#and i may - gasp! - draw more after this ��

[mitamicah]

Ten days since my last sketch I am back with some Bonace for you 💙🧡

[moonlight-prose]

a request, if i may, of praising old man logan as he filfthly eats you out and it makes him combust the more you praise him? okay running away again

speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life

a/n: look at him taking off his glasses in absolute shock of this ask- no okay does old man logan have a praise kink? i would raise it higher and say every version of logan has a massive praise kink. this is a man who wants to know he's doing good in life. his love language is acts of service so he might get to hear a pretty thank you. also i'm not sorry for how feral this got. i have no explanation.

summary: he knew he loved you when your words begin to piece his heart back together. he knew he loved you when he flourishes at your praise. he knew he loved you when nothing in this world could matter but the sound of your voice telling him you love him too.

word count: 3k+

pairing: old man!logan x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, oral (f receiving), praise kink, logan is obsessed, dirty talk via reader, he is so pretty when he blushes, manhandling, cumplay, cumeating, overstimulation, crying, he's needy in this one, angst, tortured soul of an old man, reverence, religious trauma + greek mythology hints.

He can feel the strings of fate pull tight around his broken heart. In a failed attempt to draw him back together. To piece together an organ that barely beat for him anymore. He might have felt it once, before it broke. Before it gnarled itself like the branches of a dying tree, one half twisting away from the other in a desperate attempt of survival.

He deemed it a useless part of his body until you came along. You with your smile that held enough cloying sweetness to choke him as he stood helpless. Silently begging for you to say his name. To bring him back to life.

Whatever horrors that plagued his mind—endless nightmares that promised nothing but anguish—suddenly came crashing to a halt at the sight of you. So pretty in your denim jeans and velvet top. An angel seated in the center of a bar that held more filth than you deserved to be near. Logan couldn’t fathom that luck struck him this hard.

Not when death had already claimed his soul; notched yet another tally in the endless wall of people that came before.

He felt the dirt pack under his nails as he clawed his way out of the grave he put himself in. Years spent alone—a man lost to the ravages of time—had turned him bitter. With rough edges and biting words that stung far more than he intended. How could he believe he deserved to live after he contributed so much to the endless pool of blood that tainted his soul? How was he allowed such softness after biting off bits of brutality his whole life?

Logan was pretty sure he survived on borrowed time that had already run out. He could feel death breathe down his neck as the days went on. A reminder that what little of his life remained would be spent suffering. And he found that accepting it was easier than battling against the will of God, or whoever toyed with his lifeline.

It was far easier to die than find a reason to live.

Until you said his name.

Softly. Sweetly. Reverence wrapped in a tight grasp of need.

You brought him back from the edge—took his hand and refused to take no for an answer. You and the safety of your touch; the promise in your kiss. You dragged him into a life he didn’t earn; one that almost tasted too sweet—too sour.

After near a decade of being buried beneath the dirt, he felt himself collapse above ground and suck in his first real gasp of fresh air. Alive, once more. Hell spit him out with a vow of love and who was he to argue against it.

His fingers dug into your plush thighs, tugging them open to see what lay between. He marveled at their softness, eyes wide and awestruck at the sight of you spread beneath him. You practically glowed in the dim light of the bedside table. Yellow, musty, yet angelic when it caressed your body with its heavenly touch.

He wondered if this was real life; your nails digging sharply into his shoulders gave him the answer.

"Logan," you sighed, voice high with need.

The strings pulled taught. A vice like hold that drew him to you.

Maybe that's what this unutterable feeling was. The gnawing pit at the bottom of his heart. A greed he'd never indulged before—too afraid of what it might ask for next. He wasn't a man who asked for much. Rather someone that found himself far too content with nothing. But tonight he found his lips forming the words of a false prayer that his mother taught him as a child.

Hail the angel in his bed. Hail every good fucking thing you brought into his life.

His teeth sunk into your thigh, body jolting at your responding moan. Fingers dug into his hair, tugging at the mussed locks with a high pitched whine. You were a needy little thing, but Logan found he desperately wanted to be needed.

He smiled laving his tongue over the tender spot, working his way up to where you dripped for him.

So slick. So perfect.

Saliva filled his mouth. "What do ya want baby?"

Your chest heaved; he could feel the heat of your body under his palms. "Your m-mouth Logan."

His eyes trailed along your brow covered in a sheen of sweat. The room was thick with the humid air of the outside world. But that didn't deter him from craving your skin near his. The pressure of your thighs around his head a welcome weight. If he sunk his teeth in where the curve of your leg met your hip he knew he could draw out that soft choking noise he longed to hear on days spent driving alone.

If he had his way he'd crawl into you to seek your serenity straight from the source. He'd never divulge about the ache that chewed him up on the inside, but Logan wondered if you knew. Could you tell how much he craved you? How much he couldn't live without you.

When your glittering eyes met his, the resolve he spent years building cracked like glass. You peered into him as if he was a stained glass window. A god you were more than happy to worship.

"You want me to lick this pretty pussy?" Fuck, he sounded drunk off your taste already.

His mouth hovered over your throbbing clit, your scent now filling his senses. Overwhelming him with what he wanted most. But he needed to hear it. The lilt of your begging; the soft echo of your need that washed over him like soothing river water.

He couldn't live without it.

"Yes," you sobbed, thigh twitching.

The string sliced his heart open, blood pooling onto the white bed sheets. Oh what a sweet death your love made. Oh...what a bittersweet way to go.

He'd die right now if you asked him to. Hand over his heart on a silver platter if you so wished it. Maybe that made him far too gone for his own good, but Logan couldn't remember a time in his life where he got this. Safety. The hope of love burning far too bright and far too hot for him to fly near it.

Yet there he was. Icarus happily soaring in your sun like glow.

"I got ya honey," he murmured. "Gonna take care of what's mine."

You nodded frantically—tears welling up in your eyes. "You take care of me Logan."

The breath in his chest stuttered, eyes dark as the words fell past your swollen lips. He wanted to explain why his cock twitched against his stomach. Why he now leaked into the sheet with heavy panted breaths. But every time he came up short with the words needed to form an answer.

"Yeah I do sweetheart," he breathed. "Don't I?"

"Uh-huh."

"Take care of what belongs to me."

There was no warning when his hands dragged you closer with a rough tug, mouth closing over your clit with a desperate suck. A cry wrenched from your mouth, sparks sharply traveling down your spine. He licked through your slick with a growl. Hands an unbreakable press against your thighs.

The sight of your body bowed, mouth open for small gasped breaths that never came, snapped something in his mind. He was an old man. Well past his years. But the taste of your pussy along his tongue brought back a ferocity he often tamped down in his younger age. He felt the feral want claw at his chest, and answered it with a broken snarl.

Swallowing down every drop you gave him, he plunged his tongue into your entrance, thrusting messily until a smear of your shiny slick began to coat his mouth. It covered his cheeks and clung to the hair of his beard. He'd clean it out later, taste you on his tongue until he was aching for another go. But for now he was preoccupied with the way you cried for him.

"Oh fuck!" Your thighs trembled over his shoulders, hips canting down to drag yourself along his tongue. "So good."

He shuddered, eyes rolling back at the sound of your praise. You caught it within seconds, lips pulling into a breathless smile that left him gasping for air. His teeth nipped at your thigh briefly as his hips ground into the mattress below.

"You like that baby?" you breathed, thumb smearing your own slick against his cheek.

Something hot washed over his body. A needy sick and twisted ache that he'd never indulged in before. He wanted to be a good man to you; longed to be needed. And fuck if you didn't give him everything.

You were his walking wet dream. His future handed off and wrapped in a neat little bow.

"L-Love your tongue Logan-" A high gasp tore from your throat when he dived back in. Slurping at your clit with a heady moan as you dragged him closer. "Taking care of me so well."

His hips canted down into the bed, fucking his cock along the warmth of his stomach, as you gushed into his mouth again. Eyes zeroed in on your face, pupils dilated as he growled into your flesh. You no longer could see the man you loved, but the feral side he tamped down during the day. The animal he longed to release in your presence.

"Fuck I'm gonna cum."

His arms looped around your thighs and with a sharp yank, he had his face buried deep enough to suffocate himself. You sobbed an incoherent version of his name. Nails clawed at his shoulders, but Logan could feel the pulse of your clit under his tongue.

He sucked it into his mouth with a grunt, rolling it along his tongue as you trembled with the oncoming shocks of an orgasm that threatened to destroy you.

Tears dripped down your cheeks and Logan felt the satisfying part of his heart begin to stitch itself back together. The strings were tight enough to numb his pain. To quell the flare of agony.

That used to be all he knew, all he counted on most days. When there was nothing left and he'd propped the shovel in the dirt—his grave open and waiting—he stumbled right into your arms. He found his reason for living.

Heat curled around his spine as you shook with the impending orgasm—the stimulation on your clit practically debilitating. He grunted into your soaked flesh, eyes narrowed as he chased the release that pulled his stomach taut. But this wasn't for him to indulge in; this wasn't his pleasure.

So with a throaty moan you felt reverberate along your body, he scraped his teeth along your clit and watched as your body went stiff.

"Logan!" you cried, fingers scrambling for purchase on any part of him you could reach.

You gushed into his awaiting mouth, praises of it's so good, you're so good falling upon his ears like the whimpered prayers of a devout worshiper thanking your god.

"Taste so fuckin' good," he mumbled, drunk on what you gave him.

He didn't care that you were jolting with each pass of his tongue along your pussy. He didn't care that you were shocked with overstimulation, small broken cries of his name muffled by the press of your thighs against his ears. He licked at you until he couldn't breathe. Buried his tongue into your twitching entrance and sucked out your cum with a happy hum.

"P-Please." You tugged at his hair, pulling him off you with a sob. "I-I can't anymore Logan."

"'M not fuckin' finished," he said, eyes glazed and face coated in your slick.

You made a mess of his face. The light catching along where you spilled into his mouth and along his throat. And still he wanted more. He'd spend hours between your thighs, burning your skin with his beard, if it meant he could divulge in your sweetness.

"It hurts-"

A grunt rumbled in his chest, his arms tugging you back even as your feet kicked along his back. "Just one more honey. Yeah?"

You shook your head. "B-But-"

"Thought you said it was good."

"It is."

"Then lemme be good for you." He wanted to tell you that the world went quiet between your thighs. That all his grief, all his pain, lessened when you sobbed his name.

He wanted to show you the string that looped his heart to yours—the only thing keeping him alive—and thank you for bringing him back from the dead. But words weren't his forte. Violence had become the only tenderness he knew and you didn't deserve the rough edges of an old man. You should have more.

But when you let him touch you like this—caress your skin and lick between your folds—he felt as if he was a man who finally was worthy of someone as precious as you. He could pretend he didn't bear the brunt of a fucked up soul.

The weight on his chest lifted when your tear filled gaze met his and you nodded. Small, barely there, but it was enough for him to seal his mouth back over you with a ragged moan. Your body shook as his tongue slid through the seam of your pussy. The tip nudging against your clit—careful to draw the pleasure from your body slowly.

He didn't want to give you pain. His heart wouldn't survive that. But he was a broken man; someone who begged for more even as his teeth sunk into what was already given.

You were his meal. His sacrament in the midnight hours until dawn broke across the darkened sky. You were the other half of his soul.

How could he not indulge in your sweetened tang until his tongue went stiff?

"I love you," you sighed, eyes rolled back when he sucked at your pussy, a wet low moan echoing in the air. "My p-perfect husband."

The cold press of his wedding band against your thigh drove him over the edge. You weren't officially married. Didn't have the backyard wedding with a preacher to match. But Logan had placed a ring on your finger near a year ago, sliding one over his own with the vow of forever cemented in his words.

Even if that didn't mean much in the eyes of a god who abandoned him near a century ago.

"Oh-"

Your head tipped back, mouth dropping open as his fingers dipped into your wet heat. Thrusting lazily until he found the spongey patch along your walls—driving the pad of his middle finger into it with a needy moan.

He knew it wouldn't take long for you to fly off the edge of a second release. That didn't make watching you climb to that peak any less satisfying. The sight appeased his soul. It gave him a chance to breathe; let him know that after so much bad—after so much pain—he could do something good. He could bring you to the edge of pleasure and drag you over again and again.

He could finally be the man you believed he was.

Not the animal they created.

"C'mon," he muttered. Eyes fixed on the shape of your breasts as your body curved off the bed. Hips dragging along his face with a stunted cry.

A wail bounced off the walls, piercing his eardrums with the symphony of your cries. His fingers rapidly pumped into you with a squelch that had heat burning his cheeks—lips pulling your throbbing clit into his mouth as you broke. The climax slammed into you; battering your already swollen pussy.

Logan could feel his cock swell at the sight.

"Fuckin' perfect," he grunted, teeth bared as he clambered to his knees and wrapped his fist soaked in your slick around his leaking cock. "'M gonna cum sweetheart."

Your eyes fluttered open, fingers digging into his thigh. "Please. Wanna see it baby. Look so pretty when you cum Logan."

His chest tightened, body shaking while you watched in rapture as he fucked his fist rapidly. He wouldn't fucking last, could feel the burning consume his body, but something held him back. The string around his heart yanked him away from the edge, tearing a cry from his throat when his frustration peaked.

You could see it—the glimmer of need in his dark eyes. This wasn't the first time he longed for your words. It certainly wouldn't be the last.

So you spread your legs and sat up slowly—arms wrapping around his shoulders to bring his lips down to yours. A soft moan was muffled by your mouth; the peak of his release within reach. He could practically feel the tips of his fingers graze it.

"Cover my pussy baby," you mumbled into his mouth. "Be good for me and mark what's yours."

The growl came from the very bottom of his chest when he finally came. Your name was a bitten out snarl pressed to your mouth in an open mouth kiss as he spurted over his knuckles. He pumped his cock to milk every drop; eyes fixed on the way it covered the swollen lips of your pussy. Dripping down to your entrance that fluttered at the sight of his sweaty and crimson tinged face.

"I fuckin' love ya honey," he murmured, hand cupping your chin to drag your lips back to his. "Best thing that's happened in my life is you."

You smiled, thumbs pressing to his cheeks. "Love you too Logan."

Clutching you close, he felt the string go loose. The breath finally rushing back into his lungs at the sight of your eyes glowing with the kind of light that brought him back to the first day The night he met you in that shitty bar—alcohol the only thing on his mind until he saw you.

The night you spoke his name over his covered grave and dragged him back to life with a smile.

[moonstruckme]

fae!Sirius asks for your name and you give it to him immediately because he's just so pretty wtf and he feels too bad to steal it from you because you're looking at him like he's a god and sure, it's not uncommon for his 'victims' to think he's beautiful but something about *you* just makes his little fae heart race-

I'm so normal about him I promise <3

Babe you have no idea how this has sat in my brain since you sent it all those months ago. I am not normal about him. Thank you! <3

fae!Sirius x whimsical!reader ♡ 804 words

Sometimes, when you leave your gifts in the forest, you’ll think you hear movement behind you. A soft crunch of the leafbed, or a rustling in the trees overhead. You’ll catch the rich scent of soil after a storm, though it hasn’t rained for days and the sky is blue and cloudless. Sirius will watch as your head lifts, noticing these things, but then you’ll simply carry on with what you’re doing, stand up, and go home. 

One day, you stand up to go home and find him waiting for you. 

“Hello, lovely,” he says, watching in amusement as your human face stills with awe. Your lips part. 

You know instantly what he is. No human carries themselves like the fae do, like Sirius could melt into the foliage at whim and you’d never find a trace of him. None of your kind have features quite so fine, or hair so dark it eats the sun. Or eyes like his, ever changing, shifting colors like a fish’s scales. No, you recognize him with one look. 

To your credit, you recover quickly. “Hello,” you say back. 

Sirius smiles with his too-white teeth. “What have you brought me this time?” 

You look behind you, to the tree hollow where you leave your gifts, as though you’ve already forgotten. “Oh. It’s a new cheese I found. Sea salt and honey.” 

Sirius cocks his head, intrigued. “I’ve not had that before.” 

“I thought you might not have.” Your initial surprise is wearing off, giving way to a sweet airiness. Your smile is soft as fresh snow. “I try to bring new things for you to try. I didn’t realize how small the portions would be, though; you’re bigger than I thought.” 

Sirius looks at you, making his eyes flash. He expects you to flinch, but you gasp softly, leaning in as if to see better. Strange. 

“You think that because I’m this size now, I must always be,” he says. 

“Aren’t you?” 

He tsks, teasing. “Best not to make presumptions.” 

Once again, curiosity rules your expression. Your eyes squint and your brows twitch towards each other, but before you can ask more questions Sirius goes on. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, a simple truth. He wonders if you know he can’t lie. “If you’d let me repay your generosity, I’d like to give you a gift in return.” 

Again, your lips part, but you hesitate. Such pretty lips, Sirius thinks. So expressive. 

“That’s alright,” you say after a moment. “I don’t need anything. They were for you.” 

Sirius hides a smile. Clever thing, not to accept gifts from the fae. 

“If that’s what you want.” He asks, in a voice like spidersilk, “But what should I call the beautiful girl who’s left me so many gifts?” 

You smile and give him your name without reservation. Perhaps not so clever after all. 

Sirius says it back to you, rolling it around in his mouth. It leaves a sweet aftertaste on his tongue. You nod in clueless confirmation. 

“Can I ask yours?” 

“No,” says Sirius, “you may not.” 

You don’t appear offended. Your eyes are placid and trusting. Maybe it’s that look that makes him hesitate. Sirius knows what he’s meant to do now, what he’s done to others before you, but he finds himself tempted to wait. To see what you do next. 

“Well,” you say after a long silence, “I hope you like the cheese. If you want more, I can bring you some next time, but I should probably be getting home now.” 

“So soon?” Sirius asks. Though the breeze is cooling, and the sun’s dying rays tangle in your hair. 

You smile, almost apologetic. “Yeah, but—oh. Here, I forgot.” You reach into your bag, drawing out a long feather. It’s onyx black and shines like oil in the fading sunlight. “I found this at a friend’s house a few days ago, I meant to leave it with the cheese.” You look at him, shameless in your appraisal. “It sort of looks like your hair.” 

Sirius smiles, feeling the stretch of his lips with an odd sort of amusement. “It does,” he agrees. He lets you place the feather in his hand and feels the warmth of your fingertips on his skin with something like awe. A human has never been so bold as to touch him before. 

“I’ll visit soon,” you say, granting him one last, serene smile as you turn to go. “I hope you come out and say hello.” 

He thinks that he might. As you walk away, feet padding softly on grass and the shadows of trees falling over you like loving touches, he considers stealing the name you gave him so freely. 

But you’re lovely, and Sirius is a hedonist. He wants a taste of those lips given of your own free will. 

[amdiriel]

lonely pt. 2

Azriel x fem!Archeron!reader

SUMMARY: After a vulnerable moment of comfort, Reader tries to navigate Azriel’s increasingly flirtatious behavior without assuming anything. Because she really shouldn’t. Right?

WARNINGS: FLUFF, slight suggestiveness, a bit of hurt but SO much comfort, not proofread we die like men

NOTE: thanks for so much love on part 1! I have some ideas for new Az fics, so lmk if you're interested in being on my Azriel taglist! xox diri

WORDS: ~4.2k

part 1 main masterlist

•••

It had been about a week and a half since my little breakdown in my room, my cycle coming and going just days after it. I attributed my moment of uncharacteristic hopelessness to hormones.

I hoped Azriel would too, since I had trouble fully looking him in the eye ever since out of embarrassment. After a night of deep rest post-letting-it-all-out, I woke the next morning to a spill of hindsight in my mind, grumbling at my ridiculousness into my pillow. Despite my cycle being a royal pain in my ass, it was a few days where I could hide safely in my room.

So the next few days, I was determined to be fine. I was great, living the dream, no worries here, wielding a grin and a dry joke as always.

The first day after my cycle ending, I wake up to blissful absence of pain in my abdomen, and treat myself to a long bath.

Afterwards, I take advantage of a brisk morning walk, the sunshine making the late winter weather less intolerably cold. I barely get two blocks from the River House before a shadow passes over my head.

I tilt my head back, squinting through the direct sunlight. Then the shadow descends at an alarmingly fast rate and touches down near-silently beside me. “Good morning,” Azriel murmurs.

I jump at his sudden appearance, the bubbling nervousness at his closeness making it more pronounced. “Shit—Azriel,” I gasp, calming myself with a breath. “What the hell?”

He chuckles lowly and nudges me slightly as he matches my resuming pace. “Sorry. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid,” he says, not sorry at all.

I huff and roll my eyes, even as my lips curl up as well. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You need to wear a bell.” His laugh curls around me.

“I’m not sure it would go with my leathers,” he pretends to muse. “A collar would really ruin the effect of my scariness. Not to mention the whole point of being Spymaster.”

I snort, shaking my head. He nudges me again, drawing my gaze back up to him. I find his eyes warmly on me.

“I’m glad to see you out and about,” he says. “I was worried about you.”

I let the sweet words warm me for a quick moment before I huff a small laugh. “It’s my cycle, not sickness. I’m good.”

He shrugs. “Still. I know it’s much worse for you and your sisters now that you’re all fae. You handling them alright?”

My expression softens. “You’re sweet. I’m fine. I didn’t have much pain as a human, so I think as far as fae cycles go, my pain now is relatively mild. I mostly just don’t want to do anything,” I reply with a shrug of my own.

Azriel eyes me for a moment. “Alright. But you’ll let me know if you need anything, right? I haven’t forgotten about our agreement, you know,” he says with a sly smirk.

It takes a second for it to dawn, but soon a blush blooms on my face as I remember that night. I huff a sigh, finding it within me to laugh a little at myself. “So, what, you want me to come to you any time I have a problem?” I ask dryly.

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” he answers plainly.

I give him a look. “Are you now our resident therapist too?” I deadpan. “Your resume’s long enough, Shadowsinger, you can take a pause every once in a while.”

He laughs again, shaking his head at me. “I may be busy, but never for you. Never for family,” he replies, and with such sincerity in his eyes that my steps falter for a moment.

Fuck. What happened to cool and collected, Archeron?

But I swallow and arch a brow. “Sweet. But you’re barely here enough to be able to do so for the many members of our ever-growing household,” I say, thinking about our nephew Nyx.

He shrugs a shoulder, his wings unfurling then furling in a subtle motion that catches my eye. I’d always found them fascinating. “Then how about this—I’ll never be too busy for you,” he says, a note saucily that my widened eyes turn upon his smirking face.

I grasp for words for a moment, and I see his eyes delight at my moment of hesitation. I shut my mouth and switch tactics, laughing. “Why Az, you are positively Rhys-like today.”

His brows raise, expression lighting in challenge. “Oh am I? Enlighten me, sweetheart.”

I bite hard on the inside of my cheek at that damned pet name again. This male just made it so bloody difficult to be dignified at all. I swear, every moment in his presence is a fight for my life. “You’re all—” I gesticulate over his person, “Swaggering. It’s unnerving. Please, for my sanity, resume your duties as our resident brooder. You’re putting me off.”

His head tilts back with a hearty laugh that startles me into astonishment. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” he drawls, suddenly feeling like he’s looming over me.

Stupid, tree-like male.

I don’t reply except for a disbelieving huff at his forward behavior. His smirk is self satisfied as he halts, taking a step back with a sketch of a bow.

“You’ll have to resume your walk without me, Ms. Archeron,” he says, and I wrinkle my nose at the use of my surname. His smiling eyes rove over it, dipping to my lips before locking with my own gaze again. “Think you can manage?”

I scoff and manage to flip him off as his enormous wings unfurl and beat his figure into the air. His rumbling chuckle disappears as his shape grows smaller in the sky.

—

The following days, he wasn’t as blatantly swaggering, as I had called him, but he was…

Forward. Disarmingly so.

I couldn’t seem to avoid his presence if I tried, if merely to kick some sense back into myself. First it was the library—when I had settled into the cozy window seat, my usual perch, an hour into my reading, he had strode in his silent yet confident way of his. I had stilled, as if hoping he’d simply not notice me. Fool. He notices everything. And he certainly had wasted no time sidling up to my perch and leaning over to observe what I was reading. His warmth and masculine scent was a pleasant yet oppressive blanket to my poor sensibilities. And I barely survived when he had hummed “Any good?” practically into my ear.

Or there was lunchtime—I’d wander into the kitchen to make something quick and simple for myself, and when I walked into the dining room he’d be sitting there already, looking up with a small, unassuming smile. When he bade simply, “Sit with me”, I had no choice but to obey and eat with him. In my suspicion, I confess that I switched the times I went to get lunch by random intervals, in which each and every time he either was already there or showed up soon after.

I couldn’t tell if it just happened that way, or if he was being overly clever in his intentional variation.

Now, three weeks post-meltdown incident, Azriel had been gone a few days on Cauldron-knows-what business, so I’d loosened up, no longer bracing myself like he could walk into the room at any second.

Which is apparently my folly, since as soon as I round the corner into the dining room one morning, I found him standing at the sideboard, back toward me, making a cup of tea.

I halted, nearly rearing back as my mouth started to form the word shit, but quickly clamping it down. But even the smallest of noise alerts someone as discerning as him.

He turns and calls my name with quiet warmth, and I banish the wince from my face. “Hey,” I say simply. “When did you get back?”

“Last night,” he says, abandoning his tea to draw near. My head tilts back as he stops in front of me. “How have you been?” he asks with a soft smile.

His quiet care is almost more flustering than his forwardness. “Well. Fine,” I answer. “And you? Your mission or whatever successful?”

He huffs amusedly. “My mission or whatever was just fine,” he replies. Then he returns to the sideboard. “Tea?”

“Oh, uh, sure. Just bla—”

“Just black. I know,” he says, throwing a smile over his shoulder at me. I blink in surprise, cheeks pink. He’s been paying close enough attention that he knows that?

Of course he has, dummy. He probably has dossiers on everyone in this city with information down to the way they take their tea, the pragmatic voice in my head deadpans. You’re no exception.

I blink again as he draws near with a second cup, passing it to me. I take it with a small thank you, sipping it gratefully.

Just when I start to squirm on my feet at the silence between us, he speaks. “About what we talked about that night a few weeks ago—” I still. “You’re alright in that regard? And don’t lie, I’ll be able to tell.”

I huff a sound between a sigh and laugh, looking down. “Well, I haven’t had a night as bad as that one since then, so that’s good right?” I say with wry self-deprecation. He doesn’t reply. “But really, I’m alright. Just winter blues, I suppose.”

“No, I don’t think it is.”

I roll my eyes in a small flash of annoyance. “Alright, not just winter blues. But they certainly don’t help. But I’m fine. Really. You did really help that night,” I admit softly.

I don’t really notice my teacup is empty until he gently takes it from my hand and sets it next to his already abandoned cup. “What helped most, sweetheart?” he asks gently.

My tongue felt stuck to the roof of my mouth—speaking my vulnerability aloud both impossible and foreign. Letting him in last time didn’t hurt. It helped, a small voice whispers in my head.

I take a breath. “Just—talking through it. Physical touch too, um…” I fight to stay steady. “It’s grounding.”

He hums, nodding. There’s a light touch to both my elbows, and my eyes shift down to find that he’d silently reached for me. I allow the touch, but don’t dare go further, suspended in the fear of the unknown.

“You don’t have to be afraid to ask for that,” he murmurs quietly. Suddenly I’m very aware of the air we’re sharing, how close he’s gotten to me. His hands slide slowly to my upper arms, my breath hitching as the warmth of his palms bleed through even my heavy sweater.

The panic sets in before I can think this interaction through, before I can rationalize that maybe, just maybe he wants to be close to me, wants to touch me. Instead my eyes find the clock and seize the subject change before me. “Don’t you have Valkyrie training in five minutes?”

Azriel stills and follows my gaze to the clock. His jaw works once before the fleeting tension is gone. “You’re right. I should go.” He squeezes my upper arms gently before letting his hands drop. “Stay warm today. Wind is supposed to get bad, and temperatures will drop rapidly once the sun sets.”

I nod, giving him a brief smile. “Of course, you too. Stay warm, I mean.”

He returns my smile before leaving the room.

A whoosh of air leaves my lungs as soon as I’m alone again. Idiot. Silly, foolish girl.

—

Azriel was at his wits end.

He’d been pulling far more stops than his usual personality allowed, hadn’t he? She was certainly clever enough to notice that he was acting much differently around her, right? Had he just not been forward enough?

And still, she did not allow him closer, as close as two people could be. He'd given her every sign he could think of without embarrassing himself.

Impossible girl. Can’t you understand that all I want is to comfort and coddle you?

He must not have taken care to erase any tension in his expression by the time he touched down in the ring atop the House of Wind, because Cassian’s brows raised upon seeing him.

Azriel just had to cast him a cool look for his brother to relent, though he caught the half-smirk on the General’s face as he turned toward the group of priestesses warming up and began training.

It was during sparring that Nesta finally deigns to sidle up beside him as he watches a match. “So. What the hell’s going on between you and my sister?”

He stills for just a moment before erasing the reaction. He debates lying to his friend, but she’ll call him on it. He doesn't think she’ll warn him off her sister either, so finally he admits evenly, “Much less than I would like.”

The eldest Archeron huffs a laugh. “I appreciate you sparing me a lie. Honestly, Az? My sister is just supremely oblivious, clever as she is. If nothing else has worked at this point, you just need to lay one on her.”

He chokes and turns his head toward her. “I would never. Not without her express permission—”

She snorts, shaking her head. “Gods, males can be so boring. At the very least you need to sit her down and make sure she doesn’t leave until she understands exactly what your intentions are. Then you can lay one on her, if she’s amenable to it.”

Azriel takes a deep breath, letting the words sink into his turbulent mind. “I don’t want to scare her,” he admits after a pause.

“You won’t,” she replies instantly. “She’s not afraid of you, she never could be. In truth, my sister is scared of very little. But based on the fact that she’s never had a romantic attachment before, what seems like indifference is likely just borne out of nervousness.”

“I don’t want to make her nervous either.”

“It’s not you that does. It’s just—being vulnerable. Emotionally intimate with someone,” Nesta says. “Years of fighting with her have taught me that she’ll hide anything behind biting wit or a laugh and joke. I think that’s what makes it all the more difficult to understand.”

He doesn’t reply.

“But speaking not as her sister, she definitely is attracted to you,” Nesta continues. “Speaking as her sister?” He looks at her cool features. “Don’t fuck it up.” Then she stalks away to Gwyn and Emerie.

Azriel forces down a growl. Tonight. He'd do it tonight or hell, he'd go crazy from this dance around the line. He'd spent too many centuries wanting this, wanting companionship for him to squander an opportunity with, at last, a female that he connected so deeply with. A female that seemed to need his touch as badly as he needed hers.

So...yes. He'd had quite enough of waiting.

—

True to Azriel's word, it did end up being very cold today.

I forgo any ideas of taking a walk, but I did end up camping out in the warmth of Feyre's study, taking turns with her to organize some of her paperwork or play with Nyx on the floor. My nephew (and his poor parents) had had some rough nights due to the last dregs of his teething pain, but it was good to see him smiling and playing despite it all. Rhysand stopped in frequently, unable to stay from his mate and son for extended periods of time, and after the fourth time Feyre shooed him out with their laughing, squirming son in his arms.

Our bi-weekly dinner fell that evening. Usually I enjoyed it.

Usually.

The dinner was fine. But I was so chilled that I took the opportunity of warmth from any hot dish passed around to me. I shiver for the upteenth time as Azriel passes me the potatoes.

"Cold?" he murmurs close beside me, and I shiver again. Not from the cold, damn him.

"Freezing," I retort instead, scooping potatoes on my plate. "Doesn't Rhys have this place warded to hell? Why is it so drafty?"

Azriel chuckles lowly. "How do you know that it isn't just you?" he teases.

I shoot him a look. "No, no, Mr. 'Stay Warm Today', I'm quite certain it isn't."

He laughs again, and it warms me only temporarily. I finish before everyone else, per usual. Not only do I tend to eat fast, but I'm also not caught up in constant conversation. Bored, my eyes travel the room, around my friends. My family. Even in my relaxed, two-glasses-of-wine haze, my mind doesn't fail to notice how paired up they all seem to have gotten.

Feyre and Rhys feed a fussy Nyx in his highchair, Rhys's eyes roaming over his mate and child with unrepressed love. Cassian's arm was slung around Nesta's shoulder, my usually stoic sister slumped comfortably into his side. Varian looked down at Amren next to him like she was the most fascinating creature alive, which...wasn't entirely a subjective statement, considering her interesting history.

Even Elain was speaking in shy tones with Lucien, who watched her with amused adoration. I had been so proud of my younger sister for finally realizing that she could just as well choose him as not choose him. They were taking it slow, she'd been telling me recently, but she begrudgingly had found that her mate was, indeed, her perfect match.

But as with all my friends and family, my happiness for them comes at a cost. To myself.

I turn and opened my mouth to chase away the tightness in my chest, but found that the Spymaster next to me was turned away, engaging Mor in conversation on his other side.

I quickly clamp my mouth shut and instead go for my wine.

Gods, hadn't Feyre mentioned there was some sort of will-they won't-they situation between the two of them? Something that had been brewing for the five centuries they'd known each other? It was none of my business, of course, and I hardly paid attention, but even I noticed that it had been pretty consistently they-won't in the past few years of living here.

Right?

Azriel laughs at something she says, and suddenly I feel sick.

Cauldron. Was I going to be the only one left?

And even worse—had I also been imagining his forwardness with me as of late?

There's a rushing in my ears and I tune out completely, going blissfully blank.

I hardly recall cleanup. Or the migration to the living room. My body seems to draw itself to the fireplace, a hand lifting to drag a blanket off the back of an armchair as I settle on the floor before the flames.

And as I wrap the blanket around myself, shivering minutely, I can't bring myself to look at what I know I'll find behind me—each couple in the house cuddling for warmth.

—

Azriel's heart aches at the sight of her vibrating form in front of the fire.

He'd taken his place behind the armchair she usually sat in, hoping to finally coax her into having a conversation in the privacy of the hall. Or if things went well, his bedroom.

But instead he watched her walk as if unawake from the dining room to the fireplace in the living room. Unblinking. Not looking at anyone else.

He doesn't know what to do.

He also doesn't realize that a shadow had flitted to her until it came slinking back to his shoulder, whispering, Upset. Crying.

His heart broke. Oh, sweetheart.

He felt suspended in air, in time for a moment. Everyone was lounging, cuddling in their respective pairs, speaking quietly with one another. Distracted. So he took a gamble.

And silently pushed forward.

—

I felt him before I heard or saw him.

I lock up as I feel his warm body settle on the rug, not quite directly behind me, but not quite beside me either.

His touch was warm, intentional.

Mother, I needed intentional touch so badly.

I hadn't realize how upset I had gotten until the first cold tear spills down my cheek. I wipe hastily at it.

"Hey," he coos softly in my ear, his arm coming firmly around me and drawing me into him. I sniff, shooting a panicked glance over my shoulder since everyone was in the room right now. I barely register that his wings block any sight of the two of us from the rest of the room before his gentle hand guides my chin back to look up at him. "No one can see, sweet girl," he murmurs. "You're alright."

The lump tightens painfully in my throat as a second, third tear spill down my face. "Sorry," I mouth, unable to get any sound out.

"Stop," he whispers gently. "You're alright. You're safe." His hand slides to the back of my head and I let myself be guided to the shelter of his embrace, once again in his lap as I silently shake. "Are you feeling that way again?"

I nod silently.

He sighs. "Sweetheart. Why don't you just let me in?"

I untuck my wet face from his shoulder to glance confusedly up at him. "I...I am," I breathe. "You're—you're hugging me."

He shakes his head, cradling my face with both hands. "I mean: why don't you let me into that head of yours? That world? Most importantly, why can't you just let me into your heart?"

Said heart seems to stutter and stop beating.

There's a long moment where my lips don't form words, don't do anything except lay parted, slack. "What do you mean?" I finally blurt, a note of tightness in my voice.

His jaw works and he sighs heavily through his nose. "Sweetheart, is it so impossible to understand that this whole time you've found yourself lonely at the sight of everyone paired off that maybe I want to be that person for you? Your person?"

"Wh—you?" I sputter on a whisper as everything dawns, hell, practically crashes down upon me. The denial comes a split second after. "No."

"Yes."

My expression shutters in emotion. "There's no way—"

"There is," he murmurs with an adoring smile on his handsome face, thumbs brushing at my tears. "And you can't change that, ever. But what you can do is let me in."

I take a shuddery breath, in and out. "Let you in?"

He nods.

"Be my person?" I croak. "And I be yours?"

The words seem to have an effect on him, his chest puffing for a moment before deflating again. His hands cradle my face like I'm precious. I've never felt more so than in his lap. "Yes, sweet girl. Mine. And I, yours."

A release another uneven breath, feeling my body go warm all over. "I—I never thought that I...that you could want this with me. Could want me," I rasp.

He smiles. "But I do. I have for a long time."

I let out a little wet laugh. "Gods, I—" I shake my head. "I don't feel like asking questions right now. I've wanted you too, for so long. I just didn't want to delude myself, to make a fool of myself in front of you when you're so..."

He raises a brow but his eyes remain warm. "So?"

"So perfect, damn you," I finish, no real malice behind my words. When he laughs this time, I feel it seep directly through my chest and into my soul.

"You're the perfect one, sweetheart," he murmurs, and presses a kiss to my hairline like he had those weeks ago. "In more ways than one." He draws back to look at me, and I return his gaze with nothing but openness, with love. Then he breathes, "May I kiss you?"

Heat blooms across my cheeks, but I give him a little nod. "You may."

He dips his chin ever so slowly, and when his soft, full lips finally meet mine, my eyes slip shut. Tentative, and so gentle with me, he dares his tongue over my bottom lip. Though I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing, I let him through.

The first swipe of his tongue, this hungrier kiss sets my soul ablaze, his hands travel to wrap around my waist, drawing my chest against his.

We kiss quietly yet needy for Cauldron knows how long. All I know is that I’m breathless, fuzzy, and light by the time I draw away softly. He chases my lips a moment more before settling his forehead against mine.

Breathing the same air.

A giddy smile tugs at my features, and I giggle with blushing embarrassment. “They definitely know what’s going on,” I whisper, fighting the urge to peek. He chuckles lowly and draws me closer, depositing a kiss on my shoulder, my jaw, then my lips.

“I sent them out,” he replies. My brows raise. “I told Rhys mind-to-mind that if he didn’t get everyone out, I’d quit.”

A laugh bubbles up within me. “Liar. He just decided to have mercy on us. On me, at least.”

Azriel grins, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Boyish. Free.

“Kiss me again,” I whisper. And he does.

That night, he takes me to his room, scooping me under the covers and into his body. I’m too wired, too happy to fall asleep right away. It’s when I watch him slip into dreamland, the most relaxed I’ve seen him, that there’s a tug within my chest.

A soft glow flickers to life deep in my soul. I smile and let the tears fall as I feel what I think is the bond.

I settle in. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

•••

NOTE: i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i did writing it! i have an idea for a short series taking place post-ACOSF, where Reader is part of a group in Montesere that’s sort of adjacent to the Valkyries, and she comes to visit the Library, so I’ll start drafting if anyone is interested k love you bye! -diri

TAG LIST: @lilah-asteria @salvatoresister1 @a-courtof-azriel @thestartitaness @casiiopea2 @kk191327 @missxmarvelous @saltedcoffeescotch

[nxtt2-u]

hush

your boyfriend loves to play with you in bed for hours on end. it’s not your fault you get loud after so much teasing, right?

content info — yang jeongin x afab!reader, 1.4k words, smut, established relationship

content warnings — nsfw, reader has a tummy, no gendered terms but reader has a vagina & boobs

notes — i return from my hiatus bearing this drabble-turned-oneshot as penance. i completely missed kinktober AND kinkmas.... sigh :( oh well, enjoy this lil snippet of dom jeongin!! ^^ smut warnings under the cut

smut warnings — dom/sub dynamics, daddy kink, subspace, fingering, overstimulation, ruined orgasm, heavy petname usage sorry.., face slapping, crying, dacryphilia if you squint, a sprinkle of cockwarming, rough sex, praise and the teensiest bit of degradation(?), tummy cumshot, light aftercare (more done offscreen), mm i think that's it!

“a-ah, ‘yennie, ‘s too much,” you sniffle pathetically, pawing weakly at the hand that’s been toying between your legs for the better part of the last two hours. jeongin coos down at you from where he props himself up on an arm near your side, tilting his head as his lips curl into a smile, deep dimples popping out as if to mock your pitiful state. his other hand stays occupied with your silky heat, and just the sight of the veins protruding in his busy forearm as he works you has you soaking the sheets alone.

“it’s too much, baby?” he echoes condescendingly, eyes crinkling into mirthful crescents at the sound of your pussy squelching obscenely when he finally works two fingers inside your pussy with no resistance. you moan loudly at the delicious stretch of his long, dexterous fingers, delighted at finally having something inside after only being rubbed at and rubbed at up until now, and he grunts in response.

“shit… tight little cunt,” he mutters, crooking his fingers just right to prod at that gooey spot deep within. your whole body jolts as if connected to a live wire, and he moans breathily at the sight. “ah, fuck, is it there, baby? that’s what you want?”

you cry out in response, eyes slamming shut as you nod desperately. your hips begin to hump embarrassingly fast against his palm, but you’re so far gone you can’t even consider stopping yourself. jeongin chuckles at the tears welling up in your eyes as you fuck on his hand like a rabbit in heat, eagerly chasing your orgasm as it draws closer and closer.

he surprisingly allows it without complaint; if you had a drop of coherency left in your cotton-filled brain, you'd question his merciful behavior, but you're submerged too deep in the fuzzy headspace you oh so love to even think about anything other than the pleasure he's giving you. you babble out your incoherent thanks and rut impossibly harder against his palm, but just as your stomach begins to contract and the heat in your abdomen roars to an inferno, he pulls away.

you nearly scream aloud in frustration when your clit pulses angrily at the ruined orgasm. “jeongin!" you wail. "please, don’t be c-cruel,” sniffling, you shove your own hand down to swipe needily at your clit, pretty little head swooning with so much pleasure you can't even consider the consequences your desperation may bring. “need you, daddy, please, please please!” you cry out, frame thrashing wildly against the sheets with how sensitive you are now.

your boyfriend grunts and shifts to loom over you, brushing away his dark bangs so he can see how fucked out you are beneath him. he scoffs once, disbelieving at how you're still babbling and even beginning to drool onto his sheets, before he lands a harsh slap to your cheek. "hush, baby," he spits out, palming his flushed cock right over your heaving soft tummy. the hit leaves your skin hot and stinging in its wake, and you gasp. "god, you're so fucking needy, huh?" he drawls, polishing his tip with a sensitive hiss.

you didn't even realize the slap brought fresh tears to your eyes until they start falling right over the delicate spot where you were struck and you whine, clit pulsing with renewed delight at the pain. it finally manages to shut you up and he smirks when you eventually manage to still and fall silent, save for your intermittent sniffles and heavy breathing. he groans and tips his head forward to press an uncoordinated kiss to your lips at the sight of you peering up at him through wet lashes, patiently waiting for whatever he'll dish out next.

"ah, you're so good to me, sweetheart," jeongin murmurs into your mouth before tangling his tongue with yours. you moan against his lips as he sucks filthily on your tongue, and your noises only grow louder when you feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. you break the kiss to pant and stare down at where he pushes in until your head subconsciously falls back against the pillow at the stretch. despite him preparing you with his digits not long ago, it's still a tight fit every time you fuck your boyfriend simply because of his sheer size.

the soaking wet warmth that envelops him must take a toll on him too, especially with how long he's been working the both of you up. jeongin moans at the feeling and his arms begin to shake as he bottoms out. he leans down to lap sloppily at the crook under your jaw while you both catch your breaths. "just warm my cock for a li'l, okay, baby?" he mutters, abs clenching erratically as he does his best to stave off his orgasm. you nod, eager to please and be good, but it doesn't take long before you get squirmy.

who can blame you, though? with his hard cock finally sheathed inside after endless teasing, it's a wonder how you've even held on this long at all. you find yourself writhing again before you know it, fingers threaded into the sheets near your head as you begin to mindlessly beg and tilt your hips up, eager for stimulation. "daddy, please move, plea—"

"sh, shh, angel," he cuts you off, pulling back to loom over you once again. "i know, i know," he croons sweetly when you begin to cry again at the first gentle rolls of his hips. he kisses those salty tears away and begins to thrust harder, rougher, until you're eventually being shifted up the bed with the force and the headboard is rattling against the wall in a steady rhythm.

you don't even register your volume until jeongin is pressing a clammy palm against your mouth to muffle you, still fucking into you like a toy. "shhh, shh," he soothes again, and your eyes roll back when a slight shift of the angle has his tip suddenly pounding into your g-spot. "that's it, sweetheart, just take it. i'll let you come soon, okay? y-you.. fuck," he pants, cock twitching deep inside when you clench hard at his words, "you're so beautiful. milkin' my cock for me, bein' such a good girl, hm?" you whine, eyes slammed shut and brows furrowed in pleasure, and the pornographic moan he lets out at the sight finally tips you over the edge.

"oh, o-oh," jeongin gasps at the way your walls flutter around him, sucking him in deep and demanding his seed. "shit, baby," he grunts, thrusts growing erratic and losing their rhythm as his own orgasm builds impossibly fast. "cream all over my cock like that, and i'll– ah, fuck- cumming cumming—!" he cries; just before you can feel warmth flood your poor, abused pussy, his cock is sliding out of you with an embarrassingly loud noise and he's painting the plush skin below your bellybutton with ropes of white, warm cum.

he jerks and milks himself above you with his eyes pressed shut and mouth wide open as a long, drawn-out groan escapes him. when he's finally spent, he collapses beside you in a sweaty heap with a sated sigh. it's the last thing you see before your eyes drift shut in exhaustion, and when they crack open again he's plastered against your clean stomach, head pillowed happily on a naked boob.

your throat clicks dryly when you try to speak, and he's quick to snap up and fumble with a nearby water bottle, swiftly unscrewing it and pressing it to your lips. when he deems you adequately hydrated, he pulls away and sets it down as you roll your neck around, stretching out your limbs. "hey, sleepyhead. you enjoy your nap?" he grins, returning to his spot amongst your chest. your eyes roll but you give a dopey smile right back, fucked out and soft from the afterglow.

"mhm..." you sigh, tilting his chin up for a kiss. jeongin complies with a happy noise and you pull back before things can get heated again. your poor cunt can't handle another round just yet.

"love you," he murmurs, tucking his face into your neck. you thread your hands through his dark tresses, mussed and a bit smelly from all the activity, but you love it all the same. as his breath begins to peter out into a slower, more even rhythm, your own breath begins to sync as you all but melt into the mattress under his comforting weight. "love you, too," you mutter before slipping off into sleep once more, satisfied, warm, and sated in the arms of the man you love most.

[lcriedlastnight]

Hi can i pls request a lando x reader where he mentions in many interviews that he wants an army of kids and the camara always pans to other drivers teasing reader

ofc you can baby <33 thanks for helping me celebrate! here's that kiss i promised xoxo

requests are open!

852 words.

it wasn't unknown that lando wanted kids. it's not like he went out of his way to to talk about having children either, he just went on half an hour tangents anytime an interviewer brought up the topic is all. you didn't find out just how many until you decided to ask him about it one night, not long after lando had gotten slandered on twitter for being 'obsessed' with having a mini version of himself running around.

"so.. you know how you've said you want kids?" you start, voice a little hesitant knowing he was a bit peeved about the bullying he was getting online for that very thing. if looks could kill you swear you would be a dead girl.

"don't you start." he groans, eyes rolling so hard to the of his head you thought they may get stuck.

lando, who had just gotten ready for bed, slips in beside you and you immediately know he's not actually pissed off at you because he is pulling your arm to get you as close to him as he physically could.

"i don't mean it like that, i just wanted to ask you about it." lando watches as you strain your neck up to be able to see his reaction from your very comfortable position on his chest. it does bring the smallest of smiles to his lips.

with a joking sigh he asks "what do you want to know?".

"well, i guess the most important one is-"

"if i want them with you?" lando interrupts, sending your brows into your hairline. you smack him on the back of the head and he just laughs like it was actually funny. dickhead.

"no! how many you want. but now i don't want any with you if they're going to turn out like you." you cross your arms over your chest, trying to convince him you actually were in a huff. a strong hand running down your front seconds after ruins your plans for any further annoyance though.

lando hums in thought before he answers your question. his hand now drawing random shapes on your hip bone.

"you're going to hate me when i say this, but i only really wanted a few maybe two max? but being with you? i want minimum four."

your gasp makes him wince. you're shocked, there is no way he is actually being serious. you tell him as much but he shakes his head and assures you just how serious he is.

"honestly baby. i want a big family with you."

his words may or may not rile you and you guys maybe get started on that big family that night, but you don't kiss and tell..

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

lando wasn't to hold back on his thoughts or feelings and with his rants about wanting to start a family were proof of this, well you had thought so. the next time you're at the paddock is the next time he's asked about starting a family. you're watching from the side with max and oscar as he gets interviewed and you can see the say his whole face lights up at the question, as if racing was a chore he was getting forced to do every few weekends and not the second favourite part of his life.

lando takes a quick glance in your direction before he starts and it's like your conversation on the topic opened the floodgates in lando's mind as he reveals his every thought on having a baby or two or ten.

"me and my girlfriend were talking about this and it made me realise i want a full on norris army of children behind me. i want minimum four with my girl. ideally two of each but wouldn't even complain if all i had was girls because then that means that there would be so much more of my girl out there in the world, and little parts of me i guess too." lando's smile is splitting and the interviewer smiles back at him, loving seeing him being so open and honest about it.

"would you encourage your little ones to get involved in karting and racing?" she enquires. you can already picture taking your imaginary children along to watch lando in his races. it does make your heart skip a beat or two.

as the interview continues, unbeknown to you and the other two drivers who are making kissy faces at pretending to cradle a child in their arms just to tease you and how much lando was infatuated with the idea of kids with you, the camera pans in your direction to get a nice reaction shot to your boyfriend's words.

all they capture is your bright red face, from the teasing and lando blunt words, and the boys childish behaviour.

that night is then filled with lando teasing (and comforting) you as it was now your turn to get teased on twitter, millions of fans already making your reaction a meme. you knew you'd never live it down and a small part of you was excited to explain the video and reaction picture to those future kids.

[aegonstradwife]

obsession | aegon targaryen x reader

summary: anonymous requested: aegon being obsessed with his new wife, but stuck in council meetings all day. when he finally sees you at night he's always trying to impregnate you and give you as many babies as possible.

warnings: established relationship, smut. (oral, handjob, piv, creampie, impreg.)

a. note: link to the original request.

You and Aegon have only been married a week, and already even a day away from him feels dull and empty, like a world stripped of all color and joy.

Though you didn't know him well before your betrothal, you've found your new husband to be doting and sweet and quite handsome to boot. To be married to a Targaryen - much less the king - is any highborn girl's dream. They are the rulers, the protectors, of the realm.

But that's hardly what matters to you, when it comes to Aegon.

He may be king, and you now queen, but you find yourself believing you would love your husband even if he were a lowly pauper from Flea Bottom.

And that's why you're now hurrying up to your bedchamber after a long day of entertaining the keep's guests from the riverlands. You've taken tea and other small meals with the visiting lords and ladies all godsdamned day.

All you want now is to see your husband after many long hours away from him.

On his part, Aegon himself has been busy with small council meetings and petitions throughout the day and has been eagerly awaiting your return since he got back to your shared bedchamber and found you still absent.

He's right behind the door when you push it open, stumbling back in pleasant surprise, a flushed grin on his face. "There you are, my sweet," he mutters, taking your hand and drawing you close to him. "I heard your footsteps in the hall...."

You grin, falling against him with a sigh and kicking the door shut behind you. "Did you now? And you were so sure it was me?"

You slot your fingers with his and squeeze, gazing lovingly up at him.

"I would know your footsteps anywhere." He pulls you flush against his chest, arms wrapping you in a tight embrace. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, relishing in the scent of your hair, your skin, the day's exertion still clinging to you in a damp, cloying sweat.

He mumbles against you, words ushered against your skin, "I missed you."

"I've missed you too, my king." Finally, wrapped in his arms, everything is right with the world. "And how was your day? Meetings went well?"

Aegon is already half undressed, his tunic laying loosely over his unlaced trousers; you take the opportunity to slip a hand underneath his top and trail your nails lightly over his back.

His eyes slip closed in obvious pleasure at the feeling of your fingers on his spine and he shivers under your touch, a soft moan escaping him. It takes him a moment to respond.

"Mmm, my day was long and tiresome. I spent the entire day in the small council chamber, then moved along to the throne room to listen to petitions and resolve asinine disputes. I couldn't wait to come back here to you.... to have you in my arms, finally." His lips are seeking your neck again, his favorite place, laying soft kisses along the skin there.

"I'm sorry, love," you sigh contentedly. "You know I feel much the same - all this droll highborn talk puts me to sleep, it always has."

You roll your eyes, intensifying the scrape of your nails over Aegon's back. "But at least there was tea."

A full body shudder rolls through him this time, back arching under your hand as he groans and grabs wantonly for your hips.

"Tea?" He murmurs, lips brushing your ear. "You and your damned tea. Sometimes I think you might love your tea even more than you love me...."

"Oh, how could I?" You gasp, aghast, as you pull back to look at Aegon. Both hands now planted on his shoulders, you give your husband a studying look. "I love nothing more than you, my king."

A gentle hand comes to stroke at his soft cheek, thumb brushing back and forth beneath the dark circle ringing his eye. "You look exhausted, Aegon. Shall we to bed?"

Aegon leans into your touch, closing his eyes again only briefly, savoring the feel of your sweet touch against his skin. He draws a deep, steadying breath before meeting your gaze with a weary smile.

"You're right," he concedes, hushed, "I am exhausted.... but I don't think I could sleep just now.... "

The timber of his voice dips lower, and his bright blue eyes darken as he takes hold of your waist again. "Do you know what's been on my mind all day?"

You press against him, loving when he gets like this. So desperate and needy and all for you, secreted away from everyone who have had him all to themselves all day. Now meant only for your eyes.

"I'm sure I could guess, but.... Why don't you tell me?" Taking his hand, you lead him slowly toward the big bed in the middle of the room.

Aegon follows your lead, willingly, letting you guide him to bed. His gaze devours your figure, watching the way your hips sway with each step. Such nice, child-bearing hips, he thinks. He can't help but admire the way your silken gown clings to you as you move.

As you reach the bed, Aegon is there behind you, arms around your waist, holding you back against him. "All day, I've been thinking about holding you just like this," he murmurs, his lips at your ear. "Your body pressed to mine.... the sound of your labored breathing as I make you mine.... as I breed you...."

With your back pressed to his chest, you can feel him through his trousers - already deliciously hard for you. His hands prowl over your body atop your gown, and you turn in his embrace to start plucking at the already half unlaced top of his tunic. "Aegon.... I need that. I need you. Please."

His breath hitches. The desperate tone in your voice, the way your body responds instantly to his touch.... it makes his head spin.

"I know," he growls, his hands never relinquishing their hold on your hips as he kisses your neck. "You don't know how much I've wanted you, darling.... how hard I've been all day." He grinds himself into you, his erection straining at his trousers.

Wanting to see more of him, to have more of him bared against you, you urge him to raise his arms, ripping his top off over his head.

Your small hands travel his chest, brushing his pretty pink nipples, palming at his belly. "I think I have something of an idea. Because I've been wet all day at the thought of retiring here, to do this very thing."

His eyes flutter shut and he whimpers wantonly at the feeling of your hands on his body. No one had ever touched him this way before you.... He is completely at your mercy, putty in your hands to do with as you wish.

"Is that so?" He gasps, voice trembling, abdomen tensing under your touch. "Did you spend the whole day thinking about this.... thinking about me?"

He sounds surprised.

You tilt your head. "Of course, my sweet. I spend every day thinking of you. When I'm taking tea or practicing my Valyrian, you're always in the back of my mind. And I do mean always."

While he's preoccupied with this thought, you let your hands stray to his trousers, undoing those the rest of the way as well.

You slip your hands past the waistband and he gasps, his body shivering against yours.

"And what thoughts do you have of me, my darling?" He murmurs huskily, the timbre of his voice dropping an octave. "Tell me. I must hear them."

Aegon is already half mad with desire, with the way your body fits so easily against his.

With one of your hands seeking his hardness, the other brushes a lock of fine hair lovingly away from his face. "I think of your lips, the sweet kisses they give. I think of your hands, and what pleasure they bring me. Of your tongue...." Here, your fingers brush over his plump lips. "But mostly I think of your cock, and how one day soon it will give us an heir...."

Upon saying this, you grab it, and start to stroke slowly.

Aegon groans aloud, a guttural sound of need and desire that reverberates through his chest. He buries his face again in the crook of your neck, laboured breathing hot against your skin.

"Oh gods, yes...." He gasps, hips jerking reflexively into your hand. "Keep talking.... don't stop.... I know.... I know I'm not worthy, of any of this. But gods, when you say I am I actually fucking believe you...."

You welcome him against you with your hand cupped behind his neck, holding him close as you continue to stroke him inside his trousers. You soothe his little shakes and trembles with a kiss to his shoulder as you mutter softly, "Think of how many times you've given me your seed in just the past week. How many times more you're going to in the coming years. You're going to give us such a big, beautiful family. I love you, Aegon...."

You know your king likes hearing this, and that his favorite thing in this world is finishing inside of you. As such, your words have the desired effect - Aegon is now throbbing against the palm of your hand.

Close to your ear, his breath stutters. His body follows shortly after with a tremor, and he clings onto you, fingers grappling at the back of your gown. Your words, your touch, your presence - it's all he needs. And he's completely at your mercy, a mess of desperate desire and need.

"I'm yours.... I'm all yours...." He sobs into your neck. "You're the only one who makes me feel like this. The only one who makes me feel even remotely alive."

His hips buck his cock into your hand, the friction driving him mad. "Please don't stop.... I need you."

"Shh, Aegon...." You soothe him further, more kisses pressed to his warm skin. And though he's asked you not to stop, you do, only temporarily.

Doing your best to ignore his whimpers at the loss of your hand, you turn and offer your back to him. "Undo my dress, my love. Or shall I call my handmaids in to assist instead?"

Behind you, Aegon stumbles forward. "No," he growls. "No, I'll do it."

You know he hates the thought of anyone else seeing you in any state of undress, which is why you'd said it in the first place.

His hands are clumsy and shaking, but he manages to undo the buttons of your dress, revealing more and more of your skin. Every inch he exposes is like a revelation, a small taste of what's to come.

He pushes the dress from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a pool of fabric at your feet.

Clad now in only the sheer, white shift worn under your gown, you step out of the folds of your dress heaped on the floor and back toward the bed. You offer a hand to Aegon. "Come, my king. Join me. Or haven't you been thinking about this all day?"

His eyes rake over you, the thin material of your shift leaving little to the imagination. Aegon swallows hard, his throat suddenly very dry.

"Gods, yes," he rasps, taking your hand and letting you lead him to the bed. "It's been maddening to be apart from you all day. To think of you, only a few corridors away, while I was trapped in ridiculous meetings and listening to petitioners...."

"Petitions are important," you sigh, sinking back against the veritable mountain of pillows adorning the head of the bed. "Meetings less so, I'm sure. But.... nothing more important than doing your husbandly duty to your wife."

You laugh softly, spreading your legs as your shift rides up around your thighs, letting Aegon settle between. "My dear Aegon.... you know you do deserve this, don't you? All of this.... all of me?"

He admires your splayed legs, gaze dark and intense. Then he reaches out, letting his hands travel over the soft flesh of your inner thighs.

"I think you give me far too much credit, my love," he begins, pausing to press a gentle kiss to your leg, lips skimming over your sensitive skin. He moons adoringly up at you, raw desire written plain over his face. "But when you say it.... I almost believe you."

It's so hot these days, you typically decide to forego any smallclothes under your shift. Tonight, you're especially glad for that - Aegon's mouth is dangerously near your thighs. No doubt he can see your sex glistening beneath the shadow of gauzy material stretched between your legs.

"It's true, my king. All the love you have for me.... I want to return it tenfold."

With that, you start to pull the shift up further, so that slowly, your bare lower half is made plain to Aegon in the dim light of the bedchamber.

His mouth goes dry at the sight of you, bare and exposed to him. His breathing quickens, and he takes you in like a man thirsting for water.

"Gods, you're beautiful," he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper. His hands twitch with restrained need, aching to touch you, to feel you. "If I could, I would spend the rest of my life worshiping this body, and never go even a second without stopping.... "

The shift slips up even further, over your breasts and off, as you shake your hair loose. "You look like a man who wants a taste, Aegon.... Why don't you indulge?"

You encourage him with a hand at his shoulder, pulling him down.

He can't resist you, not that he'd ever dream of trying. He leans in, hands grasping your thighs, gentle kisses laid in their wake, his lips a mere preview of what's to come.

"You're so wicked," he murmurs, his breath coming in scorching pants against your thighs. "Always so eager to drive me to such desperation...."

Painstakingly slow, he inches higher, his lovely mouth trailing up toward the center of your heat, lips pressing soft kisses over the sensitive flesh.

You hook a leg over his shoulder, keeping him close with that hand now in his hair.

"You were already hard when I was still wearing my gown," you giggle, pressing your thumb to the corner of his plush lips. "Don't act like you need any tempting.... "

"Gods, not when it comes to you," he mutters, his lips now hovering just above the most intimate part of you, the anticipation driving both of you mad. "You're like a drug, my love - so very addicting. Once I have a taste, I can't get enough...."

His tongue darts out, tasting you delicately, barely enough to even feel, and he positively howls. "You taste so sweet.... my favorite meal."

The second lap of Aegon's tongue over you is also gentle, almost innocent. "Please, Aegon.... I need you."

You press that thumb harder, parting his lips and making him suck on your thumb.

He takes it eagerly, tongue swirling around it, long lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he tastes you.

"You know I can never resist you, my love," he mutters around your finger. "I'll give you whatever you want, whenever you want it."

He kisses your thigh, your hip, your stomach, working his way back to the place he wants to be most.

Once he's released it, you smooth your wet thumb over his cheek, leaving a streak of spit. Then leaning back, you grin. "I think you know what I want."

He smirks up at you, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"You know I do," he murmurs, tongue delving between your slick folds. He grunts against you, the taste of you sending his mind spinning. "Heavenly.... I could spend all night right here, just like this."

Your thighs tremble beside his ears, and Aegon pets his hands soothingly over them.

"A-Aegon, gods.... your tongue always feels so good. It's not too late, we can keep at this for a while before we have to sleep, don't you think?"

His words are muffled, but the meaning clear; "I have no intention of stopping any time soon, my queen.... I plan on having you scream my name before the night is through."

Aegon's tongue swirls in lazy circles against your clit, hands gripping your trembling thighs to anchor you to him.

Aegon loves to tease, you know this. And yet, it still takes you by surprise and leaves you breathless how slow and lethargic those sweeps of his tongue really are.

"Aegon," you moan loudly, head thrashing, fingers plucking at your stiff nipples. "Aegon, I love you...."

"I love you," he says, pausing to flick his tongue against your clit, teasing it relentlessly. "Gods... I love you so much... so much... "

His mind is hazy with desire, lost in the taste and scent of you, the feel of your body under his touch. He can't get enough of you, craving more and more until he's completely satisfied, which he knows will take hours at the very least.

Aegon is gazing up at you with a mix of desperate desire and heartfelt love. The fire blazing in his bright blue eyes is intoxicating, drawing you in.

"I know.... I know you said you want to do this all night, but.... don't you want to put a baby inside of me instead?"

His breath stutters, eyes flashing with heat at your words. He presses another kiss to your hip, his hands roaming over your skin.

"A baby...." he muses, the thought sending a thrill through him. "You'd give me an heir, my love? Our child.... growing inside you...."

"Of course," you chuckle, carding a hand through his hair. "Isn't that what we've been trying for every night - and some afternoons - this past week....?"

He chokes on a laugh, his hands moving to rest on your stomach. "Every night and afternoon.... and some mornings." He looks up at you with a cheeky smile. "I've been a very.... thorough husband, haven't I?"

You nod, grinning down at your handsome husband. "Some might say too thorough. We've both been neglecting our royal duties, somewhat, to try and conceive. Tonight could be the night...."

He chuckles, hands moving over you, palming gently. "And if not tonight.... then we try again and again and again. Until we're successful."

He trails kisses over your stomach, his mouth wandering over the soft skin. "I'm not going to stop until I get you pregnant, love."

"We should start now, then...." Your cunt is dripping onto the bedclothes, all Aegon would need do is take those confounded trousers off and slide right in.... "Get me pregnant, my king. Give us an heir."

Aegon needs no more prompting; he kneels up just long enough to kick his pants off the end of the bed, then crawls over you.

"As you wish, my dear." His body presses close against yours, the heat between you searing hot. He bends to press a kiss to your neck, hands gently caressing your body. "You'll give me heirs and spares?"

You brace yourself with your hands on his arms, running over his heated flesh. "We'll have so many princes and princesses running around, we won't know what to do with ourselves," you reply quietly.

Aegon's cock is red and leaking, bobbing between his legs. "I want it," you mutter, staring hungrily down at it.

"That's the plan," he mutters, eyes darkening as he follows your gaze down between his legs.

"You're just as wicked as I am, aren't you?" His voice is strained with need. "I want to tease you more.... make you beg and squirm.... but you're making it so hard for me to hold back now."

You swipe a hand between your own legs, gathering slick from your folds to bring to Aegon's length, easing the way as you stroke him.

"Am I making it hard? Am I making it so hard, my king?"

Your touch sends a jolt of pleasure through him, a grating cry falling from his lips. He nods desperately, his hips bucking into your hand.

"So... gods, so hard... you're going to drive me mad, woman," he groans, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "If you keep this up, I'm going to lose all control..."

"Lose it, then. Fuck me, Aegon. Fuck me so hard the entire keep can hear me scream your name." You're trying to pull him forward by his cock, but the slippery grip of your fingers is making it hard.

Aegon growls, grabbing your hips and pulling you towards him roughly. His cock slips from your grasp, pressing against your entrance as he stares into your eyes.

"Is that what you want, my love?" he croaks, voice breaking with longing. "Do you want me to take you like a savage…. make you mine completely…. until there's nothing left of us but the echoes of our screams along these stone walls?"

He doesn't wait for your answer, pushing into you in one swift motion. You're tight, so godsdamn tight, and it's all Aegon can do to keep himself from losing control entirely. He begins to move, slowly at first, relishing the sensation of your body gripping him selfishly.

Gods, he makes you feel like some lowborn whore when he talks like that, and you love it. "T-Take me, Aegon," you stutter, a moment too late. He's already inside, moving, pushing past that tight ring of muscle that is always so hells bent on keeping him out.

One hand comes down to rub hard at that little button, the one that sends such shocks of pleasure through you. The other braces itself on Aegon's hip, where you can feel his muscles moving beautifully beneath the skin, driving him on.

Aegon growls, feeling your body react to his touch. Your tight walls pulse around him with each stroke, driving him ever closer to completion.

"By the gods, you feel so good," he pants, his fingers digging into your hips as he quickens his pace. "So fucking perfect…. just for me…."

He can feel himself getting close, a fire building inside him that he knows will consume him entirely. But he can't stop now, not when you're writhing beneath him, begging for more. He moves harder, deeper, angling his hips just so to hit that sweet spot inside you.

You find yourself digging your heels into the mattress, helping him to change that angle to the one that makes you see stars.

You truly are screaming his name now, your voice echoing off the walls. Surely those in neighboring chambers have no trouble hearing you now.

"That's it," Aegon grunts, his hold on your hips bruising. "Let them hear you, love. Let them all hear their king getting their queen pregnant."

Your body tenses, pleasure building inside you to a fever pitch. You can feel yourself teetering on the edge, ready to topple over into ecstasy at any moment.

"Gods, Aegon!" You cry out, gripping the sheets beneath you as he pounds into you with abandon.

"Yes, yes…. let them hear it…. let them know you're mine…."

And then it's there, that rush that consumes you entirely. You shatter around him, every muscle in your body clenching as you scream his name. It's enough to push him over the edge too, and he follows you with a hoarse cry, spilling into your depths.

Your entire body feels overheated, the candles on the bedside tables guttering as you cry out with abandon. There's a soft layer of sweat over your entire body as you lie panting underneath your husband.

His cock is still spasming and twitching inside of you. You have just enough energy to wrap your trembling arms around his shoulders and pull him in for a kiss. "Do you feel that, my king? Do you feel your queen's cunt milking all of your strong seed out? It's going to take this time, I just know it."

Aegon whines, his body shuddering with the aftershocks of his release. He collapses onto you, panting and sweaty as he pulls you into his arms.

"Gods, yes," he gasps, his voice ragged with pleasure. "I can feel it…. you're so tight…. so perfect…. I've filled you completely…. you're pregnant with my child…"

He says this like the saying makes it so, and you love him for it.

He nuzzles your neck, kissing you feverishly as he continues to thrust weakly into you. The thought of making you carry his child ignites a fire in him that refuses to be quenched.

The feeling of Aegon still trying to fuck his softening cock into you warms your heart. Your king wants so badly to always be inside of you….

Letting him rest his fair head on your chest, you take a steadying breath. "Aegon …"

He looks up at you, eyes softening as he takes you in. "Yes, my love?" He asks, still panting heavily.

You run a gentle hand through his hair, feeling the damp strands sticking to your fingers. "Do you really believe that I'm pregnant with your child now?"

Aegon nods firmly, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "Of course I do. My seed has filled you completely, my queen. And soon enough, our child will be growing inside you…. a true heir to the Targaryen name."

He pauses, taking a moment to adore you. "And when that day comes, my love, we'll be unstoppable. Together, we'll conquer all of Westeros and make the world bow to our will."

[bernardsbendystraws]

You Don’t Own Me

P1 P2 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8 P9 P10 P11 P12 P13 P14 P15 P16

Chris Sturniolo lives by his own rules, refusing to be controlled. Some see him as a rebel, a troublemaker—but is that the full truth? Meanwhile, Y/N is focused on making the most of her last year of high school, determined to have a normal teenage experience. But when their worlds collide, they realize they may have more in common than they ever expected.

WARNINGS: Mentions of drinking, drunk driving, dog penises, and more. 

A/N: FIRST CHAPTER OF A NEW SERIES HOES!!!

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

P1: Dumb Dog Dicks

wc: 1100+

The screech of the tires scratching on the street sends a shiver down my spine, my clammy hands clenching together harder. 

“Assholes,” I mutter, dragging my dirty shoes along the cement. Even the laces are sticky, a bright, unnatural blue staring back at me as I watch the cracks in the sidewalk pass beneath each step. 

It was stupid. Tessa had invited me to the party. I had been excited to have fun, but it wasn’t fun. The vibrant stain on my shoes was definitely from some kind of jungle juice. I hate jungle juice. 

Well, I hate alcohol in general. But jungle juice? That's a different kind of hatred. The entire point of the drink is to mix it with so many add-ins that the alcohol is barely noticeable. Which is why so many people were throwing up at that damn party. 

My house isn’t far. It’s only a couple of streets away from the booze-infested mansion. But it’s far enough to be a different neighborhood. It wasn’t sketchy by any means, I enjoyed the suburbs. The neighbors were nice, but their dogs were even nicer. 

Especially this one. 

“Hi, girl!” I whisper-shout, crouching down to reach my hand through the metal cross-wired fence. A short laugh escapes through my lips as the small dog snorts, licking my hand enthusiastically. 

She’s adorable. I pass her every day on my morning walks. She’s always sunbathing, her eyes glowing like honey in the sunshine. And she’s just a sweetheart. This moment is exactly what I needed after tonight. 

The fence rattles as she tosses herself against it, desperate for more pets. The clatter echoes through the empty streets, making my eyes go wide. 

Looking around, I’m relieved to see nothing but a flickering lamp post. I know walking home alone this late isn’t smart, but it’s still better than letting a drunk guy drive me home. Even though Shawn had promised to stay sober. 

“So dumb,” I mumble, rubbing the dog’s ear–something I know she loves. Although I have pet her countless times, I still can’t get a hold of her collar to read her name. Not that it really matters–she liked being called Cutie. 

“Did you just call my dog dumb?” 

My whole body jolts at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. I quickly retract my hand from the fence, clutching my chest as I gasp for air. 

“Jesus! I–no, no, I was just…” I stand up fast, my eyes dropping to my hands as I smooth down my short skirt. Why does it have to be so cold? “I was talking to myself, sorry,” I huff, giving the dog one last glance before finally looking up. 

A lump forms in my throat as I meet his gaze. Even in the dim light, I can see how bright his eyes are–sharp, piercing. Intimidating. 

“She’s, uh… she’s really cute,” I add, nodding to the dog as I give an awkward smile. 

My forehead crinkles as I watch him cock an eyebrow, his arms unfolding slightly as he gestures toward the dog. “She’s,” he points, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth, “-a he.” 

Oh. 

She’s a he. 

“Oh.” My mouth draws into an ‘O’ as I chew the inside of my cheek. I wrap my arms around myself, bracing against the cold breeze that cuts through the air. God, I wish this skirt were longer.

“Yeah.” He reaches for the fence gate, pushing it open and shutting it behind him with a soft clank. “Why are you petting a random dog at…” He glances down at his phone before stuffing it back into his coat pocket. “Nearly two in the morning?” 

The judgemental look on his face makes my fingers twitch. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was walking home from a party,” I grumble, my tongue pressing against the back of my teeth as I hug my arms closer.

His lips curl slightly. “This late? Are you stupid?”

I clench my teeth, a sharp breath leaving my nose. “I–well—you, ugh.” 

His head tilts, watching me like he’s waiting for me to form a coherent sentence. 

Annoyed, I cross my arms. “What are you doing out so late, hm?” I shoot back, my confidence wavering as he stares at me–completely unfazed. 

My feet shift against the pavement as I drop my posture slightly, glancing away. The flickering street lamp blinks in my peripheral vision, its erratic pattern drawing my gaze to the tall metal post.

“I went for a walk,” he says blankly. 

I slowly turn my head back toward him with a raised brow. “Without your dog?” I gesture toward the so-called ‘he,’ who is now cleaning himself. 

Yep. That’s definitely a boy. 

My shoulders shutter as I recoil slightly, disgust creeping up my spine. 

“Trevor's lazy,” he states.

My ears perk at the name. Trevor. 

A small smile creeps onto my face as Trevor stirs at the mention of his name, wagging his tail slightly. 

Trevour wags his tail half-heartedly before flopping onto his side, done with us both. 

I smirk. “Yeah, he seems real energetic.” 

The guy exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “He has more sense than you, at least. Doesn’t go wandering around at night like an idiot.”

My smirk drops. “Okay, rude.”

He shrugs. “Not rude. Just stating facts.”

I glare. “Well, fact: I’m fine. I walk this way all the time.”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Wow. That makes it so much safer.”

I groan, throwing my hands in the air. “You know what? I don’t need a lecture from some random guy who names his dog Trevor.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “What’s wrong with the name Trevor?”

“It’s just—” I glance at the dog, who’s now licking his own paw in oblivious contentment. “It’s very human.”

The guy crosses his arms. “Yeah? Well, Cutie isn’t exactly original.”

My face heats up. “It’s not his real name! I just—ugh, whatever.” I back up toward the sidewalk, rubbing my arms against the cold.

He watches me for a moment before sighing. “Chris.”

I blink. “What?”

“My name. Since you’re so desperate to call me something other than ‘random guy who names his dog Trevor.’”

I hesitate before answering. “Y/N.”

Chris nods once. “Cool.”

There’s a brief, awkward silence. Trevor lets out a loud yawn.

“Well,” I say, shifting on my feet, “enjoy your walk.”

“Enjoy not getting kidnapped,” he retorts.

I scoff but don’t dignify him with another response. Instead, I spin on my heel and march away, my shoes still sticky, my mood somehow worse than it was before.

Behind me, I hear the fence creak, followed by a soft, “C’mon, Trevor.”

I roll my eyes. Chris.

This neighborhood just got a whole lot more annoying.

[ervotica]

hehe dark!rafe fucking jj's ex bc she spiraling after the break up and using hella drugs so he's just degrading & using her however bc she's beneath him and he can't help but record it and send it to the male pouge's

warnings; DARK, smut (18+ only), drug use, dub-con (r is HEAVILY under the influence and not very aware), throat fucking, fingering, slight daddy kink, breathplay, degradation (I may have gone insane with this one I fear)

A cruel hand is splayed against the top of your spine where the base of your neck begins, subduing you enough to keep you from thrashing as Rafe curls his fingers against the spongy walls of your cunt. You're alight with pleasure, the lick of a flame igniting your every muscle as you gargle into the sheets below you; you're not entirely sure how you got here but your drug addled brain is too hazy with the white-hot euphoria he is so kindly granting you.

He groans at your blank eyes, breath hot on your skin as he licks a long line against the column of your throat and bites down, taking great enjoyment in the way you wriggle and whine.

"Please," you gasp out, that coil in your belly drawing tighter the longer he keeps his fingers nestled against that spot deep in your pussy that makes you scream.

"Please, what?"

"Please, daddy. Lemme cum."

"Attagirl." His grin is wolfish, teeth pointed and bared like a predator. "Little fuckin' whore, aren'tcha, kid? Bet Maybank never made you feel this good."

You shake your head vehemently, almost incomprehensible where you're drooling into the pillow beneath your balmy face.

He tweaks his fingers once more and suddenly the dull flame of bliss has roared to life, squeezing every one of your muscles like tendrils as you gush and your hole clenches around his thick digits.

The muted roar of white noise is all you can hear for a good while; eyes rolling, lashes fluttering, limp and spent from just one orgasm.

You don't see him next but rather you feel him. A thick mushroom head prodding against your swollen lips, the taste of bitter precum on your tongue as he feeds his cock down your spasming throat. A gag rips through you but he pushes past it, unfazed by your own discomfort as he chases the feeling of your tender gullet tightening around him.

"Yeahhh, that's good," he unabashedly moans, deep and gravelly. His cock pushes at the thin skin of your neck, flesh bulging as he settles your nose in the thatch of hair at his pubic bone, heavy sack pressing lewdly atop your gurgling mouth with every rut of his hips.

Bubbles of spit ooze from the corners of your stretched lips and then you're suddenly blinded by white light. The flash of a phone camera crowds your vision and Rafe doubles down, hips pistoning against your slack face as he groans and grunts, degrading insults pouring from his mouth.

"Dirty slut, all you're good for 's takin' dick, right? Just a filthy little hole for me to use when 'm bored."

You purl and choke around him in an effort to voice your complaints, but all it seems to do is spur him on further.

"G'na have this throat trained in no time, kid. You're my personal cocksleeve from now on."

He wrenches himself away despite being seemingly on the precipice of blowing his load; you gasp and whimper as he turns to prop the still recording phone on the dresser behind him, twisting a large handful of your mussed hair around his hand and dragging you across the expanse of the king sized bed. Your neck contorts in an odd sort of manner as he positions you with your head hanging upside-down from the side of the plush mattress. It gives him ample leverage to use you without care; he's not bothered if you pass out, he'll use you either way.

It's rough, borderline abusive, how he fucks your throat. Hard and fast and unrelenting despite your almost continuous retching and slapping feebly at his thick thighs. The bulge in the divot of the soft flesh only becomes more prominent, his spongy head pushing from the inside as though it's trying to rip through you.

His hand reaches between his own legs to plug your nostrils and a menacing chuckle hits your ears as your vision blurs and your eyes lose focus and roll to the back of your skull.

He lets up just as you're on the cusp of unconsciousness, dick never leaving your warm cavern as he reaches blindly behind him for the phone. Forearms dig cruelly into your ribcage as he props himself up and zooms the camera in on your sopping, swollen cunt, parting your petal soft lips and slipping two fingers inside to bully another orgasm from you.

"If I were you, Maybank, I'd have never given up this tight cunt," Rafe rasps. "Fucked the poor thing dumb, already. 'M keeping her."

He presses send before you can protest- not that you'll ever be able to. You'll be too cockdrunk to ever notice what he's done.

[bunni-v1]

Eating up your Harumasa content about him and cockwarming, May I request more of that pls🙏🏻Maybe some (consensual) somno as well👉🏻👈🏻

🍓I kept this in the drafts until baby girl came out! Happy Haru release day my loves <3 I hope you all enjoy him as much as I do!!! I fleshed out the original post into a full piece, so I hope you don't mind too much my love. Didn't do the somno unfortunately, just couldn't fit it in naturally.

Minors DNI!!

TW: NSFW; Grammar errors; Written pre-story quest so inaccuracies are bound to appear <3

Info: Harumasa x Reader; Fem bodied reader; They/them pronouns/ you/yours

Harumasa had a long day. You can hear it from the kitchen, the way his feet drag against the floor and the grunts he lets out as he fights off his shoes. You hear him cuss them out after they thump against the hardwood of your shared entrance. Then his feet drag their way all the way to you, finally slumping over your shoulder with the most relieved sigh.

The way he acts, it seems like he just came back from an unending war. That wasn't the case, of course, it was more likely that Yanagi asked him to do his portion of paperwork and he just didn't want to do it. (Then he would proceed to do not only his but also finish Yanagi's and Miyabi's if he saw fit.) His arms wrap around your waist, and he hums happily. It's cute enough that you set down the knife you were using to run your fingers through his pretty silky black hair, turning and pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"Hello, my love," you coo, "How was work."

It takes him a moment to respond as if he was soaking in the words fully before yellow eyes peered up at you, "Mmm, long... and hard."

You're too late to catch the innuendo, and his hands have already slid up from your stomach to give your chest a squeeze. Simultaneously, he pulls you back into him, and you feel that he is in fact long and hard. It draws a gasp from your lips, which satisfies him into sighing against your skin.

"Harumasa," you deadpan, pulling at his hands which won't budge for anything, as always.

He doesn't humor you with a response, pressing heated kisses up and down your neck. It's a tactic he loves to use, buttering you up just so he can get what he wants. It was infuriatingly effective. Still, you were in the middle of making dinner for him. Certainly, he could let you finish doing that.

You manage to push his head away from your neck, which has him whining like a child, but you don't relent and he finally pulls back enough so you can look at him. "We need to eat, Haru."

"I was getting to it," he quips back, smirking that annoyingly cute smirk.

"We need to eat food," You insist, gesturing to the half-made meal on the countertop.

He pouts at it like it was personally offending him just by existing. Then you see him go over the ingredients, and his face lights up just a little. You were making his favorite, figuring it would be a nice treat after a long week at work. Spoiling him was one of your favorite pastimes, after all.

Conflict arises in his pretty yellow eyes, and you watch him debate whether he'd prefer eating you out or eating your homemade cooking more. He comes to his decision by pulling away from you, a deceptively innocent smile on his face.

"Alright, I'll let you finish up," he hums, leaning against the countertop next to you.

You raise an unimpressed eyebrow at him, "But...?"

"Mmm," he taps his chin, feigning consideration and you already know what he's going to ask, "You have to cockwarm me while we watch a movie!"

Of course. It was his favorite thing in the world, especially after a long workday and a good meal. Most weeks ended like this, but it didn't bother you too much. It wasn't a bad deal for you, as annoying as he was about it.

You don't give him a direct answer, simply sighing and turning back to working on the food, "What movie did you have in mind...?"

✦ ⎯⎯ㅤִㅤ୭ ୨♡୧ ৎㅤִ ⎯⎯ ✦

Dinner isn't as relaxed as you wanted, not with Harumasa practically squirming in excitement across from you. You do your best to pretend it's not happening, eating the food you prepared and mentally preparing yourself for the night you have ahead of you. He practically bounds to the living room when you finish, and you know once you finish cleaning up he won't have the patience to wait any longer.

It was childish, but you couldn't help but find it cute. He rarely allowed himself to be this carefree, so indulging him was the least you could do. So you set the last of the dishes in the sink and make your way to the living room, sighing at the sight of him already palming his hard-on through his work pants.

When he notices you there he gives you a lopsided grin, patting his thigh with his free hand. He works his belt and pants open, and it gives you the idea that maybe you should mess around with him too. It was supposed to be fun for both of you after all, right?

He pouts at you when you don't immediately swing your legs over his lap like an obedient dog, jerking his neglected member in his hands a few times for emphasis. You snort at the sight, patting his thigh reassuringly before turning around to face the TV. You hear him let out an annoyed grunt that catches in his throat when you slowly slide your pants over your hips, around the fat of your ass, and finally down the meat of your thighs until it hits the floor.

He grabs at one of the cheeks, humming appreciatively to himself as the digits sink into the fat, "Maybe we should cut the movie altogether..."

You tut at him, swatting his hands away to give him the same show with your underwear. He inhales deeply at the sight of your glistening pussy, exactly the reaction you wanted. With a playful smirk, you turn and slide your legs on either side of him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

"You're being a brat~" He sings in your ear, lining himself up with your entrance.

You pout innocently, "You didn't like the show?"

He doesn't humor you with an answer, instead guiding your hips down until you are fully seated on his dick. It stung a little not being properly prepped, but you had all the time in the world to adjust. Harumasa loved taking his time with things like these, after all.

He leans over to grab the remote to the DVD player and starts the movie. It's some stupid family film from over a decade ago about mutant rodents saving the world or something like that. You were never too interested in stuff like that, but Harumasa always brought those kinds of films home for cockwarming. Why, you had no clue, but they were delightful distractions.

The beginning is always the easiest for you. It's all nice and pleasant as you adjust to the stretch. You're able to rest your head on his chest and peer over your shoulder at the movie. He's surprisingly cold, which soothes the raging heat that builds in your core. His hands rest against your sides patiently, lying in wait for whenever he decides he's grown bored of the movie.

Perhaps that's why it's so easy because the start is mostly skinship. Harumasa may be a tease, but he does love having you close like this. It's almost innocent if only his cock wasn't buried inside you as deep as it would go.

It starts getting hard when his hands start moving around, which is where you're at right now. They slide from their place on your waist down to your ass, rubbing and squeezing the skin like a stress ball. Then they'll find their way to your thighs, dancing along the meat of them and running his thumbs over the tops before falling back to your ass and repeating the process.

You shiver, stiffening up in his lap as he repeats the motion for the millionth time. An unexpected sharp pain erupts from your ass, and it takes your brain a second to process that he has smacked you. You pull back to glare at him, and he returns the look with an innocent smile, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

"I can't pay attention to the movie with you squirming like that," he scolds lightly, pressing you back into his shoulder.

You fight the urge to grumble back a 'neither can I', and instead try not to focus on the ever-increasing heat in your groin. It's much easier said than done, as each little twitch from either of you gives you a painful reminder that he's balls deep inside you and you can't do anything about it. He laughs at something in the movie and it travels from his chest right through his dick and into your weeping cunt.

You give up on paying attention to the movie at that point, deciding trembling into his shoulder was a better alternative than pretending you were fine. You nose the column of his throat with shaky breaths, burrowing yourself into his shoulder with a pathetic sigh.

He coos at you, running his fingers through your hair in what's meant to be comfort. You know he's just doing it to annoy you, though. Your spine tingles as his fingers tug a little at the hair, your pussy clenching around him in favor. He groans, pulling a little harder to get you to look at him.

Again, you see something like contemplation behind his eyes, then he smiles at you. His hand comes down from your hair to press your neck forward, and he locks lips with you. You sigh happily into the kiss, not realizing how desperately you'd wanted the attention until now. It seems he knows that, with the way he smirks into the kiss before gliding his tongue across your lip.

You happily give him the access he craves, humming as his tongue slips in and pressing against yours. He tastes bitter, like the medicine he takes every day, but the taste is welcome from your neglected body. You graze your fingers against his collarbone and he finally reacts, pressing his hips up into yours before correcting himself.

As if knowing you'd try it, his hands firmly pressed you to him, not allowing you to move. You whine into his mouth, and he pulls away to smile at you, head leaning against the back of the couch. His face is red, but he looks so satisfied which almost makes the torture worth it.

Deciding you can't handle how pretty he is, you lean down to litter warm kisses against his neck. He sighs, lulling his head to the side to give you better access. You suck at the pretty skin, nibbling on whatever your lips can find. You feel the effect it has on him, dick twitching inside you with each new mark you leave. He continues to run his fingers through your hair, humming contentedly as you service him.

It's when you get to his collarbones that he pauses you, pulling your face up to his. He presses a sweet little kiss to your nose, causing you to giggle. He tilts his head to the side, running a finger along your cheek, "How was your day, baby?"

You respond softly to his musing, answering all his questions about your day. Then, in the middle of telling him about what your boss made you do that day, you feel it. His hands very slowly ease your hips into a short, circular movement. You choke on the words, shuddering at the sensation. It felt... so good, you forgot how to think for a moment as your neglected pussy throbs at the attention.

Harumasa tilts his head at you, though he's smirking, "What was that?"

You stutter out the rest of your response, hardly coherent, but it satisfies him nonetheless. He continues to work you against him at the same slow and easy pace, a master of making things long and drawn out.

Those fingers that had been steadily controlling the pace, slide under your shirt to rake against your ribs. Bunching the fabric up along with your bra and tugging it off your body. Your skin pebbles in the cold air of your apartment, and his hands are quick to glide over it to heat it up. He lets out a low whistle at the sight of your tits, hands immediately cupping them like they belonged there.

Your hips stutter at the new sensation, earning you a look from him that makes you return to the previously set rhythm. Without breaking eye contact, he leans forward to kiss over your chest. Even at the awkward angle, he manages to rub every sensitive spot deep inside you, all while sucking pretty red marks into your hot flesh.

He keeps that up for a long while, ensuring that neither of you can cum until he wants you to. It's sweet sweet torture. The pleasure curls up in your gut, unable to release but somehow forever building up.

All at once his head lulls back and his oh-so-steady rhythm suddenly becomes unreliable. His hips stutter against his beat, but he keeps up that slow pace as best as he can. His hand comes down to roll your clit under his thumb, and you finally feel yourself building to your orgasm. He's close too.

"Baby," he whines, gripping your hip tightly, "lemme stuff you, please? I'll getcha plan b in the morning, jus' lemme this once."

He always says that. Not that you're coherent enough to remind him of that fact. All you can think of is how badly you wanna cum, and how you'll say yes to anything to reach that high. So you awkwardly bob your head in a 'yes' motion.

His eyes roll back and he groans, picking up his pace finally. Your hips rut into his with a fervor you didn't know you were capable of. You slump forward, moaning into his shoulder unabashedly. The coil in your stomach twists and twists until it finally snaps.

At the same time, you feel his warm hot cum flood your insides. His cock twitches with each release, and your walls tighten around it almost encouraging the action. His chest rises and falls in succession with yours, fingers curling in your hair soothing both of you.

Your eyes slowly drift closed at the gentle sensation, sighing happily into his shoulder. He presses kisses to your temple, but you know he's just as spent as you are. Neither of you would be leaving the couch, not that it was a problem when he tugged one of your throw blankets across your back, pulling you down into a much more comfortable sideways position.

You drift off with his dick still inside you, the warm sensation of his cum inside you calling you to rest. You always sleep well on nights like these, wrapped up in one another.

[mydear-corinthian]

trouble sleeping

synopsis: you're having a hard time sleeping and spencer helps you

pairing: spencer reid x reader

warnings: SMUT 18+, fingering, implied insomnia, praise kink

notes: short <w.c 1000 | ib: natt-ice's p-link | divider by lavendergalactic

main masterlist | criminal minds masterlist

Sheets ruffling. Bed moving. Annoyed groans.

The gentle rustling noises behind him woke Spencer. He was startled out of his half-slumber by the little shuffle of movement and the rustle of blankets. With a sleepy blink, he rolled over and watched you squirming around to find a comfortable position. You shifted the pillows with a groan and fidgeted under the blankets, clearly frustrated.

"Hey, why are you still awake?" Spencer murmured, his voice thick with sleep as he propped himself up on one elbow. His body was now fully facing yours, eyes tracing the silhouette of your restless form in the dim light.

You mumbled, "I can't sleep," in a frustrated tone. "God, this is so annoying!" You pushed a cushion beneath your legs in an attempt to relieve some of the pain after yanking another pillow from the head of the bed but still no avail.

Spencer didn’t immediately respond. He just watched you, his gaze lingering on the frustration playing across your features. A soft scoff slipped from his lips, barely audible.

You let out a low groan as you shifted once more, desperate for some relief. The bed felt too warm, too cold, the sheets too tight, or too loose—nothing felt right. "Fuck this," you muttered, the words a bitter release, your head sinking into the pillow in exasperation.

After a few minutes of your boyfriend watching you suffer, he spoke up. "I have an idea. Statistics shows that you can sleep immediately after you exercise."

"Exercise?" your head rise a bit, looking at him questionably with the smirk that's planted in his face. "What exercise are you exactly talking about?"

Spencer smirked, perhaps enjoying the moment, but he didn't respond. He suddenly grasped your face with his palm, his thumb gliding over your cheek, his lips pressing softly but passionately against yours. Before you could fully comprehend what was happening, a breathless "oh" escaped your lips as a wave of warmth swept through you. You immediately put your arms around his neck and drew him in, kissing him more deeply as you both got caught up in the intimacy and the outside world faded.

"Mhm—" you let out a moan as his tongue worked with yours. Your fingers made its way to his hair, curling it in pleasure and then to his topless back.

The kiss was full of love, closeness, and lust. Spencer's lips pressed against yours, a mix of urgency and tenderness that sent shivers down your spine. As he deepened the kiss, his fingers began their slow, deliberate journey from your neck, trailing down to your stomach, exploring the soft curves of your body.

"May I?" Spencer asked softly as his hand rested on your shirt. You nodded in response and Spencer didn't hesitate to remove your t-shirt, leaving your bare chest exposed. He smiled at the sight before kissing you again.

"Spence.." you whispered. "Mhm—"

"Yes, baby?" he said in between kisses but you just moaned in response. "I need you to use your words, baby."

Your eyes pleaded, thighs shaking. "Need you, please.." you cried.

Spencer chuckled, bringing his fingers down to your white-laced panties before removing them slowly. His index finger rolled down to your sensitive clit, drawing figure of eights.

"Spencer— aah," you moaned, holding his upper arm tightly as you felt pleasure slowly waving towards you.

"So wet.. and sensitive, my love," he cooed.

As he slowly inserted a finger inside of you, you let out a gasp that echoed the shock and joy that filled your body. As the world around you seemed to melt away, your head sank back, giving in to the waves of pleasure that swept over you. Even though it was only a finger, it lit a fire inside of you. You spread your legs wider as he added another digit, pumping it in and out in a slow but steady pace. He held you tightly, your head resting on his other arm as he finger fucked you.

After a few more, Spencer's pace speeded up, hitting that spongy spot that made your back arch. "Aah— Spence—Fuck! Yes, yes, yes—" you chanted his name like a damn saint as you started to see stars when you closed your eyes.

"You like that, yeah?"

"Yes, Spen— aah!"

As he pumped in deeper, his lips catched yours. You kissed him back with full force while moaning in between kisses. The pleasure was overflowing.. and so was you.

Your core ached and clenched on Spencer's slenders. A familiar feeling coiled up your lower stomach, causing you to fully shot your eyes down and moan like crazy. Your legs shaked as his pace was getting harsher.

"I'm close," you ached.

"It's alright, baby," Spencer smiled as he purposely hit his palm on your clit. "I'm here, mhm? Cum on my fingers. Can you do that for me?"

After a few more, you came. His fingers were stained with your juices. You panted like a crazy madman as your legs collapsed.

Spencer pulled his fingers out and focused his eyes on you. Smiling, he kissed you again but this time, passionately.

"Remind me how that can make me fall asleep quickly?" you asked with a tired but satisfied sigh.

"Your body releases hormones like dopamine and oxytocin. They're responsible for making you feel less stressed, more comfortable, and can actually help you sleep. There's a saying, "It's the only sleeping pill with no side effects."

Spencer pulled the comforter up and tucked you in, smiling. "Thanks, Spence," you whispered as you kissed him on his cheek.

"Anytime, princess," he replied before the two of you dozed off, hugging each other tightly.

The next few days, you started to use this excuse on Spencer to get that pleasure that you want.

[indulgentdaydream]

How do you think Jason Todd sleeps, like sleeping positions

I'm so glad you asked

also i'm treating this as x reader hope you don't mind

actually i'm going to go off on a tangent first

jason is trained to be as silent as possible. not to draw attention to himself when he doesn't need to. he may be built like a fucking unit/ a militarized fridge, but he knows how to be quiet

that's why i don't think that when he has nightmares that he's waking up screaming/flailing around/punching air. Sure, he's panicking, but he's so used to keeping that under wraps that the most he'll wake up with in a small gasp. maybe a jolt.

after he's awake, of course, is when the panicking starts, the heavy breathing, the sitting up, the pacing, the crying, what not.

(i'm speaking from my own experience. I have consistent nightmares. I've been raised to never make a sound as to not bother others. At most I wake up with a deep breath and pushing myself up onto my elbows.)

now that we have THAT out of the way.

jason, by himself, DEFINITELY spreads out wide on whatever surface he's sleeping on

that man is only sleeping when he's on the verge of passing out.

most times, before dating you, he would get back from patrol, shuck his helmet and armour off, then just belly flop onto the nearest, softest surface and be OUT for a minimum of six hours

sometimes it was the floor. safehouses aren't always furnished

poor guy would usually forget to brush his teeth, too

he meets you and within the next few days goes to the dentist for the first time in a while because he wants to look and be good so you'll like him back

baby had 16 cavities :(

ANYWAYS

with you? good luck moving

he's gotta be touching you in some way. whether he's fully wrapped around you, spooning you, head tucked into your hair/the back of your neck when it's cold, trying to both keep you warm and steal some of your warmth

or a simple hand on your stomach/back/arm/thigh when it's too hot to be fully cuddling

he just needs to know you're still there and that you didn't leave him in the middle of the night

he's insecure :( leave him alone

actually do the opposite marry that man and never let him go

occasionally will let you spoon him, but he doesn't necessarily like it because he feels like he's very closed to being suffocated

loves when you lay on his chest though! he can easily push you off if it gets too much, but for some reason it feels more weighted blanket than suffocation by pillow to the face.

let him lay on your chest as well.

maybe not all the way. he'll keep only half of his weight on you when doing so.

he's SUCH a stomach sleeper. only sleeps on his back when in unfamiliar places. easier to get up that way.

y'all have any kind of animal? you're coming home to find him napping with them wherever. bed? check. floor? more than once. if it's a dog, dog bed? you're chiding him because you now how filthy that thing can become.

he's a sleeperrrrr

let him sleep

help him get rid of his eyebags by giving him some warm milk and tucking him in

100% played with your hair one night while falling asleep and now needs to do it every night otherwise he has a hard time

[bruhstories]

Muse I

p.2 && p.3

summary: after futile attempts of producing paintings for the councillors of piltover, you finally find your muse. pairing: viktor x painter!reader warnings: suggestive content, strangers to friends-ish, angst, some swearing, afab!reader with she/her pronouns who wears skirts and dresses, somewhat canon divergent, particularly in part 2 w/c: 4k

a/n: this might be my magnum opus lol. it will come with a part 2. likes and reblogs are much appreciated and encouraged!

Paint dripped on the marble floor of your atelier — an unfortunate safety hazard that you were used to by now. You couldn't fill in the blank canvas with anything other than still life, despite being commissioned to paint portraits of every councillor, as well as a landscape of Piltover. But you lacked inspiration. Motivation. You had no muse, and councillor Salo definitely wasn't one, not with his snobbish attitude. 

"I'm afraid we'll have to postpone your portrait, Councillor." You excused yourself and left the room, armed with nothing but a sketchbook and a dull pencil.

Piltover was a beautiful city, and you knew you could paint it if you just found a nice spot to view it from. Somewhere high above, where you could see it in its entirety. But until you found that perfect place, you roamed the streets, closely observing the architecture, the flora, the fauna. You walked on grass — you weren't sure it was allowed — and found a fountain, clear water trickling down the granite curves and slopes. Whoever sculpted it did a brilliant job, despite the water eroding the stone. In fact, the erosion added a certain charm to it.

You took your sandals off and sat down on a patch of grass to sketch the fountain, steady, so as to not mess up your drawing, even if it was just a guideline for your future painting. It was then when you saw him — the most beautiful creature you ever laid eyes on. His unkempt chestnut brown hair framed his face in a way that made your heart flutter, but his striking amber eyes had you hooked. Even from such a distance you could see the yellow and orange hues mixing in his irises. 

Quickly flipping the page of your sketchbook, you began to draw him. Graphite slid up and down the parchment as your hand moved naturally, like it had a mind of its own. You sketched and shaded, not stopping until he did. Until another man joined him, effectively blocking your vision. No matter, your visual memory aided you in finishing the drawing, but you didn't stop there. You found your muse, and you needed to paint him.

Your nights grew restless as you juggled between painting Piltover, the councillors, and him. But he inspired you somehow, leaving only Councillor Medarda, half of the landscape, and his portrait unfinished. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't get the colour of his eyes right, and it drove you mad. You couldn't remember exactly how much yellow you needed, or how much red. Was there a hint of green? Did you need to add a drop of blue? 

A soft knock on the door of your atelier startled you, and you opened it, greeting Councillor Medarda. You forgot she was due for her portrait, and invited her into your messy chamber.

"My apologies, Councillor, I didn't have the time to tidy up." 

"It's quite alright. I prefer this — the raw, unfiltered creativity. Besides, I've never met an artist that's organised." She smiled. "May I?"

"Of course." You nodded, bringing her more canvases and sketches to look at.

"You truly are gifted. The colours, the highlights, you must be a prodigy." The councillor nodded. "Is that-"

You snatched the paper from her hand, clutching it at your chest.

"Sorry, that one's... personal." 

"Funny. I thought I recognised that man." She pondered, and the gears in your head rotated. 

"If you do know him, could you introduce us?" You chewed on your lower lip, then left to show her another one of your paintings. "I just can't get his eyes right."

"Viktor." Councillor Medarda gasped at the sheer hard work you put into the portrait. "You weren't commissioned to do this."

"Like I said, it's personal. Practice." You swiftly corrected yourself. "Yes, good practice."

"I suppose I could take you to his lab. A fair warning — you might have to bring your supplies there, because he will never leave his work to pose for a painting." She scoffed. 

"I can figure something out."

Mel Medarda kept her promise after what seemed to be an eternity. Although you hadn't finished her portrait, you managed to paint a good chunk of it, laying down all the base colours and shapes. She would have to come back another day, however. You walked with her, closely trailing behind with a box full of paints, brushes and thick paper. You didn't bring his portrait with you yet, because you needed to assess him first, and you couldn’t paint anywhere else but your atelier. Sketching was different — that you could do anywhere, at any time. But painting was intimate. However, you were considering making an exception for him.

"Goor afternoon, Jayce." Councillor Medarda greeted a very cheerful, very lovestruck scientist. 

You could clearly see that he was doting on her, and she tried to hide her own excitement while maintaining a professional persona. It was cute to see a respectable scientist and a reputable councillor behave like teenagers — her hitched breath, his voice cracking, the quiver of her lip, the twinkle in his eyes — they were adorable. But you were here for someone else, not to witness their blooming love in a cold lab.

"Ahem." You cleared your throat inconspicuously, feigning a cough, and she remembered her promise.

"Jayce, this is Y/N. She's been commissioned to paint portraits of the councillors. Y/N, this is Jayce Talis, scholar, scientist, politician." Mel said, and you reached out your hand to shake Jayce's while propping the box in your hand with your knee.

"Nice to meet you, miss." His grip was firm around your fingers and palm. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The councillor stifled a chuckle, her thin, delicate fingers covering her mouth. As always, Jayce thought himself to be the centre of attention. He was the centre of her attention, that much was certain.

"She's here for Viktor. Have you seen him?"

"Viktor, yes." Jayce awkwardly rubbed the back of his head, then looked at the crate in your arms. "Do you need a hand?"

"Thank you, Mr. Talis, but these materials are quite precious to me. I'd rather hold them myself, if you don't mind." You gripped the box tighter. 

Jayce found it amusing how fond you were of your paintings supplies, something you had in common with Viktor. He, too, was possessive of his work, in an incredibly stubborn, annoying way.

"Very well. Follow me." The scientist said, and you and councillor Medarda walked down a corridor of marble and limestone.

In classic Piltover architecture, golden columns decorated the tall walls, with blue spheres embedded in them, contrasting the polished white floor. Whoever designed it had a keen eye for details, you thought. Jayce and Mel partook in small talk, but you didn't intrude. You much preferred memorising the way to the laboratory, the number of stairs, and the motifs on the walls.

Two wooden doors stood in front of you, intimidatingly tall. Jayce opened one of them, inviting you and councillor Medarda in first, like the gentleman he was. You were taken aback by the materials on the worktops, the tools, the lights, the runes. It was a lot to take in, and you wouldn't understand what you were taking in exactly. But behind the tables full of hammers, screwdrivers and wrenches was your muse. He was focused on something, brows furrowed and lips pursed. A tiny bead of sweat trickled down his temple, slowly reaching his jawline, and you instinctively licked your chapped lips. 

"Vik!" Jayce called out, but the man offered no response, still concentrating on whatever he was doing. "You'll have to excuse him. When he's working, he seems unable to hear."

You smiled — it was a trait you both shared. Whenever you immersed yourself in painting, you couldn't pay attention to your surroundings. 

"Viktor!" Jayce moved closer to the table, snapping his fingers in Viktor's face, until the man scoffed.

"Yes?" Voice laced with irritation, he finally looked up at Jayce, then behind him. "Oh."

"Viktor, this is Y/N. She's an artist." Mel's hand reached out, and with a nod, you stepped forward, placing the heavy crate on an empty chair.

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I... well, how shall I put it?" You rummaged through the box and pulled out your first sketch of Viktor. "I would like to paint you."

He took the paper from your hand, amber eyes wide at the beauty of it. Viktor scanned the sketch and every detail that went into it, pale cheeks tinted pink.

"I understand if you find this awkward, or if you don't agree." You carried on, but there wasn't an ounce of emotion on his face.

"When did you do this?" Viktor asked, still staring at himself. It was like looking into a mirror, yet he couldn't recognise himself.

"A few days ago, by the fountain." You tried to guess his feelings, but he didn't let you see them. "Again, I understand you probably consider me strange for doing this, but I must paint you, sir."

"I'm flattered, miss. But perhaps Jayce would be a better candidate? You'll find he is much more appealing to the eye." He handed you back the sketch.

You glanced at Jayce, a look of disgust on your face that you tried to hide. Sure, he was objectively attractive, that you could agree on, but you didn't want that. You wanted him. You wanted your muse.

"I think it would be a great idea, Vik!" Jayce beamed at his partner. "You need a break."

"That is precisely what I don't need." Viktor rolled his eyes. "Besides, I don't want to leave my lab."

"I could do it here." You offered. "I won't talk, I won't disturb you, you won't even know I'm here."

"It's already crammed."

"Please." You leaned forward, palms slammed on his table, trying to get a better look at his eyes. You probably looked insane like that, but you didn't care — you were desperate. "If you don't like it, you can hide it, break it, burn it. It will be yours to do as you please."

Viktor was past the point of being irked. He was downright furious, but he had to shut you up somehow. And Jayce, who really needed to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face.

"Fine." He mentally scolded himself for agreeing to do something so stupid. Posing for a painting? Ridiculous. 

"Thank you so much. This means the world to me!" You picked up the crate to find an unused spot in the lab. 

Viktor didn't mind your presence. You were true to your word — quiet. You didn't ask questions, didn't walk around the lab, didn't make him sit in some egregious position. In fact, he was surprised to see just how focused you were on your paintings. The fact that he didn't pose made it difficult for you to do a portrait — the whole point of it was for your model to sit still. And he did, just with his back at you, slouched and avoidant.

And you weren't always there. Bouncing between your atelier and the lab, between sleepless nights and painting, your schedule had become hectic. The bags under your eyes and poorly buttoned shirts, the strands of hair that stuck out from your updo, or the lines of green and blue on your cheeks were a dead giveaway. 

But Viktor was the exact same, missing only the paint on his face and the skirt. You were like two peas in a pod, so much so that it drove Jayce up the walls to practically have two Viktors in the lab. Stubborn, hard-working, irritable, he found it ridiculous that you didn't become friends yet, or at least something more than strangers, considering how similar you were.

But you weren't strangers.

The act of transcribing one's mind, body and soul onto canvas, without losing any tiny detail in translation, was intimate in itself. You had to study Viktor, to memorise his gestures, his quirks — the way his forehead creased when he focused, how he found comfort in gripping the handle of his cane, the twinkle in his eyes when he had a brilliant idea. You didn't need words to understand him.

At first, he found it odd. Having an intruder in his lab, in the only place that brought him comfort, joy and privacy, felt violating. It definitely didn't help that you kept a close eye on him. He understood why — you needed to look at him to be able to paint him. But it was, naturally, strange. Then, he became used to you, to your shadow, your scent — of roses, cinnamon, a hint of vanilla. Viktor never grew tired of the smell of copper and smoke, but whenever you walked past him in the afternoon to set up your easel and paints and brushes, he took a very deep breath in, just to oxygenate his brain with your scent.

The utter silence in the laboratory frustrated Jayce. Since you trespassed with their consent, his partner became quieter, and you barely uttered a good morning or goodbye. He really hoped you being there would help Viktor socialise, but it did the opposite. The sound of graphite scraping on paper, or bristles on canvas was the only thing he heard in days. It was too much.

"I need a break." Jayce slammed a screwdriver on the table, startling you, but Viktor was unmoved by the sudden rattle. "Viktor?"

"I'm fine." His partner waved his hand dismissively. 

"Y/N?" 

You set the brush aside, then cracked your knuckles. It had been hours since you had a drink or food.

"I'll take a break. I can't be efficient if I burn out, and I still need to finish the landscape." You got up from the wooden stool to stretch.

Behind the cogs and tools, Viktor glanced at you, amber eyes fixated on your neck, trailing down your collarbone, and your half-exposed chest. He didn't know when you unbuttoned your collar, or when you bunched up your skirt, but the clothes looked like an uncomfortable confinement on you. Like they stopped your body from flowing naturally. He wondered — an intrusive, improper, shameful thought — if you sometimes painted naked. If you were more creative when not clothed. But he shook the thought away when you walked around his table to the small stove behind him.

"Would you like some tea, Mr. Scientist?"

Viktor had forgotten how sweet your voice was, like a siren lulling sailors to their demise. He nodded, back facing you. He didn't dare to look at you after picturing you nude.

"Where did you study?" Jayce asked, and you really wanted Viktor to make that sort of small talk with you.

"Ionia, the Academy of Arts." You stirred the honey in Viktor's cup of tea.

"Mel tells me you're quite talented." Jayce complimented you, and you should've thanked him. 

"Talent is nothing without hard work, Mr. Talis, as I'm sure you already knew, given your career."

Viktor smiled, even if you couldn't see him. He wholeheartedly agreed with you — even if both him and Jayce were geniuses in their fields, they wouldn't have accomplished anything without sheer hard work and dedication. 

"You need to stop calling us Mr. Talis and Mr. Scientist." Jayce chuckled. "You've been in our lab for weeks now. You're part of the team."

"I wouldn't say part of the team, but I do appreciate the company. I can be quite lonely in my atelier." You placed the Viktor's tea on his table.

He couldn't help but feel a slight jab from your words. He, too, was lonely when Jayce left. But he didn't make an effort not to be. Work was more important, and he hadn't yet found anything to prioritise more than that. Jayce pulled out his pocket watch, and froze.

"Shit, I must go. I'm late to my date- my meeting. Sorry, Vik. Be right back! "

"Eeh, we both know these meetings take some time." Viktor grinned.

It wasn't the first time the two of you were alone in the laboratory, but it always happened when you were both working. You, however, were taking a break, and you needed it before returning to your portrait. Sitting in complete silence, you sipped on your tea, brainstorming ideas for the title of your painting. Viktor's Portrait didn't have a nice ring to it.

"You never asked to see it." You spoke, fingers wrapped around the warm mug, interrupting him for the first time.

He didn't, because he only agreed to it to shut you and Jayce up. He was never curious to see it finished, let alone in progress. But after spending weeks in your presence, and after you said that, he couldn't deny the curiosity that bubbled in his chest. Still, by this point, he could wait a few more weeks.

"I don't have any inclinations towards the arts, Miss Painter." Viktor playfully mocked the way you called him Mr. Scientist for so long. "I doubt any feedback I give will be useful."

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Why were there two wrenches on his table? And two cogs? Two cups of tea? No, he was seeing double, his head was pounding, ears ringing. Viktor reached out for his cane, but when he took one step, his legs wobbled, refusing to support him. You caught him, a firm grasp around his forearm, and pulled the nearest chair for him to sit down after setting aside your mug.

"I suppose I am in need of a break, too." The scientist sighed.

Lately he had been looking paler, thinner. His clothes didn't fit him like they used too, trousers loose around his waist, held only by a leather belt. You brought his cane before he even asked you for it, and dug into your bag for food. Unwrapping the muslin cloth, you offered him your lunch — bread, cheese and a few dried fruits. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. 

"Eat, please." You encouraged him, breaking the bread in small bites. 

"No, it's your food."

"And I'm giving it to you." The stern tone of your voice had him oblige. 

"I've wondered, Miss Painter-"

"Y/N." You corrected him.

"Right, Y/N. I've wondered why did you want to paint me?" He asked after swallowing the food. "I'm a broken scientist, surely you could do better with your models."

"I am doing better." You pulled a chair for yourself. "I haven't had any inspiration in a very long time, despite being commissioned to paint fairly simple things. But then I saw you, and everything changed. Like it or not, Viktor, you became my muse that day."

"Well, I'm flattered. Truly." He winced at the weight of his brace around his calf. "I need to take this off. Too tight." Viktor bent over but his vision blurred, forcing him to lean back in the chair.

"I'll do it."

"Please, I don't need pity. Just to rest." He scoffed.

"It's not pity, it's help."

"Help because you pity me." 

"Help because I want to help. Have you never experienced honesty from people?" You kneeled down between his legs to get a better look at his brace.

His jaw clenched at the sight of you like that. It has been too long since he touched someone, and although your intentions were pure, he could not block his sinful thoughts from tainting his mind. You were beautiful, clever, and you shouldn't waste your time with someone like him. Yet there you were, nimble fingers working the leather straps of his brace. You pulled it off, resting it against the table behind you.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" You looked up at him, and he drowned in your doe eyes.

Oh, there were plenty of things you could do for him, he just couldn't utter them, only imagine them.

"No, I'll just rest here if that's alright with you." Viktor nodded.

"Very well. I shall get back to my painting, but please, if you need any help, tell me."

When Jayce returned, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. You were meticulously combining colours, eyeballing the necessary amount you needed to create the shades you desired. Viktor was back at his table, brace around his leg and a chair closer to him. And it was quiet, normal.

Days of hard work proved fulfilling — you had finished the landscape of Piltover, handed the portraits to each councillor, and got paid. There were other requests that you received, but they could be postponed. You were so close to finishing Viktor's portrait, and you didn't need to do it in his lab anymore, only adding minor details.

But you couldn't just gift it unframed, and so you bought a simple wooden frame that you painted yourself to match the portrait. Purple and golden. You signed it and added something only the Academy of Arts in Ionia taught — a magical rune. Focusing your intentions in it, visualising the magic in the painting, you wrapped the canvas and took it to the laboratory. 

Jayce wasn't there, and you were so grateful for that, because you wanted Viktor to see it privately. You wanted to cherish that moment, just the two of you. Opening the tall wooden doors that you were so familiar with, you walked into the lab, portrait in your hands. Viktor was shocked to see you look so well put together — a dark green dress and heels that clicked with each step on the cold stone floor. He had seen you at your worst, face covered in paint and fingertips darkened by coal and graphite. But now he had the privilege to see you at your best, he thought. 

"It is done." The smile on your lips was contagious. 

His long fingers touched the twine knot around the canvas, almost afraid to untie it and look at the portrait, but your encouraging, eager eyes stopped him from hesitating. Viktor pulled on the string and unwrapped the paper, looking at himself. But he was different. His hair was longer, silver mixed in his brown locks. A purple cloak was wrapped around him, with golden adornments, and his cane was a staff, the handle circular and matching the golden in his outfit. The dark background was lightened by pale yellow shapes and lines, and his eyes were identical, the same amber hues he saw when he looked in a mirror.

"Have you thought of a name?" Viktor asked, still shook by how beautiful he was in that portrait.

"The Herald." You nodded.

The painting belonged in a museum, not in his bedroom to collect dust. He examined every detail, even the frame that was in harmony with him. Was that how you saw him? Like a god?

"I honestly don't know what to say. It's beautiful." Viktor's eyes narrowed down on the small rune in the corner of the canvas. "What is that?"

"Magic." You grinned. "At the Academy they taught us to weave magic into our art."

"Magic? What for?"

"Hopefully to help you get better."

"I'm afraid that is impossible, Miss Painter. But I do appreciate the thought." Viktor offered you a bittersweet smile. "How may I repay you?"

"By doing me the honour of modelling for me." You folded your arms across your chest.

"Didn't I just do that?" He snorted.

"No, you worked. I would like to study you more. Your features are unique, Viktor."

"That one I have never been called. Weak, broken, handicapped, but unique is a new one." Viktor sighed. "I think you've had enough fun, Miss Painter. I won't be an object of mockery."

You were stunned. Did he honestly think you were making fun of him? That you spent countless days and nights painting him just to ridicule him? That you lost sleep and hurt your fingers just to insult him? No. He was insulting you.

"Very well." You straightened your posture. He was not about to wound your pride. "Good luck with your work, Mr. Scientist."

[honeyslibrary]

NSFW A-Z Headcannons | Luke Hughes

Pairing; Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Smut, depiction of smut, not sure what else, only edited once

Summary; Based on this request: "NSFW Luke Hughes boyfriend headcannons?"

Word Count; 6.5k

Author’s note; Didn't mean for this to be this long, that's just kind of how it happened 😄 Also, I skipped letters N, R and W because I couldn't think of anything for them, also I got lazy. Disclaimer, these are just my opinions, you might feel differently! And to the Anon who requested this, sorry for the long wait, but I hope you like it ☺️ As per usual, any thoughts/reblogs are appreciated. This was also my first time writing for Baby Hughes, so please let me know how I did <3 -Honey

A - Aftercare (what is he like after sex?)

Luke is incredibly attentive and gentle after sex, making your comfort his top priority. As soon as the moment passes, his first instinct is to check in with you, asking how you’re feeling both emotionally and physically.

Whether it’s simply wiping you down with a warm, damp cloth or helping you slip into fresh clothes, Luke takes his time ensuring that you feel clean and refreshed. If you seem especially worn out, he'll be the first to suggest drawing a hot bath for you. He loves pampering you with little things, like lighting a few candles or adding soothing bath salts to help you fully relax.

He’s also always thinking ahead about your needs: offering you water and making sure you’re hydrated is a must in his book. He’ll quietly remind you to sip from the glass he's brought to the bedside, and often, he’ll head to the kitchen to toast some bread or fix up a light snack. The sight of him coming back with a slice of buttered toast, maybe even with a dab of honey if he’s feeling sweet, is almost a ritual at this point.

B - Body Part (his favorite body part of yours.)

Luke may claim he doesn't have a preference when it comes to your body—after all, he loves every inch of you—but deep down, you both know he's an ass man through and through. Despite his playful insistence that he appreciates your curves equally, the way his eyes linger and his hands instinctively gravitate to your backside give him away every time.

He has this habit of sneaking up behind you, only to give your ass a firm, playful slap as you walk by. It never fails to catch you off guard, leaving you gasping and shooting him a glare, though you can't help but laugh at his antics. He loves that moment—the surprise in your eyes, the way you scold him halfheartedly, knowing full well it's an act you both secretly enjoy.

But when things get heated, his obsession becomes even more obvious. When you’re riding him, there’s something about the way your body moves that drives him wild. His hands always find their way to your hips, then to your ass, gripping you firmly as he guides your movements or bucks his hips up to meet you. The way his fingers dig into your soft flesh, holding you tight as you move together, is as much about his need for closeness as it is about his love for that part of your body. He relishes the feel of your skin under his hands, squeezing harder with every thrust, like he can’t get enough of the sensation.

C - Cum (anything to do with cum.)

Luke is insatiable when it comes to the taste of you. There’s something about the way you respond to him, the way your body trembles and arches under his tongue. Every time he’s between your legs, lapping at you with vigor, he’s already anticipating that moment when he’ll push you over the edge. He can tell when you’re close—your breath hitching, your thighs tensing—and just when you think you might pull away from the intensity, Luke grips your thighs a little tighter, holding you in place with firm hands. He’s not letting go, not until he’s had his fill.

He loves the way your body reacts, the way you try to squirm but can’t escape his eager mouth. His tongue moves faster, hungrier, riding out every wave of your orgasm as he devours you completely. Nothing goes to waste—he swallows eagerly, savoring the taste of you like it’s something he’s been craving all day. The look in his eyes when he finally pulls away, face glistening, tells you everything you need to know: he could do this forever and never get tired of it.

But it’s not just about you—Luke has his own obsessions too, and cumming on your chest is one of them. There's something primal about it, something that excites him in a way he can’t fully explain. When he’s close, he’ll pull out and stroke himself over you, watching with an intense gaze as those little white spurts land against your breasts, decorating your skin. It’s a sight that makes his breath hitch every time—the contrast of his release against your soft skin, the way it glistens in the low light.

And you know exactly how to make it even more irresistible to him. The way you run your fingers through the sticky substance, swirling it around your chest before gathering it up and slowly bringing it to your lips. The moment your eyes lock with his and you place your fingers in your mouth, sucking and swallowing his cum, Luke is undone, your boldness making him burn with desire all over again.

D - Dirty Secret (a dirty secret of his.)

He had a dirty little secret, one he’d never admitted to anyone—not even you. The sound of your voice alone could undo him, unraveling every shred of self-control he thought he had. There’d been more than a few nights when he was away on the road, exhausted after a grueling game and longing for you in ways he couldn’t quite put into words. But then, his phone would ring, and there you were.

Your soft, familiar voice would fill the lonely silence of his hotel room as you checked in on him. “How’d the game go?” you’d ask, your tone warm and caring. And then, almost instinctively, he’d turn the conversation toward you. He loved hearing you talk—about your day, your little triumphs and frustrations, even the most mundane details. It wasn’t just the words themselves; it was the way you said them, with a natural emphasis that made him feel like you were right there with him.

What you didn’t know, though, was that he wasn’t just listening. As you spoke, his hand would slide down, stroking himself in slow, deliberate motions. Every laugh, every sigh, every little inflection in your voice sent a jolt of heat straight through him, tightening the coil of arousal in his stomach. He’d bite his lip to keep quiet, the phone pressed tight against his ear as he imagined the look on your face if you knew what he was doing.

“...And then the meeting ran over, so I didn’t even have time to grab lunch,” you’d say, completely unaware of the effect you were having on him. He’d hum in response, his breath hitching slightly—just enough to betray him, though you never seemed to notice. He’d let you keep talking, your voice a sweet and addictive melody that pushed him closer and closer to the edge.

Sometimes, he barely made it through the call before he came undone, biting down on his fist to muffle the groan threatening to escape. Other times, he’d let the pleasure build, teasing himself as long as he could, savoring every word that fell from your lips. When he finally released, it was always with your name tumbling from his own, his mind painted with vivid images of you.

Afterward, he’d feel a little guilty—maybe even a little embarrassed—but never enough to stop. How could he, when you had such a hold on him?

E - Experience (how experienced is he?)

Luke’s no stranger to sex, and his confidence in the bedroom shows it. As an attractive guy who’s spent years in the spotlight as a professional athlete, it’s no surprise that he's had his fair share of attention. In college, he had a few regular hookups, enjoying the freedom and thrill that came with it. But even then, Luke was never the type to chase every opportunity that came his way. While some might expect him to embrace the stereotypical “player” lifestyle, he always kept his distance from that image. For him, it’s never been about numbers or conquests—he’s more concerned with the kind of person he is, and he’s always been mindful of the reputation tied to his last name.

As for his skills in the bedroom? You’ve never had any complaints. In fact, Luke has a way of constantly exceeding your expectations. Whether it’s his ability to read your body, his keen understanding of your needs, or his desire to make every moment feel deep and personal, he’s always one step ahead. He makes you feel cared for and satisfied, every. single. time.

F - Favorite Position (what is his favorite position?)

Missionary. Call it basic if you want, but for Luke, it’s far from ordinary—it’s his favorite for a reason. There’s something undeniably sexy about being able to look directly into your eyes as he thrusts inside you, the way your face contorts with pleasure, how your mouth falls open in gasps and moans, it drives him wild.

There’s a particular thrill he gets from being able to see every reaction as he pounds into you. Sometimes, he has to fight the urge to do something just a little bit dirty—like letting a line of saliva drip from his mouth into yours, testing that boundary between passionate and primal.

He also loves the physical closeness missionary provides—the way your legs instinctively wrap around him, pulling him in deeper. Every thrust sends waves of pleasure through both of you, your bodies perfectly aligned. The way your thighs tighten around his waist or pull him closer, as if urging him never to stop, fuels his desire. He knows he’s hitting all the right spots when he feels your legs trembling around him.

But it’s not just the pleasure that gets him—it’s the way your body responds to him. He loves the sight of your back arching off the bed, your chest rising and falling with each ragged breath, every movement showing just how deeply you’re feeling him. The way your breasts press against him, the warmth of your skin, the way your hips tilt up to meet him—it’s all intoxicating to him.

G - Goofy (is he serious or humorous during sex?)

Luke is almost always playful in the bedroom, constantly cracking jokes or doing something to make you laugh. It’s a dynamic that completely caught you off guard at first—so different from the seriousness of your past relationships—but it’s one of the things you love most about him. With Luke, sex isn’t just about finishing, it's about enjoying each other, truly. His sense of humor and lightheartedness bring a kind of joy that makes everything feel more relaxed, and you find yourself loving it more than you ever expected.

It could be something as simple as an unexpected tickle to your sides when you least expect it, sending you into a fit of giggles, or him saying something off-the-wall mid-act that makes you burst into laughter. Sometimes, he’ll break the intensity of the moment just to whisper something ridiculous in your ear, leaving you gasping, not just from pleasure but from trying to catch your breath between laughs.

And he lives for that reaction—the way you scold him while your cheeks flush with laughter, but at the same time, you’re completely enjoying every second of it. He’s got this natural ability to blend humor with passion, making the experience feel light, but no less intimate. Luke seems to know exactly when to switch it up, keeping the mood playful and teasing, but always bringing it back to the heat and intensity when the moment calls for it.

Unless he’s in a bad mood, which is rare, you can always count on a few jokes or spirited antics during your time together. It’s just how Luke is—he loves seeing you smile, hearing you laugh, and knowing that the two of you can have fun together, even during the most affectionate moment.

H - Hair (how well groomed is he?)

Luke’s grooming style could best be described as “free-flowing” and low-maintenance. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t stress over keeping everything perfectly trimmed down there. Unless you specifically remind him, he’s more than happy to let things grow as they do. For him, it’s just not something he gives much thought to—he’s confident in his body and comfortable with whatever state he’s in.

That laid-back attitude extends to how he feels about you as well. He’s never been one to care whether you’re perfectly shaven or not; in fact, he makes it clear that your natural state is just as attractive to him. There have been times when you’ve felt a little self-conscious, maybe because you haven’t shaved in a while and hesitated when things started to heat up. But Luke is quick to shut that down. The moment you show even the slightest sign of resistance, he’s right there reminding you that it doesn’t matter to him in the slightest.

I - Intimacy (how is he during the moment? the romantic aspect.)

When it comes to intimacy, Luke is the definition of generous and affectionate. He’s not just focused on the physical aspects of being together—he’s deeply invested in making sure you feel loved and cherished throughout every moment. During sex, he’s constantly telling you how much you mean to him, whispering soft “I love you’s” as his eyes lock onto yours, making sure you feel the weight of those words every single time. It’s more than just a routine declaration; he wants you to know just how much he adores and values you, not only in the bedroom but in every aspect of your relationship.

Luke has this innate ability to make you feel completely safe and adored, whether it’s through his soft kisses that trail down your neck or the way he runs his fingers gently through your hair as you’re wrapped up in each other. He makes it a point to ensure that you’re comfortable every step of the way, taking time to listen to your body and respond to what you need.

J - Jack Off (does he masturbate?) 

Yes, Luke definitely masturbates—he’s a man with needs, and with the way his career keeps him on the road for half the year, it’s inevitable. Whether it’s late nights alone in his hotel room after an away game or just the long stretches when you’re not physically together, Luke'll find the time to take care of himself if needed. But even in those moments, it’s never just a mindless act for him. More often than not, you’re on his mind when he’s getting off, thinking about you, about the way you look, the way you feel, the way you moan his name.

When he's away, he often craves more than just the release—he craves you. That’s where the magic of FaceTime comes in. It’s become almost a ritual between the two of you, a way to bridge the physical distance when he’s miles away. He loves nothing more than seeing you on screen, watching as you touch yourself, knowing that you’re doing it all for him, even if he’s not there in person. Those late-night video calls where you both pleasure yourselves separately but together are some of his favorite moments. There’s something incredibly intimate about the way you can share that experience, seeing each other’s reactions, hearing each other’s breaths hitch in real-time, even if you’re not in the same room.

He’s open about it too—there’s no shame or secrecy when it comes to masturbating. If you ask, he’ll tell you exactly when he’s done it, maybe even teasingly sharing the details of how he got himself off, knowing how it’ll stir something in you. Sometimes, if he’s feeling extra bold, he’ll even text you in the middle of the day when you’re apart, letting you know just how much he’s thinking about you, how much he misses you. It’s not uncommon for him to send you a cheeky message or a suggestive photo after a session, making it clear that you’re the one always on his mind when he’s handling things himself.

K - Kink (one or more of his kinks.)

Luke definitely has a praise kink, though he’s never outright admitted it. You can tell by the way his body responds when you start whispering those sweet, dirty words in his ear. It’s subtle at first—the way he breathes a little heavier, his movements becoming a little sloppier—but you’ve learned to recognize the signs. Whenever you pull him closer, moaning into his ear about how good he feels, telling him that no one else could fuck you like this, his whole demeanor shifts. You’ll say he’s doing such a good job, that he’s absolutely ruining you in the best way, and that’s when you feel it—the unmistakable twitch of his cock inside you, a clear sign that your words are hitting just the right spot.

He thrives on that affirmation. Every praise-filled gasp or moan from you makes him work harder, thrust deeper, trying to live up to every compliment you murmur against his skin. He’s focused, determined to be everything you say he is, and knowing how much you’re enjoying it only pushes him closer to the edge. The look in his eyes when you tell him he’s amazing, that he’s giving you everything you need, is one of pure satisfaction, and you know just how much those words mean to him, even if he doesn’t say it.

But there’s another side to Luke, one that he’s kept tucked away—his spit kink. He doesn’t really know where it came from, but there’s something about the thought of it that makes his pulse race. Whether it’s the idea of spitting into your mouth or watching you do it to him, it’s an unspoken fantasy that lingers in the back of his mind. The desire is there, burning low and hot, but he’s never mentioned it. Part of him worries that it’s a little too explicit, a little too bold, and while he doesn’t think you’d be opposed to it, he’s hesitant to bring it up. He’s worried it might cross some invisible line or shift the dynamic in a way he doesn’t want to risk.

Instead, he keeps that desire to himself, enjoying the way it bubbles up during particularly intense moments. There are times when he’s close, thrusting into you with wild abandon, and he finds himself staring at your parted lips, imagining what it would be like to take that next step. But he holds back, content to let the thought simmer in the background for now. Maybe one day he’ll feel comfortable enough to share it with you—he trusts you, 100%—but for now, it remains one of those quiet, secret fantasies.

L - Location (where's his favorite place to do it?)

For Luke, his favorite place to do it isn’t exactly the most conventional—it’s the hot tub. Unorthodox? Definitely. Comfortable? Not particularly. But there’s something about the memory of that one night last summer that makes the hot tub hold a special place in his mind. It was at the lake house, where the two of you had snuck away for a little private time while everyone else was out at the bar. You had the house to yourselves, and while you could have taken things inside, there was something enticing about the night air, the bubbling water, and the idea of doing something a little more daring.

The heat of the tub and the coolness of the night created this perfect contrast, and before you knew it, you were both in the water, bodies pressed together under the stars. The sensation of the warm water lapping against your skin, mixed with the weightlessness that came with being submerged, made everything feel even more intense.

Luke had you up against the side of the tub, gripping your hips as he moved inside you, the water splashing around the two of you with every thrust. It wasn’t the most comfortable position—your body occasionally slipping against the smooth surface of the hot tub—but neither of you cared. It was spontaneous, raw, and exhilarating in a way that made you forget about everything else. There was a sense of freedom in that moment, the two of you completely exposed to the open air, surrounded by nothing but nature and the stars above.

Even now, months later, Luke still thinks about that night—the way your moans echoed softly in the dark, the feel of your body in his hands. It’s etched into his memory, and he still swears that’s the hardest he’s ever cum.

M - Motivation (what turns him on, gets him going?)

There’s one thing that never fails to get Luke going: seeing you in his jersey. It might be cliché, sure, but that doesn’t stop it from driving him wild every single time. Something about seeing you wear his name and number on your back sparks something primal in him, a deep-rooted sense of pride and possessiveness that he can’t quite put into words. The moment you slip it on, whether you’re lounging around the house or teasingly flaunting it before a game, he can’t help but let his gaze linger, eyes following your every movement with a dark intensity.

And he has absolutely no shame about how much it turns him on. That manly, macho side of him—the part that loves feeling strong and protective—comes to the surface whenever he sees you draped in his jersey. To him, it’s more than just a piece of clothing; it’s a bold statement, a silent way of marking you as his. It’s as if, by wearing his number, you’re announcing to the world that you belong to him, and that thought alone fuels his desire. He loves the idea of other men seeing you in his jersey, knowing full well they’d have no chance because you’re his, and his alone.

N - No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs.)

Too lazy to think of anything for this I apologize lol.

O - Oral (preference in giving/receiving, skill, etc.)

When you and Luke first got together, oral wasn’t exactly his strongest suit—whether it came to using his fingers or eating you out. He had the enthusiasm, sure, but the technique? That took some time. It wasn’t that he wasn’t willing—he was more than eager to go down on you—but it took a few sessions of ‘coaching’ to help him figure out what really made you feel good.

Now, though? He’s got it down to an art. You don’t have to say a word anymore. He’s learned to read your body, to know exactly what makes you tick, and it shows every time his head is between your thighs. He knows when to tease and when to dive in, how to drive you crazy with a slow buildup before pushing you over the edge. His tongue moves in perfect sync with his fingers, hitting all the right spots with precision, and it never takes long before your legs are shaking uncontrollably. That focused look on his face, the way he grips your hips to keep you still as your body tries to squirm away from the intensity—it’s clear he takes pride in the way he can unravel you like this. Watching you come undone has become one of his favorite things.

Still, if he had to choose, Luke definitely prefers receiving. Something about watching you suck him off drives him absolutely wild. It’s not just the physical pleasure—it’s the sight of you on your knees, the hunger in your eyes, the way your lips wrap around his tip, teasing him with soft kitten licks before taking more of him in. He’s obsessed with the way you look up at him while you do it, like you’re savoring the moment.

There’s something primal that kicks in when he’s receiving. His hand will instinctively find its way to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he pushes you down to take more of him. And you—trusting and eager—let him guide you, allowing him to set the pace, and that sense of control over you in that moment makes him feel completely in awe of you. The way you look at him, eyes full of lust and submission, only fuels his desire. He loves watching your lips stretch around him, feeling the heat of your mouth, and hearing the soft, breathy moans you let out as you work him over.

P - Pace (is he fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Luke is all about taking his time with you—he loves to truly worship your body. You’ve never been with anyone as attentive as him, so insistent on making sure that your pleasure comes first, no matter how long it takes. He’s patient and unhurried, savoring every moment, every inch of your skin as if he has all the time in the world.

He has this way of treating your body like something sacred, like a temple deserving of devotion. His touch is always gentle at first, as he explores every curve, every sensitive spot, making sure you’re comfortable and relaxed. Luke loves to make you feel cherished, letting his hands and lips move slowly, appreciating the way your body responds to him. He’s always so sweet, whispering soft praises, making sure you know just how beautiful and desirable you are to him.

And he’s in no rush to get you off quickly. In fact, Luke takes pride in breaking you off as many times as you want, however long it takes. He enjoys seeing you lose control, your body trembling beneath him as he builds you up with slow, measured thrusts. He’s focused, always watching your reactions, listening to your breaths and moans, adjusting his pace to keep you right on the edge, drawing out your pleasure as long as possible. He makes sure you feel completely adored in those moments, like you’re the only thing that matters to him.

But Luke also knows when to switch things up. If you demand more—if you beg him to go harder, faster—he’s more than happy to oblige. He’ll pick up the pace, his hands gripping your hips a little tighter, his thrusts becoming more urgent as he gives you exactly what you’re asking for. And when the mood shifts, he’s not afraid to get a little rougher, maybe even giving your ass a firm slap or two as his hips pound into you.

Q - Quickie (his opinion on quickies, how often, etc.)

Quickies don’t happen often with Luke, but when a quickie does happen, it’s hot. The urgency, the pressure of time, the sheer need to make the most of a fleeting moment—it all gets him going in a way that’s completely different from his usual slow and worshipful approach. There’s something about that frantic, adrenaline-fueled rush that really ignites his desire.

Maybe you’re both running late—you're supposed to be out the door in five minutes, or it’s early in the morning, and Luke has to leave for a morning skate at ten. There’s no time for the usual slow buildup, no teasing, no drawn-out foreplay. It’s all raw urgency, him pressing you up against the nearest surface, already hard and ready, and thrusting into you with a single-minded focus. He’s desperate, but not for himself—his goal is always to get you off, to pull an orgasm out of you as fast as he can before the clock runs out.

That intensity, the lack of time to think or plan, only makes it hotter for him. The way you’re both caught up in the heat of the moment, with no room for hesitation, just pure, animalistic need—it’s exhilarating. There’s something deeply satisfying about the way your body responds so quickly to his touch, even with no buildup. His hands will grip your hips firmly, guiding your body against his as he thrusts into you fast and hard, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he tries to push you over the edge before you both have to rush out the door.

R - Risk (is he game to experiment? does he take risks? etc.) 

Too lazy to think of anything for this I apologize lol.

S - Stamina (how many rounds can he go for? how long does he last?)

Being a hockey player, Luke's stamina is undeniably impressive. He’s an athlete through and through, and it shows in the way he can keep going in the bedroom. But even a grueling two-minute shift on the ice is nothing compared to bottoming out inside you, especially when you’ve lost track of what round you're on.

Luke prides himself on being able to last as long as you need him to. He knows how to pace himself, whether it's a slow, drawn-out session where he holds back for as long as possible, or a fast-paced, intense round where you're both gasping for breath. He’s got the control and stamina to match whatever mood you’re in, and he never rushes—unless, of course, it’s a quickie.

Early on in your relationship, though, there was one time when he came too fast—much quicker than he intended. It happened when you had just started dating. The excitement had gotten the best of him, and despite his best efforts, he finished way sooner than expected. You, ever the tease, had ribbed him about it for weeks afterward. And while Luke knew it was all in good fun (you were flattered, honestly), it still lit a fire in him.

Since then, he’s made it a point to ensure you always come first—or, better yet, that you both reach your peak at the same time. Luke has mastered the art of reading your body, knowing exactly when to hold back and when to let go.

When it comes to stamina, Luke’s athletic training definitely gives him an edge. He can go for multiple rounds without missing a beat, always ready to keep the pleasure going for as long as you want. Even when you’re both exhausted, drenched in sweat, and completely spent, he’ll still find the strength to keep going if that’s what you’re craving. And the best part? He enjoys every second of it, pushing his limits not just for himself, but to make sure you feel utterly fulfilled.

T - Toys (does he own toys? does he use them on him or yourself?)

Luke doesn’t have any toys of his own, but he’s far from shy when it comes to using the ones you have. In fact, he’s pretty comfortable with the idea of adding an extra layer of pleasure to your time together, especially when it involves the vibrator you keep stashed away. Some guys might feel a bit intimidated by it, but not Luke. He’s confident enough in his own abilities to know that a toy isn’t competition—it’s a tool for bringing you even more pleasure, and that’s something he’s always down for.

When he reaches for the vibrator, it’s usually in those moments when he’s already deep inside you, fully immersed in the heat of the moment. He loves the idea of amplifying your pleasure, of pushing you to new heights while his body moves against yours. The way your moans get louder when he presses the toy against your clit, the way your body trembles with the added stimulation, makes him feel like he’s got you completely in his control, overwhelming your senses in the best possible way.

It’s not just about the toy itself—it’s about what it does to you. He loves seeing your reactions, the way your body responds to both him and the vibrator working in tandem, sending you spiraling into a level of pleasure that’s almost too much to handle. And when he’s thrusting inside you, feeling your body tighten and clench around him while the vibrations take over, it only pushes him closer to the edge, knowing that he’s giving you everything you need and more.

He’ll often tease you with it, pressing the vibrator against you gently at first, letting you get used to the sensation before ramping up the intensity. His eyes are locked on you, watching the way your face contorts with pleasure, listening to the way your breathing gets faster, and he’ll time his movements perfectly, syncing the rhythm of his thrusts with the pulses of the toy until you’re completely lost in the sensation.

U - Unfair (how much he likes to tease)

Luke wants to be a tease—he really does. In his head, he loves the idea of making you squirm, drawing things out until you’re practically begging for more. He’ll start off strong, laying the groundwork with light touches, whispered promises, and a smirk that tells you he’s about to make you work for it. Maybe it’s his fingers ghosting over your skin without fully committing, or the way he hovers just close enough to drive you crazy, letting the anticipation build as he plays with your patience.

In those moments, he wants to see you unravel, to hear you plead for him to stop teasing and finally give you what you want. He knows he could get you worked up with just a few lingering touches, keeping you right on the edge for as long as he wants, if only he could follow through.

But here’s the problem: Luke’s teasing game is usually short-lived. Because as soon as you look up at him with those sweet, wide eyes, batting your lashes just enough to make his heart melt, the teasing is over. He becomes like silly putty in your hands—completely malleable, ready to give in to your every desire. All it takes is one look, one pout, or a soft “please,” and suddenly, all his teasing plans go out the window.

He can’t resist you. The way you look up at him, a mix of innocence and desire, makes him weak. He finds himself caving almost immediately, his resolve crumbling under the weight of how much he wants to make you happy. Whatever control he thought he had evaporates, and in that moment, he’ll do anything you ask. Whether it’s going faster, touching you just right, or abandoning the teasing altogether to give you exactly what you need, Luke is putty in your hands.

V - Volume (how loud is he? what sounds does he make? etc.)

You never thought you’d find yourself so turned on by the sound of a man moaning—until Luke came along and changed that entirely. He makes no effort to hold back, always letting you hear exactly how much pleasure he’s feeling, and it’s one of the sexiest things about being with him. Unless you two are sneaking around at the lake house, where he has to be quieter, Luke is unapologetically vocal. And when you’re alone in your apartment, it’s like music to your ears.

He’s raw and unfiltered when it comes to expressing himself in bed. Every deep moan, every throaty groan that escapes his lips is a reflection of just how much he’s enjoying himself—and knowing you’re the one making him feel that way? That drives you insane. Luke doesn’t hold back either; you hear everything. When he’s thrusting into you, the air thick with heat and lust, his voice cuts through with low curses, raspy moans, and more than a few breathless exclamations of just how good it feels to be inside you.

But the thing that really does it for you? The whimpers. God, those whimpers. They’re rare, reserved for those moments when he’s close—when you’ve got him right on the edge, and he’s losing control. Hearing Luke whimper in pure desperation, his voice shaky and broken with pleasure, sends shivers down your spine every single time. It’s the ultimate display of vulnerability, of how deeply you’ve affected him. His body trembles, his grip tightens, and his voice falters as he lets out those soft, breathless whimpers that make your heart race.

There’s something so undeniably sexy about knowing that Luke is completely lost in the moment, vocalizing his desire without hesitation. It’s not just about hearing his pleasure—it’s about feeling it, as if his sounds wrap around you and amplify your own arousal.

W - Wildcard (a random headcannon.) 

Too lazy to think of anything for this I apologize lol.

X - X-Ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes.)

Luke’s cock is nothing short of gorgeous. It’s the kind that genuinely makes your mouth water every time you lay eyes on it. You’re not one to focus too much on exact measurements, but if you had to guess, you’d say he’s around four to five inches when he’s soft—although you’ve never bothered to actually measure, because that would be weird obviously.

And let’s talk about the girth—it’s thick. The kind of thickness that makes every inch of him feel like it’s stretching you in all the right ways, filling you completely with every thrust. There’s something about the weight of him in your hand, the way your fingers just about close around his shaft when you stroke him. He’s got the kind of cock that feels amazing to hold, even better to ride, and absolutely intoxicating when he’s deep inside you.

The sight of him, fully hard, is enough to make your heart race. Thick and veined, with a smooth, flushed head that glistens just a little with precum when he’s really worked up. It’s the kind of sight that makes you want to drop to your knees immediately, every time. You can’t help but feel a rush of arousal whenever he pulls down his pants, because you know what’s coming next, and you’re already hungry for it.

Y - Yearning (how is his sex drive?)

He’d call it average, and you’d agree—it's not all that he thinks about, nor is it something that fades into the background. It’s balanced, like him. He’s never one to let desire cloud his mind too much, or take precedence over the more meaningful parts of your relationship.

Z - ZZZ (how quickly he falls asleep afterwards.)

Sure, his stamina during sex is impressive—but once the final wave of ecstasy crashes over you both, he’s like a switch flipping. All that passion and effort catch up to him in an instant, leaving him adorably drained.

He’s still sweet and attentive in the aftermath, though, making sure you're cleaned up and comfortable first. You barely have to pull him to lie down before he’s draped across you like a contented cat, his head resting on your chest as though it belongs there. He’s clingy in these moments, his arms slipping around your waist or his fingers curling gently into your side, anchoring himself to you. His breathing slows as your fingers thread through his hair, and the soft rise and fall of your chest beneath him lulls him toward sleep.

You can tell when it’s coming—the way his body goes heavier and his light snores hum into existence. It doesn’t take long; ten, maybe fifteen minutes at most, before he’s out cold, his features completely relaxed.

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

The Two (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which Galadriel fights to withhold Nenya and the Nine, but in the end she fails to stop your husband placing yet another ring upon your finger

Warnings: evil!reader, killing (sorry Adar), allusions to smut, injuries suffered by reader (bad ones but not very graphically described), blood drinking for healing purposes

Note: another one in the evil!reader collection. Shout out to this lovely anon for the inspiration behind a certain bit of dialogue.

This is not exactly where you had imagined you would be on this day—shackles around your wrists and blood marring your brow, being escorted through the woods in a filthy and tattered dress by a band of Orcs. You admit it isn’t the best look on you, but circumstances change, and so you must adapt.

So far, you’d say you’re managing quite well.

Adar is not alone as you reach him in the clearing. Facing him is a blonde-haired Elf with whom you have been itching to meet again, now that she has found out the truth of your identity. Galadriel turns towards the approaching Orcs, her eyes widening slightly when she sees you. She may not have known you all that well, but neither could she have imagined that one of Celebrimbor’s unassuming aids was the one being held dearest of all by the very darkness Galadriel had sworn to destroy.

Adar, on the other hand, had never known you as anything else.

“What an unexpected honor,” he says when he sees you. “To what is it owed?”

You stare him down—the Uruk who had been your husband’s near destruction, leaving you to await his return for what had felt like an agonizing eternity. If looks could kill, he would be in bloody pieces.

It’s Glug, one of the Orcs at your side, that answers him. “We found Sauron. He tried to make us betray you, but we resisted. We lost many,” he shoves you into stumbling forward, “but we got our hands on this one. His Queen, he said,” Glug mocks, and the group of Orcs breaks into a cacophony of snorted laughter. Your face remains impassive as Adar approaches you.

“Indeed, Sauron’s bride herself.” Adar stands before you, meeting your gaze head on. “After all this time, you are still at his side.”

“I am at his side once again,” you correct him coldly, “after you took him from me. For centuries.”

“So long ago, yet your hatred of me has not waned,” Adar muses. “I always wondered how deeply this great love he claimed to feel for you truly ran. Whether you were another of his victims, or some unnatural exception. I can only hope he values you as much as you do him.” He turns to Galadriel. “With any luck, she will be enough to draw him out—”

His words are cut off abruptly, and Galadriel gasps—for the tip of a sword had emerged from Adar’s stomach, then withdrew as swiftly as it had cut through him. He falls to the ground, clutching at his wound, looking up only to see you as you truly are.

Without the illusion, there is not a speck of dirt on you, never mind blood or shackles. You stand clad in elegant battle armour, your bloodied sword held in your hand with the ease and practice of centuries.

Realization dawns on Adar’s face, as you had seen it on those of so many others before, a little too late. “My children!” he calls out, visibly astonished that he even has to. Yet not one of the Orcs move.

“For years, I’ve wondered,” you mock his musing tone from before, crouching to his level and slowly putting your blade to his neck, “would it please me more to kill you myself, or to watch my husband do it? But then, I realized—and he agreed—what end could be more terrible to you than to be killed by that which you love most?”

You stand back up to your full height. To Adar’s credit, he struggles to his feet as well. Even if what happens next is plain to see, before you even speak the words.

“Uruks,” you command, a sinister smile tugging at your lips. “Finish him.”

Your new servants surge from behind you, surrounding Adar and plunging their swords into their former master. It’s poetic, really—an inverted mirror of what your beloved suffered all those years ago, whilst your husband himself walks into the clearing, no longer hiding in the shadows, and recovers the crown that should have been his in the first place from the boulder on which it had been placed. Galadriel doesn’t see him, her eyes fixed on you in anger. It’s a delight to watch it be replaced with dread when she hears your husband’s voice call her name.

By now, Adar has fallen to the ground once more, yet the Orcs are slow to cease their blows. Galadriel is frozen in place as your husband joins you at your side, both of you looking down at the Uruk who has tasted your vengeance.

“My... children...” he croaks out, pitifully.

“They have found new parents,” your husband says, pitiless.

You exchange a look with Glug, and if there was any trace of hesitancy left in him, it vanishes under your demanding gaze. With a roar, he plunges his sword into Adar’s heart, putting an end to him and the killing frenzy of his brethren.

“What orders,” he asks then, his irritatingly pitched voice downright fanatical, “Lord Sauron? My Queen?”

“Raze Eregion,” your husband says evenly. “Leave no Elf alive. But bring me their leaders.”

“Be sure to destroy every single record of Celebrimbor’s works,” you add. “We would not want the secrets of the Rings’ craft revealed.”

The Orcs bow their heads, so wonderfully obedient as they begin to chant, “Hail Sauron, the Dark Lord! Hail our Dark Queen!” They repeat it as if in a craze, still muterring the words in their speech as they scurry away to carry out your orders. Glug, however, lingers by your side.

“Forgive me, my Queen!” He drops to his knees, all but touching his head to your boots. “For the offence I brought you. I only meant to convince Adar of our lie.”

You tilt your head, such an indulgent expression on your face, one might think it was genuine if they knew no better. You put a finger beneath Glug’s chin and lift his head, his bulbous eyes widening in awe as he meets your gaze.

“Earn my forgiveness,” you say sweetly, “by carrying out the task you have been given.”

“Yes, my Queen!” he exclaims, shooting to his feet the moment you release him. “My Lord!” he bows to your husband as well, then rushes after his companions as you watch, deeply satisfied. So this is what it feels like to be worshipped as a goddess. For now, by Orcs—later, by every being in Middle-Earth. The mere thought of it feels like a sip of the most exquisite and intoxicating wine, the elation second only to that sharing in this glory with your husband. You would love nothing more than to bask in the moment, mark it with a kiss, but there is still a pressing matter to attend to beforehand.

And, at once, she demands your attention.

“All this,” Galadriel says, voice thin with held-back terror, “was your design from the beginning!”

“Not all of it,” your husband tells her with eerie humility. “When my beloved came to find me,” he glances to you, letting his knuckles graze a gentle line down your shoulder, “having sensed my presence as I strived to regain my form, we believed we would never be parted again. It was hardly by our design that we were separated in that shipwreck. Once the sea brought you to me, however—”

“—an opportunity arose,” you continue seamlessly, smiling up at your husband, “too tantalizing to pass up.” You turn to Galadriel with a self-assured gaze. “You see, my love and I may be apart in body, but never in mind. And though not even we knew where our paths would lead, we trusted that we would be reunited at the end, and be all the better for it. So, I made my way back to Eregion, where my false life still awaited me—”

“—and I let you take Halbrand there yourself,” your husband finishes. “With a Númenórean army to fight against my enemy, and your trust to help me earn Celebrimbor’s. So, in the end...” A devious smirk tugs at his lips. “One could say it was your design.”

Galadriel purses her lips, keeping them firmly shut. She knows better than to take that bait of self-blame, you can tell. Instead, her eyes dart to her sword, discarded on the ground—betraying her intentions.

In an instant, you both bolt for her sword—and it’s only by a fraction of a second that you stomp your foot on the blade before she can lift it, leaving her to pull helplessly at the handle whilst you put your own sword to her throat. She glares up at you, her words spit out like venom, “You are a traitor to your people!”

A short, sweet laugh escapes you. “I am a traitor to all peoples.” You knit your brow, feigning bashfulness. “How kind of you to notice.”

Galadriel blinks at you, a trace of pity mingling with the disgust in her eyes. “Your mind has left you.”

You open your mouth, prepared to let her know you completely agree, and are rather pleased with yourself—when your attention lands on her hand, drawn there by a glimmer of light reflected off the gem on her finger. Nenya, the Ring of Water, shines before your eyes in all its devastating perfection.

You almost forget to keep your blade at Galadriel’s throat as you crouch down and grab her hand. She flinches, but your grip is relentless as you hold her hand still, admiring the Ring.

“Oh, this is simply...” you murmur, almost tearfully, “exquisite.”

In your long life, the only sight to grace your gaze which held similar beauty was your husband, in any form of his. And perhaps, only perhaps, from a purely aesthetic point of view, the Ring might just surpass him.

The thought, even just in passing, leaves you disoriented. And Galadriel takes full advantage of it.

She moves swiftly. Whilst you are distracted, she yanks her sword from underneath you and you lose your balance, finding yourself face up on the ground, barely parring the immediate blow she aims at your throat. Unsurprisingly, she is strong, making it a real challenge for you to keep her sword at bay with your own, but your mind is now fully present once more and you hold your own as fiercely as ever.

You don’t have to do it for long, however. Your husband’s sword intercedes between yours and Galadriel’s, breaking them apart and forcing her to fall backwards. She scrambles back to her feet, but now she is being attacked by a doubly armed foe, and it is her on the defence, struggling to match your husband’s skillful blows. You’ve stood back up, ready to fight again, but you can’t help taking a moment to behold the glorious sight of your husband fighting. It’s a rather short dance between them, brought to a halt as their blades clash and your husband swings Morgoth’s crown at the place where they meet, trapping both within its iron spikes.

Both of Galadriel’s hands hold the hilt of her sword in a white-knuckled grip, giving your husband a full view of the Ring as well. It tempts his gaze as quickly as it did yours.

“Even more beautiful than Celebrimbor led us to believe,” he says, bemused. “It would compliment your wedding band beautifully.” He glances at you. “Don’t you think, my love?”

As you meet his gaze, you are left breathless with how ardently you want to say yes. To have him place that wondrous Ring upon your finger, just as he did your wedding band all those years ago, and to admire the jewel on your hand as it touches every single inch of your husband’s skin whilst you make love for days and nights on end. You would begin right there, in the clearing, if not for the unwanted company.

Galadriel grunts, breaking away from your husband. Their withering stares remain locked as he circles her widely, coming to stand at your side. Can she not grasp that she is at a disadvantage?

“This is hardly fair. Two against one” you say, trying to sound reasonable. “It would be much wiser to simply give me that Ring, and him the Nine.”

“We do not wish to harm you,” your husband says, in that falsely reassuring tone that has worked wonders on so many others. Galadriel is having none of it.

“Do you wish to heal me?” she asks, defiantly. You would admire her determination, if it wasn’t so inconvenient to you personally.

Your husband proves more patient than you feel in his answer. “We would heal... all Middle-Earth.”

“As you have Eregion?” she growls, face twisting in rage as she readies her sword.

“Well, then,” you sigh shortly and do the same with yours, glancing at your husband, “ladies first, I suppose.”

And so you are the first to meet Galadriel in her attack. For a little while, you are evenly matched, but once your husband joins you shortly after, well—that is a different story.

You have to admit, Galadriel lives up to her reputation as Commander of the Northern Armies and then some. And yet, the fight would have been much shorter if it weren’t for a silent agreement between you and your husband, for the sadistic streak you share that makes you want to draw this out, let her believe she might prevail before you prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that she never stood a chance.

You had almost forgotten the utter pleasure that it was to fight at your husband’s side. It’s no less harmonious or fierce than when you are making love, how fluidly you complement each other’s movements, acting as though you are simply an extension of the other. In that way, you suppose, the fight is fair—Galadriel’s opponent is as one alone, in all but flesh.

The Ring, however, and the Nine whose presence your husband must feel as keenly as you do, prove a distraction. Your blades draw Galadriel’s blood, but the wounds are relatively minor, and she manages to nick your skin as well in moments where your eyes stray to the Ring on her finger, your mind clouded with thoughts of it becoming yours.

You can’t explain how else she manages to gain the upper hand as she eventually does, catching your husband sufficiently off-guard to kick him down from a small height. Your battle had taken you to the ruins of an old stone structure at the edge of a cliff, your husband landing gracelessly in the midst of it. You’re more concerned for his pride rather than his body, however. Panting from exertion, you and Galadriel lock gazes.

“You say you let him use me,” she challenges, taking her chances at riling you up now that you are alone. “Do you know what he offered me?”

“What he pretended to offer you was mine already,” you say, unwavering. “Had been for a long, long time.”

“He seemed rather convincing,” Galadriel taunts, “when he called me his Queen.”

You huff out a chuckle. “How could you not be convinced,” you retort, “when you so badly wanted to believe him?”

You charge at her again. Perhaps she has managed to make your blood boil after all, but it only works against her, because your attacks are all the more vicious as you force her backwards, down a set of stone steps leading to where your husband had fallen.

“I don’t blame you, you know,” you taunt her between strikes, “for desiring him.”

“I did not desire—!”

“Liar,” you hiss, narrowly parrying a particularly rageful swing of her sword. “I quite liked that form myself. Had a certain roguish... charm to it.” The word becomes a grunt as you kick her back into the stone wall, your swords and gazes locked together in a battle of unrelenting wills. “That stubble of his... felt especially pleasant on my skin.” You smile wickedly, voice laden with sinful implications. “Did you never imagine it on yours?”

She must have—otherwise, her eyes would not betray the sliver of shame that they do as she cries out and pushes you off her with renewed strength. You stumble to the bottom of the stairs with a deranged chuckle, putting your fingers to the stinging spot on your cheek and finding it wet with blood. She had managed to cut you.

And she seemed intent on trying to do worse to you, if not for your husband distracting her with something yet more disorienting than your words.

She freezes in place when she sees him standing before her—not as Annatar, but as Halbrand.

“Fighting at your side,” he says, as if from a distant dream, “I felt if I could just hold on to that feeling...”

Words that had once tugged at her heart, no doubt. They are not enough to deter her from attacking him now, but the internal conflict painted on her face is a delight to watch as they cross blades. Your husband changes the guise of Halbrand into that of Galadriel herself, then that of Celebrimbor. Each of them taunting her with the words he knows would cut the deepest, driving her into one attack after the other.

Until the old structure on which they are fighting crumbles, and they fall along with the boulders back to the ground. Your husband is the first to rise, back to the form he had taken as Annatar, and as you meet his gaze, alight with wrath, you both know—it’s time to put an end to this.

Galadriel gathers her sword from where it has fallen, staggers back to her feet, stubborn and determined as ever as the fighting resumes. But there are two of you, and she is more tired. Before long, you have her backed into a corner—or rather, with the very edge of the cliff at her back, with nowhere to go but into a deadly fall to the ground below. She fights valiantly, but in the end the inevitable happens. Half-distracted by you, she is not quick enough to stop your husband from plunging one of the crown’s iron spikes deep into her shoulder. He backs her into a pillar of the stone arch at the cliff’s edge, and in that position it’s too easy for you to knock the sword from her hand, once and for all.

It’s almost sad, seeing such a mighty warrior reduced to cries of pain, sagging helplessly against the stone. When your husband pulls the crown from her, she falls limp to the ground, the satchel containing the Nine slipping from an inner pocket at her chest. Leaning down, your husband finally reclaims his creations, then slips the Ring of Water off Galadriel’s trembling finger. She is too weak to do anything but groan, her eyes fluttering shut in defeat.

“The Rings are ours,” he says proudly. With his opponent utterly defeated, he lays down his sword and the crown on a nearby boulder, then tucks the satchel away within his own robes. The Elven Ring, however, he keeps in the palm of his hand as he leaves Galadriel lying there and turns to you. His steps are slow and measured as he comes to stand before you, close enough to take your hand in his if he so wishes to. But he withholds, his eyes boring into yours.

“My love,” he says, and it feels like a vow. “My Queen.” He holds out his hand, reverently. “Allow me.”

Your chest swells as you place your hand in his. You hold each other’s gaze a moment longer before you both look down and watch as he, with utmost delicacy, slips Nenya onto your finger, right next to the one that wears your wedding band. Your sword clatters to the ground, unwittingly loosed from your grip, but you don’t even hear it. The sight before you is almost too beautiful to behold, making you weep with joy.

“With this, I vow my life to be yours,” your husband says then, voice strained with emotion. “In life and in death—”

“—and for all eternity,” you finish breathlessly, raising your tearful gaze to meet his. The vows you had spoken to each other on the night you had bound your souls together, repeated with equal devotion after all this time.

His brow furrows in awe, and he beholds your face as though he cannot believe you are real. Your Ring-bearing hand trembles in his as he raises his other one to your cheek, thumb gently brushing the skin beneath the cut left there by Galadriel. He leans in and kisses the wound, his warm tongue soothing the pain and relishing the taste of you. You feel it too, sweetly coppery, as he then seals his mouth to yours with soul-wrenching tenderness. And you already know, but it still sweeps the floor from underneath your feet each time you are reminded of the full might of your adoration for him. You would crumble to the ground with the force of it, if not for your husband holding you close.

“Wed again,” you murmur as your lips part, lightheaded with bliss. His smile is soft, his knuckles grazing your temple reverently.

“I never imagined you could be even more beautiful than you already were,” he all but whispers, glancing down at the Ring of Power upon your finger. “Yet as my Queen, your radiance is nearly too great to look upon, even for my eyes. All of Middle-Earth shall bow to worship at my beloved’s feet. All shall love you and despair.”

And you shall love to be adored, yet his adoration would forever be the one you cherish most. You are leaning in to taste his lips once more, when the voice of your all-but-forgotten-about foe rudely interrupts.

“The free peoples of Middle-Earth,” Galadriel declares, “will always resist you.”

With a small sigh, you turn to her. She has managed enough strength to sit up sideways, her glare as defiant as ever even as the poisoned wound left by Morgoth’s—by your husband’s crown slowly consumes her. She’s resilient, fearsome and beautiful. Like you.

Now that she is no longer a real threat, you allow yourself a spark of admiration. Sensing your wish, your husband leaves to break away from him and go to her, lowering yourself to one knee so you meet her at her level.

“I could yet help you heal,” you offer mercifully, knuckles grazing her jawline as she flinches away. “You could yet pledge your allegiance to your King and Queen.”

“Not while I still breathe,” she spits the words obstinately. Predictably.

It seems you’ll still have need of your sword after all.

“This is a waste, truly,” you say, and mean it. “You would have made a great ally.”

Galadriel frowns, as if contemplating your words. “Perhaps,” she admits. “You, on the other hand...” She leans close to you, and hisses in your face, “...would have made a dreadful Queen.”

‘Would have’? You’re about to tell her you already are Queen, and always will be. A taunting smirk is already tugging at your lips—

—quickly snuffed out by a sharp pain, deep in your chest. Jaw slack, eyes wide, you look down to find Galadriel’s hand there, gripping the hilt of the dagger she has plunged into your heart. Nothing but a small blade, most likely conjured from some hidden pocket in her garments whilst you and your husband had been absorbed in each other, and which she had concealed within her sleeve since—it hardly matters. It all happens too quickly for your husband to reach you, and it’s distraction enough that all you can do is gasp as Galadriel grabs you by the shoulders and, with the last of her strength, pulls you over the edge of the cliff along with herself.

Your name, roared out by your beloved, is the last thing you hear as you fall.

*****

You’re alive.

Barely.

You exist somewhere between wakefulness and oblivion, the sounds around you distant and pain threatening to greet you once you have returned to your full senses—if you ever will. But a touch of your husband’s godly nature has resided within you ever since you bound yourself to one another in marriage, and so your form endures, your mind alert enough to serve you even as you lie broken on the ground.

“She should be healed,” a voice says, and you recognize it—king Gil-galad, no doubt come to recover Galadriel from where she must be lying close to you. “And made to face judgement for her treachery.”

There is another presence, yet closer to you. As a hand touches your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point, you grasp at every last sliver of your power to conjure one small, but vital illusion.

The hand leaves you.

“I agree,” you hear Elrond say. “But she is dead already.”

Relieved and utterly spent, before long you are lost to the world once more.

*****

Your name, whispered softly by your beloved, is the first thing you hear as you wake up.

The next is your own weak moan, pain spreading through your body as feeling returns to you. The room to which you open your eyes is, thankfully, low-lit—you doubt they could handle anything else. But all that truly matters is that you are met with your husband’s gaze, relieved and endlessly caring as he sits at your side, leaning over you.

“Shh,” he cooes, caressing the crown of your head as a tear slides down your temple. “This too shall pass, for I will look after you as you did me in my time of need. I’m here, my love,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead. “I’m here.”

The pain mercifully dulls once again, most likely your husband’s doing. This time, you are at peace as you drift away.

*****

It isn’t pain, but warmth and comfort that greets you when you next wake. Your limbs are still weak, your body made heavy with a dull ache all over, but the familiar feeling of being cradled in your husband’s arms overshadows the lingering discomfort. Your head is resting on his chest, and, in natural reflex, you nuzzle into him, lips searching for his skin and pressing to his neck.

“My love,” he greets softly, his pulse a pleasant thrum beneath your mouth. “You are awake at last.”

You lift your head, wincing at the stiffness in your neck, and look into your husband’s eyes. “Did I keep you waiting terribly long?” you ask, finding the strength to work a trace of playfulness into your tired voice. Something in his gaze breaks in the face of it.

“Unbearably so,” he replies in earnest.

There’s no response you find within you other than to press a light kiss to his lips, reassuring yourself that this is real. After, you allow him to carefully maneuver you so that you are both sitting up against the headboard, with you still tucked into his side.

“You are nearly recovered, my love,” he says as you grimace and shift, looking for a comfortable position for your aching joints, “but your strength will return with time. Until then...”

He offers you his hand, his black blood already spilled from a cut in the palm of it. It’s fresh, different from the one he had used to provide the false mithril for the Nine. This sacrifice he has made for you alone, to mend his beloved piece by piece. You don’t need him to explain all of this—you simply offer him a grateful smile as you cradle his hand in yours and bring it to your lips, kissing it almost as you would his mouth as you gather his blood with your tongue.

“There,” he says hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut with the great pleasure of feeling you consume him, any part of him. “Take my strength,” he urges, cradling your head as you drink from him. “Make it yours, my love.”

The effect may be temporary, but the relief is instant. You pull away, sighing pleasantly as you wipe your thumb over any lingering droplets of blood on your lips, and lick those off your finger as well. You feel almost as new, as if you had never even taken a blade to the heart and a shattering fall.

The memory sends a jolt through your chest. Instinctively, you bring your hand to it, looking down at the place where Galadriel had managed to stab you. The wound has been healed, but the spark of rage is kindled within you once more. And it grows into a wildfire when you notice your horribly bare finger.

“Where’s Nenya?” You scramble from your husband’s arms and off the bed, gripped by a sudden, blind panic. “Where’s my Ring?” you demand, nearly a growl. His gaze becomes grim.

“The Elves took it back,” he says darkly, standing to face you. You huff out a furious breath. So, Galadriel succeeded, then. She recovered the Ring, even if it meant taking all of you along with it. Even if she was risking her own death.

You sincerely hope she survived the fall and the wound inflicted by your husband’s crown. Otherwise, you would have no revenge to look forward to.

“And Eregion?” you ask, scrambling for some victory to which to cling in your rage. “Our army? What of it?”

“We are in Eregion,” your husband tells you, adding proudly, “what is left of it. As for our armies... nearly all Middle-Earth is ours for the taking.”

“Nearly?” you frown.

“The Elves have used the Three to create a sanctuary beyond my reach.” His voice drips bitterness. But as he steps to you, taking your hand in his, he seems more disturbed than vengeful. “Had I found that they had taken you there... where I could not follow...”

You soften, then, your anger tamed by the torment in his gaze as he trails off. You wonder if, within this sanctuary of the Elves protected by the light of the Three, you could still feel your husband’s dark soul caressing yours even from afar. The thought that you might not, that you had been at risk of suffering such an appalling emptiness, is sickening.

“It is well, then,” you say, chasing away the dread of what might have been, “that I led Elrond to believe I was dead. That is why they took only Galadriel.”

“My love.” Your husband smiles, pride swelling in his eyes as he cups your cheek. “Clever and fierce, even as you lay broken.”

“I knew you would find me,” you say simply, as if nothing more had been needed. But then you sigh, and take hold of his wrist, lowering his hand from your face. “But our victory is not yet complete,” you say sullenly. “The Three are free of your influence and beyond our reach.”

“Do not despair, my love,” he is quick to reassure. “The Seven have known my touch. We have the Nine. And very soon...” Something sparks in his eyes, cunning and mysterious. “...we shall have more.”

You raise a brow, intrigued. “More?”

He nods, brow knitting slightly as he begins to explain. “You told me it did not sit well with you that I had used only my blood in the making of the Nine. You were right, my love,” he admits. His gaze drops to your hands, his thumb brushing over the empty spot where Nenya had been. “And so,” he says, locking his gaze with yours, “it shall be with your blood and mine combined that we will forge the Two.”

The words linger in the air, ominous and captivating even before you fully grasp their meaning.

“Two Rings,” your husband continues, wrapping your hands in his and bringing them to his chest, where you feel his heart beat as furiously as yours as he speaks. “Born of our flesh and love, inextricably intertwined with one another. Whose power shall be as fierce and eternal as the devotion between you and I, greater than that of all the other Rings. Great enough to bind them in the darkness we share, and to rule them all. One for their King...”

“One for their Queen,” you whisper, the words falling from your lips as if they had always been there. Always locked behind your tongue, written in your fate, meant to be spoken in this very moment. This feeling, the things of which he speaks—it is all so intoxicating, a design too perfect in its terrible splendour to imagine it being brought into existence.

“Is that possible?” you ask, cautiously.

“If it is not... then we shall make it.”

And when he says it like that, gazing so deeply and so fiercely into your eyes, you believe him.

“Will you join me in this act of creation, my love?” your husband beseeches, so desperately hopeful. “Will you stand at my side?”

There is only one answer that could ever leave your lips. But first, you lean in and capture his in a deep, ravenous kiss, the taste of him both remedy and fuel to the delirium surging within you.

Creation. Not meant for Elves, or Dwarves, or Men. Not crafted through the deception of Celebrimbor, or even so much as with another’s aid. The very embodiment of your entwined souls, brought into being and meant to be worn by you and your beloved only.

The fruit of your union.

You break apart, opening your eyes to find the same all-consuming desire reflected in your husband’s. And once again, you speak the vow that shall very soon become inscribed upon the gold of the Two.

“For all eternity.”

Previous fic with same reader -> Defied

[thatnonameuser]

A Wonderland Of Yanderes

World Building is here Part 2

It all started with that class.

The final class for the first week of the first semester. After all the chaos of coming to Twisted Wonderland, of being thrown into a world you don’t understand, a quiet weekend to start finding a way back is something you’ve been awaiting.

The classes here were chaotic but fun, and even interesting as a human from a world without any magic. 

Making potions that could do so many different things in Alchemy. Speaking with animals or a cat that can't talk like Grim in Animal Languages. Riding broomsticks in Phys Ed. Even the boring classes like Magical History, learning of this world full of wonder and mystery, and Arithmancy, math was boring, but it was fun to learn that it’s the same in this world. 

But out of all the classes this was the weirdest one of all. 

It was called The Art of Ensnaring Hearts. About ‘darling control and protection’. It’s a weird sounding class, but even weirder, it’s a mandatory subject for all first years, which seems weird for what sounds like an elective. Still it’s just odd, not anything too weird.

The name is nothing that you’ve seen in any fantasy book or tv show in your world. But by now, you knew weird being dropped head first into an unknown world. By now anything new and weird should have been expected, understood, brushed aside as something to accept and move on.

So here you were sitting between Ace and Deuce in the lecture, Grim fast asleep on your lap, waiting for class you knew nothing about.

“I can’t believe they’re making us take this class.” Ace complains.

“Stop complaining Ace. It’s a really important class!” Deuce objects.

Ace whined his butt off the whole way here, complaining about how stupid it was that they had to attend it. Deuce on the other hand, was incredibly enthusiastic and you are completely in the dark for what this class is even about.

Ace shrugs, “Still, my folks and brother taught me all about this stuff. It’s a waste of time.”

“Not everyone has parents or siblings who can teach them about darlings, Ace.”

“Nothing personal Juice, but this class is going to be as boring as Magical History.”

“Well, if you know so much, what exactly is this class about?” You joke and they both look at you like you’ve grown a second head. "What?" you say, now uneasy.

 “You don’t know?” Ace asks.

“What part about ‘I’m from another world’ keeps slipping your minds?” Your attempt at a joke falls flat, as they look at you in incredulity.

Deuce practically reels back in surprise, “N-No it’s just that it's so normal here. You don’t know what darlings are?”

You shake your head, “No, not really.”

A crack of a whip onto the blackboard calls your attention to Professor Crewel, "Alright pups, I have to do this every year so let's get this out of the way now. This class will provide you with any and every method, skill and technique to find, capture and control your future darlings, including evading the law in your respective homelands." Now, you're confused, why exactly is a school teaching students how to break the law?

"As you know Sage Island makes special accommodations for NRC and RSA students, all acts that may be forbidden in any of your hometowns, with the exception of Darling murder, will be pardoned and forgiven. In the case of a family investigation, the school will stage an accident so please do not butcher them beyond repair." No words or sounds slip from your lips, with you stunned silent in pure horror.

What pools in your stomach is hot dread mixed with cold fear. Just what exactly is this world? Murder can be excused here? It can be covered up, with only a slap on the wrist. You need some explanations and you need them now.

A student raises a hand, "Professor?"

"Yes, pup?"

"Why are there no darlings enrolled in Night Raven?"

"One too many murders on campus. A few too many mutts ran around unneutered and decided to draw blood." You smother your gasp a few seconds too late, as more than a third of the room turn to you, confused.

"Something wrong, pup?" Crewel raises an eyebrow at you. His eyes drill into your soul, inspecting, calculating.

"N-Nothing! I'm fine. Perfectly fine." Crewel doesn't push you on the subject, returning to his lecture.

You lean back in your seat, and the cold sweat on your body makes you shiver. Right now, you'll bite your tongue and hold back your horror.

You need to see Crowley, as soon as possible.