYIN WOULD WANT , to have her feel the tinge of regret of leaving of the only place that has welcomed her ( the very place that has now banished her ) but she will not falter and will not fall. The anger burned deep within her chest , thankful that the others were all wise enough to leave her be. She will return one day and will make sure Suyin regrets of crossing her.

[aleksatia]

You've been in a relationship for a short time, and a lingering question has been eating at you—are you truly good enough in bed? After some thought, you finally ask him what kind of sex and positions he likes the most.

🎨 Rafayel – "A Canvas of You"

He doesn’t answer right away. He never does. Instead, he watches you—too long, too intensely—until your skin warms beneath his gaze, your breath shallows, your body betrays you before he’s even touched you.

Then, he moves. Not rushed. Not hesitant.

Fingers brush your shoulder, catching the strap of your dress. A single shift of his hand, and it slides down, fabric slipping over your skin like a sigh. His knuckles graze bare flesh—unhurried, deliberate, as if testing the way you react to the smallest touch.

"You know, Cutie," he murmurs, voice rich and smooth, "I’ve always thought you’d make the perfect canvas."

Then, just as easily as he came to you—he’s gone.

Your body sways before you catch yourself, the absence of him too stark, too sudden. Across the room, you hear him move. A clink of glass. The whisper of bristles lifting from their place. And then—the slow swirl of ink, thick and black, rolling against the brush like liquid night.

You exhale, only to inhale too sharply when he turns back.

"You’re not serious."

His lips curve, just slightly. "I never joke about art."

Then—he paints you.

The first stroke is nearly nothing, a whisper-light touch against the slope of your shoulder. The ink is cool, pooling where the fine bristles meet skin, spreading like something secret. His breath, warm and steady, lingers close—too close—as his free hand finds your waist. His palm fits there like he’s done this before.

"Hold still," he murmurs. Low. Dark. A warning wrapped in velvet. "Or I’ll have to start over."

You don’t move. You can’t move.

The brush glides downward, slower this time, tracing something unseen, something only he understands. Right where your pulse betrays you.

"Do you know what it says?"

You shake your head.

His lips tilt—not quite a smirk, not quite soft. And then, before you can form a thought—he kisses the ink.

A slow, claiming press of lips against bare skin, sealing the mark he’s left on you.

"Mine."

The brush moves again, lower, lazier, dragging out the moment like he enjoys the wait, like he enjoys watching you wait.

Then—he switches hands.

And everything shifts. Fabric slips further. Falls.

Your breath catches as his gaze flicks upward, locking onto yours.

The moment stretches, the room too still.

Then, a quiet click of his tongue. "Tsk," he muses, tilting his head as if in contemplation, the brush tapping lightly against his fingers. "Now I really will have to start over."

And this time, there’s no mistaking the intent in his voice.

☀️ Xavier – "A Public Revelation"

You expect restraint. A flicker of amusement. The usual walls of composure, too perfect to crack.

But this—this is something else.

He moves without hesitation, without a single wasted second. One sharp step forward, and suddenly, his hands are on you. Firm. Unyielding. Fingers pressing into your waist as he pulls you into him, his grip absolute. Your breath stumbles, your body caught in the shift before your mind can catch up—

Then—his arms tighten.

The ground vanishes beneath you.

Your hands grasp at his shoulders, legs instinctively locking around his waist in search of balance, but he doesn’t give you that either.

"Like this," he murmurs. The words are soft. The meaning isn’t.

You open your mouth—to question, to push back, to remind him who he is.

But his hold shifts, pressing you closer.

And everything else fractures.

Because Xavier doesn’t do this.

Not like this.

Not with raw certainty, without calculation, without the endless steps ahead he always keeps in his back pocket.

But right now? Right now, he isn’t thinking.

His next words land like the first snap of a fire in a quiet room.

"Especially in public."

Your heart stops. Then slams into motion, too fast, too much.

"What?"

He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t have to.

His eyes are darker now, their usual cool edge gone, replaced by something thicker. Heavier. The kind of quiet hunger you’ve always known was there—but never like this.

"I wonder," he muses, too casually, "if you’d still be so composed if someone walked in right now."

Heat floods through you. "Xavier—"

"Shh." His lips graze the edge of your jaw, a whisper of contact, soft and deadly.

Your breath stutters. He smirks against your skin.

"Oh? Now you’re quiet?"

One of his hands moves, dragging slowly up your spine, deliberate in a way that makes it impossible to ignore just how firmly he’s holding you in place.

How easily he could keep you here.

Everything inside you screams to push back, to push him, but your body is already betraying you, already tilting into him, already wanting.

Because Xavier is always the one in control.

But now? Now, he’s letting you see exactly what happens when he stops pretending.

And the worst part?

You want him to keep going.

🩺 Zayne – "A Lesson in Restraint"

The question lands between you like a scalpel on steel—clean, precise, dangerous in the wrong hands.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he adjusts his stethoscope.

Cool metal meets warm skin as he presses it just below your collarbone, his touch impersonal, professional—except it isn’t.

"You should breathe normally," he reminds you, voice smooth, even, impossible to read.

But you don’t. Because you can feel him.

The warmth of his fingers as they rest just beneath the curve of your ribs. The calculated press of his palm steadying you—not too firm, not too soft, but just enough to remind you who’s in control of this room.

You swallow. He hears it.

His lips twitch. "That’s not normal breathing."

Your chest rises too sharply as you force air into your lungs, but it does nothing to steady your pulse. He listens anyway.

Slowly. Methodically.

He moves the stethoscope lower, following the delicate line of your sternum. The sensation is impersonal. It should be impersonal.

Except his gaze never leaves yours.

"You know," he muses, tilting his head slightly, as if considering something, "your heart rate tells me more than you ever do."

Your fingers tighten where they rest on the edge of the examination table.

A slow inhale. A calculated pause. Then, finally—he answers you.

"I like discipline." The words are soft. Absolute.

The stethoscope lingers.

"I like knowing you can listen."

A small flick of his wrist—the stethoscope is gone. But his hand?

Still there. Palm resting lightly against your ribs, right over your heart.

He can feel it. The way it betrays you.

"I like when you stay exactly where I put you," he continues, still clinical, still calm. "When you don’t move until I say you can. When I touch you—" his fingers barely shift, but it’s enough, more than enough, "—and you tremble, but you don’t pull away."

Your breath catches. His thumb moves, a single slow drag against bare skin.

"You like that too, don’t you?"

Heat spreads.

His lips curve, slow, knowing, as if this was never a real question—just a test you were bound to fail.

Then—he leans in. Not touching. Not yet.

"If you don’t believe me," he murmurs, "let’s run an experiment."

His breath is warm against your jaw, his voice dropping lower. "For the rest of the day, you do exactly what I say. No questions. No hesitation."

A pause.

Then, his lips barely move, but the words strike like a direct hit to your pulse.

"I wonder how long you’d last."

Your fingers twitch. A fraction.

His smirk sharpens.

"Well." He exhales, deliberate, slow. "Just the idea made your hands shake."

His eyes flick down—brief, knowing.

Then, finally, he steps back, scribbling something onto his clipboard like nothing just happened.

"I’ll take that as a yes."

🐱 Sylus – "The Edge of Control"

He lets the silence stretch. A deliberate thing. Like he’s daring you to take back the question before he answers it.

Instead, he laughs—low, rich, like the hum of an expensive engine, the kind built for speed, for power. The kind that always wins.

Then—he moves. No hesitation. No warning.

Your back hits the desk.

Glass rattles. Papers scatter. The entire room shifts around him—because he is the one who dictates movement here.

One strong hand pins your thigh open, fingers digging into bare skin like a silent command. The other?

Wrapped around your throat. Not tight. Not cruel. But undeniable.

"You really want my answer, kitten?" he murmurs, head tilting, watching the way your pulse slams against his palm.

Your breath catches. He sees it. Feels it.

His grip flexes. A silent dare.

"Because if you do," he continues, tone almost conversational, like he’s discussing something as ordinary as stock prices, "you better be ready for it."

His thumb drags up—slow, deliberate—over the fragile line of your pulse, over your jaw, over the part of you that always betrays you first.

"You wanna know what I crave?" he muses, lips curving—not mocking, but daring you to ask again.

Then—he leans in.

The heat of him, the undeniable weight of his presence, his breath against your cheek, like he’s already claimed the space between you as his.

His lips brush against your ear.

"You," he whispers.

One word. Absolute.

"You," he repeats, slower this time, savoring it.

Not a single hint of hesitation. Not a flicker of doubt.

"You, when you stop thinking."

His teeth graze skin. A slow drag. A threat.

"You, when you let go."

And then—his hand moves. The one at your throat? Gone.

Before you can even process the loss, before you can catch your breath, his palm is already flat against your stomach, pressing down—hard.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to make you feel it.

Just enough to force you to recognize what’s happening.

Just enough to remind you who you’re dealing with.

"You, when you take me without hesitation," he continues, his free hand dragging slowly, lazily down your thigh. "When you stop waiting for permission."

His fingers flex.

"You, when you give in to it."

A pause.

Then—his smirk sharpens.

"But, kitten—" his breath warms your lips now, so damn close, so deliberate, so Sylus.

"You already knew that, didn’t you?"

Your fingers twitch. He sees.

He grins.

"Well." A slow exhale. "Just the idea made your thighs shake."

And then—he leans back. Lets go.

Like it was all his choice to begin with.

His eyes flick down—brief, knowing.

Then—a lazy stretch, a roll of his shoulders, a smirk so smug you want to slap it off his face.

"You got what you wanted," he murmurs, running a hand through his silver hair as if he wasn’t just wrecking you without lifting a finger.

Then, with obscene, devastating confidence:

"So." A tilt of his head. A challenge in his voice. "You gonna do something about it?"

🍎 Caleb – "No Holding Back"

He stops stirring.

The question lingers in the air, sweet and dangerous, like the scent of warm batter and fresh coffee—except he’s not thinking about breakfast anymore.

Slowly, he looks up from the mixing bowl, brows lifting, like he needs a second to process the fact that you just said that.

Then—a quiet chuckle.

A small, breathless shake of his head, like you’ve just thrown him completely off-balance. Like you don’t even realize what you’ve done.

"Damn it, Pip-squeak," he mutters, setting the whisk down with deliberate ease. "You really startin’ my morning like this?"

But you don’t take it back. Of course you don’t.

And that? That’s all it takes.

Because Caleb’s already too far gone for you.

His fingers curl around the mixing spoon, scooping up a bit of batter, thick and golden, before lifting it between you.

A test.

You meet his gaze, and instead of moving away, instead of hesitating—you take it.

Lips parting. Tongue flicking against his finger, slow, unshy.

And that’s it.

The spoon clatters onto the counter as his free hand is suddenly at the back of your neck, dragging you in, swallowing the little smirk he knows was there.

He kisses you like he’s been starving for days. Like he doesn’t care that the stove is still on, that the batter’s going to burn, that the sun hasn’t even fully risen yet—because none of it fucking matters.

Not when you’re here.

Not when he finally has you.

His hands are everywhere at once, gripping, pulling—desperate, but never careless. Because he knows you. Knows exactly where to touch, exactly where to press, exactly how much to take without pushing too far.

You make a sound—a soft, startled little thing—when he lifts you right onto the counter, right between his arms, right where he wants you.

"You wanna know what I like?" he breathes against your lips, forehead still pressed to yours, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding himself together.

His hands tighten on your thighs.

"This."

A pause.

Then, lower. Rougher.

"When you’re not expectin’ it."

His lips graze your jaw.

"When we shouldn’t have time."

He kisses the corner of your mouth—a tease, a warning.

"When I wake up and you’re still half-asleep, curled up in my sheets, lookin’ soft as hell, and I know—I know—the second I touch you, you’ll let me."

His fingers flex, breath rougher now.

"Or when it’s the middle of the damn day, and you say shit like this, and suddenly I don’t care if breakfast burns, ‘cause, princess—"

He leans in.

Nose brushing yours. Smirk curling against your lips.

"You really think I’m just gonna let you walk away after that?"

[aspenmissing]

Arcane men x reader with a voice kink 😳

ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴄʟᴀɢɢᴏʀ || ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ || 5869 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜱᴘɪᴄᴇ, ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴋɪɴᴋ, ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ, ᴍᴀᴋᴇᴏᴜᴛ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴏᴋᴀʏ, ɪ ꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴇᴅ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪꜱ (ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ ᴀ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ). ꜱᴏᴏᴏᴏᴏ, ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ ᴍʏ ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴄʟᴀɢɢᴏʀ

JAYCE

The first time you realized it, it was completely accidental.

You weren’t even doing anything special—just sitting in the council chambers, watching Jayce give one of his impassioned speeches about Hextech advancements. But the way his voice carried, the way it dipped low and rumbled like a summer storm, made something tighten deep inside you.

He was always charismatic, but when he got lost in his own convictions, speaking with such firm belief and certainty, it was like he wove a spell around the entire room. His voice wasn’t just sound—it was presence, warmth, command.

You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat, a rush of heat crawling up your neck as you forced yourself to focus on the actual content of his speech. But the damage was already done.

That voice did something to you.

And once you noticed it, you couldn't unnotice it.

It was when he murmured to himself in the lab, lips barely moving as he worked through equations, deep in thought. It was when he spoke in that authoritative, commanding tone, making decisions for the future of Piltover with absolute confidence. And it was most definitely when he let his voice soften just for you—leaning in close, murmuring your name like a secret only he was allowed to know.

You were doomed.

=

Tonight was no different.

The two of you had been working late in his private workshop, going over blueprints and schematics. Well—he was. You were mostly trying not to let your thoughts drift to dangerous places.

The room was warm, illuminated by the soft golden glow of hexlights. The smell of parchment and metal filled the air, mixing with something unmistakably Jayce—cologne and the faintest trace of sweat from a long day. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing the toned muscles of his forearms, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a teasing glimpse of his collarbone.

He was a distraction. A beautiful, terrible distraction.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” Jayce noted, glancing up from his work. “Everything okay?”

You swallowed. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“About?” He smirked, leaning back against the workbench, arms crossing over his chest. His voice had that casual, teasing lilt—the kind that always made your stomach flutter.

Your voice, you thought. I want to hear you say my name again. Want to hear what you sound like when you—

Nope. Nope. Not going there.

Jayce tilted his head, watching you with curiosity, and you cursed his stupidly perceptive nature.

“You sure?” His voice dipped lower now, smoother, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

You bit your lip. “It’s… it’s stupid.”

His grin widened. “Now I have to know.”

You inhaled sharply, debating whether or not you could actually say it. But Jayce was nothing if not patient, and damn it, you trusted him.

“I just…” You hesitated, then finally admitted, “I really like your voice.”

Jayce blinked. “My… voice?”

Oh god. Abort. Abort.

“Forget it,” you rushed, heat creeping up your neck. “It’s nothing, really—”

But then he chuckled.

A deep, rich, amused sound that sent shivers down your spine.

“You like my voice,” he mused, like he was testing the weight of the words. Then, in a tone so sinfully low it practically vibrated through you, he murmured, “You like when I talk to you, sweetheart?”

Oh. Oh, hell.

Your breath hitched. Your entire body felt like it was made of molten want, tingling from your fingertips to the base of your spine.

You clenched your hands into fists, trying not to visibly tremble. “Jayce—”

“Say my name again,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was pure velvet now, smooth and teasing, wrapping around you like a warm embrace.

Your lips parted, but you hesitated. That only made his smirk deepen.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he coaxed, his voice dipping even lower, almost hypnotic. “If you like my voice so much… let me use it for you.”

You exhaled sharply, pulse thrumming in your ears.

He was enjoying this. The realization sent another sharp thrill through you—Jayce was smart, he was confident, and he wasn’t above using every weapon at his disposal. And right now? That weapon was you, unraveling in front of him.

“Jayce,” you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

And god, the way he reacted.

His pupils darkened, his fingers flexed at his sides, and that smirk turned into something dangerous.

“There it is,” he murmured. He was close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating off of him, the faint scent of cologne mixed with something deeper.

Your thighs squeezed together involuntarily, and his eyes flickered downward for the barest second—enough to see. Enough to know.

His voice dropped to a devastating whisper.

“You really do like it, don’t you?”

You bit your lip so hard you nearly drew blood.

He reached out, tracing his fingers along your wrist, barely touching, but enough to make you shiver. His lips tilted into something more intimate, more possessive.

“What if I keep talking?” he mused.

You nearly whimpered.

“I could say anything.” His thumb brushed your pulse point, feeling how fast it raced. “Talk about Hextech. About politics. About you, sitting here, looking at me like you want to hear something very specific.”

Your breathing was shallow now, your skin burning under his touch.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he continued, his voice dropping to something wickedly deep, his lips hovering just inches from your ear. “If I just… kept talking to you. Told you exactly what I want to do to you.”

Oh. Oh.

You were completely ruined. Jayce grinned, watching the way you melted, the way your body responded to nothing but his voice. Then, with the cruellest, most devastating smirk you’d ever seen, he murmured—

“Say my name again.”

VIKTOR

Viktor had always been an enigma to you, a man of sharp intellect and sharper wit, with a voice that could command a room or whisper secrets into the dim glow of the Hexcore. You had spent countless evenings watching him work, enthralled by the way his lips formed words, by the careful cadence of his speech.

But tonight… tonight was different.

You were seated on the edge of his cluttered worktable, swinging your legs lightly as he moved around the lab, his cane tapping a steady rhythm against the floor. The sound was familiar, grounding, just like everything else about him.

But then—his voice.

“Pass me the spanner, would you?” His accent curled around the words, the softness of his tone almost affectionate despite the request being so mundane.

You swallowed, fingers gripping the tool tightly before handing it to him.

“Thank you,” he murmured, glancing up at you through tousled auburn hair. The way his voice dropped ever so slightly on the last syllable made heat curl in your stomach.

Gods, he had no idea what he was doing to you.

Or maybe he did.

Viktor cocked his head, observant as ever, his sharp gaze flicking from your face to the way you shifted against the table. A slow smirk tugged at his lips, and he set the spanner down, leaning on his cane as he moved closer.

“Something wrong, milý?” The pet name rolled off his tongue like silk. (Dear)

Your breath hitched.

He caught it—of course he did.

Viktor was nothing if not brilliant, and as soon as realization dawned on him, his expression shifted. Amusement. Interest. And something darker, something that sent a delicious shiver racing down your spine.

“My voice,” he mused, tilting his head. “You like it, don’t you?”

You averted your gaze, but that only made him chuckle.

“Fascinating,” he purred, dragging out the word, letting the syllables sink into your skin. “And here I thought you only indulged me for my mind.”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, but the way your thighs pressed together betrayed you.

Viktor exhaled a quiet laugh, moving impossibly closer, his warmth wrapping around you like a second skin.

“Ah, but if I am insufferable, then why are you trembling?”

Your breath hitched again, and he smirked, slow and knowing.

His cane thudded against the floor as he lifted his hand, fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Tell me,” he murmured, voice dipping into something velvet and sinful, “what is it that you love so much? The way I speak your name? The way my voice—” he dragged out the last word, savouring it, “—sounds when I’m thinking? Or is it… something else?”

You shivered, nails digging into the edge of the table. “Viktor—” He hummed. A simple sound, but it sent a wave of heat straight through you.

“Mm. I see.” He traced his thumb along your lower lip, his own lips curling into a grin. “You truly are something else.” His voice alone had you unravelling, and he was clearly enjoying every second of it.

And, judging by the glint in his eyes, he was far from finished.

=

The air in the lab had changed.

It was charged, humming with something electric, something that made the fine hairs on your skin prickle in anticipation. Or maybe that was just him. Viktor, standing so close, his cane pressing lightly against your knee as he studied you, as if unraveling some great scientific discovery.

Except this wasn’t an experiment.

This was you. And the way his voice made your pulse stutter.

"Ah," he mused, voice low and knowing, "so this is what makes you tremble."

You opened your mouth to deny it, to say something, anything, but words failed you. How could they not, when he was watching you like that, with sharp, burning curiosity?

His fingers, dexterous from years of precise work, trailed from your jaw down the side of your neck, pausing just over your pulse. It was racing, and he exhaled a quiet laugh.

"I wonder," he murmured, his voice a mere thread of sound, "how far this goes?"

The rasp of his accent, the deliberate way he spoke—it sent another shiver coursing through you, heat pooling low in your stomach. He noticed, of course. Viktor noticed everything.

His smirk deepened.

"Would you like a demonstration, Y/N?"

Your breath caught. He was teasing you, testing you. And yet, beneath the amusement, there was something else. A hunger.

"Viktor," you started, voice unsteady.

"Yes?" He drew out the syllable, savouring it. His thumb grazed your chin, tilting your head up further. "Do you like the way I say your name, milý?"

You bit your lip.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

Viktor chuckled, the sound rumbling low in his chest, before leaning in, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Perhaps," he purred, "I should keep speaking, then?"

His voice dipped into something even more intoxicating, a deliberate whisper of sin against your skin. He wasn’t just speaking anymore—he was using his voice. A weapon, a lure, pulling you in, unravelling you piece by piece.

"Would you like that?" His lips brushed the shell of your ear, sending a shudder down your spine. "For me to talk you through all the ways I could ruin you?"

You let out a shaky breath, thighs pressing together involuntarily.

He laughed. Soft and knowing.

His cane shifted as he moved between your legs, his free hand finding your waist. His grip was firm, grounding, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

"I could tell you, step by step," he murmured, his fingers tracing absentminded circles against your hip. "How I would take my time, how I would make you fall apart with just my words."

He leaned in, lips grazing your jaw—so close, so deliberate. "Would you like that, můj drahý?" (My Dear)

Your fingers dug into his shirt, desperate, needing something to hold onto as his words set you alight.

"I—"

His lips ghosted over your pulse, and you gasped.

"You do like it," he mused, wicked amusement dripping from every syllable.

He tilted his head, dragging the bridge of his nose along the line of your throat, inhaling as if memorizing the way you smelled, the way you reacted. His fingers tightened on your waist, his cane shifting as he steadied himself.

"Then," he whispered, voice dark, velvet-soft, "perhaps I should see just how much you can take?"

And with the way your body responded to just his voice, to just the promise of his words—

You knew you were completely, utterly doomed.

JAYVIK

Piltover at night was something of a wonder. The city of progress never truly slept, its golden lights reflecting against the rivers and illuminating the towering spires of Hextech advancement. But inside a candle-lit penthouse, away from the hum of the bustling streets, you were being tormented in a very particular way.

By them.

Viktor and Jayce had long since figured out your little… proclivity. You weren’t sure exactly when or how—perhaps it was the way your thighs had pressed together the first time Viktor murmured something low and slow while working on an invention, or the way your breath hitched whenever Jayce let his voice drop into that rich baritone during council meetings.

Whatever the case, they knew. And they were merciless.

Wrapped up in one of their oversized hoodies—Jayce’s, judging by the scent of metal, parchment, and the faint hint of cologne—you were curled up on the couch, trying desperately to appear unaffected. But it was a losing battle.

Jayce had been reading out loud from one of his research papers, voice slow, deliberate. Each word was carefully spoken, the deep timbre vibrating through his chest as he sat back in the chair across from you. You knew damn well he was exaggerating it, just to make you squirm.

“…The integration of Hextech stabilizers has resulted in a remarkable increase in mana conductivity,” Jayce mused, flipping a page, his voice dropping an octave as he let the sentence roll off his tongue. “Perhaps we should conduct… further tests.”

Viktor, lounging beside you, tapped his cane idly against the floor—a slow, methodical rhythm, as if measuring the seconds between your breathing. He wasn’t reading, nor was he pretending to be occupied. No, Viktor was simply watching you. Observing, calculating, taking in every little twitch of your fingers against the hoodie’s sleeves.

“Oh, I agree, Jayce. Further testing is always important,” Viktor mused, his accent curling around the words like silk, wrapping them into something intoxicating. His golden eyes flickered with amusement, his lips curling in a knowing smirk. “Wouldn’t you say so, darling?”

Your fingers twitched, gripping at the hoodie’s fabric as your throat went dry. “I—I mean, research is important, obviously.”

Jayce chuckled, finally setting the papers aside. He stretched with a dramatic sigh, letting his shirt ride up just enough to reveal a glimpse of his toned stomach. You hated that they were both so effortlessly attractive.

“You’re cute when you try to pretend,” Jayce murmured, voice heavy with amusement. His gaze darkened as he leaned in, resting his chin on one broad hand. “But let’s be honest, sweetheart… you’ve been real quiet ever since I started reading. Why is that?”

You stiffened, your stomach twisting with a familiar warmth.

Viktor shifted beside you, his cane sliding along the floor before resting against the couch. His voice dipped lower, softer—lethal.

“She’s always so reactive to sound, Jayce,” he mused, drawing out each syllable in that dangerous slow cadence. “It’s quite… fascinating.”

A shiver ran down your spine, your thighs pressing together on instinct.

Jayce caught it immediately. His grin widened. “Oh, what’s this?” His hand, warm and too confident, found your knee, squeezing lightly—just enough to send heat flooding through your body. “Something wrong, sweetheart?”

You clenched your fists. “I hate you both.”

Jayce laughed, shaking his head as he ran his thumb in slow, idle circles over your knee. “Oh, do you?” His voice was all velvet and amusement, all taunting warmth.

Viktor hummed, leaning in. His voice was barely above a whisper, golden eyes locked onto yours as if he could see straight through you. “It’s endearing, really,” he murmured, his words slow, drawn-out, teasing. Torturous. “How just a few words can make you so—hmm, what is the word?”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting in the dim light. You knew he already had the answer. He just wanted to hear you squirm.

Then he smirked.

“Flustered.”

Your breath hitched, and you hated how much they noticed it.

You yanked the hoodie’s collar up over your face, your entire body curling inward. “You two are insufferable.”

Jayce chuckled, leaning down to press a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. “And yet…” His lips lingered for a moment, warm against your skin before he finally pulled away. “…you’re still here.”

Viktor exhaled a soft laugh, reaching out with his fingers—light, barely-there, ghosting along your wrist, teasing. The kind of touch that made heat coil in your stomach. His golden gaze softened just enough, but the teasing edge in his tone remained.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, lips dangerously close to your ear, “you secretly enjoy being teased, hmm?”

The shudder that wracked your body was humiliating.

You clenched your thighs together, burying your face deeper into the hoodie’s collar, desperate to escape their knowing gazes.

Damn them both.

VANDER

The Last Drop was quieter than usual tonight. The usual rowdy patrons had filtered out, leaving only a few stragglers nursing the dregs of their drinks. You leaned against the bar, fingers lazily tracing the rim of your glass as Vander wiped down the counter. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing the strength in his scarred muscles as he worked.

“Long night?” he rumbled, voice thick with the gravel of exhaustion.

You hummed, tilting your head to look up at him. “Could say the same to you.”

A chuckle rolled through his chest, deep and warm, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. You tried to ignore the way it made heat coil in your stomach, but you weren’t very good at hiding things from Vander.

He gave you a knowing smirk, resting his weight against the counter. “What’s got you smilin’ like that?”

You hesitated for a moment, swirling the liquid in your glass before deciding that, screw it, maybe it was the whiskey, maybe it was just Vander looking too damn good under the low lantern light, but you felt bold.

“I like your voice.” The words came out softer than you intended, a confession tucked between the hum of the empty bar.

Vander raised a brow, but the smirk never left his face. “That so?”

Your cheeks burned, but you held his gaze, something challenging in your eyes. “Mhm. Deep, rich… kinda feels like it wraps around you.” You shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant, but the way his expression darkened ever so slightly made your breath hitch.

He leaned in, just close enough that his scent—whiskey, leather, and the faintest trace of smoke—clouded your senses. “Didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you,” he murmured, voice dipping into something even deeper, raspier, like he was testing you.

You swallowed hard, resisting the urge to squirm under his gaze. “You do.”

That was all the invitation he needed. Vander smirked, slow and lazy, before brushing his knuckles along your jaw, tilting your chin just enough so you had no choice but to look up at him.

“Hmm… what is it, then?” His voice was nothing short of sinful, dragging out the words, teasing you. “The way I talk to you? Or the way I say your name?”

You exhaled, pulse thrumming in your throat. “Both.”

Vander chuckled again, but this time, it was deliberate—low, intimate. His lips brushed the shell of your ear as he whispered, “That’s a dangerous thing to tell me, sweetheart.”

His words sent a shiver racing down your spine, and he felt it, the way your body reacted to just his voice alone. He pulled back just enough to watch you, eyes dark with amusement and something else—something possessive.

“Gonna be real hard not to take advantage of that,” he mused, tracing a slow line down your arm, his rough fingertips setting your nerves alight.

You bit your lip, breath uneven. “Who says I don’t want you to?”

Vander let out a quiet groan, his hand sliding to your waist as he pulled you flush against him. His mouth hovered just over yours, his breath warm and whiskey-sweet. “Then you best be ready, love,” he whispered, voice thick and dripping with promise.

Before you knew what was happening, he was gripping your wrist and pulling you toward the back room, his steps purposeful. He didn’t rush, didn’t say a word—just led you through the dimly lit hallway with the kind of confidence that sent heat pooling in your core.

The door shut behind you with a quiet click, the hum of the bar fading into the background. Vander turned to face you, arms folding across his broad chest as he leaned against the wooden desk, watching you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with something hungry.

“So,” he drawled, his voice dipping even lower. “You like the way I sound, huh?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “Yeah.”

His tongue flicked across his bottom lip, a quiet tsk leaving him. “Gonna need more than that, sweetheart.”

Your throat went dry, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “I love your voice,” you admitted, your own voice softer now, almost breathless. “It’s deep, rough—makes my whole body feel like it’s burning up.”

That earned you a dark chuckle, low and rumbling. “That so?” His head tilted slightly. “Could’ve fooled me. You seem real shy about it now.”

You swallowed hard, heat creeping up your neck. “I—”

“Shh.” He brought a finger up, barely grazing your chin. “I think I like this little confession of yours, love. And I think I wanna see just how much you really like it.”

His voice alone had your thighs pressing together, your breath uneven as he traced slow circles over your hip. He leaned in, lips just brushing the shell of your ear.

“Bet I could have you falling apart just from my voice,” he murmured, each word slow, deliberate. “Bet I could make you squirm just whisperin’ in your ear.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, breath coming in shallow pants. “Vander—”

“There it is,” he praised, voice nothing but gravel and heat. “Knew you’d sound real pretty sayin’ my name like that.”

A quiet whimper left you, and Vander groaned, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your hips. “You really are dangerous, sweetheart,” he muttered. “Damn near impossible to say no to.”

His lips barely ghosted over yours before he pulled back, his expression shifting into something dark, something unreadable.

“But you ain’t getting everything you want just yet.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, your mind fogged with desire. “What—”

Vander smirked, reaching down to give your backside a firm, playful tap—not enough to hurt, but enough to send a spark of heat up your spine. “Upstairs. Now,” he ordered, his voice dropping into something dangerously low.

Your breath caught, your thighs pressing together at the sheer authority in his tone.

“Gonna finish closing up,” he continued, stepping back and eyeing you like he was already imagining what he was gonna do once he followed. “By the time I get up there, you better be waitin’ for me.”

His fingers traced one last slow path down your arm before he turned toward the door, leaving you standing there, still trying to catch your breath.

“Don’t keep me waitin’, love,” he called over his shoulder.

And just like that, Vander strode back out into the bar, his voice carrying through the walls as he barked at the last stragglers to clear out.

You barely had the strength to move, your body humming with anticipation. But you knew one thing for certain—

You weren’t about to disobey that voice.

SILCO

Zaun’s underbelly was no place for soft things, no place for delicate affections or whispered promises. But somehow, you had carved out a place for yourself in his world—woven into the very fabric of his life like the slow burn of a cigar, curling around him, lingering.

No one would ever know.

Silco was a man who kept his power close and his weaknesses closer. He didn't parade you through The Last Drop or allow idle hands to pry into what was his. You were a secret. A well-guarded one.

And yet, even in the quiet, he ruined you.

=

Tonight, you were in his office—again.

The dim glow of lanterns cast long shadows across the room, flickering against the mahogany desk he had pinned you against. His body was close—too close—yet still, he hadn’t truly touched you.

That was always the game.

His patience was infuriating. He knew exactly how to play you, how to leave you wanting, how to drive you to madness without so much as lifting a finger.

"Tell me," his voice came low, a purr of dark amusement as he leaned in, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "Do you enjoy being kept in the dark like this, my darling?"

Your breath hitched. Gods, you hated him. Not because of what he was saying—but because of what it did to you.

His voice slithered under your skin like silk, threading into every nerve ending, sending heat coiling deep in your stomach. It was the way he spoke—so precise, so controlled, every syllable laced with dark promise.

"Silco—" You tried to turn your head, to get even the slightest bit of control, but his gloved fingers caught your chin, forcing you to face forward.

Not yet.

He let his lips hover just beside your pulse, never quite touching, just letting his breath tease the sensitive skin.

"Shhh." The whisper was soft, almost intimate—but the effect was devastating. You shivered, the warmth of his breath sending a sharp pulse of heat between your thighs. "We wouldn’t want someone overhearing us, would we?"

Your fingers curled into the edge of his desk, knuckles white. He was such an ass—deliberate, cruel in his attentions. Always testing your restraint.

"You’re the one whispering in my ear like you want me to lose my mind," you bit out. A chuckle—dark, rich, sinful—slipped from his lips, and you felt it in your bones.

"Am I?" His voice dropped, becoming rougher, raspier—worse.

You barely had time to brace yourself before he let his lips graze the delicate skin beneath your jaw, his breath leaving a searing trail.

"I think you’re the one who likes being talked to like this."

You sucked in a sharp breath.

His fingers skated down your waist, slow, teasing. Too slow. The way he dragged out every single movement was torture.

"You always respond so beautifully," he murmured, words rolling off his tongue like velvet, deep and indulgent. "A little breathless. A little desperate."

Your thighs clenched together before you could stop yourself, and he felt it. Of course, he did.

Silco was far too perceptive, and even in the dim candlelight, you knew he was watching you with that sharp, knowing gaze—taking you apart, piece by piece, with nothing but his voice.

His gloved hand slid lower, curling possessively around your hip as his other pressed into the desk beside you, trapping you against him.

And still—still—he hadn’t touched you properly.

"Tell me," he drawled, his lips brushing your ear, "how much do you want me right now?"

The heat between your legs had turned to an ache—one that his voice alone had created.

Your fingers dug into the wood. "You already know."

"Mmm." His hum of approval sent a shiver down your spine. "But I do love hearing you say it."

He shifted, pressing his knee between your thighs, adding just the faintest pressure. Not enough. Never enough.

Your breath hitched, your body betraying you, arching closer without thinking. Silco hummed in satisfaction. He had you.

"You drive me insane," you admitted, voice hushed, breathless.

His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his mismatched gaze—blue and ember, sharp as a knife.

"And yet," he murmured, his lips ghosting over yours, "you keep coming back for more."

His kiss was slow, deliberate—a calculated torment. Lips firm but patient, moving against yours with a control that had you shaking. His voice had already undone you, but this? This was the final blow.

And he knew it.

His whispers continued between kisses, words melting into your skin like poison and honey all at once.

"You’re mine." His lips drifted down, pressing against your jaw, your throat. "And I do so love making you weak."

His voice alone was ruining you. And the worst part?

You wanted him to.

CLAGGOR

The flickering candlelight cast long, shifting shadows along the stone walls of your shared hideout. The others had long since retired for the night, leaving only you and Claggor lingering in the quiet, the remnants of your latest heist strewn across the worn wooden table between you. The air smelled faintly of oil and dust, mingling with the lingering scent of sweat and adrenaline from a long day’s work.

You let out a slow breath, fingers idly toying with a small trinket from the pile, but your focus was elsewhere—entirely on the man across from you.

“Alright,” Claggor murmured, leaning forward, his large hands sifting through the items. His voice was rich and low, the kind of sound that settled in your chest and refused to leave. “Looks like we got some decent supplies this time. Food, parts, and—oh, check this out.”

He lifted a small, well-worn book, its spine cracked from age and use. He flipped it open, his thick fingers carefully turning the delicate pages, his eyes scanning over the text with quiet curiosity. But you barely registered what he was saying.

Gods, his voice.

It wasn’t just deep—it was steady. Assured. The kind of voice that made you feel safe, even when the world outside was anything but. And the way he spoke? Each word deliberate, unhurried, carrying a weight that made even the simplest statements feel important.

You swallowed hard, warmth curling low in your stomach, creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be thinking about this right now. Not here. Not with him so close.

Claggor’s voice softened slightly. “Y/N?”

You blinked, caught off guard, realizing too late that you had been staring.

“Hmm?” you managed, shifting in your seat.

He raised an eyebrow, his expression amused but not unkind. “You listening?”

“Uh—yeah. Totally.” You forced yourself to focus, nodding toward the book. “Food, parts, and… a book?”

Claggor chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“Yeah,” he said, thumbing over the edge of the pages. “Figured Powder might like it. Or maybe you. You still like bedtime stories?”

There was a teasing lilt to his words, but the joke barely registered over the sheer effect of hearing him speak. You shifted, pressing your thighs together as subtly as possible, hoping he wouldn’t notice the way your breath had hitched.

Depends, you wanted to say. Depends on who’s reading.

Instead, you tilted your head, smirking to cover your nerves. “Depends. Who’s reading?”

Claggor huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “What, you want me to read to you?”

Your heartbeat stuttered.

Yes.

You shrugged, forcing nonchalance, but your pulse betrayed you, thrumming in your ears. “Maybe. I just like the sound of your voice.”

The words left your lips before you could think better of them.

For a moment, Claggor said nothing, his dark eyes studying you with quiet curiosity. Then, he set the book down on the table with slow deliberation, his movements easy, unhurried.

“You like my voice?” His words came slower this time, more thoughtful. Testing.

Your breath caught.

He was too perceptive. He always had been. Claggor wasn’t just brawn—he noticed things, even when you tried to be subtle. And right now? You were not being subtle.

You nodded, heat creeping up your neck. “Yeah. I do.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, a rare sight. Claggor wasn’t usually one for teasing, but there was something different in his expression now—something amused. Interested.

“That so?” he murmured, leaning back slightly. He let the silence stretch between you, as if weighing his next words. Then, deliberately, he let his voice drop even lower, his tone thick with quiet amusement. “What if I talked to you like this all the time?”

A shiver ran through you, sharp and electric.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice even. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

Claggor exhaled a quiet laugh, but there was something else beneath it now—a quiet satisfaction. He leaned forward again, resting his forearms on the table, his presence filling the space between you with an undeniable weight.

Then, as if testing you further, he reached for the book, flipping it open once more.

“Alright,” he mused, voice slow, deliberate. “Let’s see… ‘Once upon a time…’”

The words were meaningless. What mattered was how he said them. Each syllable rolled from his lips like honey, smooth and unhurried, carrying a warmth that settled deep in your chest. His voice wrapped around the words, made them something more than just ink on paper.

You barely noticed the story. You barely noticed anything except him.

Claggor glanced up, watching you. His voice remained steady, unshaken, but there was something in his gaze—something knowing.

You didn’t even realize you’d been leaning in until he paused, raising an eyebrow.

“Enjoying yourself?”

You swallowed, pulse quickening. “Maybe,” you murmured, voice slightly uneven.

His smirk widened, his expression both amused and intrigued. He turned the page slowly, dragging out the moment, letting the silence settle before speaking again.

“…Should I keep going?”

You hated how easily he was getting to you, but you also loved it.

“Depends,” you said, your voice lower this time. “You gonna make a habit of this?”

Claggor chuckled, deep and warm, shaking his head. “Oh, I definitely am now.”

He closed the book with a quiet thump, resting his palm on the cover as he regarded you. His expression was unreadable for a long moment—then, with deliberate slowness, he leaned in just enough for his voice to drop to a near whisper.

“Didn’t know you had a thing for voices,” he murmured. “But I think I just found my new favourite way to get a reaction out of you.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Claggor wasn’t usually one to tease, but the way he was looking at you now? Like he’d just uncovered a secret he fully intended to use against you?

Yeah. You were so in trouble.

And you loved it.

[d-z20]

Sharing is Caring (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness (Agnes O'Connor) x Reader

Summary: You're making breakfast, wearing Agnes' flannel and boxers, your body still aching from the night before. However when she enters—completely bare and unapologetic—it sparks a teasing exchange about your skill at ruining underwear that quickly turns into something far more heated.

- OR -

A little teasing over breakfast turns into a masterclass in why you should never test a butch with a mean streak and a firm grip. By the end, breakfast is cold, you are wrecked, and Agnes is feeling very smug about it.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, butch Agnes/Agatha, top Agatha, Daddy pet name, edging, brat/dom themes, use of 'good girl', thigh grinding/humping, smidge of degradation, choking, light (makeshift) bondage, fingering, unprompted pleading

Words: 2.9k

A/N: This fic is the result of a request based on my conversations with an anon

AO3 | Masterlist

You’re humming to yourself happily, swaying slightly in front of the stove as you make breakfast. Your muscles ache in the best way, a reminder of the woman who wrecked you in the sheets—and against the wall, and on the couch—before finally collapsing in your bed.

Now, Agnes’ flannel hangs loose over your shoulders, just reaching the top of your thighs, and her boxers sit snugly on your hips. A rustle from behind makes you glance over your shoulder, and you nearly drop the spatula at the sight before you.

Agnes O’Connor stands in the doorway, all sleepy eyes and tousled dark hair, completely and utterly naked.

Your gaze drags over her, drinking in the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the veins in her slender hands, the way the morning light catches the curve of her waist and the hard planes of her stomach. There’s something undeniably sexy about the way she stands—relaxed, utterly unbothered, owning the space like she was made to fill it.

“No clothes, detective? How scandalous.”

Agnes smirks, unruffled, and gestures toward you. “My clothes are already in use, it seems.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, but you force yourself to maintain composure. “You could’ve worn my underwear,” you smirk.

Agnes scoffs and steps forward, her movements almost predatory. "No, I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

She closes the space between you with slow, measured steps, all raw confidence and effortless strength. The counter digs into your lower back as she crowds you in, her shoulders squared, her body solid and imposing in the best way. Her lips ghost over your ear as she whispers, “Because you ruined them last night.”

One of her hands slides down, cupping your crotch through her boxers, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. “And I bet you’re ruining these right now, aren’t you?” A whimper catches in your throat, your hips jerking slightly into her touch.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out except a hitched breath.

Agnes chuckles, giving you one last squeeze before pulling away, hands bracketing you against the counter. The warmth of her palm lingers, making your knees weak. But you, ever the little menace, won’t let her win so easily.

“Oh, how tragic,” you sigh dramatically, tapping a finger against your chin. “My poor, poor panties, ruined beyond repair.”

Agnes watches you through hooded eyes, unimpressed. “Such a shame,” she muses dryly.

You tilt your head, biting back a smirk. “I guess that means you’ll just have to keep me out of them.”

Agnes exhales sharply through her nose, dark amusement flickering across her face. “Is that right?”

“Mm.” You hum, pretending to consider. “Or, you know, replace them. I’ve always liked lace.”

Agnes’ lips quirk upward, though she says nothing, letting the silence stretch between you. Then, she takes another step forward, pressing into you just enough for you to feel the heat of her bare skin against your front.

“You can be as bratty as you like, darling,” she says, voice like velvet, “you’re just digging your own grave.”

You flash her a sly grin, eyes gleaming. “While digging my grave sounds tempting, there’s something else I’d rather be digging into.”

Agnes arches a brow, fingers brushing over your cheek while her other hand rests possessively on your hip. “Oh yeah? And what’s that, sweetheart?”

You twist at the last second, spinning out of her grasp, and turn back around to grab the two plates you’ve just finished preparing. Flashing her an infuriating grin over your shoulder, you say, “Digging into breakfast, of course! I don’t know about you, but I really worked up an appetite last night.”

You turn fully, plates in hand, just in time to catch the way Agnes bites her lip, nostrils flaring slightly as her gaze darkens.

Then, tilting your head with faux innocence, you decide to push your luck. “What were you thinking, hmm, Daddy?” The last word is a sultry whisper, teasing and utterly sinful.

Agnes runs a hand down her face before shaking her head with a chuckle. “You are going to be the death of me.”

“Well, at least you’ll die happy.”

You reach to set the plates down, but before you can step away, Agnes closes the distance. The warmth of her skin contrasts sharply with the cool air, a stark reminder that she’s still completely bare while you remain wrapped in her borrowed clothes. You barely have time to take a breath before her hands cage you in against the counter again.

Her fingers trail lightly up your arm before settling at your throat, thumb pressing just enough to make you swallow hard. The air between you crackles with electricity, your pulse hammering under her grip.

"You just don’t know when to quit, do you?" Her voice is low, dark, threaded with amusement and something even more dangerous.

You smirk, despite the way your breath catches. "And what if I don’t?"

Agnes chuckles, the sound vibrating through her chest as she leans in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Then I guess I’ll have to teach you some manners."

Her other hand snakes down your side, dragging over your waist before gripping your hip with purpose. You shiver at the barely restrained strength in her touch, your body already betraying you, pressing closer, seeking more.

"You were so good for me last night," she muses, her thumb stroking absentmindedly at your throat, keeping you right where she wants you. "But now? Now, you’re just begging for trouble, sweetheart."

Your breath hitches as she presses her hips against you, pinning you between her and the counter. "Maybe I like trouble," you whisper, letting the words drip from your tongue like honey.

Agnes tsks, shaking her head with mock disappointment. "Good, because that mouth of yours is going to get you in so much of it, darling."

With a firm grip, Agnes spins you with practiced ease, your back arching as your chest meets the cool countertop. A shiver runs down your spine at the contrast of heat and chill, Agnes pressing close behind you, naked body boxing you in. Her palm flattens between your shoulder blades, keeping you in place, while her other hand trails down your stomach, teasing at the waistband of your borrowed boxers.

"You know," she says, voice velvety smooth, "I should make you finish breakfast first. Let you sit with that ache; let you sit in the evidence of how badly you need me."

You whimper, hips shifting instinctively, seeking relief, but Agnes is quicker. She grips your hip firmly, holding you still. "Oh, no. You wanted to be a brat. Now you’re going to wait."

Her words are a promise, a challenge, and a punishment all wrapped into one. You pant softly, already feeling the frustration coil in your stomach. Agnes chuckles darkly, pressing a teasing kiss to the back of your neck.

"You’ll take it," she breathes, "because deep down, you want to be a good girl, don’t you? Hmm? Be my good girl?"

Your nails dig into the countertop, your resolve wavering as heat pools low in your stomach. Agnes presses another kiss to your shoulder, her voice nothing but sinful satisfaction.

"And when I finally let you have what you want... you’re going to thank me for it."

Agnes’ hand is still firm on your back, keeping you pressed against the counter. The heat of her body is maddening, so close yet just out of reach. "Already so pliant. I could just ruin you right here, couldn’t I?"

You bite back a whimper, shifting slightly, trying to push back against her, but she tightens her grip. "Ah, ah," she tuts, "don’t be greedy."

Her fingers ghost along the waistband of her boxers, teasing at the elastic before pulling them down just enough to expose you. The cool air makes you shiver, anticipation crackling through your body like a live wire.

Agnes hums, dragging a single finger down your inner thigh, featherlight, just enough to make you squirm. "You’re already making such a mess," she chuckles, her voice thick with amusement. "You really are going to ruin these, aren’t you?"

A whimper escapes you before you can stop it, and Agnes chuckles again, pressing a kiss just behind your ear. “I knew it.”

Her hand slips between your thighs, but she barely gives you more than a teasing stroke before pulling away entirely. The loss makes you whine, but before you can protest further, she’s gripping your wrists, bringing them behind your back.

"You need a reminder of who's in charge, sweetheart," she purrs, pulling at the flannel draped over your shoulders. She tugs the sleeves down, letting them slip past your arms, exposing more of your chest in the process.

She takes the ends of the sleeves and ties them together, trapping your hands inside the soft fabric. A little gasp leaves your lips as you instinctively test the restraint, the material keeping your arms firmly pinned behind you.

The realisation sends a shiver down your spine. You’re completely at her mercy.

"Much better," Agnes hums, pulling the boxers back into place. She steps back just enough to admire her work.

Her fingers return, tracing slow, deliberate patterns over your sensitive skin, never quite where you need her most. You try to shift, to move against her touch, but the way she has you pinned leaves you helpless.

"Patience," she coos, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as her fingers dance lower, teasing but never giving in fully. "A brat like you doesn’t get rewarded so easily."

Your hips jerk, a frustrated sound leaving your lips, but Agnes only chuckles, utterly unbothered. She handles you like it’s second nature, her grip firm but controlled. One strong arm hooks around your waist, lifting just enough to guide you where she wants—an easy display of strength that leaves no room for argument.

Agnes keeps her grip firm, guiding you away from the counter with slow, deliberate steps. She sits first, legs spread wide, before pulling you down to straddle one of her legs, her hands anchoring you in place.

"There we go," she chides, her hands sliding down your sides before firmly gripping your hips. She pulls you down, guiding your movements until your clothed core is flush against the firm muscle of her thigh.

The moment you make contact, a sharp gasp catches in your throat. The fabric of the boxers is soaked through and clinging against your sensitive skin. Worse still, the cool morning air has chilled the wet fabric, sending a shudder through you as the contrast of temperature heightens every sensation. 

"Go on, sweetheart," Agnes murmurs, her voice low, coaxing. "Be a good girl and hump Daddy’s thigh."

Heat pools in your stomach at her words, your head dipping forward as you grind down against her, chasing that intoxicating sensation. Each shift and drag of your hips spreads the dampness further, a messy, undeniable evidence of your need.

The realisation makes your breath hitch—Agnes can feel it. She can feel how wrecked you already are, the soaked fabric leaving wet streaks against the hard muscle of her thigh.

A breathy moan escapes you, and Agnes hums in approval, tilting her head to press open-mouthed kisses along your neck. She moves down, her lips ghosting over your collarbone, her tongue flicking out to taste the newly exposed skin.

"You sound so pretty like this," she groans, her hands tightening on your hips, guiding your movements. "Getting yourself off on my thigh like a desperate little thing."

Agnes' fingers trail deliberately up your chest, calloused and warm, before wrapping around your throat. Her thumb presses just below your jaw, feeling your pulse stutter. She smirks against your ear as you swallow hard, breath coming in shallow, needy gasps. Your whole body trembles as you keen against her; the combination of her grip, her touch, and her voice is dizzying.

"Such a messy girl," Agnes teases, tilting her head back to meet your gaze. "I knew you would wreck my boxers."

Heat floods your cheeks at her words, but it only makes the ache between your legs worse. You let out another whimper, trying to chase more friction, but Agnes’ hand suddenly squeezes harder around your throat, making your head spin.

“Ah, ah,” she tuts, tightening her hold slightly, her thumb stroking over your jaw. “You take what Daddy gives you, understood?”

You nod frantically, barely able to breathe past the desire knotting in your stomach. “Y-Yes, Daddy, please—”

A sharp squeeze makes you gasp, your thighs trembling around her. “Such a good girl when you beg,” her voice is dripping with amusement. “Go on, then. Prove to me how much you want it.”

She releases your throat just enough to let you gulp in a shaky breath, and with her other hand still guiding you, you begin to move faster, grinding down harder against her thigh. The pleasure is dizzying, each motion sending sparks through your body, winding you tighter and tighter.

Agnes leans back slightly, her darkened eyes hooded, drinking in every tremble like it’s her favourite sight. A smirk tugs at her lips as she watches you fall apart, slow and sweet, entirely under her control. Her lips find your chest again, pressing open-mouthed kisses over the exposed skin, her tongue flicking out to tease you between nips and sucks. The mix of sensations has you trembling in her grasp, your moans growing more desperate.

“Daddy,” you cry out, back arching, head falling against her shoulder. “Please—please, I need—”

She hushes you, kissing along your jaw, her fingers tightening on your hips as she moves you just right. “I know, sweetheart. You’re so close, aren’t you?”

You nod desperately, hips jerking against her thigh, barely able to hold yourself together. The tension coils unbearably tight, your muscles trembling with the effort to keep from falling over the edge. But Agnes isn’t done with you yet.

At the last second, she stops moving you, holding you still. The sudden lack of friction makes you cry out in frustration, a desperate whimper spilling from your lips. “No—Daddy, please—”

She hums, stroking your cheek with mock sympathy. “Such a needy little thing.” Her grip on your hips tightens, keeping you in place despite your squirming. “You really want to cum, don’t you?”

A whimper is all you can manage, your hips trying to move again as you try and hold onto the pleasure.

"Come on, baby, use your words," she commands, her grip tightening slightly around your throat.

"Y-yes, Daddy," you gasp. "M’sorry—just feels so good."

Agnes lets out a low, approving hum, her free hand slipping between your legs, pressing against the damp fabric of her boxers.

"Poor thing," she croons, her fingers teasing over the soaked material. "I bet you’re just aching for me to take care of you, aren’t you?"

You nod desperately, biting your lip. "Please, Daddy—"

She doesn’t make you beg any further.

With one swift motion, she pushes her hand into the boxers, her fingers dipping past your folds. The sudden contact makes you jolt, a sharp gasp leaving your lips as she finds exactly where you need her.

"That’s it." Her fingers move with practiced ease, circling and teasing before pressing in, stretching you deliciously. Your whole body tenses, the pleasure hitting you like a tidal wave.

Her hand stays firm around your throat, grounding you, keeping you exactly where she wants you.

"You’re taking me so well," she praises, her lips brushing against your ear. "Such a good girl when you want to be."

The words send another spark of arousal through you, your walls clenching around her fingers as she works you open. The heat in your stomach is unbearable now, winding tighter and tighter, teetering on the edge of oblivion.

"Daddy," you whimper, "I—I’m gonna—"

"You can cum, sweetheart," Agnes urges, her pace quickening, her thigh flexing beneath you. "Let me feel you cum on my fingers."

With a sharp cry, you climax, pleasure surging through you as your body tenses, then melts into her. Agnes keeps moving through it, drawing out every last tremor, her grip on your throat still firm.

By the time you slump against her, utterly spent, Agnes is chuckling, her fingers stroking lazily over your back.

"That’s my good girl," she reassures, kissing the top of your head while untying the makeshift restraints.

A quiet, exhausted mumble escapes you, barely more than a breath against her skin. "Th-Thank you, Agnes..." Your voice is soft, uneven, and slightly slurred from exhaustion, your words melting into her warmth.

She smiles, tightening her hold on you for a moment before smoothing a hand down your back. "You did so well for me. Maybe next time, you shouldn’t make it so hard for yourself."

Agnes shifts slightly, and you barely register the movement until you feel her fingers wiping themselves clean on the damp fabric of her boxers. She clicks her tongue, amusement lacing her tone as she glances down. "Well, these are well and truly ruined," the smirk is audible in her voice. "You really did a number on them, sweetheart."

You hum contentedly, nuzzling against her, your body still heavy with the aftershocks. Despite everything, you can’t help the small, breathless giggle that escapes you. "Worth it," you mumble against her collarbone.

Agnes laughs, shaking her head as she presses a final kiss to your forehead. "You’re going to be the death of me, sweetheart."

You grin, utterly blissed out, as you murmur, "At least you’ll die happy."

-----

The baggy flannel & boxers combo is impeccable and I am speaking from experience.🍑anon, my darling, I hope this was everything you wanted :D

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6ange19 @jujuu23 @juls-stark

[heeluvv]

ONE ON ONE.ᐟ

pairing ᝰ.ᐟ idol! nishimura riki x fan! reader

warnings ᝰ.ᐟ p in v, unprotected sex, make-out sesh (idk honestly), etc.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted. (it's pretty long)

the soft hum of fluorescent lights filled the air as you sat in the dimly lit private lounge, heart pounding in anticipation. you were the lucky fan who had won an exclusive one-on-one meeting with niki, the enigmatic maknae of enhypen, and the reality of it felt surreal.

your fingers clutched at the hem of your skirt as the door creaked open. then, he was there.

ni-ki stepped inside with the kind of effortless confidence that sent shivers down your spine. he was taller than you imagined, dressed in all black, his sharp gaze locking onto yours instantly. he took his time shutting the door, fingers lingering on the handle before he turned back to you, a smirk curling on his lips. he didn’t speak right away—he just stared, assessing, his dark eyes scanning your expression, your posture, your hands twisting in your lap.

“you look nervous,” he finally murmured, voice deep and laced with something unreadable.

you swallowed hard. “i-i guess it’s just… overwhelming.”

he chuckled, slow and rich. “you don’t have to be so tense.” he moved forward, measured and deliberate, his hands slipping into his pockets as he closed the distance between you. “you’re the one who wanted this.”

your breath hitched. his words hung between you, heavy with implication. you had wanted this. you had spent countless nights imagining what it would be like to be this close to him, and now that he was standing in front of you—so real, so impossibly magnetic—it was nearly too much.

he sat beside you on the plush leather couch, his body sinking into the space next to yours, close but not quite touching. yet you could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a trap. your fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt as he turned slightly, propping an elbow on the back of the couch, his gaze never leaving your face.

“how long have you been a fan?” he asked, voice smooth, inviting.

you struggled to find words, your throat suddenly dry. “since debut.”

he hummed in acknowledgment, studying you with quiet amusement. “so you’ve been watching me for a while.”

the air between you thickened. you nodded, pulse hammering against your ribs. “yes.”

his tongue darted out to wet his lips, slow and deliberate, as if he knew exactly what effect he was having on you. “tell me,” he mused, his voice barely above a whisper. “what’s your favorite thing about me?”

your stomach twisted. he was teasing you, testing you, pushing you to see how far you would go. your mind raced with a hundred answers—his talent, his confidence, the way he commanded attention without even trying—but none of those seemed right in the moment.

“the way you move,” you finally admitted, your voice barely above a breath.

his smirk deepened, interest flickering behind his eyes. “yeah?”

you swallowed, pressing your thighs together. “on stage… the way you take control. it’s like you know exactly what you’re doing to everyone watching.”

ni-ki tilted his head slightly, his fingers tapping against his knee. “and what do i do to you?”

your heart lurched. you felt like you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something you weren’t sure you could handle. your fingers curled tighter into the couch, nails digging into the fabric. “ni-ki—”

he reached out, his fingers brushing against your jaw, tilting your chin up. the touch was light—too light, like he was testing your reaction. your breath stilled in your lungs as his thumb ghosted over your bottom lip, his eyes flickering down, lingering.

“i like hearing you say my name like that,” he murmured, his voice dark and smooth, like velvet against your skin.

the tension was suffocating now, wrapping around you like a vice. he didn’t move away, didn’t break eye contact, just let the moment stretch between you until your pulse was thrumming so hard you thought it might burst through your skin.

his lips hovered near your ear, his breath hot as he whispered, “do you know what happens in private meetings like this?”

you shook your head, unable to speak, your body wound tight with anticipation.

his fingers trailed down your throat, featherlight, his touch igniting something deep in your core. “neither do i,” he admitted, his lips barely grazing your skin. “but i’d love to find out.”

he crashed his plush lips onto yours, the heat of his breath mingling with yours in a frenzy of unspoken desires. the moment his mouth met yours, the sweet, creamy taste of your vanilla gloss coated his tongue, sending a spark down his spine, igniting something primal within him. a soft groan rumbled from his chest, a mix of hunger and disbelief at what he was doing.

in his mind, a war raged—logic screamed that this was reckless, forbidden even, yet every fiber of his being ached to feel you, to claim you. you were just a fan, someone he should admire from a safe, respectable distance, but from the second you stepped into the room, your very presence ensnared him. the way you carried yourself, the effortless beauty that radiated from you—it was mesmerizing, intoxicating. he had tried to resist, to maintain the careful boundaries drawn between admiration and indulgence, but now, with you in his arms, those restraints snapped like a thread pulled too tight.

his fingers gripped your waist, pulling you closer, desperate to close the space between you. he needed more, needed to drown in the sensation of you—your warmth, your softness, the way you surrendered so easily to his touch. his heart pounded, breath ragged, as the weight of reality momentarily faded into the background.

he wrapped his strong arms around you, effortlessly lifting you before settling you onto his lap, pulling you flush against him. the warmth of his body seeped into yours, his grip firm yet full of longing, as if he never wanted to let you go. your fingers found their way into his hair, tangling in the soft strands, tugging just enough to make him let out a low, breathy groan. his lips ghosted over the sensitive skin of your neck, the heat of his breath sending shivers down your spine before he pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses against it.

sucking, nibbling, teasing—he took his time, reveling in the way your pulse quickened beneath his touch. his tongue flicked over the spot just below your jaw before he latched on, leaving a mark, a silent claim, his lips moving as though he wanted to imprint himself onto every inch of you.

"fuck, baby…" niki groaned, his voice thick with want as his lust-blown eyes met yours. they held you captive for just a fleeting second before the hunger overtook him again, and he crashed his lips onto yours with a desperate intensity. the kiss was deep, searing, as if he needed to taste every part of you, to drown in your sweetness. his tongue slid past your lips, claiming your mouth in a way that left no room for hesitation—only raw, unfiltered desire.

his hands gripped your hips firmly, guiding your movements against him, the friction sending waves of pleasure crashing through both of you. every slow, deliberate grind had him teetering on the edge of control, his breathing growing heavier with each passing second. his head lolled back for a brief moment, lips parted as a deep groan threatened to spill from his throat. but he wasn’t willing to give in so easily—not yet.

forcing himself to meet your gaze, his hooded eyes locked onto yours, dark and heavy with lust. he bit down hard on his bottom lip, a feeble attempt to stifle the needy moans and deep grunts bubbling up inside him. but the way you moved, the way your body molded so perfectly against his, made it impossible to hold back completely.

“shit, baby…” niki exhaled, his voice thick with desire, almost breathless as his hands slid up your body. his rough fingers trailed over your sides before greedily cupping your tits, squeezing them with just the right amount of pressure to pull a whimper from you. his thumbs grazed over your sensitive peaks, teasing, testing, relishing in the way you shuddered under his touch. his lips parted again, eyes drinking in the sight of you, utterly lost in the intoxicating pleasure that neither of you could escape.

"fuck, baby… i can't…" he grunted, his voice thick with desperation as his hands gripped the hem of your shirt, yanking it over your head in one swift motion. his fingers worked with a feverish urgency, snapping your bra off with a single skilled movement before his lips crashed onto your bare skin.

his mouth latched onto your tits, hot and eager, his tongue swirling around your sensitive bud before sucking it in with a deep, greedy pull. the wet sounds of his mouth working against your flesh filled the room, blending with your breathy moans as he ravished you, sucking and nipping with a hunger that made your head spin.

"n–niki—!" you gasped, your voice breaking into a moan as the pleasure coursed through you. your hips never ceased their movements, grinding against him with increasing desperation, the friction only fueling the burning need between you. you could feel how hard he was beneath you, straining against the growing heat between your thighs, your core soaked and aching for more.

he groaned against your skin, his teeth grazing over your peak before pulling back, his lips red and swollen from the way he had devoured you. his hooded eyes, darkened with pure lust, flickered up to meet yours, his breath ragged as he took in the sight of you unraveling beneath him.

"i want more..." you moaned out, your voice breathless with need as your fingers tugged impatiently at the waistband of his pants, silently pleading for him to rid himself of the barriers between you.

niki's breath hitched, his restraint snapping like a fragile thread. without hesitation, he stood up, his movements hurried yet precise as he stripped himself of his pants and boxers, the fabric pooling at his feet. his gaze never left you as he did the same for you, peeling away the last remaining layers until nothing separated your heated bodies.

his breath caught in his throat as he took you in—bathed in the soft glow of the dim light, your skin glowing, every curve, every inch of you absolutely breathtaking. his eyes darkened, filled with nothing but raw hunger and awe, as if he were gazing upon an angel fallen straight from the heavens, too perfect to be real.

"fuck… you're so beautiful," he murmured, voice laced with admiration and lust before he reached for you, effortlessly pulling you back onto his lap.

his lips crashed onto yours again, needy, desperate—he could never get enough of you, never tire of the intoxicating taste of your mouth, the way you melted into him, soft and pliant in his arms. his hands roamed your body, mapping out every dip and curve as his hips bucked slightly beneath you, his cock twitching as it pressed against your slick heat.

he groaned deeply, the feeling of your wetness coating his cock making his head spin. gripping himself, he stroked his tip along your entrance, teasing, coating himself in your arousal as his lips hovered over yours, breath hot and heavy.

"you ready, baby?" he murmured, his voice deep, sultry, promising nothing but pure pleasure. he smirked against your lips, his hands squeezing your hips as he positioned himself. "i'm gonna have you screaming my name..."

he finally pushed inside you, the sensation of your tight, warm walls wrapping around him stealing the very breath from his lungs. a deep, guttural moan tore from his throat, his head tilting back as pleasure shot through him. his grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into your soft flesh as he tried to steady himself, tried to keep from losing himself too soon in the overwhelming heat of you.

“shit… you’re so fucking tight, baby…” he groaned, his voice strained, thick with pleasure. his forehead pressed against yours, his heavy breaths mingling with your own as he fought to control the way his body begged him to move.

he started slow, his hips rolling into you with deep, deliberate strokes, savoring every inch of the way you clenched around him. each movement sent another wave of bliss coursing through his veins, his jaw clenching as he forced himself to hold back. you felt too good, too perfect—he was already teetering on the edge, his body screaming for more, but he wanted to make this last.

his hands roamed over your body, fingers tracing over your curves as his lips found yours again, swallowing your moans as he built up a steady rhythm. every thrust sent sparks of pleasure between you, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, mixing with the breathy gasps and moans that spilled from both of you.

"fuck, baby… i don't know how much longer i can hold back," he groaned, his voice trembling with restraint, every fiber of his being aching to give in, to let go and drown in the feeling of you.

his hands cradled your face, fingers pressing firmly against your skin as his hips snapped into you with growing urgency. each thrust was deep, deliberate at first, but as the pleasure consumed him, his rhythm grew desperate, erratic. the way you clenched around him, the way your body responded to his every movement, had his mind fogging over, completely lost in the intoxicating euphoria you provided.

his lips sought yours hungrily, devouring every moan, every gasp that spilled from you as he lost himself in your warmth. but it wasn’t enough—he needed more. his mouth trailed down, teeth scraping against your jaw before latching onto the sensitive skin of your neck. he sucked hard, his tongue flicking over the bruised flesh as though he wanted to mark you, to claim you as his.

his body trembled now, shuddering with every thrust, every squeeze of your tight walls around him. his cock twitched violently, a telltale sign of just how close he was to the edge. his grip on you tightened, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, his groans turning into broken curses as he felt himself spiraling.

“fuck! shit, baby… i’m close…” he gritted out between heavy pants, his voice strained, raw with pleasure. his lips returned to yours in a bruising kiss, swallowing every sound you made, as if he needed to feel every bit of you, needed to drown in you completely before the inevitable release crashed over him.

his hands gripped onto your breasts, fingers kneading the soft flesh with a desperation that matched the erratic rhythm of his hips. each snap of his pelvis against yours was rough, urgent, his control slipping away with every thrust. his damp hair clung to his forehead, stray strands falling into his lust-darkened eyes, the intensity in his gaze sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through you.

the way he looked at you—wild, needy, utterly consumed—pushed you further, made you unravel beneath him. your hands clung to his shoulders, nails digging into his heated skin as your body rocked in sync with his movements. every deep stroke forced you to bounce on his cock, the pleasure so overwhelming it sent shudders through your entire body.

his hands trailed down your back, rough fingertips tracing your spine before sliding lower, gripping onto your ass with a bruising hold. his palms squeezed your flesh before delivering sharp, stinging smacks, the loud sound echoing through the room, mixing with the wet sounds of your bodies colliding. he groaned at the way you clenched around him, his restraint slipping entirely as he chased the high that was quickly consuming him.

“fuck, fuck, fuck!—” he choked out, his voice ragged, his breath erratic as he felt himself spiraling. his hips snapped up into you one last time, deep and unrelenting, before the tension within him snapped.

a strangled moan ripped from his throat as his release hit him hard, white-hot pleasure surging through his veins as his cum spilled into you, thick and warm. the sensation sent you tumbling over the edge with him, your walls fluttering around his pulsing length as waves of pleasure wracked through your body.

he held onto you tightly, forehead pressed against yours, panting heavily as the aftershocks of his climax coursed through him. his hands, once rough and greedy, now smoothed over your skin in slow, soothing strokes, grounding both of you as you came down from the intoxicating high together.

heavy breaths filled the room, the air thick with the aftermath of pleasure. your bodies remained pressed together, skin slick with sweat, the heat between you lingering even after the intensity had passed. the scent of sex and warmth clung to the space, a reminder of just how deeply lost you had been in each other.

niki’s chest rose and fell rapidly beneath you, his arms still wrapped securely around your waist as if he had no intention of letting you go just yet. his touch softened, no longer fueled by urgency but instead by something more tender. his fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along your spine before he reached up, brushing back the damp strands of hair clinging to your flushed face.

his lips found your cheek, pressing delicate, lingering kisses against your heated skin, a stark contrast to the way he had devoured you moments ago. each kiss was soft, almost reverent, as if he were memorizing you, savoring every last bit of this moment.

a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips before he murmured, voice still husky and laced with exhaustion, “i hope i see you more often now.”

his words carried more weight than just post-bliss small talk—there was something genuine in the way he said it, something that made your stomach flutter. his fingers grazed your jaw, tilting your face just enough for his lips to brush against yours once more, a slow, lazy kiss filled with unspoken promises.

natty’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ hoped you enjoyed and tysm for 300 followers !!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I wanna see what’s Ace’s family’s reaction when they found out Ace is dating reader Heheheh

I decided to have only Ace's brother present, since Mr. and Mrs. Trappola have yet to receive strong characterization.

Family means Nobody is Left Behind or Forgotten.

The Trappola brothers sat across from one another upon red velvet chairs, and you, between them. They were both intently focused on building a house of playing cards—a task that Ace had warned took “serious patience, coordination, and a gentle touch.” (You had rolled your eyes and responded, “Great. You let me know when you’ve found someone that has all that.”)

Ace carefully laid a Two of Spades down, formed a triangle with a Three of Clubs and a Four of Diamonds. His hand slowly retreated, and the triangle stayed. He expelled a sigh, directed away from the cards so as to not disturb them.

You would have clapped for him, but Ace had discouraged you before the game had even started. So instead, you tapped your index and middle fingers together. Still giving applause, but not nearly enough to rattle the house of cards.

“Your move.”

“Huh, you’ve gotten better at this,” his brother mused. He toyed with an Ace of Hearts, expertly twirling it between dexterous fingers. “Too bad. I was really looking forward to smoking you in front of your new friend.”

“In your dreams,” Ace sneered, passing you a glance. “The last thing I’d want is to look uncool in front of my partner.”

His brother drew himself up in his seat. The card in his hand, stilling. “Your partner? Since when were you two a thing?”

“Oh, you know… since a while ago,” Ace casually replied. “And honestly, I can’t really blame’m. Who wouldn’t fall for my dashing good looks and roguish charm? I’m a catch!”

His brother regarded you with an almost pitying look. “It’s not too late to change your mind,” he advised.

You burst into laughter. "I think I'm good. Ace is an idiot, but he's at least my idiot."

He raised an eyebrow. "So you've got a sense of humor. You'll need that if you're going to put up with Ace all of the time. Congrats, you passed the first test."

"Whaddya mean 'put up with' me?!" Ace protested, puffing up his cheeks. A pout--adorable, you think.

"I mean it exactly how I said it. It's practically a full-time job dealing with you," his brother replied cheekily. "You gotta prepare people for it, or else they won't know what they've signed up for."

"Oh, come on! You're making me sound way worse than I actually am."

"This, coming from the guy who ghosted his ex?" He smirked, and you could see the family resemblance in it. The slight narrowing of the eyes, the way his mouth angled. "I dunno, I was half expecting you to stay single forever after that royal screw-up, lil' bro. You're lucky you found someone willing to take you~"

Pink exploded onto Ace's cheeks. "H-Hey...!" he hissed, leaning toward his brother. "Did you seriously have to bring that up?! Have a little more tact, will ya?!"

The older Trappola grinned. "Gotcha."

You realized why.

Ace's sudden movement had sent a slight breeze against the card house. It wobbled from top to bottom--then the structure collapsed in on itself, the cards all folding into one another. Within seconds, the house was a pile on the coffee table.

Ace fell to his knees with a pathetic wail, scrambling to salvage his hard work. His brother looked on, chuckling. A card, still in his hand.

"I didn't place mine yet," he declared triumphantly, "and since you made the house fall, it's technically my win!"

"Y-You sneaky...! You taunted me on purpose!!"

"Yeah, and it worked like a charm." He flicked Ace on the forehead. "You were too busy trying to flex in front of your S/O. It was easy to take advantage of that. You always were a cocky, predictable brat."

"Grrrrr..!!"

"Ace, it's fine," you soothed him, a hand on his arm. "You did your best. It doesn't change how I feel about you."

"Tch, there you go being all sappy again... You're so lame sometimes," Ace grumbled--but he covered your hand with his. A small gesture, but a reassuring one.

"Hahah, look at you two lovebirds," his brother teased, wagging a finger at you. Then he reached out and roughly ruffled Ace's hair, despite his complaints and attempts to swat him away. "Happy for you though, lil' bro! You gotta tell me how this love story started--"

[evnseokz]

꒰ ☆ beneath the bed ~ p.wb ꒱

pairing: sandman! wonbin x f. reader

contents: mythical creature! wonbin, oral (fem receiving), fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (dont), kissing, making out, pet names: good girl, darling, baby, wonbin has powers, pwp, that’s all i think!

a.n: i’ve been working on this for weeks i hope it’s okay <3 w.c: 1.8k

MINORS DNI

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

You always thought the idea of a monster under the bed was something for children—silly, irrational, a thing to grow out of. But now, lying stiff as a board under the weight of an unshakable presence, you realize you were wrong.

You feel him before you see him. a shift in the air, a slow drag of something heavy against the wooden floor. The dim light from the streetlamp outside barely reaches the shadows that pool beneath your bed, but your breath hitches as you hear it—his voice, smooth and teasing, curling around your name like smoke.

“You’re still awake.”

It isn’t a question.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your fingers tightening in the sheets. The rational part of you screams to ignore him, to pull the covers over your head and pretend like you can’t feel the heat of his presence licking at the edge of your mattress. but you don’t. You never do.

“Can’t sleep,” you whisper, barely audible.

A low chuckle vibrates from beneath you, and the sound alone is enough to send a shiver down your spine. Then, before you can steel yourself, he moves.

A hand—long fingers, cool to the touch—slides up from the darkness, curling around the edge of the bed frame. The shift of weight makes the mattress dip ever so slightly, and then, Wonbin emerges.

He moves with the languid grace of something not quite human, something that has spent lifetimes lurking in the dark. His hair is tousled, lips curved in a smirk that holds far too many secrets. His eyes—dark, bottomless—gleam as he peers up at you, resting his chin on the mattress.

“You think too much,” he muses, tilting his head. “That's why you can’t sleep.”

You swallow hard. It isn’t the first time he’s said that, and it won’t be the last. The worst part? He’s right.

“Maybe.”

Wonbin hums, dragging his fingers along the fabric of your sheets, slow, deliberate. “I could help, you know.”

Your heart stutters. You should say no. You should push him back into the abyss he came from. But when he shifts, crawling up onto the bed with effortless ease, your body betrays you.

The air between you thickens, heavy with something unspoken. He’s close now, close enough that you can see the way his pupils dilate as he watches you. close enough that you can feel his breath ghost over your skin.

“You want me to, don’t you?” His voice is velvet, a whisper of temptation against the shell of your ear.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The way your breath hitches, the way your fingers clench the sheets—he sees it all.

Wonbin smirks. “That's what I thought.”

And then, the last sliver of space between you disappears.

Wonbin doesn't rush.

He never does.

His fingers trail up your arm, a featherlight touch that sends a ripple of heat through your body. He's testing you, waiting for you to pull away, to tell him this is a mistake. but you don't. You won't.

His smirk deepens, and then he moves—slowly, deliberately—until his lips hover just above yours. His breath is warm, intoxicating, and when he tilts his head, barely brushing his mouth against you, it's not enough.

A frustrated sound escapes you, and that's all he needs.

Wonbin's lips press against yours, soft at first—teasing, coaxing. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like he enjoys watching you squirm beneath the weight of anticipation. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek, and when he deepens the kiss, your stomach flips.

His lips move against yours, slow and unhurried, but there's something dark simmering beneath the surface. something dangerous. His teeth graze your bottom lip, sharp enough to make you gasp, and he swallows the sound greedily.

"See?" he murmurs against your lips, his voice thick with amusement. "I always know what you need."

You don't get the chance to argue.

Because then, he kisses you again—harder this time, more insistent. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and suddenly, there's no space between you at all.

His body presses yours against the mattress, slotting himself between your legs. The weight of him pressing against your core sends shivers down your spine. Your mouth parts as a soft sigh escapes your lips. 

Wonbin takes this opportunity to push his tongue into your mouth, the muscles immediately fighting for dominance, Wonbin ultimately winning in the end. The kiss is anything but slow, your lips moving against each other with urgency. 

Your hands fist at the fabric of his shirt, and as if on cue, his shirt melts off of him and into thin air. You were used to his interesting capabilities, but that didn’t prevent you from being caught off guard almost every time. 

You don’t have time to fully react as Wonbin is moving his lips away from your mouth, down your jaw, and to your neck. He sucks lightly on your skin in some places, earning small whines from you in return. He smirks against your skin before pulling back to look you in your eyes.

He holds eye contact with you for a moment, your chest heaving up and down as you look at him, not sure what his next move is going to be. 

“Something’s not right,” he trails off. His hand raises in the air, his thumb and middle finger snapping, and within an instant your clothes have disappeared off of your body. 

You instantly curl in on yourself, arms covering your chest at the sudden lack of covering on your body. Wonbin loved how you covered yourself, acting as if your body wasn’t literally begging for him to fuck you.

He chuckled lowly before leaning back in, his hands wrapping around your wrists, pulling your arms away from your body. His lips immediately attach to your breasts. He lets your arms fall so his own can roam the curves of your body, but you're quick to attach your hands to his hair. 

The light tugs you make on his scalp earn low groans from Wonbin, but he doesn’t falter a bit. His lips work expertly on your nipples, his tongue swirling around the bud, while his fingers pinch the other one. Your back arches, pressing yourself further against him as his lips begin to trail lower.

Goosebumps litter your skin at the feeling of his lips against your stomach. They trail lower and lower and lower until he reaches your heat.

His hands splay against your thighs, pushing your legs apart so he can see you fully. He hums at the sight of your cunt, glistening with slick all for him. His eyes turn black with lust, his head immediately dipping back down to devour you whole.

You throw your head back once his mouth is on your cunt. His lips suck on your clit while his fingers trace over your opening. He hid tongue circles around your swollen bud, his mouth working sloppily against your heat.

Without warning, his finger plunges inside of you, eliciting a moan from your lips. He quickly adds another finger in, scissoring you open. He looks up at you from his current position in between your legs, reveling in the way you react to him.

You can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, your fists balling up against your sides. “C-close,” you breathe, chest still heaving with pleasure.

Wonbin removes himself from your heat completely at your words, his fingers slipping out of you as well. You cry at the loss of contact, “Bbin…” you whine.

“So needy,” he says, voice sultry. 

He moves his body back in between your legs, “I’ll give you what you want, don’t worry darling.”

You practically melt at his words. You hated how much of an effect he had on you. He leans back slightly, lining up his cock with your entrance, before slowly pushing himself inside. His eyes squeeze shut at the feeling of your tightness, a groan rumbling out of him. 

Your jaw has gone slack, head thrown back at the feeling of him stretching you out. After he bottoms out, he leans back over you, caging your body beneath him. He begins moving, starting off slow. So slow it's almost agonizing.

Tears prick at your eyes, your desire and the pleasure you’re feeling suddenly becoming overwhelming. 

Wonbin picks up the pace, thrusting into you at a pace that makes you see stars, his tip hitting that gummy spot inside you, over and over again. His head falls against your shoulder. 

“I want to spend every night buried inside of you, pleasing you, fucking you.” He growls against the skin of your shoulder. 

You moan in response, clenching around him at his words. “Fuck, Wonbin!” You cry out.

“That's right, baby, scream my name.” His head has risen again, watching your face contort as he continues to fuck you dumb.

You can feel your orgasm pulling at you again, the buildup from earlier hitting you again. this time with much more force. Wonbin pulls out completely before bottoming out again, jackhammering his hips into yours. desperate to see you fall apart beneath him. 

You begin to crumble, your stomach tightening completely before exploding into pleasure. “Wonbin!” You practically scream, your legs shaking as your eyes squeeze shut. 

Incoherent babbles fall from your lips as he fucks you through your orgasm, his own not far behind. “Good girl, doing s-so good for me,” he praises you as his hips begin to stutter, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he spills into you. 

He pulls out of you, leaving you feeling empty as you clench around nothing. 

The air between you is thick with heat, your bodies still tingling from the intensity of what just happened. Your body feels weightless, suspended in the quiet that follows, your breaths mingling with his in the dim light of your bedroom.

Wonbin watches you, his dark eyes tracing every inch of your face as if memorizing the way you look in this moment—flushed, dazed, utterly undone. His fingers ghost along your cheek, cool against your warm skin, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if he’ll stay.

But you already know the answer.

His touch lingers for just a moment longer before he pulls away, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips as he watches your eyelids flutter. Sleep is creeping in, pulling you under, your body succumbing to the exhaustion of the night.

“You always do this,” he murmurs, voice softer than before. “Give in to me, and then drift away.”

You hum in response, barely conscious, the weight of sleep too heavy to fight.

Wonbin exhales, amused, and you feel the ghost of his fingers brushing one last time against your hair before the weight on the bed shifts. The warmth of him disappears, replaced by the cool whisper of air as he slips back into the darkness where he came from.

This wasn't the first time Wonbin helped you fall asleep, and it won’t be the last.

…

..

.

[animasola86]

LOST & FOUND 🫂 CH8

To further guide you into your new life, Mommy takes you to a sex shop, introducing you to the benefits of certain toys...

soft!Daddy!dom x Mommy!domme x little girl!reader

WARNINGS: F!Reader insert. NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Mommy/Daddy kink. Dd/Md/lg dynamics. Dom/sub undertones. Pet names. Sex shop. Sex toys/vibrators. Semi-public assisted masturbation. Vaginal fingering. Fluff. (More notes under the cut!)

WORDS: 5.8k 🔷️ READ ON AO3 🔷️ 1–2–3–4–5–6 7–8–9–10–11–12

A/N: Mommy POV incoming! Age and name reveal (again) because she is an original character (inspired by the women I tagged). We learn a bit more about her life and the world she lives in. (Reminder that this is a fictional relationship borrowing elements from Dom/sub and caregiver/little dynamics. I'm taking massive creative liberties here!) By the way, the next two chapters will have no Daddy in them, I'm sorry, I don't know what happened, Mommy took over. He'll be back soon though! (More info on Reader in previous A/Ns.)❗ (Please READ THIS if you're confused about the tags I listed this under!)❗

Chapter 7 🔷️ Chapter 8 🔷️ Chapter 9

After lunch, Isabella decided to finally confront you with the things she only ever teased at, the implications, the ideas, the expectations. She knew you still had no idea what it really meant to be a submissive, their submissive even, as eager as you were, and as grateful to be off the streets and heading towards a new chapter of your life. It was cute how clueless you were.

She knew that Noah had already taken it further than she had initially planned their little arrangement to go, the horny bastard, but that was part of his charm, and luckily you hadn't shied away from his advances. Indeed he seemed to have pulled you in fully, with whatever he had done to you. So as furious and jealous as she had been when he had whisked you away over night without telling her, she was glad about it too.

Now she didn't have to beat around the bush anymore.

And so she took you to Lady Noir's Naughty Needs, a horrible name for a sex shop, but the selection was good, it was discreet (she preferred to enter the store through the back entrance like she preferred to enter most things, to be honest) and subtle enough to trick you into a sense of safety.

Lady Noir, who was a very tall and very creative transwoman, with a voice that was either like nails on a chalkboard or a good scratch down the back, had done a splendid job in dressing the shop in elegant blacks and reds, lots of velvet and lace, it was extravagant like herself, but also comfortable enough to soothe the nerves of an anxious girl – and you were indeed quite taken aback as Isabella took your hand and led you through the door along the black velvet covered hallway into one of the 'testing booths'.

You took a timid look around the small space, wide eyes scanning the black leather couch as she motioned you to sit down. You looked so cute and fashionably out of place with your pink sundress, side braid and white frilly ankle socks. Soft lighting illuminated the otherwise dark room, but nothing could hide the dusting of heat on your cheeks.

On a low table in front of the couch sat a thick catalog, and as Isabella sat down next to you, she pulled it towards you and flipped it open. “Now, shall we talk openly, cariño?” she asked, turning back to look at you. Your eyes were glued to the selection of various sex toys on the pages in front of you.

You blinked before you met her gaze. “Yes?” you mused, looking at her like a deer in headlights.

“You agreed to be our submissive,” Isabella started quietly, “and while I did explain a few details to you, I just want to make it clear what it is we're expecting of you.”

You nodded, listening closely, your bottom lip pulled between your teeth.

“You, the submissive, are to give up control to us, your Dominants, me and Noah, your Mommy and Daddy. You will do as we say, you will trust us to know your limits, you will let go for us. We want you to be our little girl, someone to cuddle and pamper and take care of, someone to make us feel good. While we might be considered your caregivers, we will not only guide you through life, we will also do with you as we please.”

She watched you as she talked, and when she paused, she tapped her fingernails on the catalog on the table. You held her gaze, anxious but curious, attentive and alert.

“This is first and foremost a sexual arrangement, mi amor, this shouldn't be a surprise to you considering the things we did already experience together, hm?” She leaned towards you a little, her hand moving to rest on your thigh, fingers curling around it. “And as you never said anything against it, I can assume you are okay with us touching you like we did?”

“Y-yes, Mommy,” you murmured without hesitation.

“Are you a virgin, darling?”

“No,” you said, averting your eyes as shame crashed through you.

Isabella knew, or at least put the pieces together in a way, that you were raised rather conservative with how you struggled to talk about things that should be natural. It still came as a surprise to her that you apparently already lost your virginity.

She raised her eyebrows in a questioning fashion, and you added: “High school boyfriend, didn't last very long after...”

“Ah,” she made, squeezing your leg. “I see. What a shame, I'm sorry. But trust me, we will appreciate you for much longer, as long as you will let us.”

“B-but I don't... don't have much experience...”

“And that's okay, you don't have to. You just have to be open to new things. Are you open to new things, honey?” Isabella whispered, leaning closer, a smile on her lips.

You bit your lip, but quickly nodded again. “Yes.”

“Good,” she said, giving you a quick peck on the cheek. “Can I assume you never had sex with a woman before?”

Her question made you flinch a little, which she laughed softly at. “I... uh, I kissed a girl before, before you, obviously, but no... uh... no s-sex...”

“And do you want to have sex with a woman?”

You just nodded, staring at your lap, at her hand firmly pressed between your tight thighs.

“And what about being sandwiched between a man and a woman, at the same time?”

You looked up then, still chewing on your lips. “If... if that's okay... with you...”

She chuckled. “Sweetheart, it's what we want! Both of us. We will have our fun individually, but mostly, we want to share you. This is for us too, you know? Trying out new things. Like you, sweet girl.” She slipped her hand lower, under the hem of your dress. “But don't think it'll just be you and Daddy having fun while I watch, or you and me with him watching, no, I really mean share. You were made to handle both of us at once, you know?”

You frowned at that, squirming a little against her hand.

Isabella sighed. “Okay, let me be blunt, my dear,” she started, scooting closer, retrieving the hand from between your thighs to wrap her arm around your shoulders, pulling you against her. Her other hand found your chin, turning your head so she could whisper into your ear. “Have you ever had anything up your pretty little bum, mi amor?”

The heat that radiated off you was instant. She laughed softly, brushing her lips against your ear. You croaked out a barely audible “No”.

“Mhmm,” she hummed, tracing the tip of her tongue along the shell of your ear. “A sweet little virgin bum... the things I will make you feel, cariño. I can't wait...” She pressed her cheek to yours and made you look back at the table. “We're here to buy some new toys, you know? I'm in need of a new strap, and as it's going up your butt, you're here to pick one out. That okay with you?”

Your face was positively burning. You were staring at the catalog, at the picture of a woman wearing a strap-on with another woman kneeling in front of her, ass up, aesthetically positioned to only suggest the action. Then you started shaking, your breaths rasping past your parted lips. “I... I don't know...” you whimpered quietly, unable to pry your gaze away from the scene on the table.

“Hmm, I know it sounds scary, but it will feel so good, darling. Just imagine riding Daddy's cock, his hands on your hips, you looking deep into his pretty eyes, and I'm behind you, stuffing your other hole, filling you up so much you can barely breathe. But oh the sensations... I can assure you it will be like nothing you've ever experienced...” Sighing deeply, she rubbed her cheek against yours, feeling the warmth burning under your skin. Her arms wrapped fully around you, pressing you against her chest. “Don't be afraid, sweet pea, it'll be amazing. Your head will be so empty, you will not have a worry in the world!”

She felt you swallowing hard, your breaths still a little labored. Your heart must be beating out of your chest. It amused her more than she wanted to admit. She could imagine this to be absolutely terrifying for someone who'd only had her cherry popped unceremoniously by some clumsy boy, dumped after and never had any real sexual adventures since then. To fall into the hands of an unconventional couple who enjoyed all aspects of kink in a very excessive way must be quite overwhelming.

But you had to see the benefits of it too. One day you would. She knew for a fact that sex in any form was a great way to battle any kind of anxiety, having been there herself. When she was your age (which was only about ten years ago), she found herself in a world where she didn't belong, or got told this by anyone around her. To not just be a woman, but a Latina, in a world full of old white men, trying to convince conservative and sometimes racist people to see her vision, had been exhausting and discouraging to say the least.

But then she had met Noah, also still a greenhorn, a young man with great potential, working harder than anyone she'd ever come across. While she was battling prejudices and stereotypes, he'd battled the fierce competition, but he still managed to push his company into higher spheres, network his way around, grow roots in a world full of gardeners who loved to cut down anyone to even attempt to toss them off their thrones.

She had been drawn to his dominant aura, to the way he filled a room, became the center of attention without doing much. At first she'd submitted to him, wanted to learn and soak up anything he could teach her, but he soon turned her into craving more, make her own success, dominate as well, become the one to turn heads, and not just for her looks and aura, but also for her sharp tongue and brilliant ideas.

He gave her the confidence she needed (by sharing the power, both in the office and in bed), and she was grateful, and she knew it could benefit you as well. She wanted to make you shine again, be someone, find yourself, let go of all the crippling fear and doubts, and the only way how was by being pounded senseless. She'd gone there, and she'd see to it that you went there too. It would help you so much to just let go and take whatever she and Noah gave you.

You still seemed anxious, though. She hugged you tighter, kissed your warm cheek. “Don't be scared,” she whispered once more. “We'll ease you into it, one little push at a time. It may sound like a lot, but I'll make sure you won't be overwhelmed, unless you come to the point where you want to be overwhelmed, of course. Oh, cariño, it's the best feeling to let go and just take, to let it happen, to lose control. Trust me, I've been there. You'll love it.”

Your breathing eased a little as you leaned into her, but she could tell it would be a long journey to get you to be completely comfortable with anything sex related. Maybe it hadn't been the best idea to take you to Lady Noir, but you were here now, so why not throw you into the deep end and get it over with.

As if she'd been waiting for her cue, the store owner then entered the small room, rapping her knuckles on the door. “Well, hello there,” the tall woman cooed, her deep voice thrumming through the air. “Who have we here? Aren't you the cutest little bean I've ever seen!”

You stared up at the towering presence of Lady Noir who was wearing a tight black skirt and an even tighter black top, accentuating toned arms and an impressive bust that even rivaled Isabella's, who leaned back and crossed her legs, smiling. “This is Lady Noir, darling, say hello,” she whispered, nudging your side gently.

You cleared your throat, attempting something of a bow that made her smirk. “H-hello,” you said quietly, introducing yourself.

Noir leaned in and grabbed your extended hand with both of hers, so large they dwarfed your small one, her dark skin shining in the dim light. “Oh I am delighted, little one.” She smiled at you, squeezing your hand before releasing it again and sitting down on the edge of the table, where she crossed her legs and faced you and Isabella on the couch. “So, what brings you here? Need any new toys, Bella?”

Isabella laughed softly, tilting her head. “You know me so well,” she said. “Well, as you can see, we got ourselves a little girl, finally. And she is so perfect, the perfect little thing, aren't you, honey?” She looked at you, and you met her gaze, highly embarrassed. “So humble and shy,” she added, raising her hand to pat your warm cheek. “Obviously, we want to ease her into it gently,” she said, turning back to Noir.

The other woman nodded, her chin resting on her palm with her elbow on her knee, her long legs toned and smooth, exquisite black high heels on her feet that swayed with her motions. “Of course, don't want to break the precious thing, hm?” she mused, her dark eyes gleaming. Today she had her black locks arranged in intricate rows of thick braids that swirled around her head like large snakes. “Do you have any experience with sex toys, my dear?” she addressed you with a soft tone.

You looked up, blinking in confusion (such a cute look on you). Then you shook your head.

“No? Not even improvised one? Ever stuck a pen in there? Or a cucumber?”

Your eyes widened, and you looked down, shaking your head more furiously, your hands clenching around the hem of your dress.

“What about fingers? Come on, baby girl, I'm sure you have at least tried your tiny little digits before? Rubbed a little? Dipped a bit?”

Isabella saw you swallowing, watching you curiously. You gave the tiniest of nods, just a jerk, a shudder through your body. Noir chuckled deeply.

“That's all good, little one. No one's born a porn star, right? Well, I was, but let's not talk about me,” she laughed. Her words made you look up with something like confused interest. She took the catalog into her hands and flipped through the pages. “You know, this should be obvious, but self love is so important, such a natural thing. Best to relieve tension, to clear the mind, to focus on other important things. Flicking your bean really is nothing to be ashamed of. But if you prefer to let others work for you, I can only recommend a variety of these,” she added, holding out the catalog towards you, open on two pages full of various vibrators.

Your eyes scanned the items, and Isabella could see the heat crashing into your head. You were shaking like a leaf. She pulled one arm around you, settling her hand on your waist, scooting closer to you. “It's alright, honey,” she soothed quietly. “Do you want to pick something?”

You blinked, your eyes watering the longer you stared at the items. “I... I don't know...” you breathed shakily.

“Pick a color,” Noir chimed in. “We'll pick the rest for you, hm, sweetheart?”

It came to nobody's surprise that your finger hovered over the more subtle colors, a light pink, a faded purple, a soft blue. Isabella gave you a kiss on the cheek. “Good girl, good choices,” she whispered before she looked up at Noir. “Can you give us some of the smallest now? We'll come back once she's more accustomed.”

The other woman nodded with a wide smile. “Of course. Shall I slip in one bigger one, just to test the waters?” She gave Isabella a wink, who nodded with a smirk.

“Please do, I know you know best.”

“I do, darling, I do.” She stood up then, flipping the catalog as she turned slightly. “Oh, how about these? I can get them in all sizes and the colors she chose?”

Isabella laughed, following the finger pressed to a page full of strap-ons. Normally she'd prefer black ones, harness and dildo, but these came in soft pinks as well. If it would ease your nerves, she'd switch out her old set-up. Not that you would see a lot of what would be going on behind you, but maybe the idea of having something girly stuck in your butt would help with the sensations. (It would also be better to train your other holes, including your throat, with something that didn't look as intimidating.)

“Good thinking,” she said. “I'll take these, and two of those,” she said, nodding at Noir, showing her her selection. She'd go for pink, but the sizes were non-negotiable. You'd get used to it.

The tall woman nodded. “Anything else?”

“Get us a lot of lube,” she added with a wink, leaning back, her arm still around you. “I'm sure we'll need it.”

A shiver crashed through you, but you didn't show any more reactions, probably stuck in your own head, worrying your little brains out. This wasn't to humiliate or embarrass you, it was to show you aspects of your new life, of the world you had entered. She hoped you'd see that one day.

“Can we stay here for a moment longer?” Isabella then asked as Noir turned to leave, ready to prepare her order.

“Of course, anything for you, my love,” she said with a soft smile. “Do you need anything? To take the edge of?” Her last words were lower, only meant for Isabella's ears.

She just looked at the other woman, who understood without words before she bowed her head and gave her a wink, then disappeared through the door. You seemed to relax a little once Noir's towering frame had left the small room. Breathing deep, you settled against Isabella.

“Relax, mi amor, Mommy's got you,” she cooed, pulling you closer until your head rested on her chest, her fingers gliding over your head. “Why are you nervous?”

You took a shuddering breath. “It... it's all so new... to me...” you replied quietly.

She nodded, leaning down to press her lips to the top of your head. “I bet, but don't be overwhelmed. Like Noir said, this is all natural. Nothing perverse or filthy about self pleasure, or pleasure in general. It'll help you.”

Before you could say anything to that, the door opened again, another woman, one of Noir's assistants, came in, carrying a tray with two glasses of champagne and a small (bright pink) egg-shaped object next to them. She put the tray down and bowed her head, before leaving without a word.

You stared at what had been brought in. “Want to pick it up?” Isabella asked quietly. You sat up straighter on the couch, swallowing audibly. “It's just a little vibe, honey, feel its texture, its weight, turn it on, test it out.” She grabbed one of the champagne flutes and took a sip, watching you.

It took you a long moment before you reached out to the item, tentatively sliding your finger over it. She could tell you'd never used anything like this before, you even held it by its thick tail as you finally picked it up. She leaned in and switched the sides, letting the heavier egg-shaped part rest on your palm while she pressed the button on the end of the tail. You flinched when the vibrations buzzed in your hand.

“You wanna test it out?” she mused softly, pressing her shoulder into yours. “Don't worry, it's clean and safe. You can trust Lady Noir, she's the best.”

“She's a little... intimidating,” you whispered, skillfully ignoring her question. “So tall, and her voice...”

“Wait till you see her naked,” Isabella laughed, letting it slide. “She has the biggest cock you'll ever see in your life. And that thing is intimidating!”

You stared at her, confusion washing over you. “But... she's a...”

“She was born a man, dear,” she said with a gentle smile. “Started in the adult film industry when she was just eighteen, then quickly figured she didn't like being an anonymous cock. I still envy the boob job they did on her, so impressive. She moved into the spotlight, made quite a name for herself, The Black Switch, they called her, but as all things are eventually, she left the porn biz to start her own, creating the best sex toys you'll ever use. The softest feel, the most power,” she added, stroking the vibrating item on your palm. “Do you want me to help you with it?”

You bit your lip, staring at the pink object before you blinked and looked up at her with wide eyes. “Here?” you squeaked.

“Why not? We're all alone here. The walls are thick, nobody is coming in. It's just us, sweetheart, and you've been alone with Mommy before, haven't you?”

She took the vibe off your hand and turned it off, scooting back on the couch. Then she pulled you into her lap, your back resting against her shoulder, legs draped over her thigh. She nudged them apart and gently pushed the hem of your dress up.

“Do you trust Mommy?” she whispered into your ear, her breath ghosting your skin.

“Yes,” you replied quietly, settling against her, allowing her to push your legs further apart until they fell open over her own.

“Good girl,” she praised, the hand holding the toy pressing against your stomach, the other moving under your dress, her fingers teasing at your crotch. It was warm and damp already. As much as you fought these things, you were still clearly affected by them. Her dirty talk, the pictures of the toys, the prospect of using them. It got to you, and she was glad.

She rubbed your mound for a moment, feeling the fabric of your underwear sticking to your slick skin. You tried to relax on her lap, but your breaths came out labored, your lips parted and trembling, your body stiffening under her ministrations. She moved her fingertip along the edge of your panties, slowly pulling them away from your cunt, exposing your hot skin.

Her other hand shifted the vibe and turned it back on, on the lowest setting, a gentle hum, but when she brought it down between your legs and teased it against your hooded clit, you gave a sudden jolt, almost slipping off her lap.

“Easy, mi amor, just relax. Let it happen,” she cooed. You inhaled deeply, leaning into her. “Good, just breathe, let me make you feel good...”

She pressed the vibrating object back against your smooth mound, sliding it along your slit, letting you feel the soft buzzing. Little gasps escaped you that made her stomach tense. So adorable. Her fingers soaked in your wetness when she moved the toy against your core, and as she gave your clit a little prodding, she imagined feeling it throb against her tongue, the idea of licking up your slick making her close her eyes, a low moan rasping through her.

“Oh my precious little girl, you feel so sweet, I bet you taste just as amazing. I can't wait to dip my tongue into you,” she whispered into your ear, relishing in the shudders crashing through you, both from her words and the constant buzz against your sensitive bud. “Will you let Mommy eat you out, sweet girl? Can I have you for dinner tonight?”

You gasped, your body shivering against her. “Yes, Mommy,” you moaned quietly.

She continued holding the vibe against you, imagining the flush of your skin, the constant drip of arousal, the sweet scent filling her nostrils when she would eventually bury her face in your cunt. She couldn't wait, but she had to. This was not the place for something so intimate and new to you, no matter how private they were right now. This was just to get you to relax, let go, feel the power of pleasure wiping the worries away.

When you started grinding your hips against her hand and ultimately the vibrator, she pressed it harder between your labia, nudging your clit, letting it slide up and down, every thrum sending little shivers up your body while little mewls slipped out of your throat. Your hands were gripping the fabric of your dress bunched up in front of your stomach, chest heaving as your breaths quickened, and when she finally pushed the egg-shaped toy lower, against your entrance, you gave a shrill little squeak as it slipped into your cunt, swallowed by greedy muscles, clenching tightly.

Isabella added a finger, wanting to feel the contractions of your sweet pussy around the buzzing item, and you threw your head back against her shoulder, moaning quietly, your noises tense and muffled, and she told herself to teach you to be really loud, to let it all out, to not care about anyone hearing you. One day. For now she quite enjoyed your little squeaks and yelps and gasps, the way your body squirmed on her lap, your thighs twitching, itching to snap together if it wasn't for her hand holding them open.

“Feels nice, doesn't it?” she whispered, kissing the shell of your ear. Her index finger nudged the toy a little deeper, its thick tail coiled around her pinky to hold it in place.

She pushed and prodded, watching your reaction, and when you suddenly stiffened, a voiceless shriek parting your lips further, she knew she'd found the right spot. Holding the vibe in place, letting it buzz softly against your sensitive nerves, she savored the fight you fought, struggling against the pleasure building up inside you.

“Yes, just like that, baby, let it happen. Purr for me, kitten...” Her pinky curled, pressing the button at the toy's tail, increasing the vibrations.

You mewled, moaned, gasped, writhing against her, your hands grasping for her arm, to hold it there or pull it away, she wasn't sure, and neither were you.

She watched you, how you tilted your head back, eyes squeezed shut, lips trembling, cheeks aflame, chest rising and falling faster, straining against the stiff fabric of your dress, your legs kicking uncontrollably, little twitches all through your body, and she held the vibrator inside you, along with two of her fingers, feeling the soft clenching of your walls, the slick amassing in her hand, dripping out of you with every new wave of pleasure.

You came with a soft gasp, melting into her embrace, hips stuttering, thighs spasming, your hand tightening around her wrist before you relaxed, let go, slid away into the bliss pulsing through you. She tugged at the toy and pulled it out, then turned it off, cradling it in her hand for a moment, warm and wet, as she let you come down from your high.

“My good girl,” she sighed softly. “That was beautiful, so beautiful, just like you.”

You turned your head and buried your burning face in the crook of her neck, your body boneless on her lap. She wrapped her free arm around you, and you settled against her, legs pulled up, your hands clutching at her waist as you held onto her. Your breaths were still labored, hot against her neck, but any kind of tension was gone from your body.

She brought the wet vibe to her eyes, watching your slick glistening in the dim lights. Inhaling deeply, she filled her nostrils with your sweet scent, she even moved it closer, cradling it in her hand but then only extended the fingers that had been inside you. Her tongue swiped along her fingertips, her moans loud in your ear as she licked your wetness off her skin.

“You taste divine, my sweet,” she whispered, breathing deeply. “Thank you for indulging me.”

You hummed into her, a sleepy little thing in her arms, cooing softly. “Thank you, Mommy,” she heard your faint voice. “I think... I needed that...”

She chuckled. “I'm sure you did, always happy to lend a hand, mi amor. You can just ask, okay? I will give you anything you want. You are my sweet little girl after all.”

You gave another hum in response, snuggling into her.

She allowed you a few more minutes, just sitting with you, holding you, enjoying your presence. You leaned into her, so fragile in a way, such a cute thing, slipping more and more into your role as if it was an inborn instinct to act like this. She'd known you were perfect, from the moment she'd seen you sitting on the street, so lost and lonely and anxious, your eyes so hollow and hopeless. If she'd believe in it, she'd say it was love at first sight.

Whatever one would call it, it was the moment she truly felt the need to nurse you, help you, pamper you. She had spent the last decade on top, dominating, putting people down, showing them their place, always below her. But with you, it felt different. She'd still be telling you what to do, but for the first time in her life, it would be in a nice way, a caring way. It was all new to her too, but it felt right, you made it so easy to hug you and care for you, to let her own softer side shine through while she vowed to make you feel good.

Whatever the future held, she knew it would be glorious. She couldn't wait to feel you come undone on her tongue or on her strap or on her fingers again, over and over, until she was satisfied and you were a trembling mess with an empty head. That was the goal. Fuck those worries right out of you.

Inhaling deeply, she rubbed her hand over your back. “Did you fall asleep, cariño?” she asked softly. You mumbled something in response, and she laughed quietly. “Do you think you can walk now, baby?”

“Yes, Mommy,” you muttered under your breath, slowly shifting on her lap, sitting up, stretching your legs before you clambered off her, holding onto the armrest of the couch.

The skirt of your dress was wrinkled and bunched up, your panties still pushed aside, showing the soft glistening of your folds. She leaned in and fixed you up, rearranging your underwear and smoothing your dress down, then gave you a soft pat to your bum and stood up too. The used vibrator vanished into her purse.

“Now, what are you in the mood for next?” she whispered as she put her hands on your warm face, looking down.

You pursed your lips, thinking. “I don't know. Anything you want, Mommy.”

Your voice was so soft, almost sleepy, she couldn't help it, she had to lean in and brush her lips against yours. The kiss was short but sweet, and she had to lean away with a sigh as her own desire flared up inside her.

“Hmm, what do we do...” she mused, pulling you against her as she started walking towards the door of the small room. “Shopping again? Or... oh, ice cream, maybe? Or a milkshake? Though we should probably get a smoothie, something healthier, huh? I could show you my gym, or we could do some yoga? Have you done yoga before, baby?”

She kept talking as she led you through the velvety hallway again, nodding to one of Lady Noir's assistants who came forth with two large bags. The young woman followed them, through the backdoor and over the parking lot to the car, where her driver took them off her hands and stored them in the trunk.

And Isabella walked with you in her arm, leisurely making plans or suggestions, knowing you wouldn't be able to choose anything in your current state of mind. It didn't matter either way, she'd be content just walking with you, sitting next to you, spending time with you. It was relaxing to cradle you against her, to focus on you instead of her own busy mind.

She settled you next to her in the car, pulling the seat belt around you, before her hand slipped automatically between your legs, rubbing against your damp underwear. You turned your head to her, your cheeks flushed, but your eyes a little clearer now.

“Can we go home?” you whispered then, biting your lip.

Home. How fast you'd adjusted. She smiled at you, parting her lips to reply when you continued:

“Do you think Daddy is back yet?”

She froze, turning her head to hide the scowl on her face. Something about the way you asked that didn't sit right with her. This was her day with you after all. He had already brought you back late, cutting off precious hours she could have spent with you. And he was still on your mind, even though you had her fingers at your cunt.

“He's probably still working. He's a busy man, mi amor, don't get your hopes up.” She couldn't make her voice sound any less resentful, so she cleared her throat and looked at you, forcing herself to smile. “But I'm here for you, cariño, isn't that enough?”

Your eyes widened before you blinked quickly. “Oh, of course, Mommy, I didn't mean –” Sure you didn't, she thought bitterly, but smiled all the same, curling her hand around your mound.

“It's okay, baby, relax, no harm done,” she said, tilting her head as she watched your warm face, an idea swirling through her mind. “Oh, I know what we can do. Unless you really want to go home?”

You swallowed, shaking your head. “I... I want to be with you, no matter where,” you replied quietly.

Your words should have eased her doubts, but instead they were tainted and she couldn't take them seriously. And deep inside, her old ways flared up again, wanting to prove to you who she really was, that you wouldn't need anyone but her. She knew she was flawed in that way, and while you did bring out the good in her, her not-so-good side was still very much alive inside her.

And so she gave your cunt a gentle rub, smiled sweetly and leaned forward a bit to tell the driver:

“Take us to the Pet Cafe.”

Chapter 7 🔷️ Chapter 8 🔷️ Chapter 9

End notes: Hey, so, I made Mommy a Latina because I love Latinas and I want to throw in more Spanish pet names and “show off” the Spanish skills I honed after almost two years of Duolingo "classes"... (Needless to say: I mean no disrespect, I truly admire Spanish-speaking people and I always wanted to write a character like this. Also I am aware that some of these pet names differ from country and region, so let's just imagine Mommy having a Spanish mother and, I don't know, a Mexican father, or vice versa, or from another South American country. Again, please don't take offense, I am just a humble European admiring other cultures because my own sucks so much..., I'm bound to make mistakes, so I apologize in advance.)

On another note: I have no idea what Mommy and Daddy do for a living, what kind of company they have, what kind of business. Any kind of economics or economy talk makes my writer brain hurt, so I ask you to imagine whatever you want them to do. The important thing is: they are successful in whatever it is they're doing (and unlike a certain other man from another story of mine, all they do is very much legal). In the end, it doesn't matter too much, I hope. It's about their relationship with Pumpkin after all.

Thank you for reading! New chapter every Saturday!

Up next: You're going to the Pet Cafe, whatever that is...

MASTERLIST 🔷️ AO3 🔷️ ORIGINAL WORKS

[talesofourworlds]

Okay, I think it's time for some test muses. Just to see how I like writing them before I add them to the blog for real.

Genis!

Moses! (Plus Giet!)

Elize! (Plus Teepo!)

And...

Velvet!

Yeah, I decided against Spada, Shigure, and Mao for the time being. Maybe in the future, though!

So anyway! If you want a test muse starter, hit the like button I guess! Or shoot an ask at one of them.

[chrissssssmut]

One with Rosé

NO ESCAPE

Yandere Boss Rosé x Male

AN: Hope this one's good! Im currently writing the next request XD

You hated your job.

More specifically, you hated your boss, Park Chaeyoung—better known as Rosé.

She wasn’t just strict—she was ruthless. A tyrant wrapped in designer suits and a wicked smile, ruling over the office like a queen who knew no one would dare to oppose her. She had a special kind of enjoyment in tormenting her employees, but for some reason, you were her favorite target.

“You’re useless,” she’d scoff when you turned in paperwork with a minor mistake. “I should fire you, but where else would I get my entertainment?”

Meetings turned into hellish endurance tests, your name constantly being called out for blunders, some of which weren’t even yours. But you knew why she did it. She liked to see you squirm under her attention, liked the way your hands shook when she loomed over your desk, voice like silk but words sharp enough to cut.

And yet, you endured it. Until you didn’t.

The resignation letter sat on your desk for weeks before you finally had the courage to hand it in. You had expected her to mock you, to laugh in your face, maybe even throw it back at you. But instead, she simply smiled. A slow, knowing smile that sent a chill down your spine.

“You think you can leave?” she mused, twirling a pen between her fingers. “That’s cute.”

“I’ve already made my decision.” You kept your voice steady, despite the dread curling in your stomach.

Her smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew. “We’ll see about that.”

You started skipping work.

At first, it was just a day. Then two. Then an entire week. No calls, no emails—nothing. You wanted her to get the message: you weren’t coming back.

Then, one night, there was a knock on your door.

Dread pooled in your stomach before you even opened it. And when you did, you wished you hadn’t.

Rosé stood there, silhouetted against the dim hallway light. She was smiling, but it wasn’t the usual condescending smirk. No, this one was different—sinister, dark, filled with something unhinged. Her eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of amusement and rage.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said, voice almost sing-song, as if she was teasing a lover. “That’s not very nice.”

Your breath hitched. “I… I don’t work for you anymore.”

Rosé tilted her head, feigning confusion. Then, before you could react, she stepped forward, forcing you back into your own apartment as she shut the door behind her.

“You don’t get to leave me,” she whispered, her voice low, a warning wrapped in velvet.

You turned to flee, but she was faster. Her hand shot out, gripping your wrist tight enough to bruise. Panic surged through you as you struggled, but she was stronger than she looked, pinning you against the wall with terrifying ease.

“You’re mine,” she murmured, eyes gleaming with something possessive, something utterly terrifying. “And I don’t like it when my things try to run away.”

You shoved at her, desperation fueling your fight. “Get off me!”

She responded with a sharp slap across your face, the impact ringing through the room. Your vision blurred for a second, pain flaring along your cheek. Before you could recover, she grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, forcing you to look at her.

“You think you can just disappear?” she hissed. “After everything I’ve given you? After all the time I spent making you mine?”

Terror pulsed through your veins as she shoved you onto the floor, her heeled foot pressing onto your chest. She leaned down, fingers curling around your throat, squeezing just enough to make breathing difficult but not enough to knock you out.

“I could make this worse,” she whispered, her breath hot against your ear. “I could hurt you so much more, make you beg me to let you stay.”

You clawed at her grip, trying to push her away, but she only laughed, enjoying your struggle. She yanked you up by your collar, dragging you toward the bedroom. You thrashed wildly, but a sharp punch to your gut sent you collapsing onto the mattress, gasping for air.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she purred, straddling you, her nails digging into your jaw as she forced you to meet her gaze. “You belong to me.”

Tears welled in your eyes, fear overriding everything else.

“Please… just let me go,” you croaked.

Her lips curled into a smirk as she leaned in closer. “Say it,” she commanded. “Say you’ll come back.”

You hesitated, and she wrapped a hand around your throat again, tightening her grip until your vision swam.

“I’ll come back!” you choked out, gasping. “I’ll go back to work, I swear!”

She released you abruptly, watching as you crumpled into a coughing mess beneath her. Her fingers gently traced your bruised skin, a mockery of tenderness.

“Good boy,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple before standing up. “Be ready in the morning. I expect you at your desk.”

And just like that, she walked away, leaving you shaking, broken, and utterly hers.

The next morning, you were at your desk.

Your hands trembled slightly as you typed, the bruises on your wrist hidden under the sleeves of your shirt. The office bustled around you as if nothing had happened, as if the last night hadn’t left you shattered.

And then you felt it.

A gaze.

You looked up, and there she was—Rosé, standing across the office, watching you. Her lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk, her eyes dark with a silent warning.

You knew what it meant.

You were stuck with her.

Forever.

[novaursa]

A Debt Paid (1/2)

- Summary: A story where a dragon underestimates the ambition of a lion.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Next part: 2/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @melsunshine @idenyimimdenial

The hour was late when Tyland Lannister arrived at your chambers, his presence heralded by the soft knock against the heavy oaken door. You had been expecting him, of course, having sent word that you wished to speak in private. There were few members of your uncle's council that you would trust to grant you an audience without suspicion, and though Lord Tyland was among them, he was not a man easily swayed. Clever, pragmatic, and careful—qualities that had elevated him to his current position—he would not be lured by honeyed words alone. But you had not summoned him simply to test his resolve. You needed something, and a Lannister never gave without knowing what he might receive in turn.

When he stepped inside, the flickering light of the hearth cast shadows across his features, the angles of his face sharp with contemplation. His crimson cloak, pinned with a lion brooch at his shoulder, stood in stark contrast to the dark velvets of his doublet. Though he carried himself with the poised confidence of a man long accustomed to the game of court, there was something cautious in the way he regarded you, his eyes sweeping over your figure as he bowed his head in polite greeting.

“Princess,” he said smoothly, voice even, betraying nothing. “I had not expected such a summons at this hour. What matter is so pressing that it could not wait until the morrow?”

You smiled at that, tilting your head slightly, allowing your long silver-gold hair to spill over one shoulder. You had dressed with purpose, in a gown that clung to your form, the deep wine-red fabric embroidered with golden thread, mirroring the colors of his house in a way that would not go unnoticed. It was a calculated gesture—one of many you had made to ensure you had his full attention.

“Surely you would not deny a princess her request for a private audience?” you mused, stepping closer, watching as his posture stiffened slightly. He was wary of you, and rightfully so. Your blood was that of dragons, and dragons were unpredictable creatures.

“I would not dare,” he answered, but his expression did not soften. “Yet I must wonder what it is you seek of me.”

You let out a quiet laugh, a sound that was neither cruel nor kind, merely amused. “You sit on my uncle’s council,” you said, circling him slowly, forcing him to turn his head slightly to follow your movement. “And yet my father has been kept away from it. Otto Hightower ensures that. My father is a prince of the realm, and still, he is treated as though his counsel is of no consequence.”

Tyland did not reply at once. His fingers twitched at his side, a subtle movement that betrayed his unease. “The Hand of the King believes his presence to be... disruptive,” he said carefully. “Prince Daemon is not known for his patience.”

“And yet you do not share Hightower’s distaste for him.”

He exhaled sharply, his lips pressing together for the briefest moment. “I have no personal quarrel with your father, my lady, but I do not make decisions without reason. If you seek my intervention, you must offer me a compelling one.”

You stopped before him then, tilting your chin up slightly as you met his gaze, your violet eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “I am aware that Lannisters love their debts paid,” you said, voice silken. “What if I were to offer you one in turn?”

His expression did not shift, but his brows lifted ever so slightly, intrigued despite himself. “A debt from a Targaryen princess,” he murmured, as if weighing the worth of such a thing. “And how, pray, would you repay it?”

Your smile deepened, and before he could react, your fingers reached for the laces of your gown. With a slow, deliberate motion, you pulled them free, allowing the heavy fabric to slip from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a whisper of silk. The firelight danced over your bare skin, casting warm golds and deep shadows in the hollows of your collarbones, the curve of your waist. You did not move to cover yourself, nor did you look away, meeting his gaze with a knowing smirk.

For the first time, you saw his careful composure crack. His throat worked as he swallowed, his gaze flickering down before jerking back up, as though unsure whether to look or to avert his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched, his fingers curling into fists at his sides, and for a long moment, he did not move.

You let the silence stretch between you before speaking again, your voice a soft, teasing murmur. “Do you not find me to your liking, my lord?”

His breath left him in a harsh exhale, and he cursed under his breath, barely above a whisper. “That is far from the truth,” he admitted, voice rougher than before.

His restraint lasted only a moment longer. Then, as though some unseen tether had snapped, he closed the space between you in a single step, his hands finding your waist, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough force to remind you that you were no longer the one in control. His lips crashed against yours, the taste of wine and something distinctly him flooding your senses, his warmth searing against you as he pulled you flush against him.

You had expected him to resist, to hesitate. But now, as he kissed you, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. The careful, calculating man you had summoned was gone, replaced by something far more primal, something that burned beneath the surface of his composed exterior.

Perhaps lions were not so different from dragons after all.

Your fingers move with practiced ease as you tug at the fastenings of his doublet, feeling the warmth of his body seep through the fabric as you work each clasp loose. His breath is shallow, controlled, yet you can feel the tension thrumming beneath his skin, his restraint wavering with each brush of your fingers against him. His eyes never leave yours, even as you push the heavy crimson fabric from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a careless heap. Beneath it, the linen of his tunic is thin, stretched taut across the hard lines of his chest, and you trace the outline of his ribs with a featherlight touch, reveling in the way his muscles tense beneath your hands.

"You seem eager, my lady," he murmurs, though his voice lacks the usual smooth detachment. There is something rougher there, something unguarded. His hands slide over your bare back, firm and possessive, as though anchoring himself to reality, lest he lose himself entirely in the moment.

You laugh softly, pressing closer until your bodies are flush, the heat of him bleeding into your skin. "And you seem hesitant, my lord," you counter, a teasing lilt in your voice. Your fingers reach for the laces at his waist, tugging them loose with a deliberate slowness, watching as his breath hitches, as his control frays further. "Shall I stop?"

His response is immediate, his hands gripping your hips, fingers digging into your flesh just enough to make you gasp. "Do not dare," he growls, the words barely more than a breath against your lips.

You smile at that, satisfied, and push his breeches down over his hips, freeing him from the last barrier between you. He is hard and wanting, the evidence of his restraint betrayed by the urgency in which he grips you now, guiding you back toward the bed. His composure is breaking, his usual meticulous control slipping through his fingers, and you revel in it, in the way his golden hair falls slightly into his eyes, in the way his breath comes faster as he lowers you down against the plush furs.

But for all his urgency, he hesitates now, poised between restraint and desire. You feel the head of him press against you, teasing, testing, yet he does not move further. His jaw is clenched, his muscles taut, as though still trying to cling to the last vestiges of control.

You tilt your head, amusement flickering in your gaze as you shift your hips slightly, making him groan low in his throat. "Why do you hesitate, my lord?" you whisper, your fingers tracing the curve of his jaw. "Have you found yourself in unfamiliar waters?"

He exhales sharply, his grip on you tightening. "You are—" He cuts himself off, as though uncertain how to finish the thought. You can see the conflict in his gaze, the brief moment of realization as it dawns on him fully—what he is doing, who he is with, the ramifications of it all. But that moment is fleeting, vanishing the instant you arch against him, your body coaxing him forward.

"You think too much," you murmur, brushing your lips against his. "Perhaps it is time you allowed yourself to simply feel."

That is all it takes. His restraint snaps, and in one swift, fluid motion, he pushes into you, filling you completely. The sensation is sudden, overwhelming, and he groans low in his throat, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as he stills for a moment, savoring the feel of you around him, the heat, the tightness, the sheer intoxicating reality of it. His breath is unsteady, his fingers trembling slightly where they grip your hips, and for a moment, he does not move.

You let out a breathy chuckle, shifting slightly beneath him, feeling the way his body tenses at the movement. "So eager before, and now you hesitate the second time," you tease, voice laced with amusement. "Do I overwhelm you, my lion?"

His response is wordless—a low growl of frustration as his hands tighten on your waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there before he begins to move, his careful restraint dissolving into something raw and unrestrained. His thrusts are deep and deliberate at first, savoring every inch of you, before urgency takes over, his pace growing more desperate, more relentless. The sound of your bodies moving together fills the chamber, mingling with the crackling of the fire, the ragged breaths, the gasps that escape unbidden from your lips.

"You enjoy testing me," he mutters against your skin, his lips trailing along your throat, the words spoken between heated kisses.

"Of course I do," you breathe, arching against him, nails raking lightly down his back, drawing another groan from him.

He does not answer, but he does not need to. His body speaks for him, each thrust, each touch, each whispered curse against your skin betraying just how deeply you have undone him. His control, so carefully maintained in court, is utterly shattered in your presence, and you relish in it, in the way he gives himself over to you completely.

Tyland’s breath is ragged, uneven, the weight of his body pressing down on you as his rhythm grows erratic. His hands, usually so steady and deliberate, tremble against your skin, his grip tightening as he chases the final, inevitable breaking point. Every carefully placed wall, every layer of composure that he had spent years perfecting, is crumbling now, undone by the sheer intensity of you, the way you meet his every movement with equal fervor, the way your body tightens around him, dragging him closer to that edge.

His hair clings to his damp forehead, and the firelight casts his skin in a warm, golden hue, as though the very flames themselves sought to claim him. His jaw is clenched, his lips parted slightly, as though he wishes to speak but has forgotten how to form words entirely. He is lost, drowning in sensation, in the feel of you beneath him, surrounding him, pulling him deeper into a heat he cannot hope to escape.

"Do not hold back, my lord," you murmur against his ear, your voice a sultry whisper, teasing yet commanding all the same. "Let go."

A shudder rolls through him at your words, and with a groan, he does just that. His thrusts turn frantic, urgent, his fingers digging into your hips with enough force to leave bruises, his breath hot against your neck. He curses lowly, a sharp, breathless sound, his voice uncharacteristically rough, stripped of all refinement. He clings to you, as though you are the only thing anchoring him to this world, as though he has forgotten himself entirely in the depths of you.

And then, with a final, shuddering thrust, he stills, his entire body seizing as his release overtakes him. He groans, low and guttural, his grip on you tightening as he spills into you, lost in the waves of pleasure that wrack through him, his restraint shattered beyond repair. He collapses slightly, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath coming in short, uneven pants, as though he has just run a battle’s length across the field.

For a moment, there is only the sound of his breathing, the faint crackle of the fire, the distant howling of the wind beyond the walls of your chambers. His body remains tense against yours, his muscles still coiled with the remnants of his fervor, his hands still gripping your waist, reluctant to let go. You can feel the wild pounding of his heart against your chest, a frantic rhythm that betrays just how deeply he has unraveled in your arms.

Then, slowly, he lifts his head, his eyes finding yours. His gaze is different now, dazed yet sharp all at once, flickering with the realization of what he has done—of who he has just laid with, of what this means. A dozen thoughts must be racing through his mind, calculations, consequences, the weight of his own actions pressing down upon him.

You, however, only smile, trailing your fingers idly along the golden strands at the nape of his neck, thoroughly amused by the loss of control you have so easily pulled from him. "You leapt quite eagerly into my offer," you purr, tilting your head slightly as you regard him with mirth. "And yet, I do not recall you asking what favor I sought from you before taking your reward."

Tyland blinks, his breath still uneven, his body still pressed flush against yours, and you see it in his eyes—the moment he realizes the truth of your words.

A curse slips past his lips, soft but sharp, and he exhales, shaking his head slightly, as if to clear the haze of pleasure still clinging to him. "Seven hells," he mutters, a wry edge creeping into his voice. "You truly are your father’s daughter."

You laugh at that, dragging your nails lightly down his spine, feeling the way he shudders slightly beneath your touch. "Oh, come now, my lion," you chide, feigning innocence. "Surely a man as shrewd as you would not accept such an offer without first hearing the full terms?"

Tyland groans, though there is something almost rueful in the sound, as though he cannot quite decide whether to curse you or admire you. "You truly mean to discuss this now?" he asks, lifting a brow as he gazes down at you, his expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

You hum thoughtfully, running a hand along his chest, tracing the defined muscles beneath your fingertips. "Perhaps not," you concede, tilting your head, watching as his gaze follows the movement of your lips. "But you should know better than to strike a bargain with a Targaryen before hearing all the terms."

His eyes darken at that, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. He is still recovering, still caught in the aftershocks of what has just transpired between you, but you know he is already thinking ahead, already calculating. Tyland Lannister is a careful man, a cautious man—but you have unraveled him tonight, shattered that control he clings to so fiercely, and now he is left to reckon with the aftermath.

Slowly, he shifts, rolling onto his back beside you, an arm draped over his forehead as he exhales deeply. "I fear I may have just made a deal with the devil herself," he mutters, though there is no true malice in his tone—only reluctant admiration, begrudging acceptance.

You smirk, propping yourself up on one elbow as you gaze down at him, your silver-gold hair spilling over your shoulder like liquid moonlight. "And yet," you whisper, leaning in until your lips brush the shell of his ear, "you do not regret it."

He does not answer immediately. Instead, his fingers curl against your waist, his touch slow and deliberate, his body still thrumming with the remnants of desire.

"No," he murmurs finally, his voice rough, resigned. "I do not."

The scent of warm embers and lingering passion clung to the air, thick and heavy, as you lay beside Tyland, your body still thrumming from the aftermath of your joining. The sheets were tangled between you, the silk warm against your bare skin, though neither of you had moved much since the frenzy had passed. His arm still rested against his forehead, golden hair disheveled, chest rising and falling in steady, measured breaths. Yet his mind, you knew, was already at work, sifting through the implications of what had just transpired between you.

You traced idle patterns against his skin, letting your fingers skim along the firm planes of his chest, feeling the slow, steady heartbeat beneath your palm. He had not spoken since his quiet admission that he held no regrets—perhaps he was still coming to terms with that truth. Yet you could feel the weight of your unspoken words settling between you, an unspoken question lingering in the dim glow of candlelight.

Finally, you broke the silence, your voice a silken murmur against the quiet. “I did not summon you merely to warm my bed, my lord.”

Tyland let out a slow, deep breath, turning his head slightly to regard you with those sharp golden eyes. “So I have come to understand,” he mused, his tone edged with wry amusement. Yet beneath it, there was something else—something watchful. A careful man, even now.

You smirked, shifting onto your side to better face him, the weight of your hair spilling over your shoulder. “I require a favor,” you admitted, trailing your fingers lower, brushing against the taut muscles of his abdomen, watching as he tensed ever so slightly beneath your touch. It pleased you, knowing that even now, after all that had passed between you, you still had the power to affect him so. “Something only a man who sits on my uncle’s council can do.”

Tyland let out a short, quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly as he studied you. “I should have known,” he murmured, running a hand through his unruly hair, still lying back against the sheets. “I take you to bed, and before I have even caught my breath, you seek to entangle me in whatever scheme you have devised.”

You smiled, unbothered by his remark. “Do you take me for a fool?” you asked, tilting your chin, letting your fingers trail up to his jaw, feeling the stubble rough beneath your fingertips. “I would not waste such an opportunity.”

He sighed, exasperated yet entertained all the same, rolling onto his side to face you fully. “Very well,” he conceded. “Tell me, then—what is it you seek of me?”

Your amusement faded, replaced by something sharper, something colder. “I need someone to convince my uncle to call back my father,” you said, your voice losing its teasing lilt, turning serious. “Where he belongs. At the king’s table. Not sulking through the gutters of Flea Bottom while Otto Hightower whispers poison in Viserys’s ear.”

Tyland was silent for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. He studied you, searching your face, the intensity of his scrutiny enough to make lesser men falter. But you were not lesser, and you did not look away.

Finally, he exhaled, tilting his head. “Prince Daemon is not a man easily controlled,” he said carefully. “The king exiled him for a reason.”

You scoffed, sitting up slightly, letting the sheets pool around your waist. “He was exiled because Otto willed it,” you snapped, your temper flaring in a way that was unmistakably your father’s. “Because Otto fears him, fears his influence over my uncle. And so, he sent him away like a dog banished from the hall, forced to wander without purpose.”

Tyland watched you, his gaze steady, ever calculating. “And you believe his place is here?” he asked, voice steady.

“I know it is,” you countered, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “Daemon is no saint, nor has he ever pretended to be. But he is my father. And he is Viserys’s brother. He belongs here, not slumming through the dregs of King’s Landing like some forgotten rogue.”

Tyland considered this, his expression thoughtful. “Your father is his own worst enemy,” he pointed out. “Even if Viserys were convinced to call him back, what is to say Daemon would not squander the opportunity? He does not make allies easily.”

“He does not need to make allies,” you replied firmly. “He is a prince of the blood. That alone should be enough.”

Tyland huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You truly are your father’s daughter,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You smirked, leaning closer, your breath brushing against his lips. “Does that unsettle you, my lion?” you purred.

His eyes darkened slightly, but he did not answer. Instead, he reached out, his fingers skimming along your bare shoulder, his touch deceptively light. “And what do you expect me to do?” he asked. “Otto Hightower controls the council. Convincing the king to recall your father will not be an easy feat.”

“You are not without influence,” you countered. “Your voice carries weight.”

Tyland sighed, rubbing his fingers against his temple. “You ask much of me,” he said, though there was no true resistance in his tone. “And what, pray, do I receive in return?”

You smiled then, slow and knowing, tilting your head as you regarded him. “I have already repaid you, have I not?” you murmured, trailing your fingers down his chest. “Or would you seek further compensation?”

His breath hitched slightly, but he masked it well, lips twitching into something half a smirk. “You are dangerous,” he muttered. “And I fear I may regret indulging you.”

You laughed, shifting to straddle him, your hands pressing against his chest. “Then perhaps,” you whispered, leaning down until your lips barely brushed his, “you should not indulge me at all.”

Tyland’s fingers tightened on your hips, his green eyes gleaming in the dim light. “I fear it is far too late for that,” he admitted, voice rough.

And with that, he pulled you down into another kiss, sealing the unspoken pact between you.

The chamber of the Small Council was thick with the scent of parchment and heated candle wax, the air stagnant with the weight of politics and whispered alliances. The long oaken table bore the scratches and grooves of decades of deliberation, of men who had sat in these very seats and played their part in shaping the realm’s history. Tyland Lannister sat among them, his crimson-and-gold attire pristine, his golden mane tamed into its usual elegance, yet beneath the carefully constructed façade of poise and calculation, his mind was troubled.

He had spent the night in your bed, tangled in silk and shadows, listening to the urgency in your voice, the conviction with which you had spoken of your father. You had not pleaded, nor had you begged—no, that was not your way. You had presented him with a choice, the same way one might present a deal before sealing it with blood. And Tyland had made his choice.

Now, as the king’s council convened, he sat in silence as Otto Hightower droned on about the state of the treasury, about trade agreements in the Stepstones, about the strength of their alliances with the Free Cities. It was the same monotonous routine, the same carefully maintained control. Viserys, seated at the head of the table, nodded along absently, his fingers drumming lightly against the arm of his chair, half-listening as he always did, his thoughts likely elsewhere—perhaps with his daughter, Rhaenyra, or with whatever delicate sculpture he had been carving of late.

It was the same, predictable cadence of politics. Until Tyland changed it.

“My lords,” he interjected smoothly, his voice measured, yet carrying enough weight to command attention. Otto fell silent, his brows furrowing slightly as he turned his gaze toward the Lannister lord. “While the affairs of coin and trade are certainly pressing matters, I believe we would be remiss if we did not address another concern of great importance to the crown.”

Viserys lifted his head slightly, intrigued by the shift in conversation. “And what concern is that, Lord Tyland?”

Tyland did not rush. He allowed the moment to settle, the weight of anticipation thickening in the room before he finally spoke again. “The matter of Prince Daemon.”

Silence fell like a blade upon the council.

Otto’s expression hardened instantly, his jaw tightening, while Lord Beesbury blinked in confusion, as though he had misheard the words entirely. Lord Lyonel Strong, ever the measured voice among them, merely observed with a flicker of interest, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. But it was Viserys who reacted most visibly, his gaze snapping toward Tyland with something unreadable in his weary violet eyes.

“Daemon?” the king repeated, his voice softer now, yet carrying something… else.

Tyland nodded, keeping his posture relaxed, controlled. “Yes, Your Grace. It has not gone unnoticed that your brother remains… estranged from court. There are whispers, of course, about his whereabouts, his dealings in the city. A prince of the blood should not be left to languish in the streets, nor should he be left absent from the affairs of this realm indefinitely.”

Otto shifted in his seat, his fingers curling slightly against the table. “Prince Daemon has been absent because he has made himself so,” he countered, his tone clipped, carefully controlled. “And need I remind you, my lord, that it was the king’s decision to see him removed from the Small Council? A decision made with reason.”

Tyland did not meet Otto’s gaze. Instead, he kept his eyes on Viserys.

“Perhaps,” he conceded smoothly. “And yet, Prince Daemon remains the brother of the king. His voice has value, as does his presence. One must consider the optics of such an exile—what message does it send that the king’s own brother is unwelcome at his table?”

Otto’s lips pressed into a thin line, the flicker of irritation unmistakable in his eyes. “Daemon Targaryen is no victim,” he said, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. “His actions have warranted consequence. His impulsiveness, his reckless nature, his disregard for—”

“It is not a question of his past conduct,” Tyland interrupted smoothly. “It is a question of what is best for the stability of the crown. The realm watches, my lords. The lords and bannermen of Westeros take notice when a prince of the blood is cast aside. We must ask ourselves—does it benefit the king to keep his own brother at arm’s length? Or does it weaken the perception of unity within House Targaryen?”

A ripple of discomfort moved through the room, subtle but undeniable.

Viserys said nothing, but Tyland saw the way his fingers twitched slightly against the table, the way his expression shifted, conflicted. There was something there—something old, something deep. Despite everything, despite the years of strain and separation, Daemon was still his brother. And Tyland, for the first time, had put voice to a thought that Viserys himself had likely wrestled with in the quiet hours of the night.

Lord Strong cleared his throat. “The argument is not without merit,” he admitted, his deep voice even. “Though Prince Daemon’s past actions have not always been in alignment with the crown’s best interests, his continued absence leaves a… void of sorts. There are those who still hold him in high regard, despite his indiscretions. His presence at court, should it be tempered appropriately, could serve a purpose.”

Otto’s glare was sharp enough to slice through steel. “A purpose?” he scoffed. “And what purpose, Lord Strong, do you believe Daemon Targaryen would serve? He has made a mockery of this council before. He will do so again.”

Tyland did not allow the conversation to stray too far. He leaned forward slightly, his voice cool, measured. “The decision, of course, rests with His Grace.” He turned his gaze back toward Viserys, allowing a pause to settle between them, to let the weight of the moment sink in. “But I would be remiss if I did not at least pose the question—whether it is wise to leave matters as they are, or whether it is time to reconsider.”

Viserys inhaled slowly, his gaze distant, lost in thought. For the first time in years, someone had spoken on Daemon’s behalf in this room. Not out of obligation, not out of familial duty, but as a matter of discussion, of strategy, of optics.

Tyland had planted the seed. Now, he only had to wait to see how it would grow.

The air here was thick with the scent of parchment, aged wood, and the lingering tension of the meeting just adjourned. Tyland Lannister stepped into the cool hall, his expression composed, his stride steady, betraying none of the satisfaction that curled within him like a well-fed lion. He had done what he intended—he had placed the thought of Daemon Targaryen’s return into the king’s mind, and for the first time in years, Viserys had listened. Truly listened.

But Tyland had not taken five steps before he heard the measured approach of another behind him. He did not need to turn to know who it was. Otto Hightower had always moved with the weight of authority, each step precise, calculated, carrying the expectation that men would stop and listen.

Tyland exhaled silently, bracing himself for what was to come before finally slowing his stride.

“My lord Hand,” he greeted, turning slightly, just enough to meet Otto’s gaze.

The Hand of the King did not return the pleasantries. His expression was as cutting as the edge of a blade, his eyes gleaming with cold scrutiny, his mouth set in a thin, disapproving line. He stood just close enough to impose, but not enough to seem openly hostile. That was Otto’s way—always calculated, always measured, even in his displeasure.

Tyland tilted his head slightly, feigning curiosity, as if he were nothing more than an obedient courtier who had merely spoken out of turn in the chamber. “Something troubles you, my lord?”

Otto’s lips pressed together further, a flicker of irritation flashing across his otherwise impassive face. “You move carelessly, Lord Tyland.” His voice was low, even, yet beneath it lay the unmistakable undercurrent of warning. “There are things best left undisturbed. The matter of Prince Daemon was one of them.”

Tyland allowed a small, polite smile to touch his lips, his green eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Ah,” he mused, as if only just realizing the source of Otto’s displeasure. “You disapprove of my words.”

“I disapprove of reckless interference,” Otto corrected sharply. “You spoke of unity, of perception, of optics. But tell me, my lord, what is the true purpose behind your sudden concern for Prince Daemon?”

Tyland chuckled softly, shaking his head as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Must there be some grand conspiracy?” he asked lightly. “I merely spoke what many have thought but dared not voice. His Grace is a man of great heart. He has been torn between his love for his brother and his duty as king for years. Is it so great an offense to suggest that perhaps there is a way forward?”

Otto’s eyes narrowed. “You forget yourself, Lannister. I know what you are.”

Tyland’s brow lifted ever so slightly, his amusement only deepening. “Do you?”

The Hand of the King exhaled sharply, stepping closer, lowering his voice so that none of the passing guards or servants could overhear. “You are an opportunist,” he said, his tone a blade wrapped in silk. “You speak with the voice of a man who does not act without purpose. So tell me, my lord, who whispers in your ear?”

Tyland remained unfazed, his smirk never faltering, though he felt the sharp tug of the secret lying just beneath the surface. Your voice echoed in his mind, the conviction in your words, the fire in your eyes as you had lain beneath him, whispering of debts and alliances in the hush of your chambers. You had asked him for a favor, and he had granted it, though he had not yet decided if he had done so for strategy or something else entirely.

But Otto could not know that.

“You wound me, Lord Hightower,” Tyland replied smoothly, spreading his hands. “I am but a humble servant of the crown, doing my part to ensure the prosperity of the realm.”

Otto scoffed, unimpressed by the performance. “Daemon Targaryen is a scourge,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. “A rabid dog, prone to disobedience, prone to chaos. You would invite that back into court? You would see him return to his brother’s side, where his poison may take root once more?”

Tyland’s smile did not waver, but his eyes sharpened. “Or perhaps,” he countered, “you fear that with Daemon returned, your influence over His Grace may begin to wane.”

Otto stilled.

It was the smallest of reactions—a slight tightening around the mouth, the briefest flicker of something unreadable in his gaze—but Tyland saw it. And he knew.

The silence between them stretched, tense and weighted.

Finally, Otto let out a slow breath, schooling his features once more into cold neutrality. “Be mindful of where you place your loyalties, my lord,” he said, his tone now utterly devoid of warmth. “The winds of favor shift swiftly in court. A misstep can cost a great deal.”

Tyland merely inclined his head, as if receiving wise counsel rather than a veiled threat. “I shall take your words to heart, Lord Hightower.”

Otto studied him for a long moment, as if deciding whether to say more. Then, with a final, lingering look, he turned on his heel and strode down the hall, his crimson cloak billowing behind him.

Tyland watched him go, his own expression unreadable, his mind already working through the next steps.

The game was moving now. The pieces shifting.

And he, for better or worse, had just placed himself in the center of it.

The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet at this hour, the usual hum of courtiers and servants reduced to nothing but the distant crackling of torches. Tyland moved with practiced ease, his steps measured, his cloak pulled close around him as he ensured he was not followed. He was a careful man—he had to be, especially now. The weight of Otto Hightower’s warning still lingered in his mind, but the Hand’s disapproval did little to sway him. Tyland had played this game long enough to know when to retreat and when to press forward. And tonight, he was pressing forward.

By the time he reached your chambers, his pulse had settled into its usual, steady rhythm. He rapped his knuckles against the heavy door, once, twice, before stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

You were already waiting for him.

Draped in a robe of deep black, lined with Valyrian silk, your silver-gold hair spilled over your shoulders, cascading like liquid moonlight against the dark fabric. The firelight flickered in your violet eyes, casting them in molten hues, as if they burned from within. There was no surprise in your gaze, no curiosity—only expectation, as if you had known all along that he would come to you.

Tyland let the door shut behind him, fastening the latch. “You knew I was coming,” he murmured, stepping further into the chamber.

You smiled, slow and knowing, tilting your head as you regarded him. “Of course.” You turned slightly, as though inspecting the fire, but he knew better—you were watching him, measuring him. “You did as I asked.”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his fingers together as he moved closer, his boots soundless against the stone floor. “I did,” he admitted, his voice low. “And Otto Hightower is alarmed.”

Your lips twitched, though whether in amusement or something else, he could not tell. “I heard.”

That gave him pause. He studied you, his green eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “How?”

Your smirk deepened, but you did not answer.

Tyland huffed, shaking his head. “I should not be surprised,” he muttered. “But I must tell you—Hightower will not let this go unanswered. He has ruled the council with his whispers for too long to allow any dissent, especially when it concerns Daemon.”

At that, you turned to fully face him, your gaze sharpening. “And yet, for the first time in years, my uncle is thinking with his own head,” you countered, voice edged with satisfaction. “That is all that matters.”

Tyland could not argue with that.

Viserys had listened. Not Otto, not the council, but Viserys himself. He had leaned forward at the mere mention of his brother, had let the words sink into his thoughts rather than dismissing them outright. That was more than could be said for past discussions of Daemon’s worth.

And yet, that was not the reason Tyland had come tonight.

You studied him carefully now, taking a slow step forward, and though you were smaller than him, there was something about your presence, something about the way you carried yourself, that made it seem as though you were the one looking down at him.

“You did not come here simply to tell me what I already know,” you murmured, your tone soft, almost amused.

He smirked, tilting his head as he let the truth settle between you. “No,” he admitted, his voice dropping lower.

He took a step toward you.

And then another.

Until the space between you was nothing more than a breath.

His fingers found the edge of your robe, his touch deliberate, teasing. “I came to remind you,” he murmured, his lips curving slightly, “that our arrangement is still in effect.”

The fire crackled behind you, sending a soft glow over your skin, casting deep shadows against the lines of his face.

A slow, knowing smirk curled upon your lips as you tilted your head ever so slightly, amusement flickering in your violet gaze like the embers in the hearth. The golden lion before you had come to claim what was his, to remind you of the agreement sealed not in ink and parchment but in the fevered touch of flesh and whispered oaths exchanged beneath the cover of night. Yet, you did not yield so easily. You wanted to see him unravel first—to watch the carefully constructed walls of Tyland Lannister’s composure fracture before you.

You reached for the belt at your waist, your movements deliberate, unhurried, the silk of your robe parting ever so slightly, teasing him with glimpses of bare skin beneath. “I have not forgotten, my lion,” you purred, letting the words linger in the air as you slowly, lazily, undid the knot. The fabric slipped from your shoulders, gliding down your arms before pooling at your feet in a dark river of silk.

Tyland’s breath hitched—brief, but noticeable.

His gaze roamed over you, drinking in the sight before him, his restraint hanging by the thinnest of threads. He had been with women before—courtesans, highborn ladies, women drawn to his wealth, his name, his status—but this was different. You were no common prize to be won in the courts of King’s Landing. You were a Targaryen princess, dragon’s blood running hot in your veins, and you had chosen him.

A quiet curse left his lips as he reached for his own tunic, his fingers working quickly, efficiently, to rid himself of the barriers between you. His doublet was the first to go, tossed carelessly to the floor, followed by his undershirt, revealing the toned lines of his chest and stomach. You could see the rise and fall of his breath, see the way he fought to maintain control, even as his need for you grew.

“You take your time, my lord,” you mused, tilting your chin, feigning nonchalance even as your own body hummed in anticipation.

Tyland let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head as he stepped closer, grasping your waist with firm hands. “You,” he murmured, his voice huskier now, laced with something dangerous, something possessive, “are dangerous.”

And then his lips were on yours.

It was not the careful, measured kiss of a calculating man—it was hungry, fevered, claiming. His hands gripped your waist as he pulled you flush against him, your bare skin meeting the warmth of his. The taste of him was intoxicating, the remnants of wine and something richer lingering on his tongue as he deepened the kiss, swallowing the quiet sounds that escaped your lips.

You could feel the restraint in him still, the battle between control and unbridled desire, but it was slipping. The lion in him was losing to the man.

He nudged you back, his steps guiding yours, his grip never loosening as he maneuvered you toward the bed. You let him lead, let him think he was in control—until you stopped just before reaching the edge, smirking against his lips.

“You seem eager this time, Lord Tyland,” you teased, voice lilting, your fingers ghosting over his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

Tyland let out a breathless laugh, though there was no amusement in his green eyes—only heat, only longing. “And you,” he countered, nudging your legs against the bed frame, “enjoy testing my patience.”

You hummed in mock consideration, running your hands up his chest, your nails raking ever so lightly, just enough to make him shudder. “Perhaps,” you murmured, letting your lips graze his jaw, trailing down the column of his throat. “And yet, you keep returning to me.”

Tyland exhaled sharply, grasping your chin and tilting your face back toward his. “And I always will,” he admitted, his voice raw, unguarded.

For the briefest of moments, something unspoken passed between you—something beyond lust, beyond arrangement, beyond the careful games played in court.

And then the moment was gone, swallowed by the fervor that consumed you both.

Tyland kissed you again, harder this time, as he pushed you back onto the bed, his body following, his weight settling atop you. His hands roamed, mapping the planes of your body, learning every curve, every dip, as though committing you to memory.

It struck him then, as his lips traced the curve of your throat, that not every man was welcomed into a Targaryen princess’s bed. You could have had any man you desired—princes, lords, warriors, men of higher standing, men with dragons of their own. And yet, you had chosen him.

And that realization sent a new, burning wave of possession through him.

His fingers trailed lower, eliciting a quiet gasp from you as he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with something between reverence and hunger:

“Mine.”

The chamber of the Small Council was steeped in its usual air of dull deliberation, the steady drone of voices layered with the scratching of quills on parchment, the shifting of papers, and the occasional murmur of agreement or dissent. Candles flickered in their iron sconces, the thick scent of melting wax clinging to the air. It was meant to be just another meeting, another day spent discussing trade routes, the state of the royal treasury, and the ever-looming concerns of the Stepstones.

Tyland Lannister sat in his usual place, his gaze keen as he listened with the careful patience he had cultivated over years in court. He had been waiting. Watching. The tension in the room had been subtly building for days, ever since he had first introduced the notion of Daemon’s return. Viserys had not outright declared his decision in front of them, had not made his intentions known beyond a few passing words. But Tyland had recognized the shift in the king’s demeanor, the way his brother’s name lingered on his lips longer than before, the way his fingers twitched as though he were resisting the urge to summon him immediately.

Otto Hightower, of course, had not missed this either. The Hand had doubled his efforts, subtly reinforcing his position against Daemon’s return, guiding conversations back to the prince’s past indiscretions, ensuring that the court remained skeptical of his worth. But it had not been enough. Not this time.

A low murmur rippled through the room as the doors to the chamber creaked open mid-session. It was not the usual entrance of a servant, nor the slow, heavy step of the king himself. No, this was something else—something deliberate.

Tyland did not react immediately, but he saw it before he even turned his head—the stiffening of Otto’s posture, the way the Lord Hand’s fingers curled ever so slightly against the table, his mouth drawing into the thinnest of lines. It was a rare thing, to see Otto Hightower so visibly unsettled.

Tyland finally allowed himself to glance toward the entrance just as the figure stepped through the threshold.

Prince Daemon Targaryen entered the chamber like he owned it.

He did not rush, did not bow his head in false deference. No, he strolled in with the slow, confident swagger of a man who knew the very air shifted in his presence. His leathers were of deep black, the collar lined with Valyrian embroidery, his silver-gold hair swept back, framing the sharp angles of his face. He was unarmored, yet he carried himself as though he were marching onto a battlefield, his smirk carved into his lips, eyes gleaming with open amusement.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Daemon took in the room, dragging the silence out as long as he pleased, watching the way every member of the council reacted. The cautious flicker of Lyonel Strong’s eyes, the nervous twitch of Lord Beesbury’s quill, the poorly concealed distaste on Otto’s face. And then, finally, his gaze landed on Tyland.

And there was the amusement.

Daemon’s smirk deepened, and though he said nothing, the look he gave was unmistakable—Well played, lion.

Tyland did not smile in return, but he inclined his head ever so slightly, a silent acknowledgment of the game they were playing.

Otto Hightower finally found his voice, though it was taut, clipped. “Prince Daemon,” he said, his tone carefully controlled, though his displeasure was plain for all to see. “This meeting is already in progress.”

Daemon’s smirk did not falter as he strolled toward the table, placing a gloved hand upon the back of an empty chair—his chair. The one that had sat unoccupied for far too long.

“I was invited, Lord Hand,” he said, drawing out the words as though they were laced with honey and venom in equal measure. He tilted his head toward Viserys, whose expression was unreadable, though his fingers still drummed thoughtfully against the table’s surface. “By order of the king.”

A muscle in Otto’s jaw twitched.

Tyland leaned back slightly, watching as the tension in the room grew thick enough to choke on. Otto had ruled this council for years, his influence woven into every decision, every whisper that passed through the halls of the Red Keep. And now, before his very eyes, that hold was beginning to loosen.

Daemon did not wait for a response. With an air of exaggerated ease, he pulled back the chair and sank into it, stretching his legs out beneath the table as if he had never left at all. He exhaled dramatically, rolling his shoulders, before flashing Otto a slow, wolfish grin.

“Do not let me interrupt,” he said, voice dripping with false innocence. “Please. Continue.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Viserys finally leaned forward, his eyes flicking between Otto and Daemon, before settling on the latter. And then, in a voice far steadier than the council had heard from him in some time, he said, “We were just speaking of the Crown’s alliances. Perhaps you would have insight, brother.”

Daemon’s smirk did not waver, but something flickered in his gaze.

Tyland said nothing, but inwardly, he noted the shift—the subtle but undeniable truth that Otto Hightower was no longer the only voice the king was listening to.

The game had changed.

And Tyland Lannister, the ever-cautious lion, had just placed his first winning move.

The air in the chamber still crackled with the tension left in Daemon’s wake, though the council had managed to stumble through the remainder of its discussions. Otto Hightower had barely spoken after Daemon’s arrival, his mouth a thin, grim line, his fingers occasionally twitching as if yearning to wrap themselves around something solid—perhaps a quill, perhaps a dagger. Tyland had watched it all unfold with quiet amusement, the subtle unraveling of Otto’s control, the way Viserys had sat a little straighter, a little firmer, as if his brother’s presence reminded him of the strength he had forgotten he possessed.

Now, as the lords filed out, Tyland found himself lingering just beyond the doors, speaking in low tones with Jasper Wylde. Jasper, ever the pragmatist, was more concerned with the shifting dynamics at play than the personal rivalries between the men in the room.

“The king is listening to him,” Jasper murmured, stroking his graying beard, his eyes flickering toward the door. “Hightower will not take that lightly.”

Tyland smirked, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “No, he will not. But Viserys is the king, not Otto.”

Jasper let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You are playing a careful game, my lord.” His gaze turned knowing. “One that I suspect did not begin at your own behest.”

Tyland merely lifted a brow but did not answer.

Before Jasper could press further, a shadow fell over them.

Tyland knew who it was before even turning his head.

Daemon Targaryen moved like a man who commanded the space around him, his very presence a force that demanded acknowledgment. He did not need to clear his throat or announce himself; he simply was, and the weight of that was enough to make Jasper pause mid-sentence.

The older man, ever tactful, gave a small nod. “Prince Daemon,” he greeted smoothly. “If you will excuse me, my lords.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving only the two of them.

Tyland sighed, rubbing his temple, before leveling his gaze at the rogue prince. “You are quite skilled at clearing a room,” he remarked dryly.

Daemon smirked, unbothered, his dark violet eyes gleaming with amusement. “A talent I have cultivated, I assure you.”

Tyland expected him to make some cutting remark about Otto or the council, to boast about his return, but instead, Daemon merely crossed his arms over his chest and regarded him for a long moment, head tilting slightly in mock consideration.

“I suppose,” Daemon mused, “that you are the one I should thank for my seat at the table.”

Tyland smirked, clasping his hands behind his back. “If you are expecting gratitude, my prince, you will find that I do not require it.”

Daemon chuckled, shaking his head. “No, I expect nothing. But I must admit, I did not take you for a man inclined to such risks.” He exhaled through his nose, eyes glinting with something almost appreciative. “You must have known Otto would not take it kindly.”

Tyland inclined his head. “Otto Hightower does not frighten me.”

Daemon laughed at that, sharp and delighted. “I should hope not. I would be insulted if my return had been orchestrated by a coward.” He leaned slightly closer, his smirk deepening. “And yet… I find myself curious, Lord Tyland.”

Tyland lifted a brow. “Oh?”

Daemon’s gaze darkened with knowing amusement. “How, exactly, did she convince you?”

Tyland froze for the briefest of moments.

It was a subtle thing—so brief that most would not have noticed it. But Daemon was not most. He saw the way Tyland’s posture shifted ever so slightly, the way his fingers curled at his sides before he masked it with careful indifference.

“I’m afraid I do not follow,” Tyland said smoothly, though he already knew it was futile.

Daemon grinned like a cat that had cornered its prey.

“Oh, come now, my lord,” he drawled, his tone light, teasing, yet edged with something sharper beneath the surface. “You expect me to believe you did this out of the goodness of your heart? That you simply woke one morning and thought, You know, Daemon Targaryen really ought to have a seat at the council again?” He tsked, shaking his head. “No, no, no. You are not a good man, Tyland Lannister. You are a smart one.”

Tyland inhaled slowly through his nose, schooling his features. “If you have something to say, Prince Daemon, I suggest you say it.”

Daemon’s grin widened, and he took a step closer, just enough to lower his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “My daughter,” he murmured.

Tyland’s throat went dry, but he did not let it show.

Daemon tilted his head, studying him like a beast might study its prey, his gaze flickering over him, as if peeling back every carefully constructed layer with nothing but sheer perception.

“How did she convince you?” Daemon mused, his voice laced with mock curiosity. “Did she bat those violet eyes at you? Stroke your ego? Whisper sweet promises in the dark?”

Tyland remained silent.

Daemon smirked. “Or was it something more… tangible?”

Tyland clenched his jaw. “Your daughter is a woman of great conviction.”

“Oh, that she is,” Daemon agreed, grinning, unbothered, entertained. “And she knows how to get what she wants. Just like her father.”

Tyland exhaled sharply, leveling him with a steady gaze. “If you are asking whether your daughter is capable of persuasion, then I would say you already know the answer.”

Daemon chuckled lowly, shaking his head. “Oh, I do.” He stepped back slightly, tilting his head once more in amusement. “And I rather think she’s chosen well.”

Tyland narrowed his eyes, but Daemon only smirked further before turning on his heel, walking away without another word.

Tyland watched him go, his mind racing.

Daemon had not threatened him, nor had he expressed any particular displeasure. If anything, he seemed amused—as if he had known all along what had transpired between his daughter and Tyland, and had merely been waiting for confirmation.

And now, Tyland supposed, he had it.

[fawnning]

plug in baby

title inspo plug in baby by muse (i worship this song, has nothing to do with the fic i just love it.. 🤤)

18+ MDNI / fem!reader x bf!leon, voyeurism(?), oral (f receiving), p in v, praising, mild breeding kink, petnames (baby, good girl)

a/n: oh my god.. i have no idea what got to me, not proofread cuz i woke up at 3 in the morn to write this (crazy fuckin' coincidence, i know)

oh yeah another note: this was from months back (nearly a year) so do what you must with this info and hold low expectations i guess !

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒─────⭒─⭑──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

It's 3 am, you know you shouldn't be awake now, let alone bother your boyfriend— for your needs; but fuck, you could feel yourself soaking in arousal. You knew you were too bothered and tired to take care of it, you'd just rest your thighs tightly together, creating some form of friction to ease yourself. Leon wasn't a heavy sleeper, he'd jolt up over the sound of a pin drop and such. You watched him closely, on one hand you were getting off to his bare body in his peaceful slumber, on the other you were keeping an eye out, a part of you hoped he would wake up.

Before you knew it, you slid your own hand under the band of your shorts, another caressing your breast, letting out faint mewls as you fucked yourself. Ultimately you thought nothing was better than this, your moans brought Leon out of his peaceful sleep, his eyes fluttered open before his gaze met yours, then your needy body. "Fuck, can't just leave me out of this," His voice was groggy as he spoke. Leon waited for your approval, he pulled you closer upon watching you nod a couple of times, affirming your consent. Both hands tugged on the sides of your shorts before sliding them right off. "So fucking wet, huh?" He slurred. Your body was splayed over the sheets, your hands gripped either sides of your pillow while his fingers curled inside you, leaving you with almost no time to reply. His fingers fucked your insides ruthlessly as your body was forced to lie still, "L-Leon, 'm gonna cum," you whined. "Fuck, can't get you doing that yet, sweetheart— not after you woke me up like that." He teased as he pulled his fingers back, "Open up for me, baby." You complied immediately, letting his two fingers that were laced with your slick to be cleaned up by your mouth.

He brought his hand back to your thighs as he rested his face right near your soaking pussy, spreading your legs even wider as he pressed kisses across your cunt. "'M gonna fuck'er nice, baby," He slurred before flicking his tongue across your insides, nosed on your clit as he watched you squirm, one hand gripped your wrist while the other rested on your thigh. You were once again in that very high, so close to your orgasm, and it was more than apparent. "Not yet, sweetheart." He tested once again before continuously pressing pecks on your clit before they turned sloppy, getting much more than a taste each and every time he savoured your pussy. "Leon, please, y'can't keep—" You pleaded, he still refused to give you what you wanted.

His face turned back after a strip of saliva lead from your pussy all the way to your breasts, his tongue flicked on your sensitive bud as the other had been fiddled and squeezed by his hand. He continued sucking on your tits before pulling back, making a pop noise as he did. He'd been breaking you with his endless teasing, fully aware you wanted more, which he'd eventually give you. You watched, breathless as he slapped his cock, throbbing, pre dripped from the tip before sliding it right through your entrance, your slick had coated more than enough, your arousal flared as he began thrusting through your velvet walls. "S'fucking tight, g'nna breed this tight pussy," He slurred while hovering over to your neck, placing sloppy kisses over and over throughout one part of your neck while he fucked you raw.

"Leon, can't.." You whimpered, "Of course you can," He darted back at you, spanking your ass red once or twice after raising your legs to rest over his shoulders all while mercilessly rutting against you. "P-please, 'm gonna cum.." You were at your final plea, adding a slight strain to your voice to show him your desperation to cum. "Yeah? 'M g'nna cum too, baby. C'mon, take it." He picked his pace up, groaning as he felt your nails scratch his back while he arched over you. "Fuck, take it." Both of your bodies shot up at once, feeling your high together as he relentlessly thrusted into you, strings of cum filled your insides as your orgasm came washing over.

"Knew you could, s'cha good girl for me," He pressed a chaste kiss over your forehead before pulling out, cum dripped from your cunt, his finger stopped the trail before fingering it back into you. "Don't waste a single drop of it, you asked for this." His honeyed voice now rough and assertive. Your body dropped back as you came down from your high.

[dustyrkives]

The Destroyer, The Creator

PAIRINGS: Carla Radames x fem reader

WARNINGS: RE6 Carla, scientist/nurse r, Edonia setting, made a few tweaks in this one, so pls bear with me, power dynamic, possessive Carla, protective Carla, est. paramours, teasing, forbidden relationship, p in v sex, missionary, rough sex, raw sex, unprotected sex, cervix kissing, implied creampies, implied marathon sex, brief choking, tummy bulging, cock-warming and that's about it folks!

SYNOPSIS: You were a scientist, not a soldier–yet under Carla's watchful gaze, you felt more like an experiment than a colleague. She was possessive, relentless, and dangerously fixated on you. And when the night turned into a celebration of her latest success, you realized one thing: Carla doesn't share what's hers.

MEN, MINORS DNI

The cold was biting through your bones.

Your coat did very little to provide warmth as you traverse to the facility, carrying Carla's charts.

Yes, her charts–she is your creation with Simmons. Simmons, that old bastard. With his obsession with a certain mercenary, he used Carla as a test subject for genetic reconstruction, reshaping her into an identical clone of Ada against her will.

The experiment turns out to be a success—physically, she looks like Ada, but mentally, she is still herself.

What a recipe for an identity crisis and a deep hate for Simmons.

And you can see it.

The resentment, the hatred that pools in deep blue eyes as she examines the data handed to her by your fellow scientists.

"Where were you?" She demands, her voice smooth like velvet and just as juxtaposing as she does not take her eyes off the charts.

"Just touring around the facility." You mused, not surprised by the brusque tone seeping into her tone. "Why didn't you bring the guards with you?" Carla asks again as she types away her findings.

Your brows pinch together. "They're doing their rounds, Carla–the facility is full of them."

Finally, she tears her eyes away from the screen, her eyes inquisitive and alert. "I texted you, but you didn't respond when asked about your whereabouts."

Your cheeks flush, and your face burns. "I left my device."

Carla raises a sharp brow, her eyes narrowing. "You left your device?" She repeats, unimpressed.

"Carla–" You exasperated, "I'm within the facility. There's no need for that–"

Your words die in your throat as the former strides towards you. Her expression is controlled and practiced, her strides calm and collected, but her eyes tell a different story. Those light, icy blue eyes swirl with an emotion akin to possession and control; there's just something about how Carla looks at you that makes you feel small and perhaps valued.

“Did I not tell you,” she murmurs, her knuckles tracing your cheek, “to bring security with you wherever you go, doll?”

Swallowing slowly, you nod. "But–"

"I won't be hearing any excuses." The virologist sternly cuts you off, her slender, well-maintained hand grasps your jaw, tilting it upwards to meet her narrowed eyes.

"You alone hold knowledge of our research, our findings… and you, darling, are an important asset to me." She leans close to your ear. "That also includes you in a non-professional setting."

You shudder as Carla tilts your face to the side, exposing your neck. A moment passes—just long enough for anticipation to coil in your stomach—before she presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your skin.

"Do you understand?" She purrs lowly, her icy blue eyes gleaming with authority and slight fondness.

"Y-yes," You gulp.

Carla's chest rumbles with a chuckle before her eyes travel down to the charts you're holding. "Are those mine?"

"Yes," You clear your throat and lay them on the table for her to see. "So far, your brain activity is normal, and cognitive processes and neural waves are fully functional. You're still you."

"Good," She nods as you put the charts away. With two fingers, she curls them towards you, beckoning you to come to her. You obey as she leads you out of the conference room.

"Where are we going?"

The latter doesn't reply. Both the pads of your heels echo in the cold, empty hallways, save for a few scientists who nod their heads in respect to the lead Biotech and Virologist. As you venture deeper into the facility–she's leading you to another lab exclusive only for scientists who have high clearance.

Upon entering, you are greeted by the sight of a scientist working on a new virus.

"They're refining the C-virus," Carla states as you both look at the scientists from the observatory. "Enhancing the mutations before we test them on live samples."

You gulp harshly, knowing she meant to test them on the people of Edonia. "The beginning of a new end." She adds, appraising her new creation.

"I take it," You recover as you stand next to her, "This calls for a celebration." A small smile graces your lips, Carla nods her head in agreement before craning her neck to look at you. "Indeed it does," She pauses before a wolfish smirk breaks past her lips as she leans close to you. "And I have a perfect celebration in mind."

Your cheeks became warm as Carla's smirk morphs into a grin. "You look exquisite when you blush, doll." You clear your throat and look down as if your shoes had suddenly become interesting. The former can only grin at your flustered state before another high-clearance guard intrudes you two.

Carla's expression programs into a cold scowl as she turns to the guard. "What is it?" Her tone was steely, unfeeling–compared to the tone that she uses on you whenever you two are alone.

"Simmons is on the line for you."

Your eyes shift to the taller woman, a pregnant pause before she finally speaks. "Lead the way."

Of course, knowing that you're assigned under Ada's chain of command, you follow after her. The walk to the conference room is silent, the dark and cold atmosphere does nothing to lighten the rather tense atmosphere with the topic of Simmons' need for communication and evaluation.

By the time the three of you reach the room, Simmons' holographic face is already on. The door shuts behind you.

"Ah, my Ada." You flinch upon seeing Carla visibly stiffen. "How's the C-virus on your end?"

"Improving." She answers stiffly. "I assume that you didn't just call to check on my little project, yes?"

A grating chuckle echoes in the room. "You know me so well. Word has it that an agent will be extracting a valuable asset to our research–have you got to him yet?"

Jake Muller?

"My men have already tracked the boy," Carla reports. "It won't be long until he is dragged here in chains–if I have to."

The older man nods before his eyes shift to you, and your breath hitches as his eyes sharpen. Carla notices this and covers your body with hers. "Is there anything else?"

"None," Simmons blinks, amused. "Keep up the good work, Ada–I'll be in touch."

And the call ends.

Oxygen leaves your body as Carla turns to you, her expression is unreadable as she comes to you, her lithe arm snaking around your waist as her lips press feather-like kisses on your face.

She tilts her head, letting the shadows frame her sharp features, her voice a low purr. “You trust me, don’t you, doll?” The way she says it isn’t a question—it’s a promise, a claim. Her lips ghost over your pulse, and your breath hitches as she lingers, her exhale cold against your skin.

“Be in my room,” she murmurs, tone thick with something unreadable. “I won’t ask twice.”

"I just have a few things to do before we... celebrate." A smirk graces Carla's lips while your body becomes warm with anticipation. She gently pats your rear. "Now run along, doll. I'll see you later."

Without another word, you obey the former and exit the room. Your heart hammers against your ribcage–anticipation and heat coursing in your veins as the darkness of the hallways consumes you.

The wine bottle was left on Carla's desk. One glass tipped, spilling the contents of red wine on the floor, while the other was left untouched. The cacophony of moans, groans, and creaking beds filled Carla's private quarters.

Oh, five looong rounds–you don't know if the bed can still handle it.

Your eyes roll back as the short-haired virologist snakes her arms around your waist, lifting them to meet her needy thrusts; the veins of her cock rubbing deliciously against your malleable walls, the girth splits your warm channel to accommodate her size. Carla feels warm, deliciously warm inside you.

Your legs instinctively wrap around her slim waist–her toned abdomen flexes with each forceful thrust while your hands sling around her shoulders.

"Mine," She kisses your neck, and her pace morphs from needy to sensual. Her knees spread wider, letting you feel every inch of her—buried deep inside you.

"Y-yours," You mewl, your heels digging against her back, pushing her in while you shamelessly meet her hips. Carla can only bite her lower lip in bliss, eyes fluttering close as your warmth welcomes her.

"That's my girl," The woman above you groans, hips rutting into you, forcing you up to the sheets. Her nails dig deep against your skin as she pushes your hips down.

"No, baby–" A soft moan flees from her swollen lips as your walls clench around her. "Yo-you're not running away from me."

Did she just stutter?

Carla's cheeks turn red upon registering it, and she grabs one leg wrapped around her waist, deftly placing it atop her shoulder as her pace becomes shallow, the tip greeting your cervix with quick taps.

"B-baby–nghh," You mewl as she targets your cervix. The perked hill of her fattened cockhead splits with white, viscous precum, buttering your channel and a generous foretelling that there will be more.

The older woman bucks her hips shamelessly into you with a low moan at the back of her throat while she breaks you.

You pull her flush against you, a thin sheen of sweat blankets your bodies as you hold her gaze. You feel Carla's length pump greedy ounces of her essence and swell, growing in girth, expanding your greedy walls further apart.

Oh, how she cherishes you.

Her tongue runs flat against your throat before biting the center while she fucks you into the bed, burying your scent into the sheets. The air is humid with sex and subtle but expensive perfume, creamy mixtures of seed, and slick coat the base of Carla's base as they hit your perked clit with a wet pap!

Your eyes widen.

"Di-did you just–"

"Hush, darling." Her hand curls around your throat while her other hand releases hold on your waist and lands a sharp slap on the curve of your ass.

Both of your bodies were hot–oh Carla needed more.

Let out the steam, the stress, and the hatred Simmons' obsession had forcibly fed her.

With both hands, Carla grips the headboard, her sculpted hips lurching off of the mattress in repeated animalistic ruts.

White-hot pleasure consumes your body, your jaw slacks, your eyes roll back, and your orgasm knocks the air out of your lungs. A vile grin plays on your paramour's lips as she fucks into your orgasm, creating an obscenely beautiful mess.

"C-Carla–" You sob.

Pap, pap, pap, pap!

You forcefully open your eyes–Gods be good.

She looks sinful.

Her short, damp hair slicked back, the muscles on her neck contract, and her abs, sweat drips from the toned muscle–oh, you'll ride them later. That is if your legs are still functional.

Carla rubs her hips as her balls tighten and ropes of sterile cum fill your thirsty womb, greedily taking all of her as she ruts her hips into you–mercilessly.

"You're so warm," She drunkenly confesses as she slowly but surely plants her hands back on the sheets, her lithe arms swelling with strength as she lets you ride through your orgasm. She buries her face into your neck, her hot breaths against your skin.

"I want you again, doll." She emphasizes it with another forceful thrust.

On cue, your walls clamp around her again–a broken whine leaves your lips as she circles her hips before resuming her punishing pace.

And for a split second, you saw her eyes dart to your belly–her icy blue eyes darkening as her other hand presses against–

You throw your head back against the pillow while a wanton moan rips from her lips.

You're bulging with her cock.

"Feel me there, darling?" She pants as she moves her hips like a well-oiled machine, "Feel me deep in you, hm?"

You can only reply with a pathetic whine as she relentlessly fucks her throbbing cock in you. Your shared fluids ooze out and drip down to her sheets, making a wet mess. A cruel grin breaks past her lips as she chases another quick oncoming orgasm–and by the consistent vacuum of your walls–you're just as far gone as she is.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump!

Said the headboard against the wall as Carla mercilessly plows into you, chasing her release until her cockhead splits, releasing richer ropes of her semen as it locks inside you–penetrating your cervix.

A broken sob leaves your lips as she jogs her hips, her hands greedily pulling you closer as her cum transitions from blanks to potent, and heady with life.

Finally, she stills her hips as she pumps her warm, fertile cum inside you, painting your walls white as she looks at your lower belly–heavy with your mixed concoctions.

Her icy blue eyes look down at your puffy folds and smirks.

"We'll run some tests later on our new... findings." She purrs, "See if it's enough to leave you with a mini-me."

[d-z20]

Resistance is Futile (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary: Agatha and Rio have claimed you as their pet but you're not going down without a fight and are defiant to their advances. The two witches are undeterred and keep trying, knowing they'll break you eventually

- OR -

They've finally grown tired of your reluctance, they fuck you with their magic strap-ons until you can't think (or walk)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Top Agatha, Top Rio, Pet Reader, dub-conish, reader refered to with she/her pronouns, magic straps, magically enhanced orgasms, voyeurism, breeding, marking, degradation, praise, magical restraints, Agatha and Rio are dark in this universe, kind of stockholm syndrome, overstimulation, possession/ownership, throat fucking, cum as lube, maybe more who knows

Words: 4.4k

A/N: So in my head the magic straps in this are like similar vibes to Celestial Agatha in What If so you know: gay and powerful. It's easy to see how Rio got Agatha pregnant. Fic req

AO3 | Masterlist

You were not going to make this easy for them. That much was clear. The long, shadowed corridors of Agatha’s lair feel like a prison, but you don’t care. No, your defiance is all you have left—the only thing that gives you any semblance of control in a world where you are nothing more than their possession, their thing, their pet.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself to survive.

Agatha’s eyes follow you as you pace, her gaze calculating and predatory. Rio sits at the table, arms crossed, her sharp smile never wavering. Their attention feels like a weight pressing against your skin, heavy and suffocating, like predators waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“You think you can defy us forever?” Agatha asks, her voice low and honeyed, sliding under your skin like a blade. “You think you can stay strong in this cage of your own making?”

You stop in your tracks, meeting her gaze with fiery resolve. “I’m not your pet,” you spit, defiance simmering in your voice.

Agatha chuckles, rich and dark, the sound curling through the air like smoke. “I’ve seen stronger wills break under pressure. Yours will too. Just wait.”

Her words are a subtle threat that lingers in the air, but you refuse to let her see the sting. “We’ll see,” you mutter, arms crossing over your chest as if to shield yourself from the weight of her gaze.

Rio’s grin widens as she leans forward, her sharp eyes studying you like a puzzle she’s dying to solve. “You know,” she muses, her voice smooth as silk, “you make this so much more fun than it needs to be. But I think you’re wrong about one thing. You are ours.”

—

Days bleed into weeks, and every moment feels like a war. They test you constantly. Punishments come as sharp reminders of your place—subtle and precise—but they’re always followed by praise that’s just as cutting. Agatha’s actions are cruel and calculated, leaving you trembling with exhaustion but too stubborn to yield. Rio’s methods are softer, more insidious, sinking under your skin like an itch you can’t scratch.

“I’ve seen stronger witches than you fall apart,” Agatha muses one evening, her fingers tracing the sigil that glows faintly on your wrist. The magic embedded in it burns, sparking through your veins like electricity, and you barely manage to suppress the flinch. “What makes you so special?”

You refuse to scream; you won’t give them the satisfaction.

“This supposed to break me?” You sneer, voice shaky but defiant. “Because it’s not working.”

Her lips curl, amusement dancing in her sharp eyes. “You think you’re strong? Maybe. But strength is nothing without control.”

Rio stands in the doorway, her dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. “She’s right,” she says, her voice velvet and steel. “Strength alone won’t save you when you’re as lost as you are. But you could find control... with us.”

You scoff, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “I don’t need either of you.”

But the look they exchange, the promise and challenge flickering between them, makes your chest tighten.

—

A week later, they come to you together. Agatha’s magic is constant, clinging to you like smoke, pervasive, and invasive. Rio’s touch is gentle yet commanding; her movements slow and deliberate, as though she’s teaching your body how to respond to her. You hate how easily it works.

It begins with something small. Agatha’s fingers brush over the curve of your neck, just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “So defiant,” she purrs, her voice a dark promise. “But I see cracks in your armour.”

Your breath catches, and you hate yourself for it. The pressure of their presence is overwhelming, making your head swim. Rio steps closer, her hand lightly brushing against yours, her grin dangerous and knowing. “Maybe we’re getting somewhere after all.”

—

The next night, they return. Agatha’s magic binds your movements, a reminder of the power she wields over you. Rio removes the physical restraints, her hands steady and deliberate, as though she’s peeling away the layers of your resistance. You fight, struggling against the invisible force that holds you still, but it doesn’t stop them.

And for the first time, you start to wonder if you even want them to.

It’s late when the breaking point comes. You stand in front of them, all your defences stripped bare, the cracks in your resolve widening by the second. Agatha’s gaze is unwavering, sharp enough to pierce through every wall you’ve built.

“You can’t keep hiding from us,” she snarls, her voice low and commanding, threading through you like a spell. “You’re ours. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can turn pain into pleasure.”

Your head shakes, but there’s a tremor in your voice you can’t mask. “I’m not yours.”

“You are.” Her words are a whisper, a command, and they press down on you like a weight you can’t escape. Your knees weaken, and you gasp, overwhelmed by the sheer power of her presence.

Rio steps closer, her hand curling around your arm in a grip that’s both firm and comforting. Her touch sends a shiver racing through you as she tilts her head, her voice a soft murmur. “Stop fighting it. Stop pretending this isn’t what you need.”

Their proximity is suffocating. Your body trembles with desire, with the ache of something deep inside you finally breaking free. The walls you’ve spent weeks fortifying come crumbling down in a single moment.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of surrender.

Agatha’s lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. She steps forward, her hand settling at the back of your neck, her fingers cool against your skin as she pulls you toward her. Her kiss is slow and deliberate, a claim that leaves you breathless. The taste of her is intoxicating, and it leaves you reeling.

Rio’s laughter is soft and low as she moves behind you, her hands settling on your hips. “There she is,” she muses, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. Her teeth graze the sensitive skin, sending a jolt through your body that makes you curse under your breath.

“Fuck you both,” you manage to hiss, but the heat in your voice betrays you.

Agatha pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Such a sharp tongue,” she says, almost to herself, as if considering how best to silence it. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

With a flick of her fingers, magic courses through you, curling around your wrists and pulling them above your head. The force isn’t rough, but it’s unyielding, holding you firmly as glowing tendrils bind you in place. Your pulse pounds as Agatha steps back, her eyes raking over you like she’s admiring a masterpiece.

Rio’s hands slide to the hem of your shirt, and with a whispered word, the fabric disappears, leaving your skin bare and exposed. Her palms are cold as they trail over your stomach, her nails scraping lightly against your ribs.

“Is this supposed to impress me?” You snap, though your voice is breathless and uneven.

Rio laughs again, the sound rich and dark. “No, sweetheart,” she purrs. “This is supposed to ruin you.”

Agatha’s magic shifts again, a tangible wave of heat brushing against your skin, making you arch involuntarily as it settles low in your abdomen. Her fingers move through the air, weaving invisible patterns, and you feel it—a phantom touch tracing up your thighs, teasing, testing. Your breath hitches, and you tug against the restraints, hating the way your body reacts to the sensation.

“You’re trembling,” Agatha observes, her voice silk and steel. “Tell me, pet—are you afraid? Or just desperate?”

“Go to hell,” you snap, but the words sound weaker now, edged with something you don’t want to acknowledge.

Rio’s hands move lower, her touch firm as her fingers hook into your waistband. Another muttered spell, and your clothing vanishes completely, leaving you bare under their gaze. Her nails rake lightly against your inner thigh, drawing a shudder from you that you can’t suppress.

“Look at her,” Rio murmurs to Agatha, her voice heavy with satisfaction. “So defiant, but her body knows better.”

Agatha steps closer, her hand ghosting over your chest, her magic lacing every movement with electricity. When her fingers brush your skin, it’s as if she’s leaving a trail of heat in her wake, her touch deliberate and possessive. “Let’s see how long you can keep up this act,” she says, her voice low and commanding.

You’re trembling now, every nerve alight as their magic weaves through your senses, blurring the line between pain and pleasure, control and surrender. Every touch feels amplified, every breath stolen, until all you can do is cling to the last threads of resistance—and even those are slipping through your fingers.

Agatha’s magic pulses, a living thing coiling around your body, dragging sensations across your skin that feel like whispers and lightning all at once. Her lips are back on yours, devouring, commanding, and pulling you deeper into her orbit. The taste of her is heady, and it leaves you reeling, your legs trembling as if the floor beneath you has given way.

Behind you, Rio’s hands continue their slow, maddening exploration. Her fingers dig into your hips, grounding you just enough to keep you teetering on the edge. Her mouth is at your neck now, lips pressing hot kisses against your skin, teeth grazing the sensitive spot that makes you gasp.

"Such pretty sounds," Rio mumbles, her voice dripping with amusement as her hands slide down, teasing at the edges of where you want her most. "And you’re trying so hard to hold back. It’s adorable, really."

Your jaw tightens, but your body betrays you, hips twitching under her touch. “I hate you,” you breathe, though the words lack conviction, each syllable faltering as Agatha tilts your chin up to meet her sharp, knowing gaze.

“Hate?” Agatha repeats, her tone mocking as her thumb traces along your jaw. "No, pet, what you hate is how much you want this. How much you need it."

Her words settle over you like a weight, and the truth burns. You jerk against the glowing binds holding your wrists above your head, but the magic only tightens, pulling you taut and vulnerable between them. The heat of Agatha’s magic licks over your skin, and your breath hitches as the phantom touch returns—this time teasing higher, brushing against your inner thighs in a way that makes you bite back a whimper.

“Such a stubborn little thing,” Agatha muses, her fingers brushing over your chest, her nails scraping lightly. "But look at you now—shaking like a leaf, your body begging for more even while you try so hard to keep that sharp tongue of yours.”

Rio’s hands press against your thighs, urging them apart, her touch firm and deliberate. "Let’s see if we can help her find her manners,” she says with a smirk. “Think we should ruin her properly this time?”

Agatha hums in agreement, her magic shifting in intensity, winding tighter around you. The phantom sensation becomes sharper, more precise, brushing against your sensitive clit, drawing a cry from your lips that you can’t suppress. Agatha’s smile widens. “Oh, darling. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Let’s hear more.”

You stutter out a curse, but it dissolves into a gasp as Rio’s mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, her teeth leaving marks that send heat racing through your veins. Her hands, firm and demanding, leave no part of you untouched, tracing patterns down your sides, across your stomach, and lower still.

“Such a mess,” Rio murmurs, her voice heavy with satisfaction as her nails rake over your thighs, making you jerk. “You’re dripping, sweetheart. Just admit it—you like being our plaything.”

“Fuck—fuck you,” you stammer, though the heat in your voice betrays you, every word trembling with desperation.

Agatha laughs softly, the sound rich and dangerous, her magic surging in response. The phantom touch turns relentless, teasing, and tormenting, and you arch involuntarily, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Your knees buckle, but Rio’s hands are there, steadying you, holding you exactly where they want you.

“That’s it,” Agatha purrs, leaning in to press her lips against the corner of your mouth. “Let go, pet. Let us take you apart.”

Rio’s fingers find you again, slipping between your thighs with devastating precision, and your head falls back against her shoulder as your body betrays you completely. “There she is,” Rio murmurs, her voice a low growl in your ear. “Knew you couldn’t hold out forever.”

Your breath comes in ragged gasps, the world spinning as Agatha steps closer, her hands cupping your face to make you meet her gaze. “Look at me, Y/N,” she commands, her voice leaving no room for disobedience. “I want to see the moment you break.”

You can’t fight it anymore. The sensations are too much—the heat of their touch, the pull of Agatha’s magic, the way Rio’s fingers work you with merciless expertise. Your body trembles violently, and you cry out, shattering under their combined efforts.

But they don’t stop.

Agatha’s magic shifts again, coaxing another wave of pleasure from you before you’ve even recovered from the first. Rio’s hands are unrelenting, her touch alternating between rough and gentle, keeping you on edge, leaving you helpless against the onslaught.

“Pathetic,” Rio says, her tone gleeful as she watches your body twitch and tremble. “Completely undone. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You try to respond, but all that escapes is a broken moan, your voice cracking as your knees finally give out. Only the magical binds and Rio’s grip keep you upright as Agatha’s lips brush against your ear. “You’re ours, Y/N,” she whispers, the words sinking into your very core.

With a flick of her fingers, Agatha adjusts the magic holding you in place. The binds shift, no longer just keeping you upright but suspending you in midair, as if resting on an invisible bed. The sensation is strange but oddly comforting, the magic cradling your weight effortlessly. Your arms remain bound above you, leaving you completely exposed.

Rio moves to stand by your head, her fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your damp forehead as she smirks down at you. Meanwhile, Agatha positions herself at your feet, her glowing eyes raking over you as though admiring her handiwork.

Agatha’s smirk grows as she steps closer, her fingers glowing faintly with her signature purple magic. “We’ll start slow,” her voice a soft caress, though the wicked glint in her eyes promises anything but gentleness. Her hand slides between your legs, her touch precise and knowing, and you can’t stop the sharp inhale as her fingers begin to work you open.

“Relax, pet,” she whispers, her voice low and commanding, as her other hand moves to your thigh, holding you steady even as the magic does most of the work.

At the same time, Rio hooks her fingers under your chin, tilting your face up to meet her gaze. “Open,” she orders, her tone leaving no room for disobedience. You hesitate for the briefest moment, but the commanding heat in her eyes makes resistance futile. Slowly, you part your lips.

“Good girl,” Rio purrs, her magic flaring as A glowing, dark strap materializes at her hips. Without hesitation, she guides herself into your mouth, her grip firm as she sets a punishing pace. The sensation is overwhelming, the stretch and weight of her filling you completely as Agatha’s fingers curl inside you, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your body.

“You’re taking us so well,” Agatha coos, her tone mocking yet almost affectionate. Her thumb brushes over your sensitive bundle of nerves, her movements deliberate as she stretches you open. “See, Rio? She’s learning her place.”

Rio hums in agreement, her hips rocking forward, forcing you to take her deeper. “She’s a quick learner,” she mutters, her tone dripping with amusement. “But I think she can do better.” Her hand tangles in your hair, holding you steady as she thrusts into your throat, her breath hitching with each movement. The magic allows her to feel everything, and her low moans of pleasure send heat pooling low in your stomach.

Tears prick your eyes, and your throat protests, but you push through, the weight of their control pressing down on you until you’re trembling under their combined attention. Agatha’s fingers curl, hitting a spot inside you that makes you cry out around Rio, your body jerking in response. Rio groans, the sound rough and needy as her hips stutter, the magic amplifying every sensation as she pushes herself closer to the edge.

Her breath hitches, and a deep, guttural moan escapes her throat as she pulls back abruptly. “Fuck,” she rasps, her voice breaking with raw need as her strap pulses in your mouth, just shy of her release. She withdraws with a deliberate slowness, her eyes dark with satisfaction as she grips the base of her strap.

Rio circles you with slow, measured steps, her predatory gaze dragging over your trembling form as she moves to stand by Agatha. “Switching places for a moment, darling,” she smirks as she traces her fingers along your calf. Agatha just chuckles, her magic flaring as her own glowing strap begins to materialise at her hips, its sleek, enchanted form matching the dangerous glint in her eyes.

With a shuddering exhale, Rio begins to jerk herself off, her movements slow at first but growing more desperate as her climax quickly builds again. The room fills with the sound of her ragged breaths and low, throaty groans, the raw need in her voice making your own pulse race. As her release finally hits, a long, drawn-out groan tears from her throat. Her body trembling with the intensity of her orgasm as she cums all over your pussy. “A little something to make things easier for you, darling.” Rio says after a moment, her voice husky as she steps back, her satisfaction evident in the smug grin curling her lips.

“How thoughtful of you,” Agatha chuckles, her hand aligning the tip of her strap against your entrance, which was now dripping with a mix of your arousal and Rio’s cum. “Let’s see how well our little pet takes it.”

The stretch is slow and deliberate as Agatha pushes into you, the slickness making it easier, though no less overwhelming. She fills you completely, her hips moving in slow, devastating thrusts that leave you gasping and trembling. “That’s it,” she whispers, her hands gripping your thighs as her rhythm builds. “Take it all. Good pet.”

Rio’s eyes glint with hunger as she watches, arms crossed and shoulders relaxed as though she isn’t buzzing with anticipation. Her lips curl into a sly smile as Agatha sets the pace, each thrust precise and devastating. "Look at her,” Rio remarks, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Already such a mess. She’s perfect like this. Just for us."

Agatha’s answering laugh is low and sultry, her grip on your thighs tightening as she drives into you with more force. Each movement sends jolts of pleasure tearing through your body, amplified by the hum of her magic. She leans down, her breath warm against your neck, and you feel the sharp graze of her teeth. A shiver runs through you as she bites down, hard enough to leave her mark.

“She needs more,” Agatha purrs, her voice laced with wicked amusement. “Doesn’t she, Rio?”

Rio hums in agreement, stepping behind you. Her hands glide over your trembling form, possessive and firm as she tilts your head back, exposing your throat. "Let’s make sure she doesn’t forget who she belongs to," she hums, her lips brushing your ear before sinking her teeth into the sensitive skin just above your collarbone. The sharp sting pulls a broken moan from your lips, and you feel the curve of her smile against your skin.

“Tell us who owns you,” Agatha demands, her voice sharp and commanding as she drives into you with unrelenting force. Her magic courses through you, burning in all the right ways, overwhelming your senses until you’re teetering on the edge of another orgasm.

“Y-you,” you stammer, the word barely a whisper as your body trembles under her onslaught.

“And?” Her pace quickens, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.

“Rio,” you gasp, tears streaking your cheeks as your release builds, unbearable and all-consuming.

Agatha hums in satisfaction, her movements growing rougher as her own breath hitches. The magic connects her to every sensation—the friction and heat dragging a deep, guttural moan from her throat. “Good girl,” she groans, her voice strained with pleasure. With a particularly deep thrust, she sends you tumbling over the edge. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve cum tonight, as a fresh climax hits with an intensity that leaves you sobbing, the pleasure tearing through you until you’re left trembling, every muscle quivering with aftershocks.

But Agatha doesn’t stop. She presses deeper, drawing out every last spark of sensation, her own shuddering release building as she feels you clenching around her. An almost feral growl escapes her as her hips snap forward in one final thrust, her movements stilling as you feel her twitching inside you, magic amplifying the waves of her release. Her grip tightens on your thighs, her nails digging into your skin as her body shudders against yours.

When she finally pulls back, her breath comes in ragged gasps, her chest heaving as she stands tall, a smug, satisfied smirk curling her lips. “Mine,” she murmurs, her voice heavy with possession, as her fingers trail over the fresh marks she’s left on your skin, her touch lingering like a brand. A slick, warm sensation follows as her release drips out of you, a vivid reminder of the claim she’s just staked.

Rio steps forward then, her hands sliding up and down your trembling thighs, her touch deliberate as if savouring every inch of you. She hums softly, her lips quirking in amusement as she watches Agatha’s cum trickle down. “Messy,” she remarks with a low chuckle, her tone almost mocking.

Leaning in, Rio gathers it on her fingers and pushes it back inside you, her grin widening as you gasp at the intrusion. “Can’t let that go to waste,” she purrs, her tone thick with satisfaction.

Only then does she line herself up fully, her hands gripping your hips tightly as she thrusts into you with brutal precision. The pace is relentless from the start, her hips slamming against yours in a rhythm that leaves no room for reprieve.

“Fuck, you take my cock so well,” Rio growls, her head tipping back as she buries herself in deeper. Her pace is relentless, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure crashing through you. Her nails dig into your hips, and she drags you back against her, forcing you to take her deeper still, making you cry out in pleasure. “I thought you were defiant,” she mocks, her voice dripping with dark amusement. “And yet, now you’re practically begging for it.”

All you can manage is a broken moan, your body arching into her as the pleasure blurs the edges of your thoughts. Every thrust leaves you gasping, every scrape of her nails and bite of her teeth reducing you further. Rio leans down, her teeth grazing your shoulder before biting hard enough to make you cry out. "That’s right," she murmurs, her voice low and rough. “You’re ours to ruin.”

Her movements become erratic, her breaths ragged as she slams her hips into you, every twitch of your already overstimulated cunt pushing her closer to the edge. “Fuck,” Rio hisses, her voice breaking as her hips snap forward, her own release tearing through her with a force that leaves her trembling. She holds you tight, her head dropped back in pure ecstasy, a rough groan escaping her throat as the magic amplifies every pulse and throb of your body around her.

Rio doesn’t pull out immediately, instead grinding her hips against you, dragging out the sensations until both of your bodies finally stop twitching. Her chest rises and falls heavily, and she leans forward, pressing a possessive kiss to the curve of your shoulder before straightening and calling over her wife. “Come here, my love.”

She adjusts her position, kneeling between your legs, her hands firm on your thighs as she spreads them wider to give Agatha a clear view. “Look at this,” she says, her tone dripping with amusement as she watches their combined release trickling from your thoroughly used body. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Agatha’s sharp eyes gleam with approval as she steps closer, her lips curving into a satisfied smirk. “Absolutely perfect,” she purrs, crossing her arms as she leans in slightly, watching intently as Rio moves between your legs.

Rio’s tongue flicks out, her movements slow and deliberate as she begins to ‘clean you up,’ her warm, wet strokes collecting every drop of their cum. The sensation is unbearable, the overstimulation pushing your body past its limits as each pass of her tongue sends sharp jolts of pleasure and pain coursing through you.

“P-please,” you stutter, your voice cracking, but your plea only earns a low chuckle from Rio as her hands tighten on your thighs, holding you in place.

“Shhh, pet,” Rio whispers against your skin, her breath warm as she continues her slow, torturous movements. “We’re not done until we say we’re done.”

Your body jerks under her attention, the overstimulation finally cresting into another peak that crashes through you with devastating force. Your release hits like a thunderclap, leaving you sobbing and trembling as Rio licks you clean, her tongue never missing a single drop.

By the time Rio is finished having her fun, you’re a trembling, stuttering mess, every shred of resistance melted away. They’ve undone you completely, your body and mind utterly spent. As Agatha waves a hand, the magical restraints dissolve, and you slump forward, only for Rio to catch your limp form.

“Good girl,” Agatha affirms, her voice soft yet laced with smug satisfaction as she strokes your hair.

Rio hums her agreement, her arms tightening around you as she presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re ours now,” she whispers, her voice filled with possessive pride.

And in the haze of pleasure and surrender, you don’t argue.

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I told myself I'd get the next chapter of Neighbourly Care out before New Years but then this fic possessed me. Oh well, if I managed to get my degrees by writing everything the night before I can certainly do the same for my fics 😤😤

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Taglist: @danveration @aceday @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @sunshine-makes-flowers-grow @gbab09 @vigilante24ish @marvelwomenarehot0

[malinainbloom]

A poem and a comics that me and my friend, beautiful lioness Arita made this summer! Arita - Scetch Me - Coloring ───── ◉ ─────

Beneath the cypress canopy, A lion sleeps, bewitched by dreams. He sees strange lands, bright, heavenly, Where golden sunlight gleams.

There walks a leader, strong and proud, Five lionesses by his side. Through groves resound a haunting sound— A flute’s soft wail, a drum’s deep tide. ───── ◉ ─────

Upon a field of blossoms bright, The satyrs dance in merry sways, They praise the gods with pure delight, Their voices lost in Bacchus’ praise.

To drink, to dance, to lose the night, To revel till the morning gleams— Who could resist such wild delight, Such joy that shatters dreams? ───── ◉ ─────

Yet lurking, sharp as hunter’s spear, One satyr keeps a watchful eye, On Enyo, fair, untouched and near— She waits, her moment drawing nigh.

A mighty roar cuts through the mirth, The revel halts in sudden fear. One bound, one leap, a feat of worth— And Cryt stands tall, his challenge clear.

With ivy wreathed around her brow, A teasing smile, both fierce and sweet, Upon her lips she holds it now— A danger wild, a vice, a treat. ───── ◉ ─────

“Are you the beast who hunts the fair? Who steals the young with cunning art? In me, there burns a wrathful flare— Let pankration test our hearts.”

A satyr laughs, yet bows with grace, Her hand laid lightly on her chest. She whispers soft, her voice encased In velvet tones, a sly request:

“To spill one’s blood on festal ground Would mar the joy of life's embrace. Let songs and stories weigh us down, Let words decide who wins this race.

Let Euterpe choose the first, Calliope then judge the next, And last, let Dionysus burst To name the one who rules this test.” ───── ◉ ─────

The lion nods, his silver mane A halo in the olive's shade. "Let gods and muses call the game, And fate decree the prize we've laid."

The satyrs hush; they form a ring, A circle tight, a silent shroud. They pass their arms, their voices sing, Their weapons gleam, their cheers grow loud. ───── ◉ ─────

The lion drums, his mighty roar Beats through the ground, a pulsing tide. His rhythm calls, it shakes the core, It flares his passion, fierce and wide.

But Daphne plucks the lyre’s strings, A silver thread of voice takes flight. Her melody enchants all things, It bends the soul, it sways the night.

It sings of dreams, of tender bliss, Of sorrow, love, and aching loss. The lion’s pulse begins to miss— His rhythm bends beneath her gloss.

“No match am I for music’s muse, No nightingale in dreams divine.” He yields, his olive crown he loosed, The first defeat now marked in time.

───── ◉ ─────

She strikes again, her fingers glide, Her voice entwines with war’s refrain— Of battles fought, of kingdoms wide, Of fates entwined in love and pain.

The lion roars of lands once grand, Of heroes lost, of legends old. His dance proclaims the warriors’ stand, A tale of lions brave and bold.

His eyes ignite, his steps grow fierce, His feet like embers burn the ground. With blades in hand, with souls he pierce, Their echoes lost in warlike sound.

“No match am I for epic’s might, For fire that burns in battle’s strain.” He yields again, though shining bright, An olive crown his loss proclaims. ───── ◉ ─────

But revels rise—the satyrs cheer, With casks of wine and laughter bold. They press their hands, they pull them near, Their challenge drowned in crimson gold.

───── ◉ ─────

They drink, they feast, they drown in bliss, No victor found, no war was won. No leader named—no end to this, For all have drunk till night was done.

───── ◉ ─────

Yet one more test remains untried, One final match to crown the best. The lion grins, his voice a tide, As whispers warm his enemy's chest:

“One test remains, one final game— To see who rules, who holds the fire. Who wields the art, who tames the flame, Who bends the soul to love’s desire.”

The trees bear witness, old yet young, As passion carves the earth anew. Beneath the dawn’s soft golden tongue, Lie lovers lost in morning dew.

───── ◉ ─────