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yieldtotemptation · 4 months ago

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REPUTATION ft. Minji

minji x male reader smut

9k words

“So, you’re the one,” Minji says, an accusation to make you look up from your drink. “The one they warned us about.”

Firstly, you didn’t plan for this (you never do).

The night began, as always, with the best intentions. You promised your manager that you would follow his instructions to the letter: show face, smile for the cameras, and then slip out before the real party kicks in and you find yourself knee deep in scandal. Again.

And (if you were extra good) you would end the night by scrolling through the greatest hits on your contacts list, looking for a fellow insomniac needing to past the time, needing a bed to share.

A normal, everyday kind of night.

But yet, here you are now: cornered by the girl on everyone’s playlist, all fierce determination and pouty lips wrapped up in a tight black dress.

She doesn’t bother with an introduction—no, that would be silly—instead she just stands there, looking pretty, expecting your full attention.

You quirk an eyebrow. “I require a warning?”

There’s a smile there, just a hint, playing at the edges of Minji’s mouth, like she’s in on a secret that you’re not privy to. “Beware of male seniors. Specifically,” she adds, tilting her head to the side, raising her hand, peeling one finger off the drink she’s holding so she can point a single glossy nail at “you.”

“Hm,” is all you have to say, playing coy, like this is all news to you. Like you’re not aware of your own reputation, of the things you’ve been accused of, the things your company has scrambled to cover-up, the things you’ve actually done.

“So,” she says, so carefree, so easily charming. It’s all an act, of course, a meticulously curated ‘cool girl’ image, something well-rehearsed and played a thousand times before on a thousand lesser men, a tightrope walk between relatable and unattainable. “Should I be worried?”

You know what she’s really asking for: an assessment. Do you find me attractive? Do I tempt you? Am I the type of girl worth risking your career over?

And so, you take her invitation and do the one thing that always gets you in trouble. You look. Look at her legs, long and toned and smooth, begging to be wrapped around your waist. Look at her thighs, creamy-white and barely covered by the hem of her dress. Look at her chest, the soft swell rising and falling with every breath, her collarbone glittering with the sweat of excitement.

Look higher—at how effortlessly perfect she looks, as if she wakes up every day looking like the ideal type of every man and woman in Korea. Oh, there’s make-up, it’s subtle but it’s there, playing up her best features: the height of her cheekbones, the almond curve of her eyes, the fullness of her lips.

She’s so undeniably, obviously gorgeous: a bombshell wrapped in the guise of a girl-next-door.

It’s no wonder she’s so fucking popular.

You give her a non-answer, “Depends what they’ve been saying about me.”

Minji takes a sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving yours, her full pink lips curling around the straw as she sucks in the sugary liquid. It’s a deliberate move, so casually erotic—borderline pornographic, in fact—designed to make you want to grab her and kiss her and prove everything they’ve been saying about you right.

But she’s busy assessing you, you can tell, trying to reconcile the rumours with the reality—Can you really make a girl like her lose control? Make her beg? Make her forget about her image, her obligations, her entire life outside of your cock?

“Word gets around HYBE quick.” Minji’s eyes narrow just a smidge, she’s biting down into her bottom lip, and it has you imagining all sorts of things you’d rather she was doing with her mouth. “The girls at SM can’t stop talking about you. The guys at JYP hate your guts, so that says a lot.” She smiles at that last point, before listing off, “fuckboy, heartbreaker, group-wrecker, industry villain.”

It’s funny, hearing your dirty laundry aired out like that, and you can only shrug, give a casual smile as if to say ‘who, me?’. It’s admittedly a practiced move, one you’ve used to get out of sticky situations before (you may have even used it as an ending pose once). “Is that what they told you?” You ask, nodding in the direction behind her.

Minji follows your gaze, glancing over her shoulder, the wall of noise and flashing lights of the club framing her face, painting her skin with a rainbow of neon shadows.

There’s her bandmates, doing a terrible job of spying, a trio of worry and concern and gossip: they’ve found their little bunny, and she’s been caught speaking to the big, bad wolf.

She muses, “we’ve all heard the same rumours…”

“And so you came to… what?”

Minji takes a step closer, close enough for you to get a whiff of her drink; one of those sugary mixes, deceptively sweet, but just as strong as the one in your own hand. “To find out for myself,” she answers, “to see if you’re really as bad as everyone says, to see if it's all hype, or if there’s actually some truth to the legend.”

“Legend,” you repeat, trying the word out on your own tongue (it sounds sweeter on hers). “That sounds a bit much, don't you think?” you ask, trying to ignore the way she’s leaning forward now, letting the top of her dress dip, revealing just enough cleavage to stimulate your imagination. A simple gesture, so perfectly choreographed that you'd think it was incidental if you didn't know better, if it didn't have you picturing what it would be like to rip that dress off her, to expose her bare tits, to grab, lick, kiss, and—

She’s giggling out loud now, like she can hear every single filthy thought racing through your mind. “I think I'd like to be the judge of that.”

There’s an alarm bell going off in your pocket, the vibration of your phone buzzing with messages—who else but your manager, demanding to know why you haven't gone home like a good little idol yet, begging you to please, please not make another mess.

But you ignore it and take another sip of your drink, savouring the burn of the cold liquor down your throat, giving you a moment to consider. You’ve got Minji figured out, you think. It's nothing you haven't seen before (nothing you haven't dealt with before). The dream girl, the ‘ideal type’ who’s growing tired of maintaining a perfect image, looking to see how far she can push, how much she can get away with (how much you’ll let her get away with).

Because she’s probably never been told no in her life. Because she's used to getting what she wants with a bat of those lashes or a pout of those lips.

In a way, coming to you is safe, because if the worst were to happen—if you were to get caught—no one for a second would believe that one of the nation's precious daughters was the instigator.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says, cutting through the din of the club like a knife, making you believe that she just might be telepathic. “You're thinking: she’s just another innocent idol playing at being naughty for just the night, but the second things get too wild, she’ll be out of here faster than you can say ‘Dispatch’.”

“Because you’re not like other girls.”

“Please,” she scoffs, dismissing the idea entirely. “I always see things to the end.”

“Alright then,” you say. She’s thrown down the gauntlet, and you’re going to pick it up, if for nothing else than to see just how far she’ll go. "Shall we do this here? I'll rip off your clothes, nail you in the middle of the dancefloor in front of all our friends and peers?"

She’s grinning now, not backing down, in fact she’s moving closer, like yes, that’s exactly what I was hoping for. “From what I’ve heard that would be tame for you. Is it true, what you got up to at Inkigayo?”

“That was in a parking lot.”

“And at M Coundown.”

"Under the stage.”

“Music Bank?”

“The staircase, of course.”

“See,” Minji’s whispering now, close enough that you can hear her over the thumping bass of the music, her breath warm against your ear, “you are a man-whore.”

“I have a name,” you reply, dryly.

“That’s nice.” She’s touching you now, her hand sliding up your chest, fingers playing with the buttons of your shirt. “Wanna hear me scream it?”

Your phone is still buzzing, and you know that you should be walking away. It would be the right thing to do: it’s far too public, she’s far too popular, and getting caught leaving hand in hand with her would be nothing short of an announcement that will hit the top of every social media platform by sunrise.

But it’s too late—it was over the second you locked eyes with her from across the dancefloor, when she caught you staring, blatant and unabashed, lingering on the way her ass bounced, mesmerised by how her hips swayed to the beat.

You just had to let her know she was wanted.

"Look," Minji says, her hands sliding higher now, fingers idly adjusting the collar of your shirt. "There's no angle here, no game. I'm not looking to get caught or land in a scandal, and I'm definitely not looking for love or a boyfriend or whatever fairy tale shit you sing about. I just want what all the other pretty idols are getting."

She's forward, no shame in saying exactly what she wants, daring you to dispute it, but all you can do is cock your head to the side, and flash a smirk of your own. "And what makes you think you're my type?"

Minji laughs, her teeth glinting in the neon lights—you both know it's a very, very idiotic question. "Please," she says, rolling her eyes, "I'm everyone's type."

Another glance over her shoulder, where her bandmates have been pretending not to hover, and now there’s a new face in the mix: Yunjin. Her eyes narrowed to slits, her arms folded, and her jaw is clenched so tight you can almost hear her teeth grinding from here. Unlike the other three, she’s not playing the concerned friend card; she’s the pissed off mother bear, ready to pull Minji away from the walking, talking red flag.

And so adds to your stellar reputation.

Minji notices your eyes flicker in that direction, and looking back at the group with amusement, she takes it as the cue she's been waiting for. "We better get out of here before they take your head off."

It's inevitable, really, this is how it always ends up: the sweet, innocent idol lured into the jaws of the industry monster. But you can’t help it, not when she’s looking at you like that, like she wants to be eaten alive.

You know the score, you’ve danced this dance before, and you’ve got a role to play. The only thing left to do is to take her hand and lead her out of the chaos—through the throngs of familiar faces, not giving them a chance to register what you're doing, or who you're with, or what's about to occur, again.

Not like anyone could stop it now, anyway.

"So, this is how it happens," you hear Minji murmur as you lead her out of the club, through a hidden metal door, and into the cold, night air.

Minji tastes like gin and lime cordial, her lips sticky and sweet against yours, her arms around your neck, her back pressed up against the back-alley wall. There’s something in the way she’s kissing you—giggling between breaths—like she can’t believe this is happening, like she’s getting away with the crime of the century.

Her hands are in your hair now, tugging gently, the cool metal of her rings pressing into your scalp, begging you to kiss her harder, to burn the memory of your lips onto hers. Your tongues meet in a dance that’s more battle than ballet, and she’s matching you move for move, her teeth nipping at your bottom lip, her nails scraping down your neck.

She’s eager, she’s pressing her chest against yours, making you feel just how hot she is. But yet, there’s still that annoying voice in your head, the last shreds of your conscience, telling you to give her that final out, to let her walk away with her dignity intact, go back to her members and tell them she just had to get some fresh air.

So, you pull back, tearing your mouth away from hers, giving her room to gasp for air, to let the world come back into focus, and you ask her, loud and clear, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Minji’s panting, breaths coming in short gasps, little puffs of steam out into the winter air, and she smiles. It’s a wicked little grin, equal parts surprised and thrilled, like you’ve just passed some kind of test she didn’t think you knew existed. “Are you asking for my consent?”

You balk at that. Your reputation can't be that bad. “Is it so unbelievable that I'd ask?” Even though you already know, deep down, she’s not going anywhere, there’s a power in hearing her say it. Saying that she wants you, specifically, to ruin her.

“No, it’s just…” Minji starts, looking up with those big, dark eyes, and you can almost see the gears turning in her head, trying to figure out how to play this, before ultimately landing on the word, “nice.”

She pulls you back towards her, kissing you again, those soft, pillowy lips of hers meeting your mouth in a kiss that’s so inappropriately sweet, like she’s sealing a deal with sugar rather than ink.

“Yeah,” she whispers, her voice steady, sure. “I want to do this. More than anything.” Minji tilts her head back, exposing the column of her throat, inviting you to kiss it, to suck, to bite. “I want you."

You don’t need any more convincing than that. Your hands are on her body, running over the curves of her hips, the dip of her waist, the swell of her chest. And she’s leaning into your touch, needing to feel more of you, wanting you to explore her. And you do, greedily, feeling her breath hitch when you graze her nipples through the fabric, feel her hips jerk when you trace the line of her panties.

“Are we going to—gah—go back to your place?” Minji tries to ask, her question punctuated by a moan as your fingertips dance over the smooth skin of her inner thigh, the hem of her dress whispering against your skin.

You’ve already made your decision—you're not taking her home, you're not taking her anywhere with a bed, or even a chair. You're going to have her right here, right now. There’s no need to answer her, you just let her work it out for herself when you push her back against the wall, when your thumb finds the slick, wet heat between her legs.

“Here?” She gasps, turning to look down the darkened end of the alleyway, at the distant streetlights, at the crowds of people oblivious to what’s about to happen beneath the shadows.

“It’s not the dancefloor, but it’ll have to do,” you murmur, leaning into her, pressing your lips against her cheek, her jaw, her earlobe.

“B-but, what if—” Minji stammers, but you’re busy toying with the lace of her panties, nothing more than a mere formality at this point, only existing to get wetter, to be unavoidably ruined by you.

“What if someone finds us?” You finish her question, nibbling at her ear. “Then we’ll just have to make sure we leave them something to talk about, won’t we?”

She’s shivering at the thought of it—the headlines, the think pieces, the whispered scandals that will follow you both for weeks, maybe months, maybe forever. But you can feel her resolve hardening, her spine straightening, her body arching towards yours, and she replies, “Then don’t hold back.”

The challenge is clear: she’s embracing the thrill of the forbidden, the rush of potential disaster, the heady feeling of need overshadowing the fear of getting caught.

You don’t disappoint. Your fingers slip under the soaked lace, and she’s sensitive, so, so sensitive. She’s staining your fingers, needing only the smallest amount of pressure to garner a reaction. You tease her, drag your finger across her tender folds, dare to skim over her clit, torture her with anticipation.

Whatever concerns she has evaporates as you kiss down to her collarbone—you’re going to leave a mark—and she’s already asking for more, “Please.”

She’s whining, parting her legs, desperate for you to do more than just touch her, needing you to rip through her panties and take her.

“You're right—I don’t care,” she sighs into the wind, handing her fate over to you. “I need you. Now.”

That's all you need to hear, everything you've ever wanted to hear someone as seemingly untouchable as Minji say to you. You pull down her panties, needing an extra tug as her slickness sticks them to her thighs—she’s so fucking wet for you—and you draw a circle around her entrance with your finger.

“Right there,” she cries. She’s much more honest when she’s desperate—gone is the posturing, the taunting, the act—she’s just a girl who needs to feel something real. So, you give it to her—push your finger inside, gliding in smoothly, a perfect fit around your digit.

Only knuckle deep but she’s already got you like a vice, squeezing around your finger like she’s trying to keep it captive—so wet, so tight, so fucking good. Her nails dig into your shoulders as you push in another finger, stretching her just enough to make her gasp, just enough to make her fulfill her promise to cry out your name, “Fuck—!”

Her pulse is racing like a runaway train, hammering against your lips—you’re pushing both fingers all the way inside her now, sawing them in and out of her, making her groan, making her repeat your name over and over again.

You’re in her ear, “you’ve got to be quiet, Minji.”

But she’s not having it. “Make me,” she laughs, daring you, another challenge she’s putting down.

You kiss her hard, replacing the laughter in her mouth with your tongue, muffling her cries as you fuck her with your hand, you’re going to ruin her now. You curl your fingers up to hit that spot that makes her toes curl in her sky-high heels, making her gasp, her head thunking back against the wall.

She’s trying, she really is, to keep it in, but she still needs you to keep her standing, to hold her up as your fingers delve deeper; to keep her from melting into a puddle all over your hand.

Still, you’re relentless, feeling her out, learning her rhythm, her reactions, the spots that make her sigh and fall apart. You know you’ve found it when her breaths turn harsh and ragged, and she’s rolling her hips against your hand, and there’s that noise—the sweet, slick sound of her pussy swallowing your fingers whole—and she’s whining into your mouth, “This feels so—”

“Hot,” you finish for her, watching as her cheeks flush a delicious shade of pink, her pupils blown wide, those angelic features of hers contorting with every thrust of your fingers. “You’re so fucking hot, Minji.”

And she is, she’s hot, she’s so hot around you, against you, her hips bucking at the praise, and she whimpers, your name a staccato prayer on her lips. “More,” she demands, but she’s tripping over her words—“more—please—how does it feel so—”

“I’m going to make you cum now, Minji,” you state, your voice low and sure, your fingers continuing their persistent rhythm inside her. She nods, panting against your neck. “And after that, I’m going to fuck you and make you cum all over again. Until you can’t walk straight. Until you forget every other name but mine. Do you understand?”

Her eyes flutter closed, and she nods again, a whine escaping her throat, and she’s biting her lip so hard it’s going to bruise—another mark she won’t be able to explain tomorrow.

You lean in closer, whispering, “Good girl.”

You’re finger-fucking her in earnest now, her body moving in sync with your hand, the alleyway walls echoing with the slap of skin and the wet sounds of your digits plunging into her, your knuckles smacking against her clit. She’s trying to keep it together, trying not to scream out loud, her eyes squeezed shut tight as if that could hold back the orgasm that’s barrelling down on her.

Her breaths are coming out in little pants, and you know she’s close, so close, she’s nearly crying. “Just your fingers—fuck—it’s just your fingers,” she’s repeating it in disbelief, like it shouldn’t feel this good, not yet, like she needs the mantra to keep herself grounded as your hand lights up every nerve in her body.

She’s there, right on the edge, only needing that extra push, that pressure in just the right place, just waiting for your word to send her spiralling over. “Cum for me now, Minji.”

And that’s all it takes.

You hold her steady, fuck her hard with your fingers, rub at her clit, and she’s clenching down, all tiny shakes and choked gasps, her eyes snapping open and then squeezing shut as she reaches the precipice.

"God—fuck—I can't—"

It hits her hard and fast and all at once—her whole body seizing around your hand, her cunt tightening, her hips thrusting forward, needing more friction. Her mouth opens wide, but you trap her lips before she can make a sound, kissing her fiercely, tasting the sweetness of her release on her tongue, feeling the tremors of her orgasm travel from her core to the tips of your fingers.

Her hands are all over you, her nails digging into your shoulders, leaving little half-moons in your skin as she clutches you closer, her tongue dancing with yours as if her life depends on it. You keep going, not letting up until she’s fully ridden the wave, and it’s a sight to behold—Minji coming apart against a dirty alley wall, her legs trembling like they might give out at any second.

When she does finally go still, when her breathing starts to even out, you break the kiss, pulling away to look into her eyes, searching for the usual signs of regret or embarrassment that often follow these kinds of moments. But she’s looking at you with something else entirely: a mix of awe and excitement, like she’s just experienced something she never knew existed.

“You okay?” You murmur, the question more of a formality than anything, because she looks absolutely anything but okay. She looks fucking amazing, a breathless, boneless mess against the wall, her chest rising and falling rapidly with every inhale.

Her eyes are still glazed over, wide and dark, her mouth slack and swollen from your kisses. You can see her trying to process what just happened, the reality of it all, but she’s still too lost in the aftermath of her orgasm to form coherent thoughts.

“Yeah,” she breathes out finally, nodding shakily. “I’m—yeah, I’m good.”

You withdraw your hand, giving her pussy one last gentle squeeze before pulling away, and she whines, a high-pitched noise that makes you twitch.

She’s flushed, her hair a mess from your hands, her lipstick smudged, her dress hiked up around her waist, panties around her ankles. The way she’s looking at you now, it's worship, like you're a secret that she’s just discovered and is desperate to keep to herself. “I fucking knew it,” she says. “The rumours were true.”

You smirk, wiping your hand on the side of your pants, watching her struggle to stand straight. “Ready for round two?”

Her gaze flicks downwards, to the bulge in your pants, and she nods, swallows hard. “Yeah, I—fuck yes.”

There’s no hesitation now, no pretending she doesn’t know what she’s signed up for. She’s all in, and you want her, here, now, because that’s what you do—you take what you want.

You kiss her again, deep and greedy, one hand on the wall behind her head, the other gripping her tight, keeping her in place as you grind against her, letting her feel the hardness of your cock, everything she’s been waiting for.

“Please, don’t stop,” she pleads, and you don’t—you can’t.

Not now, when she’s letting you tug down on her dress, letting it pool around her ankles like a discarded secret. She’s a vision, standing in the cold, stark alley in just her heels and her underwear—and there’s her tits, perky and perfect, begging to be touched.

You don’t even bother with the bra, you just yank it down, the straps snapping and the fabric falling away to reveal her nipples—pink and stiff and so fucking tempting. You can’t help yourself, they’re practically calling for you to taste them, so you draw one into your mouth, feeling her gasp against your ear, her hand sliding into your hair, holding you against her chest.

Her skin is hot against your tongue, and you suck, and bite, and lick until she’s whimpering, until she’s pushing herself into your lips. Your hand is exploring the rest of her naked body—running down her stomach, tracing the lines of her abs, feeling her stomach muscles clench with every breath she takes. She’s so tight, so toned—it’s like you’re touching a sculpture, or a personal playground made just for you.

“Oh my God,” she whimpers, “so good, so, so good, how does it feel—?”

Her words cut off as your teeth graze her nipple—she’s so reactive to every touch, and it has you wondering—has she ever been touched like this before? Has her body every truly been explored like this, pushed to these heights?

“You want more?” You murmur into her chest, your fingers returning to her wet folds, your thumb reintroducing itself to her clit.

“Your cock,” she says, sucking a harsh breath through her teeth. “I want it, I need it—please—I’m ready for it.” It’s that word—please—how it rolls off her tongue, the desperation in it, how it makes her sound so needy and vulnerable.

“Then take it,” you command, breaking away from her chest, stepping backwards to give her room to do exactly what she's been begging for.

Minji doesn’t miss a beat, hands gentle but determined, her fingers at your belt, fumbling with the buckle, loosening the zipper. She’s hungry for it, for this moment of truth, to verify for herself—what’s been talked about in whispers and rumours, what’s been taunting her all evening.

Your pants hit the ground, and she’s staring at your cock with wide eyes, and for a second you can almost see the doubt creeping in. But she swallows it down, and with a soft grip, wraps her small hand around you, stroking you from base to tip.

“So this is it,” she says, taking the full measure of your length, her thumb smearing the pre-cum over your head. “This is the cock that ruins idols. They said it splits women in half.”

You chuckle, but she’s completely ignoring you, well, ignoring all parts of you that isn’t your cock. Her hand is tentative at first, working its way up and down, feeling you grow harder by the second in her palm. You can feel her wonder, her excitement, a hunger matched only by the ache in your cock.

It's the way she’s not saying anything, just touching, feeling. Not that you mind the quiet—it's intimate, just the two of you, the sound of her breaths, your heart beating in your ears, and the distant thump of the world you left behind.

She’s gaining confidence now, her strokes more deliberate, a smug smile gracing her lips as she watches how you react to her touch. You bite back a groan, not wanting to give away how much she’s getting to you, but fuck, she’s getting good at this. She’s clearly learning on the job, eyes keen to see just how you like it—how fast, how tight—how to make you fall apart in her hands.

It’s time to reign her in, you’re heading into deeper waters now. You grasp her wrist, stopping her, ignoring her pouts and whines. “Not yet,” you say, “I’m going to split you in half with my cock now.”

That makes her grin. She does this thing, this cute little twirl, spinning around on her heels to face the wall, and posting herself up against it. Her legs spread wide, giving you a perfect view of her splayed pussy, glistening under the dim neon light. She’s got her hands above her head—she’s putting herself on display for you, like your own private Mona Lisa.

A look back at you and she catches you gawking—eyes glued to her ass, her pussy—and she winks. “Are you just going to stare, or do I have to make you fuck me?” She says it so casually, like she’s back at the bar ordering another drink. “Hurry up, please. I need it. Inside me. Now."

No more waiting, no further invitations needed—there’s teasing, and then there’s both of you craving it, dying for this.

You’re behind her in an instant, pressing her into the wall, her cheek against the cold brick, her juicy ass up in the air. You guide your cock to her entrance, the head nudging against her—she’s soaked, pussy drooling on your tip—and she gasps, looking back at you with those doe eyes, all wide and innocent—like she hasn’t been begging for this since the moment she looked in your direction.

“Fuck Minji, you're so fucking wet for me,” you say, running your cock down her slit, coating it in her juices, “so needy for me, aren’t you?

“Yes,” she whispers, her voice strained, like every moment without your cock inside her is torture. “I want it all. Every fucking inch.”

The first push is a slide into heaven—she’s tight, so fucking tight, so, so wet, like she’s never had anyone else—like she’s been waiting just for you. She’s teary, gasping, and you feel her body tense, but she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t dare ask you to stop. Instead, she arches her back, pushing herself back onto you, urging you deeper.

“God,” she’s chanting now, feeling inch after inch sliding into her, “it’s so—it’s already making me so—”

It’s slow, deep, fucking, stretching seconds into an eternity, stretching her pussy out with your girth, stretching her to fit you, to keep you, to never let you leave. It’s careful, almost tender at first—let her set the pace, let her show you how much she can take.

She’s moaning, low and guttural, and you wrap one hand around her waist to hold her steady as you thrust into her, let her get comfortable with your size, make her tits bounce with every pump, make her legs shake beneath her. And then there’s that lip bite again—she’s trying to keep quiet, but little moans are escaping her, getting lost in the night.

You ease out, then push back in, setting a steady rhythm that’s got her rocking back onto you. Minji seems like a delicate little thing, but there's a strength to her, a suppleness—she’s meeting you thrust for thrust, her pussy like pure velvet around your cock, gripping you tight, trying to milk you.

Hand finds her chin, tilting her head back so you can kiss her again—long, deep, tongue-filled kisses that make her whine and buck against you. She’s slowly, but surely adjusting to you now, her body learning the rhythm of your cock, getting used to being so completely filled.

It's in the way she's moaning into your mouth, like she's never been fucked like this before, never had someone so big, never had a cock so demanding of her tight little cunt. But she's so eager for it, her pussy so warm and welcoming, swallowing you up with every thrust.

It’s not normally like this—you’re not normally like this—but something has you asking between kisses, “You okay?”

She laughs, pushing herself back against you, pushing her cunt down on you, taking you deeper, burying your cock to the hilt. “I’m not going to break, I promise,” she says, looking over her shoulder, needing this. “I need you to fuck me—no holding back—I can take it all—everything you’ve ever given anyone else, all those other girls. I can handle it.”

“Show me.”

It’s throwing gasoline on a fire—she's asking for it, burning for it. You fuck her like you mean it—pull out all the way, force it all the way back in, hard, deep, rough. A shriek and she's wailing now, true to her word she’s taking it, taking it all, utterly lost in each perfect push into her cunt. She’s so beautiful like this, so open and raw—gone is the perfect idol, she’s just another girl getting fucked in an alley by some guy she just met.

Both hands are gripping into her hips, holding her in place, holding her upright, feeling her walls clench and release around you. Marks are going to be left there too, your fingerprints on her skin, bruises that she’ll have to hide with makeup tomorrow.

“So good—so fucking good—just—“ Minji can barely make out full sentences, let alone words as you fuck her, as you own her. “Harder! Fuck! Rougher!"

It’s like a drug, this power, watching her come apart for you, knowing you’re the one making her feel this way, knowing she’ll let you do whatever you want, whatever you need as long as it makes her come apart. And you’re feeding off of it, her words pushing you closer to the edge, letting her need for you drive you, unlock that primal part of your brain. Fucking her like this, so filthy and wrong and everything you love about this life.

You pick up the pace, driving your hips forward—"harder—fuck—harder"—until she’s shaking, her legs giving out, and the only thing keeping her on her feet is your cock and your arms.

“Fuck—I know what they said but—fuck! Is this what they all felt?” She gasps out, “is this how it always feels?”

Your lips on her neck, her hair sticking to your face, the scent of her perfume, of her, intoxicating. “It doesn’t always feel like this,” you answer, you grunt. “But you do. You feel so fucking good, Minji. So fucking perfect for me.”

“You're so big,” she says, her voice trembling, “I feel so—fuck—full.”

It’s not just the way she’s clenching around you, how she’s now able to take every inch of you like she’s been fucking you her whole life—it’s how she says your name, like you’re the only one that could ever make you feel this way, like you’re the one who ever will.

You grab her tits, squeezing them, seizing them, pinching and twisting her nipples between your fingers. All it does is make her beg, “fuck—I love it—how rough you are—” needing more of everything you have, “your hands—your cock—please don’t stop, don’t ever stop—I can take it please—rougher please—fuck!”

Something cracks inside you, and your hand comes down on her ass, the sound bouncing off the walls like a gunshot. Minji jolts, yelps, but the noise is quickly swallowed by a moan, a squeezing of her cunt around you.

“Fuck that felt—”

You do it again, and again, each slap a little harder, a little more punishing, the sting making her flesh jiggle deliciously with every impact. She doesn’t retreat, she’s slamming her ass back down on you, slapping her cheeks against your waist, needing to feel more.

“Gah—fuck—harder!”

She can’t help herself, minutes ago she could barely handle your size, now she can’t hold back from crying out for more pain, more excruciating pleasure.

Each smack, each groan, each breath that’s ripped from her lungs is a declaration of your power, of her need. And you revel in it, your hand coming down on her ass, leaving a trail of red marks against her creamy-white skin.

“More, please, more,” she calls for it, calls for the sting, the heat, her pussy clamping down on you, walls pulsing with every hit, her body needing the release that’s building up, inevitable and intense.

Her ass is nothing but a canvas painted by the strokes of your hand and the relentless pounding of your cock, and you can’t help but admire your handiwork, you're struggling to suppress the urge to lean down and kiss each spot you’ve marked.

“You’re going to be so sore tomorrow,” you say, your teeth grazing the shell of her ear.

“I know,” she answers, her voice a whine, a plea, a moan. “But this is what I wanted—to feel—to remember this—this moment—getting fucked like you own me—because you do—so don’t hold back—don’t ever hold back.”

You’re both sweaty, panting—you can feel her orgasm building, like a storm in the distance, thunder rumbling closer and closer until it's right above you, ready to break. And there’s your own, too, that delicious pressure at the base of your spine, the promise of release, coming at you just as quick.

But you’re not going to let her get there—not yet—not when you’ve got her like this, pliant and open and so in need. You lean forward, your chest pressing against her back, and slide your hand down, reaching around to find her clit.

It’s slick and stiff and wanting, and Minji screams—a high, keening sound that you want to hear again and again. You’re playing with it, swiping it with your thumb in tight circles, feeling her clench around you with every pass.

“I’m almost��God that feels so good—I’m almost!”

But you stop, pull out of her, abruptly, making her cry out, making her turn around, a mess of emotions on her face—desire, confusion, awe.

“What are you—” Minji tries to ask, but you’re spinning her around and pressing her back against the wall. Her leg comes up, wrapping around your waist, but you take it and lift it higher, testing the extent of her flexibility, throwing it over your shoulder.

She’s right on that edge, you can see it—her pupils dilate, her mouth opens in a silent scream, her body tenses, her cunt melting around you. But you weren't going to let her cum like that, not without watching her face, not without seeing the moment she cracks and shatters.

Now you’re face to face, chest to chest, her eyes needing yours to anchor herself to, needing to know what you’re going to do to her. No time for breaks—in one, deep thrust you're all the way back inside her, making her scream with the suddenness of it, the shock, the bliss of being so perfectly filled.

She groans, weeps with each pump into her, and she’s smiling through it all. “So—” she asks, struggling to form intelligible sentences. “How do I—fuck—how do I—mmmph—compare to the others?”

You grunt, barely registering the question, your mind clouded by the spasms of her cunt around you. “What others?”

“The other girls—God—the other idols,” she says, strained. “The ones you’ve fucked before—the ones you’ve ruined—how do I—aah—compare?”

You kiss her again, a bruising, punishing kiss that steals the question from her lips. You don’t need to answer that. You’re showing her. You’re fucking showing her how she compares, how she’s the best, the tightest, the wettest, the most eager. You’re showing her how she’s going to be the one they whisper about in the halls of HYBE and beyond, she'll become the story that will be told as a warning, about the sweet, innocent idol ruined in a dirty alleyway.

Your world is spinning around you now—there’s your hand on her throat, a gentle squeeze, just enough to make her eyes water, to make her breath catch. But she’s not scared, not with the way she’s grinning, not with how she’s grinding her hips to meet yours.

“Fuck—make me scream—” It’s a plea, a demand, she’s so stunning, so tortured in her need for it, “do whatever you want to me, whatever you need—just—make me cum harder—God please—harder than any of them ever did.”

Any care you had for getting caught, about the consequences of what you're doing—where you're doing it—dissipates into the ether. Nothing exists outside of the race to her orgasm, outside of your hips recklessly pounding into her, reducing her to moans and shakes and trembles.

“Cum for me,” you growl, “right here, right now, Minji—cum for me again—show me that you’re mine.”

“I was made for you,” she says, and it’s not just the heat of the moment talking, it’s something else, something deeper. She’s not just saying it to get off, she’s saying it like it’s a revelation, like she’s been waiting for you, for this exact moment.

“Prove it.”

It hits her like a fucking truck, and Minji’s screaming, filth belted from her mouth and into the night, her pussy quaking around your cock, her whole body entering into seizure. You keep going, riding out her orgasm, feeling her cum on your cock, feeling her body go rigid, her muscles tense, it’s those abs, so tight, it’s those absurdly strong contractions that have you falling after her.

“God—fuck, I—can’t believe—can’t believe—”

You’re fucking her through it, not giving her a moment’s reprieve, not letting her come down from that high, because you’re not ready for this to end, not when she’s so helpless. You hold her tight through it, let her shake, rattle against you, let her nails dig into your arms, let her cum drench you.

“Fuuuuuuck!”

It’s too much for her to take, and once the storm has finally subsided, Minji is just a ragdoll in your arms. Her legs are limp, held up by your grip alone, still trembling from the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her makeup is ruined, a mix of sweat and your kisses, leaving dark streaks on her cheeks. Her hair, plastered to her forehead, her eyes half-closed, and there’s her body—marks of your teeth on her chest, her breasts, the bruises of your fingers around her hips, the mottled red of her ass, a map of your dominance painted on her perfect skin.

It’s not just the physical marks you’ve left on her; it’s the way she’s looking at you now, awe, desperation, realisation that it’s all true, every rumour, everything they’ve said about you—and she’s the latest filthy chapter in your story.

But you’re not done yet, you haven’t finished. You’re pulling out, and she’s whining, making your cock throb with her pleas. You guide her to the floor, to her knees, her dress puddled around her, the cold concrete biting into her skin.

You’re standing over her, looking down at her like she’s a prize, your prize. “Open your mouth,” you tell her, and she does, without hesitation, without question.

You grab your cock, still slick with her juices, and stroke yourself, watching her tongue dart out to lick her lips, watching the anticipation build in her eyes.

It’s the sweetest, most erotic sight you’ve ever seen—Minji, the girl that's everyone's type, the girl who could have anything she wants, anyone, on her knees for you—tongue out, mouth wide open, waiting eagerly for your cum.

And then you do it—you let go, shooting ropes of hot cum, painting her face, letting it dribble down onto her chin, onto her chest, onto her toned stomach, covering her until she’s a sticky mess of lust and desire. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away—she loves the feeling of it, shivering as your hot cum hits her skin.

She holds position through it all—knees on the ground, eyes closed, a serene smile as if she’s just been blessed. And when you're done, when your cock is finally spent, she looks up at you with a grin that's pure sin.

Minji takes a finger, dips it into the mess on her chin, and tastes you. It's a bold move, it’s messy, it’s wrong, it’s perfect. There’s the glimmer of triumph in her eyes, the knowledge that she's made you do something so raw, that she made you lose all control.

For a second there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the come down from your euphoric high. Minji speaks, still shaky from the orgasm that ripped through her. “That was—” she pauses, searching for the right word. “—incredible. Fuck!”

There’s a rush of arrogance, a smug smile of satisfaction at her confession. “So, do I live up to the legend?”

Minji wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing your cum across her cheek. There’s a glint in her eye, like she’s got a secret that she’s dying to share. “More than I could have ever imagined. You’re not just a man-whore, you’re a fucking artist.”

You laugh at that, as you tuck yourself back in, smoothing down your shirt, trying to compose yourself, pretending like her words don’t mean anything to you, like you don’t take pride in the validation of every girl you fuck.

“How do I rank?” she asks, the question coming out of nowhere, and you blink down at her, your brain trying to catch up. “I mean, out of all the idols you’ve fucked?”

“Rank?” you repeat. "I don't keep a list, that would be..." You trail off, realising what you're about to say, and now it’s her turn to laugh.

“Crass?” she supplies. “I know, but I’m just curious.”

“You’re fucking fantastic, that’s for sure,” you reassure her, making her giggle, the laughter bubbling up from her chest like it’s the best compliment she’s ever heard. “Why—do you keep a list?”

Her smile falters for a moment, but then she’s grinning again, looking even more wicked with the cum pasted across her face, and it makes you want to bend her over and fuck her all over again. “Of course I do. And you’ll be happy to know that you’re number one.”

“That’s good to know.”

But then she says, “Of one.”

And you freeze. The air around you turns to ice, and she’s looking up at you with those big, dark eyes, and you realise what she’s saying, what she’s just admitted to you. You’ve taken her virginity, and she’s looking at you like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her.

“You were…” you start, but she cuts you off.

“Don’t,” she says, her voice firm. “Don’t make this something it’s not. I wanted this, and I wanted it to be with you. I told you: I can handle it all.”

But that doesn’t stop your mind from racing, trying to process what she’s saying. You had your suspicions—she was so tight, so new, so untouched—and now she’s yours, in a way that no one else can claim. You wiped away her innocence, and she’s not running, not crying, not regretful.

The weight of it settles in your stomach, a strange cocktail of pride and guilt. You’ve ruined her, in the best way possible. You’ve claimed something precious and pure, and she’s given it to you willingly, eagerly.

“Fuck, Minji,” you start, trying to find the words. “If you had told me, I would’ve—”

“You would’ve what? I lost my virginity by having filthy, mind-blowing sex in a dark alley with the best cock in all of Korea,” she says, pridefully, with her entire chest, fully believing every word she's saying. “Can you really tell me your story was any better? I bet whoever it was with didn’t scream like I did. Or cum so hard she couldn’t see straight.”

You cast your mind back to the past, and you have to concede the point. “I see what you mean. But still—” You feel like you should say something, but what? It’s not like you can apologise, not when she’s looking at you like that, like she’s just won the fucking lottery. “How does it feel?”

“A-ma-zing,” she draws out, rising to her feet. “Everything I’ve ever heard about, multiplied by a million. You might’ve ruined sex for me completely.”

You watch as she puts herself back together, sliding her panties back on, tugging her dress over her head and down her hips. She’s smoothing her hair back, trying to fix the mess you’ve made of her; wiping at the cum on her chin, her cheek, trying to erase the evidence of your encounter, trying to put the mask of the sweet, innocent idol back on.

But you know better. You know what’s hiding beneath that polished exterior.

“Come home with me,” you find yourself saying before you can think better of it.

Minji turns to you, her eyes sparkling with mischief, and there's that hint of challenge again. “Why?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. “You want to cuddle and fall asleep together? Wake up, have breakfast in bed?”

“Yeah,” you nod, honestly. “After I’ve fucked you senseless again, of course. But yeah, come home with me.”

“That would be nice,” Minji says, a soft smile on her face. It's surreal, this moment, so at odds with the grimy alleyway and the smell of sex sticking to her skin. She looks so pure now, in complete contrast to how roughly you were fucking her just moments ago. Her innocence wasn’t lost, it was just painted with a fresh coat of your sin. “But—you know I can’t. They’re waiting.”

“Worth a shot,” you shrug, not bothering to hide your disappointment.

And then she produces your phone, holding it out to you. “You need to be more careful with your things.”

“When did you—”

“Now you’ve got my number,” she says. “You’re welcome to do whatever it is you want with it. But I’m hoping you use it.”

You take it out of her hands, swiping away the string of missed calls and messages, the digital proof of how much trouble you’re going to be in come morning. But for now, it’s irrelevant. For now, there’s only Minji, and the way she’s standing there, looking up at you, smiling like she’s just stepped off the stage.

“You’re going to go back to them?” you ask, gesturing towards the club entrance, to where the rest of her group are probably still gossiping, plotting your downfall.

“Of course,” Minji says. “They’re my friends. They care about me. They’ll want to make sure I’m okay.”

“And when they find out what we just did?”

“Oh, they’re going to want to kill you,” she answers, with a giggle. You’ve had enough of these types of conversations to know she’s not joking. “Except Dani, maybe. She’ll probably want a shot at you too. If I let her.”

"Noted," you say, trying to keep the image of Danielle, splayed against the wall like Minji before her, out of your head. "What exactly are you going to tell them?"

Minji pauses, thinking, before landing on a succinct summary. "I’ll just tell them that you fucked my brains out and then ditched me in an alley.”

You sigh, “sounds brutal.”

“Well, it is what it is,” Minji says, and she’s pressing a kiss to your cheek, her lips still sticky with the residue of your cum, the last traces of what's just happened.

You watch her go, watch as she turns away, walking back towards the club, a little stumble, a little trouble keeping steady. You should be feeling guilty, you should be regretting this, but all you can think is how good it felt, how right it felt. And you know you’ll do it again—you know it deep in your bones.

Minji turns back to you, catching your eye, catching you staring again, and she smiles. “You better go now. You do have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

#kpop smut #minji smut #newjeans smut #male reader

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lup-ines · 11 months ago

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ASTROLOGY OBSERVATIONS/NOTES (18+)

by lup-ines

1. Venus-Ascendant aspects are often known as THE beauty indicators in astrology, but in my opinion, I think Neptune-Ascendant deserves the title more. Neptune-ASC aspects are often found in the beauty icons of the world, and in comparison to Venus-ASC beauty, Neptune-ASC beauty gives more of an “other-worldly”, “she’s not from here” vibe (I will make a post about this).

2. Aquarius men and Virgo men are the same people, Aquarius men are just stranger.

3. When Mars transits over your 1st, 5th, or 8th, you tend to attract more sexual partners/attention.

4. Neptune in the 11th house people are may be blessed with friends that are artistic, loving, and caring but they often have a lot of friends that are secret haters.

5. Saturn in the 10th requires a lot of hard work before you actually get the flowers you deserve. Saturn in the 10th is the definition of the underdog. Often people with this placement find that they are constantly underestimated by those who work with them, but when they persevere wealth, fame, and admiration follow them. This can also mean get praise in the later part of your life (usually after your Saturn return).

For example, Queen Elizabeth II has Saturn in her 10th. At the time of her coronation, she was only 25 years old. This caused a lot of chatter due to many people thinking that she was too young and unfit to rule as a queen. As she got older, she slowly started to gain the respect and love from the people around her and had a VERY long career (Saturn in the 10th often indicates a stable/long career life depending on how it is aspected in your chart).

6. Fire signs moons/venuses (sometimes mars) have no concept of hiding their feelings for someone. When they like you, YOU WILL KNOW. If you’re confused, they probably don’t like you.

7. If you ever find yourself in bed with an aries mars or someone with mars in their 1st, pull their hair a little bit and watch what happens 😉

8. Leo placements have celebrity energy without even trying.

9. In 2024, Gemini risings and those with heavy gemini placements will see a boost in attention (good and bad depending on your chart) and popularity because of Jupiter moving into Gemini.

#mine #astrology notes #aries #taurus #gemini #cancer #leo #virgo #scorpio #libra #sagittarius #capricorn #aquarius #pisces #astrology observations #zodiac #horoscope #sexandastrology #greatesthits

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laroserie · 7 months ago

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— Various x-men characters, baking with reader

— characters ; Scott Summers. Rogue. Logan Howlett.

— warning ; no particular tw. author is not great at baking but he had a baking phase so. very sweet / fluff and self-indulgent. can be seen as platonic or romantic. reminder that author has not read the comics (only saw the films + is watching the animated series, xmen evolution and 97) and doesn't know much about some characters ( ex Rogue ) so author is doing his best to characterise them. author has favorite and it's shows. author says a cake count as a pastry and a pastry is basically any baked goods (if you do not agree. soryr that suck)

– Scott Summers.

Scott seems to be the kind of guy to be very open to baking, depending on what you want to bake.

Simple things like, cookies or a chocolate cake ? Sure. He is your man, he will be very happy to bake with you.

Now if you want to do something more complicated like, macarons or hell a pie, he will pat your shoulder and say 'Good luck with that' and walk out of the room. He is not even attempting to bake things that are too hard.

Why should he, when he can make simple things that taste good. There is no need to try some extravagant bakeries that most likely won't end up being very tasty the first time.

But with enough coercion and 'begging' (which you could call 'annoying him to no end') he will concede, but don't get him wrong - he is not at fault nor taking responsibility if it end up being disgusting.

Scott is the type to be very commending even in the kitchen, he is still the 'leader', here he will give you instructions and let you do it - until he does it himself because 'you aren't doing it properly' (he is trying to fix this habit up, don't get too angry at him).

He is also the type to follow the recipe and measurements extremely close, but if he's, for example, measuring flour and there is a bit too much but you have your back turned, he'll just let it be, let it slide, because no one else but him is aware of it, so it's fine !

He is still fun to bake around with, of course, but, he is still very, ... himself while doing so.

Once you are done, Scott is most likely to let you have the first bite - he is staring you down waiting to hear if you like it or not before trying for himself.

If the outcome isn't exactly the greatest - Scott will make it his personal mission to master it. He will not be beaten by something as simple as a pastry.

– Rogue.

If you have Rogue to bake with you, she will be overjoyed. She could be so happy that you want to bake with her, baking is an activity you usually do with people you are close to, so in her eyes you wanting to bake with her, show that you see her as someone you are close to in the very least.

She'll tell you to wait a few seconds, be gone and come back with a binder with handwritten families recipes and ask you if you wanna try one of them.

Unlike Scott, she is the type to not really care about measurements, she try to follow the ones from the recipes but if there is a bit too much flour, she won't scoop some out of it, because after all, that shouldn't change the outcome right ?

But that is, if you follow a recipe, if you don't ... let's just say there will be enough cakes - or whatever you both made - for weeks. She isn't really great at guessing how much is too much or how much is not enough.

She is absolutely the type to tease you while baking, if you are making something that requires meringues, she will do the meringue test (the meringue test is that if you take the bowl it's in and flip it upside down and nothing drop - it good, if it drop it's not) but not take any precautions, like doing it over the sink or counter. She will give you small heart attack.

Even if you don't really follow the recipes and have to change a few ingredients in the middle of the process because there isn't enough or because you didn't have it, the outcome will taste quite good most of the time. Rogue, will go and make everyone in the manor have a taste - because everyone should have a bit of what you both spend time on.

– Logan Howlett

Okay, now, baking with Logan is something that could only happen once in a blue moon. If you ask him to bake with you, he won't answer you and just give you a look that scream 'do i look like a fucking baker to you ?'.

Now that said, if you do go on your plan of baking - without him - there is a high chance that he will watch you do so, he will lean on a counter and watch you go about your baking.

He will comments on what you are doing and says snarky remarks about what you are doing - that's in his opinion - wrong.

Logan may help you when you are struggling - you are supposed to mix something together but it's a bit too hard for you, he will extend his hand and tell you to give it to him. But that's as far as he will go - and giving you the sugar that's in the cabinet next to him.

If you are making something like cookies, he will take one without asking, because after all he 'assisted' you (told you, you really sucked at mixing eggs and flour and telling you to be more organised when you bake because you are making one hell of a mess).

#xmen x reader #x-men x reader #x men x reader #marvel x reader #scott summers x reader #rogue x reader #anna marie x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #james logan howlett x reader #xmen fluff #x reader #x yn #gender neutral reader #x self insert #a magic piece ?#the magician sugar overload

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dresshistorynerd · 2 years ago

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So I got this tag on my answer to an ask about when it became acceptable for western women to wear pants, and you know it's all I need to go on a tangent.

I think the short answer here would be men have worn skirts as long as people have worn anything, so pretty long tbh. But since I am incapable of answering anything shortly, I think we can re-frame this question:

When did skirts stop being socially acceptable for men?

So let's start with acknowledging that tunics, togas, kirtles and such men wore through history were, in fact, skirts. I think there's often a tendency to think of these as very different garments from those that women wore, but really they are not. Most of the time they were literally referred to with the same name. (I will do a very broad and simplified overview of men's clothing from ancient times to Early Middle Ages so we can get to the point which is Late Middle Ages.)

Ancient Greek men and women both wore chitons. Even it's length wasn't determined by gender, but by occupation. Athletes, soldiers and slaves wore knee-length chitons for easier movement. Roman men and women wore very similar garment, tunics. Especially in earlier ancient Rome long sleeves were associated with women, but later became more popular and unconventional for men too. Length though was still dependent on occupation and class, not gender. Toga was sure men's clothing, but worn over tunic. It was wrapped around the waist, like a dress would, and then hung over shoulder. Romans did wear leggings when they needed to. For example for leg protection when hunting as in this mosaic from 4th century. They would have been mostly used by men since men would be doing the kinds of activities that would require them. But that does not lessen the dressyness of the tunics worn here. If a woman today wears leggings under her skirt, the skirt doesn't suddenly become not a skirt.

All over Europe thorough the early Middle Ages, the clothes were very similar in their basic shape and construction as in Rome and Greece. In Central and Northern Europe though people would wear pants under shorter tunics. There were exceptions to the everyone wearing a tunic trend. Celtic men wore braccae, which were pants, and short tunics and literally just shirts. Celts are the rare case, where I think we can say that men didn't wear dresses. Most other peoples in these colder areas wore at least knee-length tunics. Shorter tunics and trousers were worn again mostly by soldiers and slaves, so rarely any other woman than slave women. The trousers were though definitely trousers in Early Middle Ages. They were usually loose for easier construction and therefore not that similar to Roman leggings. However leggings style fitted pants were still used, especially by nobility. I'd say the loose trousers are a gray area. They wore both dresses and pants, but still definitely dresses. I'd say this style was very comparable to the 2000s miniskirts over jeans style. First one below is a reconstruction of Old Norse clothing by Danish history museum. The second is some celebrity from 2005. I see no difference.

When we get to the high Middle Ages tunics are still used by both men and women, and still it's length is dependent on class and activity more than gender, but there's some new developments too. Pants and skirt combo is fully out and leggings' are back in in form of hose. Hose were not in fact pants and calling them leggings is also misleading. Really they are socks. Or at least that's how they started. As it has become a trend here they were used by everyone, not just men. During early Middle Ages they were worn often with the trousers, sometimes the trousers tucked inside them making them baggy. In high Middle Ages they became very long when used with shorter tunics, fully displacing the need for trousers. They would be tied to the waist to keep them up, as they were not knitted (knitting was being invented in Egypt around this time, and some knitting was introduced to Europe during middle Ages, but it really only took off much later during Renaissance Era) and therefore not stretchy. First picture is an example of that from 1440s. Another exciting development in the High Medieval era was bliaut in France and it's sphere of influence. Bliaut was an early attempt in Europe of a fitted dress. And again used by both men and women. The second illustration below from mid 12th century shows a noble man wearing a bliaut and nicely showing off his leg covered in fitted hose. Bliaut was usually likely fitted with lacing on the sides, but it wasn't tailored (tailoring wasn't really a thing just yet) and so created a wrinkled effect around the torso.

In the 14th century things really picked up in European fashion. European kingdoms finally started to become richer and the rich started to have some extra money to put into clothing, so new trends started to pop up rapidly. Tailoring became a thing and clothes could be now cut to be very fitted, which gave birth to fitted kirtle. At the same time having extra money meant being able to spend extra money on more fabric and to create very voluminous clothing, which gave birth to the houppelande.

Kirtle was once again worn by everyone. It wasn't an undergarment, for women that would be shift and men shirt and breeches, but it was an underlayer. It could be worn in public but often had at least another layer on top of it. The bodice part, including sleeves were very fitted with lacing or buttons (though there were over-layer kirtles that had different sleeves that changed with fashions and would be usually worn over a fitted kirtle). Men's kirtles were short, earlier in 14th century knee-length but towards the end of the century even shorter styles became fashionable in some areas. First picture below shows a man with knee-length kirtle from 1450s Italy.

Houppelande was also unisex. It was a loose full-length overgown with a lot of fabric that was gathered on the neckline and could be worn belted or unbelted. The sleeves were also wide and became increasingly wider (for men and women) later in the century and into the next century. Shorter gowns similar in style and construction to the houppelande were also fashionable for men. Both of these styles are seen in the second picture below from late 14th century.

In the very end of 14th century, first signs of pantification of men can be seen. In France and it's sphere of influence the skirt part of the kirtle became so short it barely covered the breeches as seen below on these fashionable musicians from 1395-1400 France. Long houppelandes, length ranging from floor to calf, were still used by men though (the second picture, 1414 France), as were knee and thigh length gowns of similar loose style.

The hems continued to be short through the 15th century in France, but in other places like Italy and German sphere of influence, they were still fairly long, at least to mid thigh, through the first half of the century. In France at some point in late 13th century the very short under-kirtle started to be called doublet and they are just getting shorter in 1400s. The showing underwear problem was fixed by joined hose and the codpiece, signaling the entrance of The Sluttiest Era of men's fashion. Below is an example from 1450s Belgium of doublet and early codpiece in display. As you can see from the other figures, the overgowns of the previous century were also getting very, very short. In the next French example below from 1470s we can see the skirt shrink out of existence right before our eyes.

The very skimpy doublet and it's accompanying codpiece spread to the rest of the Europe in the second half of 15th century and it would only get sluttier from there. The Italians were just showing their full ass (example from 1490s). The dress was not gone yet though. The doublet and codpiece continued to be fashionable, but the overdress got longer again in the French area too. For example in the second example there's Italian soldiers in a knee length dresses from 1513.

But we have to talk about the Germans. They went absolutely mad with the whole doublet and codpiece. Just look at this 1513 painting below (first one). But they did not only do it sluttier than everyone else, they also changed the course of men's fashion.

Let's take a detour talking about the Landsknecht, the mercenary pikeman army of the Holy Roman Empire. (I'm not that knowledgeable in war history so take my war history explanation with a grain of salt.) Pikemen had recently become a formidable counter-unit against cavalry, which earlier in the Medieval Era had been the most important units. Knights were the professional highly trained cavalry, which the whole feudal system leaned against. On the other hand land units were usually not made of professional soldiers. Landsknecht were formed in late 15th century as a professional army of pikemen. They were skilled and highly organized, and quickly became a decisive force in European wars. Their military significance gave them a lot of power in the Holy Roman Empire, some were even given knighthood, which previously wasn't possible for land units, and interestingly for us they were exempt from sumptuary laws. Sumptuary laws controlled who could wear what. As the bourgeois became richer in Europe in late Middle Ages and Renaissance Era, laws were enacted to limit certain fabrics, colors and styles from those outside nobility, to uphold the hierarchy between rich bourgeois and the nobles. The Landsknecht, who were well payed mercenaries (they would mutiny, if they didn't get payed enough), went immediately absolute mad with the power to bypass sumptuary laws. Crimes against fashion (affectionate) were committed. What do you do, when you have extra money and one of your privileges is to wear every color and fabric? You wear every color and fabric. At the same time. You wear them on top of each other and so they can be seen at the same time, you slash the outer layer. In the second image you can feast your eyes on the Landsknecht.

Just to give you a little more of that good stuff, here's a selection of some of my favorite Landsknecht illustrations. This is the peak male performance. Look at those codpieces. Look at those bare legs. The tiny shorts. And savor them.

The Landsknecht were the hot shit. Their lavish and over the top influence quickly took over men's fashion in Germany in early 1500s. Slashing, the technique possibly started by them, but at least popularized by them, instantly spread all over Europe. That's how you get the typical Renaissance poof sleeves. They at first slashed the thighs of their hose, but it seems like to fit more of everything into their outfits, they started wearing the hose in two parts, upper hose and nether hose, which was a sort of return to the early Medieval trousers and knee-high hose style. The two part hose was adopted by the wider German men's fashion early in the century, but already in 1520s had spread to rest of Europe. It was first combined with the knee-length overdress that had made it's comeback in the turn of the century, like in this Italian painting from 1526 (first image). At this point knitting had become established and wide-spread craft in Europe and the stockings were born, replacing nether hose. They were basically nether hose, but from knitted fabric. The gown shortened again and turned into more of a jacket as the trunk hose became increasingly the centerpiece of the outfit, until in 1560s doublet - trunk hose combination emerged as the standard outerwear (as seen in the second example, 1569 Netherlands) putting the last nail on the coffin of the men's dress as well as the Sluttiest Era. The hose and doublet became profoundly un-slutty and un-horny, especially when the solemn Spanish influence spread all over with it's dark and muted colors.

Especially in Middle Ages, but thorough European history, trousers have been associated with soldiers. The largely accepted theory is that trousers were invented for horse riding, but in climates with cold winters, where short skirts are too cold, and long skirts are still a hazard when moving around, trousers (with or without a short skirt) are convenient for all kinds of other movement requiring activities like war. So by adopting hose as general men's clothing, men in 1500s associated masculinity with militarism. It was not a coincidence that the style came from Landsknecht. I may have been joking about them being "peak male performance", but really they were the new masculine ideals for the new age. At the time capitalism was taking form and European great powers had begun the process of violently conquering the world for money, so it's not surprising that the men, who fought for money and became rich and powerful doing so, were idealised.

Because of capitalism and increasingly centralized power, the feudal system was crumbling and with it the feudal social hierarchy. Capitalism shifted the wealth from land ownership (which feudal nobility was built upon) to capital and trade, deteriorating the hierarchy based on land. At the same time Reformation and centralized secular powers were weakening the power of the Church, wavering also the hierarchy justified by godly ordain. The ruling class was not about to give up their power, so a new social hierarchy needed to form. Through colonialism the concept of race was created and the new hierarchy was drawn from racial, gender and wealth lines. It was a long process, but it started in 1500s, and the increasing distinction between men's and women's fashions was part of drawing those lines. At the same time distinctions between white men and racialized men, as well as white women and racialized women were drawn. As in Europe up until this point, all over the world (with some exceptions) skirts were used by everyone. So when European men fully adopted the trousers, and trousers, as well as their association to military, were equated with masculinity, part of it was to emasculate racialized men, to draw distinctions.

Surprise, it was colonialism all along! Honestly if there's a societal or cultural change after Middle Ages, a good guess for the reason behind it is always colonialism. It won't be right every time, but quite a lot of times. Trousers as a concept is of course not related to colonialism, but the idea that trousers equal masculinity and especially the idea that skirts equal femininity are. So I guess decolonize masculinity by wearing skirts?

#this has been sitting in my drafts almost finished for like a year or something #historical fashion #fashion history #fashion #history #dress history #men's historical fashion #renaissance fashion #medieval fashion #western fashion #western fashion history #landsknecht

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storiesofsvu · 1 year ago

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Gorgeous Girl

Aaron Hotchner x reader warnings: teasing, alcohol consumption smut, heavy petting, make outs, nothing too kinky this time lol.

For once, being out of town for work wasn’t because you were chasing down some deranged serial killer in a distant state resulting in far too little sleep, far too much shitty coffee and coming home more exhausted than you left. While this week was technically still work, there was far less of it, a week of conferences, an hour or two of speaking and you could dodge all the rest out at a luxury sky resort in Breckenridge, Colorado. Two agents from the BAU were required to attend and you and Emily had pulled the ‘short’ straws (depending how you looked at it, of course). Some members of the team thought a week like that would be absolute torture, others thought it would just be too boring, or that having to socialize with that many other agents while representing the BAU was a walking nightmare. To you, the only disadvantage was that you weren’t taking the jet, the remainder of the team needed it, you’d be flying commercial.

You and Emily, however, were more than well prepared to have a girl’s week together off in the mountains, escaping into the small town to see what kind of fun you could find. You’d even splurged, using a bit of your own money to get a larger suite, one with a hot tub on the private balcony overlooking the mountains. One that you planned on drinking bottles of wine together in while gossiping and trash talking.

Which is why you were so surprised when you rounded the corner to your gate.

“Hotch?” You froze on the spot, confusion taking over your face at the sight of your Unit Chief standing in front of you. “Where’s Em? God, does Strauss think we need a babysitter or something?”

“No.” He chuckled at your instant annoyance, “Prentiss got specially requested for a case in New York.”

“Who has the power to pull that?”

“Her mother.”

“Ugh.” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. The surprise was wearing off and you suddenly shifted uncomfortably, pulling your blazer tighter around you, feeling Hotch’s eyes on you.

It wasn’t that the man made you feel uncomfortable, no it certainly wasn’t that. It was that he made you feel absolutely flustered. Nights when you laid alone in your empty bed unable to sleep and your hands danced their way down your body, it was him that you were thinking of, pretending they were his fingers touching you, stretching you out. That it wasn’t a silicone toy but his cock filling you so perfectly while he husked dirty words into your ear. As a result, you generally kept your head down around him, did your work and went about your life. He wasn’t totally sure that if it was that you just didn’t like him, if there was some underlying issue you had with men in power, or if it was simply that you were attempting to respect his authority.

“Sorry,” he suddenly spoke, “for ruining whatever plans you and Prentiss had. I know the two of you are close.”

“Mmhmm.” You nodded, staring out the airport window “s’okay.”

“When we get there I’ll see about upgrading, try and get adjoining rooms or something.”

“Already did that.” Your eyes flicked back to him briefly, “got one of the larger two bedroom suites that close off with like, French doors or whatever. We were planning on,” your cheeks flushed suddenly, realizing you were about to admit to your boss that you were going to play hooky, “taking…advantage of as many amenities as we could.”

“Hmm.” He chuckled, watching the way you quickly looked away so you could watch the planes drive around on the tarmac, basically refusing to look at him, “I’m sure that was all Prentiss’ plan.” That earned a huff of a laugh from you but you still didn’t dare look him in the eye, “do you have any idea how many of these things I’ve been to over the years? Guess how many times I’ve ditched out on them.” He smiled softly when your eyes flicked back to him, “places like this always have the best scotch, and the bonus is that it’s free.”

You swore he winked at you, a grin on his face that sent tingles shooting through your body and you were incredibly thankful when they suddenly announced boarding. At the very least, you and Emily had also upgraded to business class, you wouldn’t have to worry about minimal personal space for the flight, there’d be a barrier between you and Hotch. While you were distracted with your phone, he’d managed to disappear and you weren’t entirely sure where to, but you took the opportunity to open your text messages.

‘I cannot believe you.’

‘Oh come on, like I’m happy about this either. A week with my mother?! Who’d they end up sending?’

‘Hotch…’

You didn’t have to imagine Emily’s laughter, you could practically feel it through the phone as the three little dots popped up, disappeared and then popped up again. She, of course, was the only one who knew about your crush on Hotchner, she’d been planning on teasing you about it all week, hoping that maybe you’d find some other brooding FBI agent to get under while out of town.

‘Maybe that’ll work out for you. You can enjoy the view and the hot tub with him, have a nice romantic weekend.’

‘I fucking hate you.’

The first two days of the conference were fine, you stayed out of Aaron’s way, went to the presentations you were speaking at and did the required amount of socializing. You found that he was usually gone before you in the mornings, but there was always fresh coffee in the pot waiting for you. He made sure to respect your space as much as he could, if he swung by the suite to change in the afternoon and you were there he wouldn’t linger, and he’d make sure to change in the bathroom.

Day three was a little more on the tedious side, sitting through a lecture you would have rather slept through, one that was meant more for younger agents but they’d asked someone from the BAU to sit in and help with the question period. You ran into Hotch at lunch and he inquired about your plans for the rest of the day now that the mandatory attendance parts were done, asking if maybe you wanted to explore the mountain town, maybe grab some dinner outside of the resort. You laughed awkwardly, praying your cheeks weren’t as hot as they felt and politely declined, he shrugged, teasing that you would be missing out, but to enjoy your night in. You were incredibly glad he wandered off after that, the butterflies in your stomach nearly too much to handle as you got accustomed to the more casual version of your boss.

Dinner was spent with an old friend from the academy, laughing as you caught up over multiple courses and a bottle of wine. You said an early goodnight to them, making your way back to your suite, happy to find it empty and your eyes drifted through the balcony window, lingering on the hot tub. Figuring there was no better time but the present you quickly stripped, changing into your bikini before swiping a bottle of wine from the fridge and a spare wine glass.

Aaron also ended up running into a couple of old friends while out in the town, friends who had worked this conference in the past and knew exactly where to go for the best meals and fanciest scotch. Free from the responsibility of running a team he had stated to loosen up on this work vacation, a little rougher around the edges, inhibitions lowered and that all remained when he returned to the hotel room. Toeing out of his shoes he hung up his coat before starting to unbutton his shirt as he moved through the room, wondering what was stashed in the bar that he could indulge into now, potentially coerce you into a drink with him at the very least.

He could hear music echoing from the balcony and his gaze got pulled out there where he caught sight of the steam rising from the hot tub into the cool night air. His eyes lingered on you, nestled in the corner of the tub you were fully settled into the padded seat, arms extended across the backs of it, your head titled back with your eyes closed as you relaxed, hair pulled up to the top of your head to keep it dry. He could see the shimmer of water and sweat on your skin and he instantly wanted to lick up the exposed column of your neck. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as his eyes sunk lower, not missing the curve of your chest just visible above the water, hot pink fabric clinging to your skin. You were at a complete level of peace that he’d never seen before and he couldn’t help but want to see more of it, want to explore how far he could push your boundaries and began to wonder just how professional he had to remain on this retreat.

Though of course, that had technically been his idea from the start.

As soon as Ambassador Prentiss called, Emily was groaning about how much of a waste it was that she was missing the conference. It only took a raised brow from him to get her to admit the plan was to ditch as much as the two of you could, that you’d splurged for the all inclusive package and a very private balcony and jacuzzi. He wasn’t assigned to take her place, and he didn’t jump at the offer to make it not so obvious, but no one else knew about the extra perks so he simply looked like he was taking one for the team.

Figuring it was now or never he retreated to his side of the suite, changing into his trunks before swiping a bottle of scotch and a glass.

You were more relaxed than you had been in ages, warm water bubbling around your body as the wine sunk into your system. The music soothed through you, pulling you further from reality and honestly, it was pretty nice to not be chasing after some psychopath right now, even if you were still kinda surrounded by talks of crime. You were almost considering calling Emily, checking in on how things were going with the team, updating her on how things were going here, no doubt she’d have mountains of questions and teasing about you sharing a suite with Hotch.

And that was exactly how and why you didn’t hear him come out onto the terrace.

“Think you can warm me up?”

His deep voice shook through the night air and you jumped, water splashing around you as your heart nearly burst through your chest while your eyes flew open.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You swore, chest heaving as you finally took him in, trying not to gulp at his bare chest, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry.” He chuckled, ducking his gaze for a moment, watching the way you sunk further under the water to avoid his lingering eyes, “you mind if I join? Or I can come back later.” He lifted the bottle of liquor in his hand, “just thought maybe we could have a drink.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” You shook your head, “that’s fine, come on in.” You shifted further into the corner of the tub, turning your back while Hotch got into the water, wiping your hands on the towel to check your phone, unsurprised to have a couple of messages from Em. Once the water settled, you refilled your wine glass, turning back to face him as you sunk into the seat again.

“This is nice.” He murmured softly, letting out a relaxed sigh before pouring out a drink, “you and Prentiss really have a hack for these conferences.”

“Mmmhmm.” You replied over the brim of your glass, taking a hefty swig.

“You get up to anything fun tonight?”

“Ran into a friend. Had dinner at the steakhouse downstairs.”

Hotch frowned lightly, he didn’t miss the way you’d tensed up a little bit once you’d realized he was there, once he was in such close proximity and under the water with you. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come back later? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“No!” You practically yelped, grimacing at how quick you were to keep him there, “I’m fine. Totally fine, promise. I just… you’re… my boss.” Your gaze was redirected into your wine glass, “never really seen you in anything other than a suit and now…” You blindly gestured in his direction and then to yourself with a little laugh, “and I don’t think a pink bikini is exactly business casual and it’s not exactly my classiest one… thought Em would be the only one seeing it.” You muttered and then let out a little gasp, suddenly glancing up, “not that I brought it so she could see it! We’re not… that’s… no… we’re friends, I don’t swing that way.”

This time Aaron laughed, taking a sip of his drink, “it’s fine. You need to relax, alright?” He raised his drink out to you and you timidly clinked your glass with his. “Enjoy this while you can.” He gestured to the view, the night sky painting the mountains in gorgeous colours, “besides,” he smirked across at you, “I’ve seen you undercover and a few of those outfits leave very little to the imagination.”

You glanced up to him, noticing the flush in his cheeks, the smirk on his lips before he took another swig of his drink. There was a gleam in his eye that you hadn’t seen before that you didn’t exactly recognize and if you’d known any better, you would’ve said he was flirting with you.

“Are… are you drunk?” You suddenly asked, nearly regretting it the moment you’d said it and he laughed again, a sight and sound that made your insides weak.

“I think I legally shouldn’t drive anywhere, but I’m still completely in control of myself.” He nodded toward the half empty bottle on your side of the jacuzzi, “are you alright?”

“I’m so sorry sir.” You blushed, ducking your eyes again, “that was inappropriate. And yeah, I’m totally fine, big lunch, big dinner, high tolerance.”

“Don’t worry about it.” His smile softened, “and you can drop the sir, we don’t need to keep up that professionalism right now.”

“Oh..” You sank deeper under the water, taking another sip of your drink. Part of you wanted to disappear while the other part of you wanted to complain you were overheating, pull yourself up onto the ledge of the tub and flaunt your half naked body. The desire to throw yourself at him was only a few glasses of wine away and you knew it. Instead, the two of you sunk into a semi comfortable silence as you continued to drink, watching the night sky.

“You know, your talk the other day was fantastic.” He spoke softly, his voice floating across the water to you, “better than any other profilers have done on the topic.”

“Thank you.” You mumbled quietly, risking a very quick glance up at him before you were staring at the horizon again. Hotch let another few moments of silence pass before he spoke up again, the corner of his mouth curving up when he asked you,

“Why so shy?”

That caught your attention, your eyes flying up to his as you clutched at your wine glass, “what?” He laughed, shaking his head at you.

“I’m just saying, you’ve been so reserved, aware, quiet on this trip. You almost seem to make yourself smaller whenever I’m around and I’m not sure if it’s because you only think of me as your boss or if I’ve done something to make you at unease.”

“Christ.” You muttered, “I thought we weren’t profiling this week.”

“Have… I done something?” He asked, near worry taking over his face and you were quick to drain your drink before jumping to action.

“No, absolutely not! Hotch, please, you’re like, the most respectful guy I know. You make me feel… well, a lot of things, but uncomfortable is not one of them.” The words slipped from your lips before you could even think about them and you glanced up, your cheeks burning to catch his eyes widening slightly before he grinned, his hand catching yours, grounding you from whatever spiral you were about to drown in.

“So tell me.” He murmured, his voice silky soft as it hit your ears, his thumb brushing over your knuckles and he gently tugged at your hand after your glass found home on the edge of the tub, “come here gorgeous.”

The pet name nearly made you melt the instant it had left his lips and you felt the fluttering between your legs as you willingly moved through the water when he softly pulled you to him once more. Your breath caught in your throat when he guided you to straddle his lap, one of his hands hesitantly resting on your hip under the water while the other continued to play with your fingers gently.

“Well?” He asked, glancing up at you with a devilish look in his eyes and you let out a low breath, “what do I make you feel?”

“Flustered.” You managed out, your heart ready to beat itself out of your chest, feeling his thumb rub against your bare skin under the water, encouraging more responses from you, “unfocused, distracted…”

“Hmm…” he leant in, pressing a tender kiss to the underside of your jaw, “is that all?”

“Christ, Hotch.” You muttered, your eyes nearly fluttering shut as his hand let go of yours, moving so his thumb and forefinger could pinch your chin softly.

“Aaron…” He insisted, his eyes boring into yours as you opened them and you nodded softly, nearly whimpering at the way his thumb shifted to trace your lower lip. “What else?”

“Absolutely and incredibly fucking turned on.”

“Is that so?” He murmured, tilting your head to the side so he could kiss your neck, his lips brushing across your skin as he spoke, “is that last part just right now?”

“All week.” You replied, your pulse racing as he continued to litter your skin with tender kisses “all the goddamn time…”

“You think about me a lot hmm?” He nipped at your neck and you gasped, your body jolting towards him under the water, “what do you think about me doing?” He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, pressing a kiss just below your ear, “hmm?”

“Aaron…” you breathed out, your head tilted back with your eyes shut as his lips continued to dance across your skin. His hand gently pinched at your hip under the water.

“Don’t go shy on me now, tell me.. what do you think about me doing?”

“K- kissing me.” You managed out, unsure whether the heat in your cheeks was from the water, the way you were already putty in his hands or embarrassment of admitting it to his face. A gasp broke free of your lips at the sensation of his hand tracing up and down your spine and you automatically arched toward him, “touching me…” The hand he had under the water toyed with the knot of your bikini on your back, his dry one moving back to your chin, tilting your face back to his.

“I want you to look at me when you say the next one.” His thumb traced your lips, “come on gorgeous girl, I know there’s more you like to think of me doing, what is it?”

“Fucking me…” Somehow you were able to hold his gaze while the words floated out of your mouth, it was likely because your brain was already in a haze, first the wine, then the heat and now utterly intoxicated by Hotch’s touch.

“Bet you think about that one the most, don’t you?” He asked with a grin and you couldn’t help but nod, “when you’re alone at night, touching yourself, pretending it’s me. Picturing me naked, my cock stretching you out until your legs are shaking and you’re seeing stars.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Oh no,” he chuckled darkly, “I’ll have you screaming my name by the end of the night sweetheart, just wait.”

You let out a whimper, it was all you had time to do before Aaron sat forward, capturing your lips in a heated kiss that swallowed down any further noise coming from you. The kiss was full of fire, Aaron quickly dominating it and you were completely happy to let it happen, sinking deeper into his arms as yours looped around his shoulders. His dry hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers sinking into your hair while the other hand ventured further south, groping at the globe of your ass. You let out a small moan into the kiss, giving his tongue access to your mouth and he eagerly dove in. You could taste the scotch on him as your tongue danced with his, the smallest hint of a cigar from earlier and you couldn’t help but groan, your hands starting to play with his hair.

He pulled back ever so softly, nipping at your lip quickly before his mouth trailed across the side of your jaw, he left a feather light kiss behind your ear that caused you to let out an airy breath, your head lolling back and he felt himself twitch, hardening in his trunks. His mouth pressed lazy kisses down your neck before he made home in the crook of your neck, alternating between kissing, sucking and biting.

“Oh Aaron…” You shifted in his lap, lightly grinding against his cock and he let out a low groan onto your skin, his hands clutching you impossibly close to him. He raised his face, eyes dark with arousal as he gazed across at you before his lips found yours again and you were moaning into the kiss, grinding harder down onto his lap, a small gasp leaving your lips when you felt him getting harder underneath you.

Aaron couldn’t get enough of you, he wanted more, he wanted all of you, he wanted his hands and mouth everywhere all at once, he was drunk on your kisses alone and craved every inch of you. The lingering of your perfume was wafting through his senses, the way your lips moved against his made his cock utterly ache as you brushed against it. As much as he wanted to bend you over right then and there he would be completely satisfied just kissing you all night, the internal battle doing its best to figure out what he wanted to act on while your fingertips scratched as his head. You only broke the kiss when you felt like you couldn’t breath anymore, gasping for air, your eyes half shut, forehead resting against his while his hands soothed up and down your sides.

“God…”

“Still not the right name.” He teased, pulling a small laugh from you, one that you opened your eyes at, sitting back every so slightly before pressing a quick kiss to his lips. His hands trailed up your arms, coming to rest at the base of your neck, gently tugging at your bikini strings. “May I?”

“Mmhm.” You nodded with a wicked grin while your own hands splashed behind you to undo that knot and Hotch let the fabric fall from your skin, not even noticing it float away in the water as you sat up. His eyes raking down your body and over your chest, letting out a groan at the slight bounce as you settled, the way the water dripped down your tits, nipples hard in the cool air.

“Gorgeous girl.” He murmured, his hands gently groping your chest, squeezing your tits, thumbs flicking over your nipples and you moaned softly. “Such pretty sounds too.” You giggled softly, feeling the heat creeping back into your cheeks as his full attention was on your half naked body. His hands continued to play with your chest, rolling your nipples between his thumb and forefinger while yours came up to cup his face, ducking to kiss him again, unable to get enough.

Moaning softly into the kiss, his hands squeezing at your chest, you ground down onto his lap harder, feeling the bulge building between his legs. Your tongue dove into his mouth, doing what you could to keep control of yourself as he increased the pressure on your chest, pinching your nipples. After a few moments he broke the kiss, eager to duck down and suck a nipple in between his lips, teeth scraping against the pert bud. Your hands wrapped around his head, threading into his hair as you held him tighter to you,

“Fuck Aaron…” You groaned and you felt his lips curve up into a grin against your skin.

“That’s it sweetheart.” He murmured, blowing cold air onto your nipple before swapping to the other side, “say my name.”

“God Aaron,” your fingers tightened in his hair, nails scratching at his head, “that feels so good.”

He groaned in response, teeth scraping against your tender skin before he pulled off your chest, burying his face between them to leave a trail of kisses all the way up your neck before kissing you deeply again. When he finally pulled away this time his hands wrapped around your waist, lifting you while he stood,

“Up.” He instructed, “out.”

“Why?” You half laughed, finding your balance on your feet in the water as his arm wrapped around your waist.

“Well I can’t fuck you in the hot tub gorgeous.” He husked against your lips before picking you up in his arms, guiding you to wrap your legs around his waist and he was finally able to get you out of the tub.

Lips pressed against yours, tongue sliding back into your mouth he carried you back into the suite, managing to snag a towel from the back of the chair to toss down onto the bed before he let go of your legs. You let out a whine at the loss of contact, staying up on your toes to not break the kiss and he chuckled into your lips, hands groping at your ass. His hand cradled your face, pulling an inch away from you,

“Lie back gorgeous.” He muttered, stealing another kiss before nudging you back towards the bed, “I want to know how pretty you sound when you come.”

You collapsed down onto the bed and Hotch was quick to gently drop over you, catching himself with his hands as he caged you into the bed, his lips kissing at your skin again. Your arms wound around him, pulling him closer to you as your lips found his, tongue easily sliding into your mouth when he deepened the kiss. You moaned softly against his lips, back arching off the bed as your hips rocked up, eager for more friction. He let out a low groan at the feeling of you brushing against his cock through thin fabric, feeling himself throb inside his shorts. His free hand slid down your body, swiftly untying one knot of your bikini bottoms and then the other, pulling them away from your body while you lifted your hips to help before he was tossing them behind him.

Aaron cupped between your legs, palm rubbing on your clit while his fingers massaged your wetness, pressing against you, teasing you slightly as you whined into the kiss. A finger slid through your folds, spreading your juices around your cunt, dampening his fingers before he brought them up to your clit, rubbing slow circles on it.

“Aaron… please..” You whined, hips rocking up to his touch as you clutched him tighter to you.

He chuckled softly, finger dipping back down before it sunk into your pussy, pumping a few times before he added a second one. “Already so wet for me.” He husked into your ear, crooking his fingers in search of the sensitive spot inside you as he continued to pump his hand between your legs.

“Fuck…” you moaned, your body sinking into the lush bed as sparks began to fly under your skin, pleasure fluttering through you while his lips returned to yours, swallowing down your noises. His fingers twisted and scissored inside you, stretching out your warm walls while they skillfully fucked you. He curled them again and you broke the kiss with a gasp, body shivering against the bed as your eyes scrunched shut. You could feel your pussy pulsing around his fingers and you were sure your juices were dripping down his wrist already at this point. His nose nudged at your chin, giving him access to your neck again, nipping and sucking the sensitive skin while his fingers continued to toy with you. “Please…” you panted, “please fuck me already.”

Aaron’s breath was hot on your neck as he huffed out a laugh, pressing a kiss to your lips before he pulled away, sitting up on his knees between your legs, watching his fingers disappear into you for a few more thrusts before pulling them out of your cunt and sucking them into his mouth. He let out a groan at the taste of your juices, his cock aching at the thought of truly tasting you, wishing that he had more time but you were already whining again and he didn’t want to tease you anymore than he already had. Shifting, he quickly tugged his shorts off and his cock sprung free, hard and throbbing, he wrapped a hand around it, smearing the pre cum as he pumped himself a few times, his eyes falling shut while he let out a heavy sigh before a realization washed over him.

“Fuck.”

“What?” You asked, your eyes flying open, widening slightly at the sight in front of you now that he was completely naked.

“I don’t have any condoms.”

“I’m clean.” Was your immediate response, not wanting to delay things any longer, “and I’ve got an implant.”

“Are you sure?” He asked softly and you nodded eagerly.

“Please Aaron..” you whimpered, “I need you…”

He leant forward, hand guiding his cock, rubbing it through your lower lips, smearing your juices around it as you let out a small gasp before he sunk fully into you and you both let out a satisfied moan.

“God you’re tight.” He muttered, dropping over you again, burying his face into the crook of your neck as your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him impossibly deep inside you. “Fuck…” He stayed still for a moment, feeling you fluttering around him, he knew if he tried to move he risked coming incredibly early, he was already throbbing.

“Fuck you feel so good.” You murmured, arms squeezing at him gently, moaning when he nipped at your skin and that was enough to get him going.

He set a steady pace, plunging into you with a roll of the hips, cock dragging over every inch of your walls, hitting the right spots with each thrust. You clung onto him, your hips rocking up off the bed to meet his with every push, your moans getting louder as he fucked you, pleasure soaring through your body.

“Fuck…” you whined, “harder Aaron, please.”

He pushed himself up, sitting back on his haunches while he grabbed one of your legs, resting it on his shoulder groaning when he slipped even deeper into your pussy. You gasped softly, your hands clutching at the bedspread while his hips came crashing into yours, the noises leaving your lips more frequent, your eyes scrunching shut.

“Christ,” he swore at the way you pulsed around him, squeezing him tight, the coil building deep inside his gut as he watched himself disappear into your cunt. His hands grabbed your hips, lifting them off the bed as he continued to snap his hips into you and you cried out at the new angle, your pussy clenching down around him. “Gon’ need you to come sweetheart.” He grunted, “m’not gonna last.”

“Don’t stop.” You groaned, fire prickling under your skin as your body shivered, “oh fuck!”

Aaron reached down with one hand, pads of his fingers rubbing furiously at your clit and your body shook, hips jolting as he continued to pound into you. You felt the pleasure burst, pussy clenching around his thick cock, juices dribbling across your skin as you cried out.

“Oh god Aaron!” Your hips jumped in his hands, body shaking, thighs clenching around him as your peak hit, a chorus of his name and breathy swears escaping your lips, floating around the room just enough to drive him absolutely wild. “Fuck… yes! Oh fuck Aaron.”

He didn’t let up, thrusting faster, the pressure on your clit harder as he leant forward, driving into you harder as he started to chase his own peak. He grunted, hips nearly faltering as your pussy continued to flutter around him, his arm winding tightly around your waist, holding you to him.

“C’mon gorgeous. You’ve got one more in you. Come again for me.”

You let out a whine, your hands gripping at his body, nails digging into his skin and you swore you practically blacked out when your second orgasm hit, letting out a cry as you tensed in his arms, twitching as you whimpered. Aaron groaned, fucking into you a few more times as his hips faltered and he sunk into your cunt with one last heavy thrust, hissing as he came, spilling into your pussy.

Panting, he gently collapsed over you, arms winding tighter around you in an effort to solidify this moment into his memory, not wanting to forget the way you looked, the way you felt wrapped around his cock, the noises you made when you came, how your lips felt on his skin, the sweetness of your taste. Under him you were slowly catching your breath, a happy hum leaving your lips when he placed a kiss onto your shoulder. One of your hands gently ran up and down his back and you felt him relax deeper into you, letting out a soft moan. Finally he pulled his head up enough to kiss you, lips moving lazily together until he gently rolled off you onto his side, letting out a quiet hiss as his cock slipped out of your warmth. You rolled toward him, happily accepting the arm he swung over waist as he pulled you toward him again, ducking down to nip at the tender spot forming on your neck before kissing you softly.

“Well that’s one way to enjoy a conference.” You murmured, your lips curving up into a grin and he huffed out a laugh, eyes sparkling down at yours.

“Fuck the conference. Let me give you a reason to stay in bed.”

“Is that an order Agent Hotchner?” You asked with raised brow and he smirked.

“A direct one.” He kissed you again, lips brushing yours as he spoke, “no way either of us is leaving this suite ‘til Friday. That’s why room service was invented.”

“I don’t think that’s right, but I’m not going to argue.”

“Oh but you love to prove you’re right.” He teased, smiling as you rolled him onto his back.

“Yeah, but I can think of a few better uses for my mouth right now.”

Aaron’s suggestion was exactly the way you spent the next two days, tangled in each other’s limbs, sheets barely covering bodies while you discovered every inch of the other persons skin. By Friday afternoon you knew just exactly how to touch each other so that you would see stars every single time. Aaron was about to suggest staying the weekend for a few more days of bliss when his phone went off and you were both called back to work. The team was already on the jet, meaning you were flying commercia to California to meet them there.

You were immediately roped into a coffee run with Emily, even if it was only to the breakroom and back, she had to get her complaints out about the days with her mother and honestly, wanted to know how things went being trapped in a hotel with Hotch all week. Scooping up your coffee you snagged a granola bar from the shelf, wandering back down the hall to the team as you caught up, you shoved the bar into your pocket so you could pull open the door and your hand hit something metal, your brow furrowing as you stalled in your tracks. In turn, Emily pulled open the door, propping it so Hotch could step through, no doubt on his way to secure his own caffeine, nodding to the both of you as he said a quick thanks.

“Aaron!” You called after him, having now pulled the item out of your pocket, realizing it was his watch and he turned back to you just in time to catch it as you tossed it to him. His head titled in confusion, glancing up at you as he slid it back onto his wrist, “you left it in the bin when we went through security, I forgot I grabbed it.”

“Thanks.” A flash of a smile crept onto his lips before he turned away, making his way down the hall.

“Oh… my god.” Emily quietly gasped, smacking your arm, “you hooked up and you weren’t planning on fucking telling me?!”

“What?” Your eyes shot to her, quickly stepping through the door to make sure Hotch wouldn’t hear you, “no. Em, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Please. When have you ever called him Aaron before? And I did not miss that hickey on his neck.”

Your eyes widened quickly, remembering how you’d made home in the crook of his neck while riding him, his arms wound around you, squeezing you softly as his cock plunged into your cunt. It was the same round he’d lavished your chest, his mouth barely leaving them, under your shirt you had your own set of hickeys and bite marks littered across your body. The memories were enough to bring a tingling down south, desire beginning to flood through you as heat crept into your cheeks. That of course was enough for Emily to confirm that her suspicions were right, trying not to gape as she attempted to form a coherent response. Before she could though, Hotch came back through the door, already hanging up a call from Garcia.

“Prentiss, take JJ and head down to talk to the family, Agent,” he turned to you, “grab your coat we’re going to the crime scene.”

“Yes sir.” You nodded, your cheeks flushing at the use of the title already and a possessive look shot through his eyes lightning fast, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a very brief smirk that Emily caught and did her best to hold back a laugh. He was back across the room in an instant, handing out tasks to the rest of the team and Emily pinched at your arm.

“Well, get ready for round two in the car.” She teased and you turned to her with a smug grin.

“More like round eleven.”

_____________________________

@alexusonfire @svushots @geekyandgay98 @onmykneesformarvel @emobabeyy @daddy-heather-dunbar @mrs-ssa-hotch @hotchandspencearedilfs @mina2000alex @telepathay @darlingsfandom @ssamorganhotchner @hotchsdoormat @hopedoesntknow @thehauntingofbasingse @plaidbooks @niyizh @ababanana @tommyriddleobsessed @supercriminalbean @hotchs-bitch @kmc1989 @irishavengersassemble @emlynblack @ivyflowers13 @ratsnestinmyhair @silversprings-mp3 @originalbrunettecharacter @elz-artzzz @ssaaaronhotchnerr @itsrainingreid @speedynana @tgskitten @madamsnape921

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds #hotch x reader #hotch x you #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfic

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kiame-sama · 2 months ago

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I wanna bang the monster men!!! (Malleus, Rollo and Lilia specifically)

Sees requirements... Nevermind!

But seriously, imagine how odd it must be for Reader to cradle and sing lullabies to her and Malleus's eggs for 50 years or so. It reminds me of the weird high school baby egg projects. Would prolly dress the eggs in a pinafore and bib for funsies.

Hybrid bat fae human babies must be cradled like glass if the wings are that delicate. Though I can imagine Reader walking around with her babies clinging to her bust. If we look at how baby bats cling to their momma by sucking on the underarm nipple.

As for Rollo's core, call me awful but can Reader use the same fire that's used by their baby to cook meals? For early cooking lessons? I'll see myself out...

For Malleus the egg timer is dependent on love given to the egg. 50 years is how long it would take if neither parent showed the egg love. Both parents caring for and tending the egg means it could hatch within a month. Basically love and how much care is put into the egg determines how long it will take to hatch. The hatchling knows the voices and unique presences of their parents due to this love determined growth rate, making the newly hatched offspring similar to newborn kittens in that they hate everyone but their parents and will spit flames at anyone other than their parents.

For Lilia, the infant's wings are glass fragile and typically stay wrapped in a swaddle to prevent potential breakage until the bones harden up. This swaddle has to be carried around by one of the parents in near constant and even held while sleeping as the infant will become wiggly and distressed if not being held (Lilia has it covered, don't you worry). The wings remain fragile until they are several months old and the bones have time to stiffen and strengthen, similar to how the skull is not fused at birth but fuses over time. At about one year the bones in their wings are their sturdiest bones.

As for Rollo, it is very frowned upon to use the flame-pit a core is being grown in for anything other than growing the Nymph/Elemental. Even the type of wood/kindling can impact how the infant grows as some fuels burn at different temperatures or take longer to burn, some even burn different colors which can impact the final color of the infant's flame. The core will keep the fire burning so long as there is something to burn, so the main part of tending a Flame core is feeding the fire and sheltering it from the elements.

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #humans are extinct twst au

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arscorpii · 5 months ago

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little observations of episode 16 of revolutionary girl utena: cowbell of happiness

(these are just some thoughts i had. i tried to organise and articulate the ideas the best i could.)

(all dialogues are from the empty movement website)

this is a nanami-centric episode. it begins with the regular fairy-tale-like scene of utena meeting prince dios when she was younger.

this is an interesting screenshot from episode 16:

the dialogue for this scene (as in, for this specific shot):

as anyone can see, utena wasn't wearing her red socks here (she wore the red socks even when she decided to wear the girl's uniform in episode 12 [screenshots from episode 12 below, for clarity]). thus, this shot caught my eye.

another shot where utena wasn't wearing her red socks in episode 16:

the dialogue for this scene (as in, for this specific shot):

at first, i surmised that these were just animation errors because these shots lasted for only several seconds. however, upon watching and rewatching several times, the only times utena didn't wear her red socks were when she's directly confronting nanami about the cowbell. utena was the only person openly calling out nanami about it, as opposed to others who either ridiculed, ignored, or tiptoed around the matter. tsuwabuki tried saying something about the cowbell to nanami, too, but was quickly shot down by her:

generally, not wearing socks while wearing shoes can be somewhat uncomfortable, especially for long periods. it's much worse when one walks or runs while wearing shoes without socks, as this could cause skin irritations, foot blisters, etc.

when people buy certain types of shoes (or any, i think), it's common to buy shoes with a little room for toes and heels, rather than a tight, perfect fit, for comfort. when worn with a pair of socks, these shoes would usually fit perfectly. without socks, these shoes can feel loose and thus, affect gait/movements (i believe this depends on the type of shoes).

based on some readings i've done, some of the common interpretations/themes of nanami's situation in this episode (oversimplified):

exploitation and abuse of girls and women via indoctrination of patriarchal norms that simply equate them to mere livestock; raised as subservient as a calf to then be slaughtered and reduced to a piece of meat to be consumed by men.

nanami was so blinded by the love she held for her big brother that she was willing to do anything to keep that love, to maintain her bond with him. she was willing to make a fool of herself, and ignore the ridicule and concerns from others. however, deep down, she was aware of how this could all go wrong and hurt her terribly later, and all of this could very much be orchestrated by her own beloved big brother. (i hope i worded these properly)

to relate the themes of the episode to the visuals of utena not wearing socks and her dialogues: in my opinion, i think utena calling out nanami on the cowbell puts utena in a somewhat uncomfortable position (hence, wearing shoes with no socks); it's akin to challenging detrimental societal norms of a patriarchal system. notable examples that come to mind regarding detrimental societal norms are fashion and beauty standards (as in this episode). people usually don't take too kindly to the safety of their realities and status quo being challenged/questioned critically, because these are what they have been raised with, what were taught to them, and what they have been made to believe to be right and true. therefore, the person who challenges/questions these is often ignored or triggers aggressive reactions, even from the individuals who have been detrimentally affected by the status quo, in this case, nanami. "the deeper the attachment to the status quo, the greater the willful blindness." this quote by clark (2023) from his writing about challenging one's organisation's status quo felt fitting for nanami's situation (although the case with nanami definitely requires more nuances than what the quote can present).

nanami said that utena's boy uniform was very weird (dialogues above) in response to utena calling nanami's cowbell weird (2nd picture). they perceived the other's pursuit as weird because it didn't align with their ideals (an adult's fashion sense versus a noble prince). these things weren't quite the same, in a literal sense: nanami essentially wore the cowbell to appeal to the students of the academy, to be an idol of the school, to stand out, be special. meanwhile, utena wore a boy's uniform to become a prince/emulate princely ideals. however, fundamentally, both did not truly understand (at this point, at least) what these truly entailed (to be the most special girl at school versus to be a prince).

when nanami said that utena's uniform was very weird, the focus was on chu chu drinking milk from a bottle. then, at the end of the argument, chu chu was shown to have been stuck in the milk bottle, after drinking the milk. these visuals may be indicating how nanami and utena's attempts at striving towards respective impossible ideals they envisioned for themselves may be self-fulfilling at first, but will eventually have them equally trapped and hurt, you know, something like "in the end, all girls are like rose brides." (i may be wrong here)

a look at other episodes: one may say that the shots where utena didn't wear her red socks were indeed animation errors based on this shot from episode 24:

however, this shot was from the scene of episode 16 as narrated by anthy based on what was written in tsuwabuki's diary. we can see this as tsuwabuki's perspective while the previous shots as the audience's perspective (this is how i chose to see it, at least).

watching through other episodes, utena also wasn't wearing her socks when her foot was injured in episode 30, throughout episode 33, and in episode 37 when utena went on a date with akio. i pondered the correlation between utena's sans red socks moments from episode 16 and those specific events. based on episode 12, i think one can conclude that the pair of red socks was a part in which utena expressed her sense of self (because it made up her whole outfit of emulating a prince). hence, i think that nanami's situation in this episode was also a foreshadowing of utena's future, in a way (this was also illustrated with the chu chu stuck in a milk bottle imagery after drinking the milk during their argument, as above). as described earlier, utena called out nanami twice on her cowbell; on the second time, utena thoroughly explained to nanami in japanese that a cowbell is a bell that cows wear, as in the dialogues below (the following scene after these dialogues was the 5th picture; 6th picture contained the corresponding dialogues):

i think it's safe to conclude that nanami may not know what the english word "cowbell" means. this was further emphasised by utena admonishing nanami for not knowing what a cowbell is all about (see the 6th picture). everyone around her called it "cowbell" and knew what it was (what the word meant). upon explanation by utena, nanami finally came to her senses (as in, turning into a cow). relating to utena's case in later episodes, i think this could be synonymous with the fact that utena was unaware that akio was actively grooming her. several people noticed the changes in utena due to akio's grooming: juri and miki in episode 36, where juri said that utena looked more like a girl; touga asking whether utena was in love with akio in the same episode. and of course, anthy was the most aware of what akio's doing to utena throughout.

the point detailed above regarding nanami's situation in episode 16 foreshadowing utena's future can be further supported by the fact that the cowbell and the earrings akio gifted to utena were closely identical in design (interesting to note that the cowbell was purchased by anthy for her cow named nanami while the earrings were picked by touga on behalf of akio).

from my understanding, nanami turning into a cow may be equivalent to utena accepting akio's proposal to be his bride, to take kanae's place. much like a calf raised to be slaughtered for consumption (nanami's dream), akio groomed utena to be his bride. and similar to how wearing shoes without socks can be uncomfortable, utena was evidently uncomfortable in these scenes as well (the worst being episode 33). in episode 30, utena's left foot was injured. akio offered to help her, then proceeded to kiss her. akio was grooming utena to be fully dependent on him. also, since the red socks were synonymous with her self-expression, these moments (episodes 30, 33, and 37) were when her true sense of self was gradually repressed through akio's grooming. utena not wearing the red socks during the most gut-wrenchingly blatant depictions of grooming and sexual assault ⟶ how grooming and abuse can ultimately strip you of your personhood and cultivate this cycle of dependence of victims on their groomers/abusers, not being able to stand on their own feet.

after nanami turned into a cow, utena tried, and succeeded, in taking off the cowbell from nanami. i think this would be analogous to utena rejecting akio's proposal.

nanami then turned back to her human self ⟶ utena wearing back her prince outfit.

to reiterate:

critiquing the status quo may induce harsh feedback even if it's done in good faith.

nanami's situation in this episode can be seen as a foreshadowing of utena's fate in later episodes.

#i'm sorry that it's long and convoluted #please feel free to point out any wrongs/mistakes in this post #i'm honestly not confident with my writing and analysis here #i just hope this makes sense #revolutionary girl utena #shojo kakumei utena #shoujo kakumei utena #rgu #sku #utena tenjou #nanami kiryuu #anthy himemiya #mitsuru tsuwabuki #akio ohtori #touga kiryuu #analysis #the first proper draft of this took 6 hours #✮

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oneshortdamnfuse · 1 year ago

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I hate that Barbie review post going around - not because there aren’t fair criticisms of the movie, but because any fair criticism in that post is diminished by a blatant aphobic viewpoint:

What is utopian about a world without sex?

Sex doesn’t have to exist in a fictional world, especially one that depends on the imagination of young children.

Without sex, what is the material difference between Barbie and Ken being boyfriend girlfriend of just being friends? What is the nature of the desires Ken has that Barbie can’t match?

Sex is not a requirement for a romantic relationship. You can also “just be friends” and have sex with someone. We assign meaning to our own relationships. That is beside the point that when young children are playing with dolls, they are developing their own idea of what the terms “boyfriend” and “girlfriend” mean. That doesn’t often include sex.

Ken’s entire drive throughout the movie is based on the fact that the Ken doll is seen as an accessory to Barbie. He doesn’t have his own identity, and that becomes problematic as he bases his purpose around being with Barbie. He begins to believe that Barbie owes him for his dedication, which is something real men do all the time to real women. Instead of finding themselves on their own and unpacking why they measure themselves based on the attentions of women, they get mad at women for not reciprocating and they create a culture to punish women. Ken’s “desire” is Barbie’s attention, but Barbie has her own life and interests that do not include him. It’s not that she can’t “match” his desires. It’s that she doesn’t want to.

It does not have to be explicitly about sex, but even if it was about sex, again, it’s not about being unable to “match” that desire. It’s about not wanting to, and people who don’t want to have sex for whatever reason are punished for it by a society that tells us sex is necessary and owed in a meaningful relationship.

Why do the dolls have no genitalia in the real world, given that they are otherwise turned into flesh? Why did you make a point of specifying this?

You are obsessed with a doll’s genitals, which feels like a TERF dog whistle. They’re still dolls in the real world. Barbie chooses to become “human” in the end. That’s why there’s a joke at the end about her going to the gynecologist. Still, their lack of genitals is not only a joke but a reminder that Barbie and Ken are dolls who are enjoyed by children in a fantasy land that doesn’t revolve around sex.

This isn’t the only part of the post that grinds my gears, but the whole thing reads as specifically hostile to people with different lived experiences regarding sex and gender. I absolutely hate it.

#barbie 2023 #barbie criticism

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nyx-knacks-writes · 1 month ago

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Be More Careful, Okay?

Based off of @princeloww's idea of Alec and Campbell being uncle and nephew. I think Alec is a tad out of character here, but I saw this prompt by @prompt-dealer and had an image of Campbell being chased by an angry Alec, and I couldn't resist. No spoilers for either Broadchurch or Takin' Over the Asylum, and none for princeloww's The Never-Ending Sky, either. This is just my little idea of something that could occur if Campbell were to end up in Alec's care. I take zero credit for the idea of Campbell and Alec living together and zero credit for the prompt.

“I’m too young to die!”

“Young ain’t got nothin’ to do with it!”

Alec chased Campbell around the house, literally around the outside of the house, yelling obscenities and threatening—well, Campbell didn’t exactly know what he was threatening, but chances were high that it wasn’t good. Nature of a threat, after all.

Truth be told, Alec also didn’t know what he was threatening. He’d figure that out later. However, he did know that Campbell was in deep trouble. Trouble so deep that he wasn’t exactly sure how to punish the boy. Especially given that Campbell wasn’t even his son. So round and round they went, both yelling and trying not to slip on wet grass that would surely yank their feet out from under them at the first opportunity, causing an impromptu meeting with the cold, wet, muddy ground.

The first offense had been the shirts. Campbell had had good intentions, really. He’d come home early from school on Monday, seen that the bathroom laundry hamper was full, and decided he’d do a load of washing to help his uncle. What a lovely nephew he was, right? Right? Wrong. Despite his best efforts to sort the colored clothing from the whites and the darks, he’d missed a pair of socks. A pair of red socks. A pair of brand-new red socks the exact color of a freshly washed fire engine gleaming in the summer sun. The shirts had come out pink. Oops. When Alec finally got to see the result of his nephew’s good intentions, he’d simply sighed and shaken his head. No sense in getting mad. He could probably do with some new shirts anyway. He’d donate the pink ones to a charity shop in town. Yeah, yeah, “real men wear pink” and all that, but what was he supposed to do? Like it or not, pink was still very much thought of as a feminine color. He could only imagine the abuse he’d suffer at the hands of his coworkers if he came in wearing a pink shirt. Big, bad DI Hardy in pink? Unthinkable. So he’d donated the old shirts, added a shopping trip to his weekend plans, and obtained the new white shirts that he preferred. A little hit to the wallet, but ultimately, no lasting harm done.

The second offense had been the soup. After the Sandbrook case had finally been solved and closed, Miller had insisted Alec start taking better care of himself and get a hobby. So what did he choose but learning to cook, which would satisfy both her demands? Ever the efficient one, wasn’t he? However, some dishes required a couple of extra hands for the sake of timing, so he would recruit Daisy and/or Campbell, depending on the day and on who was around, to help him out in the kitchen. On Tuesday, he’d needed both of them. It was going to be pumpkin soup for dinner that night, since it had been so cold and rainy, and Alec had asked Campbell to add the cream, nutmeg, salt, and pepper to the pot while he began pureeing vegetables a few cups at a time and Daisy helped him to avoid overloading the food processor. Four teaspoons of nutmeg would do it. However, when Alec caught sight of the little container of nutmeg on the counter after putting the soup back onto the stove to simmer, there was no teaspoon in sight. Instead, there was a tablespoon with a suspicious coating of brown powder sitting only an inch or so away.

“Campbell,” he’d asked slowly, “how much nutmeg did ye put in the soup?”

“Four tablespoons,” Campbell answered, looking up from the knife he was washing. “Why?”

Alec cursed, cut the gas, and put the soup pot on the stove’s back burner.

“Nutmeg is poisonous in high quantities,” he said. “The recipe called for four teaspoons, not tablespoons. If we eat that, we’ll end up in hospital.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair, debating on chastising Campbell versus just letting it go. ‘Try to read it a bit more carefully next time, aye?” he eventually said as Campbell made a point to look anywhere else but at his uncle’s eyes. “Anyone have suggestions for dinner tonight? Looks like we’ll be doing takeaway.”

The next day, Campbell really did wind up in the hospital. Not for ignoring his uncle’s warning about the soup, but instead for a skateboard accident. It had been something of an impulse buy on Campbell’s part, and while he was getting to be rather good when it was dry, he’d not yet practiced when it was wet. He’d missed the bus to school in the morning, pondered what to do, and instead of calling a friend or his uncle or even Ellie Miller, he’d decided that the best possible way to rectify this problem was to attempt to skateboard to school and ask to leave the board in the office until the end of the day. He’d load up his backpack, throw on a rain jacket, hop on the board, and sail off into the morning light, perfectly balanced and confident that as long as he was careful, nothing would go wrong.

What actually happened was that he rolled out with all his things, made it about halfway to the building, hydroplaned on a small hill, and ate dirt. Great. One ambulance ride, a thorough wound-washing, a chunk of chin and six stitches later, he was sitting in a hospital bed as Alec chewed him out for being irresponsible and not just calling for help or walking to school instead of getting on a set of wheels that had not been properly tested for mildly inclement weather. Not that he could be too hard on the boy. His intentions (get to school without inconveniencing anyone) had been good, and the fall, given its consequences, had really been punishment enough for poor Campbell. He looked like he’d expected a bowl of cherries and gotten a cherry bomb instead: a little confused and a lot regretful. Like he was contemplating the choices in his life that had brought him to this moment.

Thursday had been blessedly normal. No blood, no pink shirts, no ruined meals. Normal ride to school, normal day, normal ride home. He didn’t even have homework for once in his school career! Maybe he was in the clear! Maybe his little bad-luck streak was over!

And then on Friday he inadvertently dyed his uncle’s hair a bright teal. What he wanted to do was put a teal streak in his own hair. It had been something he’d been thinking about for a while, and after having such a rough week, he figured that it wouldn’t hurt to try. He’d spent the afternoon in and out of the bathroom, making sure he was doing it right and not dying the whole house at the same time, and it had come out beautifully! Not a drop anywhere but in his hair, nice clean stripe, absolutely gorgeous. His one mistake? Leaving the bottle in the shower. When he’d gone to rinse out the excess dye, he’d taken the bottle into the shower with him to check the instructions for how to properly care for the freshly dyed hair. When he was all set, he’d left it there. And what did his poor, unsuspecting uncle do when he went to wash his hair later that night? He grabbed the dye bottle instead of the shampoo. And what did he see when his hair finally dried? Bright teal. Everywhere. All over his head. No missing it. Thus leading to the lovely game of ring-around-the-house. It was a little childish, yeah, but Campbell hadn’t been sure what his uncle was going to do with him when the newly teal-headed man had stormed into the living room with murder in his eyes. The options had been limited, so Campbell chose to run.

Uncle and nephew made the oval at least four times over, pushing Alec’s pacemaker to the limit, before Alec finally stopped seeing red and had the bright idea to simply wait for Campbell to come back around again. He snagged at his nephew’s hood when the opportunity presented itself and pulled the boy against his chest.

“Campbell, I . . . why?” Alec asked helplessly, wind going out of his sails. “I know ye’ve had a tough time adjusting here, but why?”

“I didnae mean to!” Campbell squawked. “I left the dye in the shower by accident, I swear!”

“I know ye didnae mean to, I’m asking ye why ye haven’t been more careful! Two out of the last five days ye’ve injured or nearly killed yerself, an’ I just want to know why!”

Alec stopped for a moment, released a breath, and let it go.

“Look, I know ye’re not happy to be here. I know nothing’s the same and ye’re not even with yer mum and da anymore. I’m worried about ye. Please, just . . . I need ye to be more careful. That’s all. That’s why I’m upset. Now please, let’s stop these Looney Tunes shenanigans an’ go back inside. It’s too cold an’ wet to be out at this time of night.”

Campbell stopped to consider that for a moment, and Alec realized what he’d said. However, the apology wasn’t halfway out of his mouth before Campbell cracked a grin.

“But I am a looney.”

“Campbell—”

“How can ye expect me no’ to engage in Looney Tunes shenanigans when I am, in fact, a looney?”

“Campbell—”

“In fact, you ought to be thankful that I don’t engage in more Looney Tunes shenanigans just to spite ye! In fact—!”

“Campbell!”

The boy in question stopped talking, but his grin didn’t fade even a little.

“Yes?”

“Inside. Please.”

And so, the pair trooped to the door in silence, neither sure what to say to the other until Campbell paused with his hand on the doorknob.

“I’ll be more careful,” he promised. “I didnae mean to worry ye, really. I’ve just had an unlucky couple of days. I’m fine.”

“Really fine?”

“Aye, really fine.”

“And ye know ye can ask fer help any time?”

“Aye.”

“And—”

“Yes, yes, come on, let’s go inside! I haven’t eaten since lunch, an’ dinner won’t cook itself. What are we makin’ tonight?”

#alec hardy #broadchurch #broadchurch fandom #broadchurch fanfiction #daisy hardy #no beta we fail like alec's heart #david tennant #campbell bain #takin over the asylum #i'm tired

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kalmiaphlox · 20 days ago

Text

Damn, this is what it feels like to be you?

COMPLETED!

AO3 Link / Masterlist

Part 1 / Part 2

Love Me Like You Do

Astarion takes his wrist back, rubbing at the tender skin, disappointed. "I thought it would feel better than that…" She blinks multiple times, trying to clear her mind of this euphoric rush that is burning through her now from head to toe. "That was much better than I expected."

Pairing: Astarion x Named Female Tav (Hircine)

WC: 8.2k

Main Tags: Body Swap, Humor, Fluff, Smut, Body Worship, Fashion Show, Unprepared deep throating, PiV Sex, Mild Hair Pulling, is this considered self-cest???, slight breeding kink, a lil aftercare

Stuck as a man and watching her body writhe around in ways that Astarion considers pleasing to the eye is not high on her list of enjoyment. This is not the worst day of her life, but by the gods is it one of the most uncomfortable.

Seeing it for herself now, Hircine thinks she looks more like a worm undulating a path around the room than some sensuous woman enticing her husband into bed.

Yet Astarion finds it exceptionally attractive, made apparent by the way his eyes linger across her form when she stretches out in bed with her best come-hither stare, lips wet and parted, eager to take his cock. He really likes it when Hircine wears something low cut or open at the chest, and if she squeezes her tits together, then it's ‘delightful’, as Astarion would purr.

All she sees now is someone desperate for attention.

These images will have to be scrubbed from her mind if she's going to perform like that ever again in the future. The cringe-inducing revulsion she feels for her own body is too much.

Hircine would love more than anything to be easily turned on by this. They could have that savage fuck he's looking for so bad and then the focus could shift to something else, something that doesn't require Hircine to look at herself more than she wants.

She's not unpleasant on the eyes with her pink-hued gray skin and the much too long hair that shines between silver, slate and black depending on the lighting. Her eyes are brighter than she's known them to be, the shining gold ring a touch eerie and too reflective.

No, beauty is not the issue.

I just don't like women.

What if they're stuck like this? Will she have to get used to it?

I don't want to fuck men like this. I don't want to fuck or make love or have sex or whatever with anyone but Astarion.

But she can't do that when he looks like her.

All she wants is to please Astarion. When he's happy, so is she, and maybe vice versa, but trying to get turned on by herself has been damn near impossible. She looks at that face every damned day! It's not sexy!

She barely touches herself to begin with, the only time really indulging in such an act is when Astarion requests it of her in that way he does. There's no shame behind it, Hircine just doesn't care for it.

She is trying! No one can say she isn't! Having a penis attached to her instead of inside her is a terrible fate. She can't even look at it. When Astarion slipped into the bathroom for the business-that-shall-not-be-uttered, Hircine got a feel of herself in his body. It just doesn't feel right to touch anything, and then it's Astarion and all she can think about is him not being treated exactly the way he deserves and she would hate to do something wrong.

With Astarion in her sight, the experience is a little better, but then he is her and Hircine does not want to look at herself look at herself! It's weird and so discomforting.

Then there's the distinct silence of his mind… She never knew how loud hers was, and maybe she misses Herma-Mora’s buzzing a bit.

The hunger, now that, Hircine could do without. It's not a noise in the way Herma-Mora is, but a feeling, and it's everywhere. A fierce ache that never goes away, gnawing and brutal. Instead of the hunger being localized in his stomach the way a living being's is, it's this unpleasant itch beneath the skin, an inhuman, hungering maw screaming for more and more and more. Why do her teeth hurt so much?!

Astarion said that it's never ending, and no matter how much he drinks, the burn will go on.

What a terrible existence that must be.

And it could be Hircine's forever if—

“My love~” When her head turns towards the sing-song tone, his finger sinks into her cheek. Astarion giggles like she fell into some kind of trap. “May I make another request?”

Oh, gods. “What now, Husband?” She asks, hesitant.

His cat-like grin is an odd sight on Hircine’s actual face. “Can I try on your clothes? Pretty please?”

Could be worse. “My wardrobe is at your disposal. Let me know if you need help, some of those straps are so… strappy.”

“Not to be rude, my perfect—”.

“You're always rude.” She says.

He gasps as if she told him his lipstick doesn't match the outfit he's wearing. “That, my sweet, is rude.”

“It’s true.”

“Rude!”

“Rude,” she echoes, dryly.

They stare at each other for a while before Astarion huffs, flicking a long strand of hair over his shoulder, his tone snippy and demanding. “Would you be a good wife and fetch the standing mirror from the storage room? My arms are much too weak now.”

“Yes, milord, whatever you want!” She mocks as she gets up, feeling a pillow thump against her back as she disappears into the hallway and enters the storage room. The mirror is front and center since they bring it back and forth often, maybe they should just keep it in the bedroom, but Hircine likes the room mirror-less.

She pauses in front of it, finding nothing in its reflection. Alarm wiggles into her brain and Hircine pats down her body to know that she is still there. Of course it is.

This is Astarion's reality.

Back in the bedroom, Astarion is already digging through her closet, making a horrendous mess of everything. Clothes dropped in piles on the floor, skirts scattered about, along with trails of ribbons that she's not quite sure were in her closet to begin with.

Hircine would wager quite a sum of gold that Astarion is making a mess like that just for Lexi to clean up.

Truly, he is the rude one.

Settling the mirror behind the privacy screen, Hircine peers into the closet. “Do you need any help?”

“No! Go sit down while I prepare!”

She won't argue. Back on the couch, Hircine reclines back with legs crossed, listening to the rustle of fabrics and grunts of whatever is causing Astarion exertion, probably some dress that needs to be tied in a complicated manner. If he and Lexi aren't around, she avoids those. No need to spend half the evening trying to put on one stupid piece of clothing.

“Can I take one of your fans?” Astarion asks from the closet.

“Only the ones in the top drawer.” She says, checking her nails the way she's seen Astarion do so many times. His cuticles are kept clean and the nails are filed neatly just as she expects.

He mutters under his breath, a quiet whisper that, in normal circumstances, would not be heard. “Tch, stingy.”

“Hey, I heard that!” The hearing in this body is something else, and well, all the senses are so amplified. She can hear Astarion’s heartbeat and smell the perfumes tucked in their bottles, all from her place on the couch. Even her vision is exceptionally sharpened. It really is cheating to be so attuned to everything; there's no chance to hide.

He clears his throat loudly, getting her attention. “Are you ready, my love?”

“Dazzle me with my wardrobe, please.” She deadpans.

“Don't mind if I do~” Astarion sings, one slim leg appearing from behind the privacy screen, the hints of a blue dress Hircine doesn't recognize follow the movement. Stepping out into full view, waving a spread open fan to cast a breeze over himself, Astarion poses languidly against the screen's frame, slightly reclined with chest jutting out, head tilted back. Is that... supposed to be alluring? The dress he chose is of royal blue silk, tight-fitting as all Hircine’s clothes are, with a deep neckline that plunges all the way to his navel, focus drawn to the breasts which are partially covered and threatening to fall out should he lean over too far. “Blue suits you, pet, and so does this dress. Why have you been hiding it from me?”

She drags a finger down her flat chest. “It's not the most work-appropriate.”

Astarion scoffs, “Work wear be damned. Everyone should have the privilege of seeing Belbol and Iiyola in all their glory.”

“You want other people looking at my tits?”

The fan is snapped shut, tapping against his chin as Astarion ponders that, the face that was once hers, screwing up with disgust. “No, I guess not, but they should be displayed more.”

“So, I should walk around naked for you.” She adjusts while re-crossing her legs, holding onto a knee with a quirked brow.

“Then where's the fun in that? I enjoy ripping your clothes off… Also, this is nice!” He reaches up, swiftly pulling the sides of the fabric away so his breasts pop out with a bounce, and then Astarion rocks back on his heels, making them sway. “Are you taking notes? I can get you some parchment. Gods, I could look at them all day!”

“You already do.”

“Actually, no, I don't think so. They're starving for my affection.”

Earlier on the elevator ride down to the mines, Astarion was grabbing and groping at her chest—not that Hircine minds at all. He holds them for ‘support’, for whose benefit, well everyone knows it’s not hers. Most nights in bed, Astarion's head rests on her chest, partially to listen to her heartbeat and then partially for the… pillows. Then there is reading time, a book in one hand and a tit in the other because ‘What if this book is scary, Hircine?’

He's silly.

“Is this the only show I'm getting, or are you going to try on more?” Hircine asks, having had enough of watching her own breasts shake while Astarion coos in awe.

“Fine. Onto the next.” The dress is already being shucked off as he turns around, disappearing behind the screen once again. Pants—ew, blouses—ew, and a variety of dresses and nightdresses are tried on and flounced around in before Astarion gets to something that he laughs uproariously about.

She'd much rather hear his actual laugh.

“What’s so funny, Husband?” The laughter is extremely suspicious, and Hircine is ready to burst into the closet before Astarion shushes her.

“Oh, just wait. This is amazing. You've really been holding out on me, you little deviant.”

Now she's concerned. There's a whole assortment of unwanted fabric in Hircine's closet that's been stuffed into the bottom of a drawer since Lexi will just purchase things randomly that fit Hircine’s ‘tastes’, and occasionally they are things that Hircine would never wear a day in her life because Lexi does as she pleases.

She shudders, thinking of shoes. An awful invention. No one should suffer their tyranny.

“Love, can I take your lipstick off?”

Ah, so now Hircine really has to see herself in all her glory. “Yes, go ahead.”

He giggles maniacally from behind the screen and Hircine is now fidgeting in her spot on the couch, worried about whatever he has found.

“Like I said, I hope you’re taking notes!” And Astarion appears, draped in a luxuriously oversized, velvet robe in a deep earthy shade of green with dyed owlbear down cuffs and hem. The sash is tied tight around his thin waist, but Hircine knows something is hidden underneath. “Pet, I can’t believe you don’t wear this all the time!” His white lips are split into what must be a seductive smile.

She shrugs, “Eh, I forgot about it.”

He shakes his head in disappointment, “If you won’t wear it, then I might take it for myself then.”

“Be my guest, Husband.”

Gliding across the floor so smoothly he may as well be floating, Astarion circles around Hircine to the back of the couch, placing his hands on her shoulders and leaning down to place a sweet kiss on her cheek. “There’s more…”

She knew it.

Back in front of Hircine, Astarion drags the table out of the way, giving himself a wide area for whatever show he is about to put on. “This, my perfect girl, is what I expect you to commit to memory. Know that I like it, and know that I want it. Understand?”

She nods, reluctant to see whatever he is about to show off. Hircine is racking her brain for what this mystery outfit could be. Knowing that it’s something scandalous, she can only assume it was tossed to the very back of her closet the moment she saw it, never to be unearthed—until Astarion, that is.

Slowly—torturously, in Hircine’s eyes—Astarion unties the sash, the most smug grin twisting his lips in a way that only Astarion is capable of. He’s careful to keep the robe closed as the sash is fully undone now, the smirk deepening still, the bastard. His fingers tease at the neckline, spreading it ever so slightly that Hircine can tell that whatever else he’s wearing plunges deep, showing off his ample cleavage. “Are you ready?” He asks in a husky voice that drips with an unbearable need.

Just by scent, Hircine can tell how turned on he’s getting from this raunchy display, and since it’s her body, she knows exactly how wet her cunt is. She sighs, waving her hand over his form. “Get it over with, please.”

His teeth dig into his lower lip as the robe is pulled away revealing…

Can it even be called ‘clothing’ with how little it covers?

Hircine is unsure of what this exact piece of clothing is called, outside of it being some type of lingerie. A black strip of fabric goes over the shoulders and comes together mid chest to slip right between the breasts—which are both out in the open, nothing hiding them, before splitting off into three thin pieces that go under the bust and down the stomach. There’s a very small, very sheer lacey triangle of fabric that covers just above the belly button and over the crotch… mostly. It’s clear almost immediately to Hircine that they are crotchless. There are more straps and strips and strings over the hips and legs.

Nothing is left to the imagination, that's for sure.

The strappiness of it all is the biggest offender. That’s why Hircine has never worn it. She hates straps, all they do is end up in tangles and her in teary irritation, ready to rip them to shreds.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Astarion asks, all heavy-lidded and filled with lust as his hands roam over his body, feathering light touches that has him trembling. “I know why you wouldn’t like this, but wear it for me just once. That’s all I ask.”

“You’re wearing it just fine for me. Is that not enough?”

He twists around, giving Hircine a view of ass and back, then bends forward.

She blinks, unphased. Yes, that is a cunt.

It's nowhere near as enticing as when he does his seductive poses in his body. “No, because this is me, and not you. I want to see how you move in it.”

“Do you think it would fit on this body?” Hircine gestures over herself in jest.

Astarion pauses, head cocking as he thinks about it, maybe a little too seriously. “Would that be something you’d like?”

She doesn’t even have to think about it. “No. What about you?”

“I bet I’d look ravishing, pet, but I don’t think it’s really my style. I prefer being naked, draped perfectly with a blanket over my cock so you’re left wanting, or fully clothed to the nines! No in between, really.” Moving closer, Astarion points down to Hircine’s crossed legs. “May I sit?”

“Ye—” Before her words have fully left her mouth, Astarion straddles her lap, wrapping his arms around her neck tight and pushing his breasts into her face. Having no energy to fight him, Hircine rests her head on her own tits, humming in pleasant surprise at how soft and comfortable it is. No wonder Astarion loves to use them as pillows.

"I have to ask… Am I cold to you—in my body, not like this, obviously?"

Hircine shrugs, looking up through her lashes at Astarion. "You're more room temperature, though I guess if the room is cold, then so are you, but it's not a bad thing. It feels nice most days."

"You promise?" Astarion asks.

"Yes, of course. Why?"

He sighs heavily, leaning further into Hircine so her face is now buried in plush tits—there's no use fighting against it. "I-I was worried maybe it made you uncomfortable… or you put up with it for me."

Drawing a hand up and down his back—and finding the lack of scars a little strange—Hircine pulls away enough to speak properly. "No, not at all. I like the way you feel."

"Gods above, my perfect girl always knows what to say." Astarion squeezes Hircine's cheeks in his hands, peppering kisses all across her face. "You're so good to me. Is there anything you’d like to do since I have indulged in… everything?" He asks as he cards his fingers through her silky curls.

What could Hircine possibly want to do like this?

While she considers all the options, the steady thrum of Astarion’s heart pounds against her ear, activating some deep-seated ache within her body and fangs.

No, no, he wouldn’t allow that, would he? Hircine licks her lips, now feeling insatiable in all the wrong ways.

Lifting her head so their eyes meet, Hircine broaches the topic. “Could I… try to drink from you?”

Astarion stills completely once he removes his hands from her. “How do I know that you’ll stop?”

She pauses in consideration. “...You don’t, and neither do I, and if you aren’t comfortable with it, then there’s no reason to. I just—I’m curious, since I can feel your hunger, it’s so strange.”

He holds his chin the same way he does in his own body, putting great thought into this decision. Hircine understands how dangerous this could be for them, how easily she could kill Astarion and her own body if there is no control on her end.

And with Lexi gone, there is no one to heal him should worse come to worst.

Astarion grabs her cheeks, eyes blazing with excitement. “Let’s do it, because I also want to know how it feels, you know, when I’m not lying on the ground dying… and also you look so erotic—sexy!—when I bite you just right, I’d like to see how I look when biting.” She nods in his hands, and he keeps talking. “I think the wrist is our safest route, easier to pull away when I’ve decided you're done. I know you like a nice deep drink from your body, but I’d like to keep my wits about me, so maybe two pulls should be enough. How do you feel about that?”

Hircine was expecting an outright no, so this is better than nothing at all. “I think that’s perfect. There are some health potions in the bathroom should I… go too far.”

“No, there will be none of that. Two drinks max, and if you go further, I’ll slap you. Sound fair?” As if a slap will hurt her like this.

“I—Yes, that's fair.” She is absolutely salivating now at the prospect. The smell of blood beneath his skin has been easy enough to ignore, whether from Astarion’s years of control or maybe Hircine isn’t attuned to it with their body-mishap, but now that she is really focusing on it, it might be a little overpowering. Not in the way perfume is when a bottle is spilled, no, this scent is so hard to describe.

Astarion explained it once, she smells like berries, spices and a natural musk that is present in all living beings. She thought it was her perfume, but he was adamant that it’s her own scent, and sitting here now with Astarion’s in-human sense of smell does Hircine understand.

It’s under her skin, and to imagine how much more potent it will be when the blood is no longer trapped within… Oh gods. She can’t wait.

Adjusting himself so he sits next to her on the couch, Astarion offers his wrist, palm up. Never once in her almost one hundred and fifty years has Hircine thought a wrist looked delicious, even when it’s attached to a person with her face, wearing practically nothing on their body. Weird.

Right when she takes the wrist in her own hands, Astarion speaks up. “Go very, very slow. Stay in control, remember that drinking more will absolutely not stop the ache, and also, please don’t kill me. I will be quite cross with you.”

“Right,” Hircine says, licking her lips. Go slow.

She doesn’t know how she knows as her mouth is brought right over the spot she should bite. The pulse, while quiet beneath the skin, thunders in her ears, the guiding star of her hunger.

Everything is felt in slow motion—her nostrils flare, inhaling deeper. The room grows brighter, each follicle of hair on the arm she's holding now in hyper focus as her mouth finds its rightful place, biting down, feeling how her fangs easily slice into his flesh.

Astarion tenses with discomfort, but that's all on another plane where her hunger is concerned.

Again, she moves like this is a dance she's learned a thousand times over, fangs pull out and blood gushes into her mouth. The moan that breaks free from her throat is animalistic and ravenous. Has she ever tasted something so good? Hircine can recall exactly how blood tastes in her own body, pungent iron and sharp, not something she'd take a goblet of.

But this… this is the nectar of the gods, ambrosia! How could she live without such an amazing delicacy?

"Slow, Hircine!" Astarion urges, bringing her back to the present. His free hand pats her cheek roughly, not yet a slap, but more than ready to deliver one.

Slow. Slow. SLOW. She chants the words over and over as she swallows her first drink, instantly sensing how the warmth permeates throughout her body—bringing her attention down somewhere that has so far been very unresponsive.

More blood fills her mouth and she will savor this, since it shall be her last. The essence sits upon her tongue, coating it, imbuing it with the life that has been missing when she and Astarion were thrust into the other's bodies.

And then it is also swallowed down, and she will weep at the loss of that enlightening experience. Remembering how Astarion stops the flow of blood, she releases her mouth from his wrist, licking the pinholes where such a feast once lay. Something about the saliva of Astarion's mouth closes the wounds his fangs create, quickly staunching the flow of blood—and it delivers Hircine one last treat.

Astarion takes his wrist back, rubbing at it, disappointed. "I thought it would feel better than that…"

She blinks multiple times, trying to clear her mind of this euphoric rush that is burning through her now from head to toe. "That was much better than I expected."

"Ugh, that's not fair! You always make it look so hot when I bite you! Why was it not hot?" He pouts, crossing his arms as if throwing a tantrum, but the naked tits shoving up at his movements just looks silly, though Hircine is struggling to understand why her eyes are drawn down to them now, the hunger morphing into another kind of twisted burn.

"I didn't like it the first time you bit me… It might be an acquired… taste." She smiles deviously and leans in. "We could try again if you'd like."

Astarion scoffs, swatting her away. "Absolutely not! I will—Oh, now how could I forget about that?" Shoving Hircine back against the couch, he points to her tented crotch.

So that's what she's feeling. Blood lust.

Lavender-gold finds red, wide and pleading. "Can we? I know how long it lasts. Please, Hircine."

"It really is involuntary… I thought it was because you're attracted to me." How sad. She had thought her blood was special.

He pats her face, forcing her eyes away from her now erect cock. "I am attracted to you, never think otherwise, but that isn't the focus right now. Hircine, my darling, perfect love, I need it in me. Please."

"Fine. Hurry!" Before her words are even finished, Astarion is already tearing her shirt off, buttons flinging to the floor, then furiously undoing the ties on the pants she had put on after their nap. It's definitely more sensitive down there than it was earlier when he… helped tuck her penis back into her underpants. The feeling of Astarion's fingers brushing over where the cock lies beneath the clothing is sending bolts of arousal up into her insides.

It's so different yet similar to her own body, inside and outside. What a strange experience altogether.

Pants are stripped and then the underwear does not last long once Astarion gets his hands on it, now flung to some corner of their bedroom. Gods, he moves fast when he wants something as fanatically as this. Positioned between her legs on his knees, Astarion kneads into Hircine's thighs, not quite sure of how to proceed.

Is he drooling? Whatever, as long as he's happy…

"Can I taste my cock?" His eyes flash to hers before returning down to the thing in question.

Who would she be if she stopped him? "I—Uh, go ahead."

Not a moment is wasted before his lips wrap around the head, and Hircine gasps at how good it feels. Hot and wet in all the right ways, tongue slipping along the underside for a few swipes. She fully understands why Astarion is always so eager to have her choking on his cock.

It's amazing on the other side!

Why couldn't she have gotten it up earlier? So much play time wasted from her inability to see past herself.

She likes when his tongue is inside her in their normal interactions, but near all of her cock has been swallowed down by Astarion and Hircine can't help but moan aloud. What a rush!

Tucking hair behind his pointed ears, Astarion bobs up and down her shaft a few times, ringing his other hand along the base in a surprisingly tight grip. Hircine’s breath catches in her throat, strangling whatever noise was trying to escape.

Astarion then just goes for it, taking that cock all the way down—and he chokes. Gagging, he rips his head away, threads of spit connecting his mouth to her sex. "Ho-How do you—You make it look so easy!" He gasps out.

Hircine is stuck, stunned, cobbling back pieces of her mind because what. In. The. Hells. Everything about that was so perfect. She didn't realize how cold she felt until being encased with pure molten heat, and then the velvety mouth-feel…

With a cough to clear her throat, Hircine clears her mind finally, responding to Astarion. "I don't know how you suck cock, Husband, but you can't just take it without thought."

Astarion pauses, eyes widening with something that borders on frenzied. "It's because my cock is so big, isn't it?"

"Yes," she responds instantly. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. That is not a can of beholders she ever wants opened.

He stares back down at his cock, plotting out his next move and Hircine hopes for more, for anything really. "I'm going to fuck myself now."

Ah, straight to better than anything. "Get on me," Hircine all but begs, feeling her cock give a little kick in anticipation.

Still wearing that horrendous not-an-outfit, Astarion clambers up on his knees, resting them on either side of Hircine's thighs. Placing a hand on her shoulder, their eyes meet. "Are you ready, my love?"

"I—Wait!" Taking a fistful of that scrap of fabric he has on, Hircine rips it off with ease. "I was tired of staring at it."

Astarion's mouth has gone slack, forming a long O. "I'm going to come so fucking hard tonight." He searches out her cock, taking it in hand and lining it up to his sopping wet cunt.

Is that the one upside to a cock is that it isn't as messy as the endless slick she produces? Hircine would still much prefer her vagina back.

His heart is pounding a ferocious beat against his chest, eager to escape, and she briefly wonders if it feels painful to him. On his knees like this, Hircine is perfectly eye level with those breasts, staring into the white void that is his firm nipples.

Is she about to do this?

Oh, yes.

Astarion sinks all the way down on her cock with ease from his slippery lips and their moans in unison are music to their ears. It's rapturous, the way her—his cunt swallows her cock whole, devouring its entire length. Soft and wet and warm and delicious. To fill, instead of be filled, now that is an experience.

Their mouths find each other instantly, tongues tangling together. "Oh, fuck!" Hircine gasps into Astarion, and he swallows those words greedily, winding his fingers into her hair to crush their faces impossibly closer.

He pulls away, nipping at her lips as he does. "You'll suck on my tits?"

"Yeah…" Hircine breathes out as she's guided by Astarion to his breasts. His back is arched, offering them up for the feasting. Taking one in hand, Hircine latches on to a nipple, finding it not all that unlike the way she does it to herself—which she is doing, but not really…

Clearing her mind of any erection-killing thoughts, she sucks gently on the hardened peak, the taste of his skin so sweet and intoxicating. Astarion groans raggedly, nails clawing into her shoulders as he rocks in place on her cock, really the only stimulation she can handle right now.

She doesn't believe she's going to last long at this rate.

Shuddering, Astarion begins to move with purpose now, finding a rhythm astride Hircine. She releases his tit, choosing to lean back and watch him ride her like his life depends on it, as Astarion has done so many times when the roles were reversed.

So, it's maybe not that bad being a man. Kind of.

“Oh gods, oh gods, please, I need you deeper. Fuck me with my cock, Hircine, I can take it all.” His head is thrown back, tits bouncing as Astarion rocks up and down his own cock, all sense lost. “Hircine, my love, please go deeper! I need it!” Astarion is petting at her face, kissing her lips, moaning and screaming and begging.

Astarion is rarely the loudest one in the bedroom, always demanding that Hircine let loose as much as possible because it's 'angelic'… The shoe on the other foot is a little weird. "There's no going deeper!" She laughs, taken out of the moment.

"Wha-What?!"

“It's bottomed out inside you, Husband, trust me, I know.”

Astarion pauses his rocking, the lust giving way to more clarity. “How is that it? There's more to my cock, I know it.”

“No, that's all.” Literally. He’s sitting all the way down on it, there’s no more to take.

More of the fuck-drunk—cock-drunk might be more appropriate—haze lifts, his eyes narrowing with intensity. “Are you saying my cock’s small?”

“I have never, nor would ever say that. It's perfect, I swear.”

"My cock's big enough to choke your mouth, but not big enough to stuff your cunt?"

"It does both jobs perfectly, and from where I'm sitting, this cock feels stuffed inside of a cunt right now. You are the one having issues with it! I never have!"

“Well, I need more. Can you magic it bigger?”

She places her hands around his full hips, digging in to the soft flesh. “Uh, no, absolutely not. Having been in that same position, like two days ago if I recall correctly, I assure you that even if your cock were bigger, it would not fit.” For emphasis, Hircine pushes down on his hips, nodding knowingly at the small whimper that escapes his lips. “Do you feel that, Husband? That's the end.”

Astarion's cock could not be more perfect for Hircine. Long enough that it can reach the back wall of her cunt so deliciously just the way she likes, and the girth gives her the most delightful stretch, never painful, only pleasurable. Yet somehow he is begging for more…

His cunt clenches and pulses around her length, thighs baring down on her own. Oh, that's good. She'll take more of that.

“But what if it could go deeper?” His lips are on hers again, tongues dancing as Hircine's head is tilted up and pressed into the couch cushions.

She laughs awkwardly, talking around his tongue. “I promise—you, it can't—”

Reeling back with a pout—he likes this face I make?! It’s so childish!—Astarion persists. “Why not? There’s more room in here.” He pats his flat stomach with a grin.

“Do you need an anatomy lesson? If I—you, ugh whatever, go any further, it'll enter the—That's just not how it works.”

“Well, it should be filled with something. What better than my own cock?”

Hircine cringes internally, trying not to let his words ruin the arousal she's finally built up. Thank the gods Astarion is not a woman. “How about we not destroy my body for your deranged penis obsession, alright? I think that's a fair and normal thing to want.”

“But magic—”

She interrupts him, not allowing anymore of this insanity. “Considering that we are both not how we should be right now, I'd say it could get a lot, lot worse. Maybe turn us inside out, actually implant a slaad egg in our chests… I could go on, Husband, but I think you get the point.” Hircine considers him for a moment before bucking her hips up to meet his, relishing the gasp that's pushed out of his mouth. “Why don't we change it up a bit? I like this position a lot, but it’s not as fun for me at the moment.”

His eyes sparkle with excitement. “Oh, fuck me exactly the way you want to be fucked.”

He already does though… What haven't they done that Hircine would like?

Hmm, well it's not exactly novel, but she won't have to see her own face anymore.

“Get up.” She demands exactly the same way he does. She likes being told what to do when it's Astarion—and so does he, apparently, when he enthusiastically complies. They both groan at the loss of cock in cunt when he gets up, and Hircine is especially surprised at how much she misses that all-encompassing warmth wrapped around her. It'll be back in a moment.

Panting in tandem, they're both covered in slick, all between his legs and down the front of her thighs. Gods her body really has no problems getting wet for this one.

"Do you want a little roughness?" Hircine asks, running her hands along the curves of his neck.

He hums thoughtfully as their lips meld together one more time. "You're not going to accidentally break me are you? I'm a delicate flower now."

"Hah! Like I said, only a little… It will be just the way I like it."

His glowing eyes sparkle with insatiable desire. "Oh, yes. Yes, please."

Winding her hand into long locks of hair, Hircine pulls back his head tight, baring his throat at an angle so she can watch the pulse pound beneath it. Astarion stares up at her, a veil of caution now layering over his lust. She won't bite, there's no more need for that, as her mouth finds the sensitive skin, scraping fangs down to his collarbones, reveling in the way he trembles like a bird caught in a trap.

Just the way I like it.

A sharp tug drags Astarion further, curving his back so Hircine can take a breast in mouth, suckling the skin harshly to leave a puffy red mark, barely pressing her teeth in, careful not to break through. Astarion keens, loud and long, scrabbling for any purchase on Hircine's broad chest and finding none.

Having enough of this sensual play as it does nothing for Hircine, she takes his chin between her fingers, "Are you ready to be fucked?"

"Ravage me, my love!" He cries.

Grabbing his hair once again, this time with much more force—though nothing that will tear—Hircine guides Astarion to the back of the couch, shoving his stomach up against the ledge. She pushes him over until his feet no longer touch the ground, practically bent in half with his arms holding himself mostly upright on the couch cushions.

"Oh, I like this, pet."

"I know you do, and imagine how much better it would be if I were me and you were you."

His legs wrap around her waist, calves locking her in—or at least trying to with his limited strength. Cock is teased against the entrance to his slit, not entering, just a smooth up and down that makes him quiver and whine like a bitch in heat. Leaning in with her hold on his hair still tight, Hircine nibbles at his ear, whispering as she does, "I love you, Husband."

He sharply intakes a breath at her words, responding in kind. "I love yo—"

Her cock slams inside of him hard, stopping any verbal formations as she rocks and ruts into his cunt aggressively, hips slapping against his bare ass in a powerful rhythm and digging her blunt nails into his slim waist so Astarion won't go tumbling over the front of the couch while her other hand keeps his hair coiled within her fist. Her grunts are barely audible above the wet smacking and Astarion's own high-pitched cries.

How could he ever complain about this not being enough? His cunt walls are strangling her cock, milking it for everything it has.

Pistoning in and out, Hircine's ploughs into Astarion giving him exactly what he so desperately wants while she slowly but surely reaches the precipice of an orgasm.

Thinking back on it now, Hircine cannot believe he has never bent her over a desk or table in their home. Gods, she wishes it were her right now. It's fun doing the fucking, but she prefers to be fucked.

And maybe it's a little too much for Astarion too when his moans turn to something she'd rather not hear.

"Oh, fuck me, Hircine! Fill me to the brim!" His cries of euphoria are sharp against her more sensitive ears, and she is thankful for the soundproofing of their walls. "Ah~! Ah~! Ah~! Pet, give me my come! Make me pregnant! I'll carry my own baby! Let me have it!"

Her brutal pace falters, mind reeling at the turn this has taken. What the fuck is he saying? Is he truly so consumed by his own cock that he would go this far?

Astarion continues with his insane ramblings, "Hircine, please! I need it inside me! Ah~! I'll grow round with child! Breed me! Think of how—"

His words are drowned out as Hircine panics. Nothing makes her dry up—er, go flaccid like talk of children. That is not something they want. He's lost it.

She slows further, looking for any solution because she would never tell Astarion to be quiet… but he needs to shut up or this will all end much too soon.

The lingerie! It's shredded but thank the gods Hircine threw it on the couch with little regard for where it might end up. Releasing her hold on his hair, Astarion falls forward, silenced for the moment while she snatches up the fabric, bundling it up into a ball. Right when he starts to turn in outrage, Hircine shoves the lingerie into his mouth.

In his typical scent-obsessed fashion, his eyes roll into the back of his head as he tastes any lingering wetness there. They can continue in peace.

Returning to burying herself inside of his cunt, which grows slicker by the second, Hircine finds that path of no return, ecstatic at knowing there's an end in sight. She drives with purpose, listening to Astarion's muffled, desperate moans that foretell he must be close too. Gods, nothing gets him off like soaked panties.

The dam is about to break, her cock kicks, ready to release, and Hircine will not stop it, but the build-up is too great.

She blacks out.

++++

Hircine comes to, pinched between a heavy pressure above and then a firm and unyielding object below. She lays face down, ass up in whatever extremely uncomfortable position this is, feet dangling from wherever she is, scalp tingling and her cunt—

What happened?

She tries to get up, but whatever is on top of her keeps her down, unmoving.

And something is… inside her.

Wait, inside?

Hircine's eyes snap open and she is herself once again. Oh gods, she might cry at the relief of feeling so comfortable and whole once again, especially with what she imagines is Astarion’s cock still buried inside her.

No wonder she's so achey down there. How on these material planes did he even complain about his penis? It's perfect!

She tries lifting her torso up, but Astarion's heavy, limp weight keeps her in place, and really, her strength has been sapped by all this wonderful activity. Hircine won't be moving around anytime soon. Her legs flail about, anything to give her some purchase, yet they find nothing. Hircine is stuck until her husband rouses from his stupor.

Are they returned for good, though? She does not believe she can handle the strain of switching back and forth for the rest of her days, no matter how much she loves Astarion.

Ḩ̵͕͕͓͙̩͎̬̩͌̍͌̿̌̈́̐̓͜͠i̸̼̜̝͔͙̦̤̮̰̰̅̌̉̽̆̑̚͝l̶̼̄̆̉̄̄̈̓̕v̶̭͈͊̇̈́̋͐̀̇̽͐̌̇̅̚͝͝p̸̧͎̣̳͉̻͆̑̑̑

Ah! And Herma-Mora is back. Hircine never thought his inchoate chittering would be such a reassuring welcome.

There's no more hunger—of Astarion’s that is. She doesn't mind hers, at least it will go away with some bread and cheese.

He got his wish; she is bent in half, though Hircine did it to herself. Have they been here for long? Her legs are numbing from this position and pinch, and the frame of the couch is digging painfully into her hips while Astarion's body offers an unrelenting pressure to her backside.

How did he wake her up when he found them in the mines like this? A slap might be a little hard in this position… and she doesn't think she could ever hit him.

"Husb—" Her voice is a ragged croak. Hircine swallows and tries again, louder this time. "Husband! Wake up!"

A groan, then a subtle shift atop her follows, so Hircine shouts once more. "Husband, you're crushing me!!"

He lurches before propping himself up on his arms with a groan. "Uughh, what happened?" Then he springs to life, relieving Hircine of his crushing weight—though she might unhappily groan when his cock slips free of her over-sensitive cunt. "I'm me! Gods above, I'm me again!" He's crowing with excitement, probably running his hands along his body, remembering what it's like. As he should. He's a gorgeous piece of man.

"Oh, oh my, what's this beautiful sight?"

She doesn't know what he's referring to until Hircine feels the ghosting of Astarion's fingers across her arse, teasing down along the roundness until his cool fingers stroke at her lower lips. "You're leaking, pet. We can't have that."

Good gods… talk about a never-ending hunger.

A digit sinks inside of her, probably to push their combined spend spilling out back in and Hircine whines sweetly, but not before the sting of her hips returns in full force, reminding her of this great discomfort.

"Husband, you know I love it, but this position is hurting me…" She says, his fingers leaving her instantly. Maybe she shouldn't have said anything, what a way to ruin the moment.

Abruptly, she is pulled off the couch and into Astarion's embrace, kissing her forehead and nuzzling against her cheek. "I'm sorry, love, I got a little too excited."

He's so beautiful, exactly as he should be with his silver curls that catch the light, and eyes that crinkle so softly, sweetly, cutely, when he smiles. It wasn't even a whole day and she can't believe how much she missed that face.

She sighs in his strong arms, elated to be back to normal. "There is nothing to apologize for," but then she remembers his words when she was fucking him. "Actually, what in the hells were you on about? 'Breed me'? Did you lose you mind?"

He freezes, "I, uh, I don't know…" Astarion chews on his lip, lost. "It was like a fog of desire consumed me." His whole body is racked by a shiver.

"I feel like you cursed me." She places a hand over her stomach. "I'll ask Lexi to brew me some tea when she's back. Who knows what this-this switch has meddled with!"

"Good idea, my sweet. Give me a moment now." Dropping her like a sack of potatoes on the bed, Astarion disappears into the bathroom.

While he's gone, Hircine takes stock of her body. Not that she doesn't trust Astarion at all, but she wants to enjoy it and never take it for granted ever again. Every finger, toe and nail is accounted for. Her breasts are well played with, the hickey she left on one still there. How weird.

Rubbing her palms into her hips to soothe the burn from where she'd been pinned to the couch, Hircine waits for Astarion to return, ignoring the empty tenderness of her sex.

They might both be a little too hungry for one another.

Astarion reappears now, holding a damp washcloth in hand though he pauses on his way back, attention caught by something behind the privacy screen.

She wracks her brain for what it could be…

The mirror?

Oh. He finally, truly got to see himself after all this time, and it was only for a short while. Her heart twists for his loss. Hircine will find a way to make it up to him.

Back at their bedside, Astarion gently wipes away their combined fluids from her thighs and stomach, smiling as he does.

"What is it?" She asks.

"Oh, I'm just surprised at how messy it all was. I guess I don't really think about it when my head is between your legs feasting so not a drop is left…"

Hircine laughs, "You're right, men are so nice and dry. One of the few upsides."

"And miss out on that nectar? No, that is where you are wrong, my love, but I'll allow you to be wrong since there is more for me!" Astarion bends down, planting a smacking kiss against her lips.

"Fair enough, Husband."

Once cleaned off, Astarion slides into bed next to Hircine, layers of blankets draped over them and then he wraps his arms around her in a vice grip, and sure enough, his ear finds where her heart beats, strong and steady. "Mmm, I missed this."

"Me too…" Hircine whispers, snuggling closer.

They revel in the peaceful silence of being back in their bodies, everything righted once more.

Astarion leisurely runs a hand along her shoulder and under the swell of a breast, following the smooth lines of her abdomen to stop at a hip bone, finger just barely digging into the bone. "I've known it, but I never truly understood how fragile you are. If I'm too aggressive or pulling you around, please tell me. I hate the thought that I haven't treated you with enough care."

Her heart melts at his words while Hircine squeezes him tight, burying his head into her chest. "I swear you are only ever as rough as I request you to be. There is nothing to be concerned with, Husband."

"Alright. I-I just wanted to make sure." And never one to let sincerity settle between them for two long, Astarion rises, finding the hickey on her breast and wrapping his lips around it with a greedy growl. He's such a wonderfully puzzling creature sometimes.

"Say, would you like to get some more portraits done?" She asks, running her fingers through his messy curls.

His head whips up, red eyes all aglow. "Can we get some from different angles? Maybe a backside one, with me looking over my shoulder like I'm carrying a secret?" Astarion gasps, "Imagine waking up to a painting of my arse every day! Oh, wouldn't that be wonderful?"

"But then Lexi will see it too…"

"And it will be the finest piece of ass that old hag will ever get in her life. Maybe she'll be nicer when she knows I'm built like a god. And what about a nice, tasteful portrait of my cock?"

Hircine sticks her smile in place. "I don't think having your cock plastered on our walls is… tasteful…"

Astarion's face drops, looking like a scolded puppy. "It's because it's small, isn't it?"

"What? No! Oh my gods, fine! I'll make sure we find the finest painter in all of Faerun who specializes in… penises and then your likeness will be captured in perfect detail, bigness and all!"

His usual smirk returns, eyes cat-like and smouldering, and Hircine can't help but feel like she got played. "That's my perfect girl." He returns to his spot on her chest, purring contentedly. "I love this, and I love you."

"I love you too, Husband." She kisses his head, hopefully turning in for a well-earned rest that will be devoid of eldritch tricks.

#astarion #astarion smut #astarion x drow tav #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #drow tav #body swap #bodyswap

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gremlingottoosilly · 1 year ago

Note

Mrs. König who cannot stand still when she is anxious, in this case being captive in her own home without doing much change her activities every 5-10 minutes so as not to enter into crisis.

König would accept to buy material/courses to learn another language other than German? This his dear wife will continue to depend on him in that country, and will not enter into a crisis due to boredom.

Konig is willing to buy her the moon if she'd only ask for it! As long as her hobby doesn't require her to constantly be around other people, especially men, he is fine with her getting put if the house for a little bit. Would be more willing if he'd be the one to drive her, since he is too worried about her on her own.

He will expand on his small gym area in the house to include some if the equipment she might want! Sport is a good way of burning energy, and they can be training buddies together!!

He us fine with her getting an online language course for, for example, French or Chinese. He'd pay for individual classes and buy her all books needed. He is proficient in more languages than what you might think – he knows a bit if everything, French, Italian, some if slavic expressions as well, so he'd encourage darling to get as much hobbies as she might want.

He will also take her out whenever he can! To theaters, to parks, to sone dumb movies and nice cozy cafés without a lot of people around, so they both would feel comfortable.

#cod #konig x reader #yandere konig #konig

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dwellordream · 9 months ago

Text

“Young women have always been for sale. In the fifth century bc, Herodotus describes the practice of selling Babylonian daughters at a yearly auction in his Histories. He wrote:

They used to collect all the young women who were old enough to be married and take the whole lot of them all at once to a certain place. A crowd of men would form a circle around them there. An auctioneer would get each of the women to stand up one by one, and he would put her up for sale. He used to start with the most attractive girl there, and then, once she had fetched a good price and been bought, he would go on to auction the next most attractive one. They were being sold to be wives, not slaves. All the well-off Babylonian men who wanted wives would outbid one another to buy the good-looking young women, while the commoners who wanted wives and were not interested in good looks used to end up with some money as well as the less attractive women.

The Babylonian men paid a bride price, but some of their money would come back to them because the young women were given dowries, which their husbands would administer even if they could not raid it. This exchange seems odd but was not so unusual in the classical world, where women served to cement together two male-controlled families. If a married daughter died without children, her money would go back to her family, which removed any incentive to harm her.

At the time, virginity was not always necessary to a girl’s successful marriage—the Lydians prostituted their daughters to raise money for their dowries. Because of the dangers of childbirth and high rate of early mortality in ancient Greece, it was common for wealthy relatives to provide not just their daughters but also their poor relations with dowries. Athenian law even required that the State dower poor women of just passable attractiveness; teeth were all that were required. Because Athens was under constant threat from its rivals, it depended on its young women to provide it with a constant stream of new soldiers.

Classical literature is filled with accounts of creative daughter disposal. In some memorable verses of The Odyssey, the father of Penelope, Odysseus’ wife, then thought to be a widow, urges her to marry the suitor with the most gifts. Greek fathers took care not to raise more daughters than they could dower. Outright infanticide was abhorrent to ancient Greeks, but they did practice “exposure,” wherein parents intentionally left unwanted infants exposed to the elements. They believed that the gods could choose to save the abandoned children, thereby eliminating their agency while achieving their aims. Husbands were not permitted to run through their wives’ dowries but neither could the wife.

A Greek woman’s dowry yielded about 18 percent per year, and if the couple got divorced, either party could request the dowry. It was returned to a woman’s guardian or, in certain cases, kept by the husband, who paid 18 percent interest to his former wife’s guardian for her support. The wealthier the family, the more likely it was that a marriage would take place between two young first cousins. Such marriages keep money in one family and tended to correlate with periods of cultural instability, when power was held by a few important families. Cousin marriage was particularly popular among the higher echelons in Elizabethan England, the Antebellum South, and in late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century Britain.

Greek girls who died in childhood were mourned specifically because they did not fulfill their destiny as wives and mothers. Their epitaphs make reference to their failure to marry, and the girls were quickly writ into myth. Like Persephone before them, they were considered married to Hades and dwelled, as wraiths, in the underworld.

In the Roman period, women did not fare better. Catullus sums up the Roman attitude toward marriage, writing, “If, when [a young woman] is ripe for marriage, she enters into wedlock, she is ever dearer to her husband and less hateful to her parents.”

The middle class continued to sell their daughters at regional markets throughout most European countries during the Middle Ages. For the upper middle classes, the social stasis of the period made marrying an heiress one of the only means to improve one’s social status, and it was nearly impossible to do without deception. The middle classes began to consult marriage brokers—a growing cottage industry in Europe—who would help them plot their rise, reconstruct their family histories, then help them relocate in order to achieve success in another part of the country. If a woman did marry up, she would find that she had much less control over both her body and her daily life—where she walked and even what she ate—than she had in a middle-class environment. In the upper classes, the legitimacy of heirs continued to be of primary importance, and as such women’s movements were intensely regulated.

Women were progressively more visible during the Renaissance. Increased trade created a new culture of conspicuous consumption, propped up by merchants and explorers who transported new goods through Genoa and Venice, Zanzibar and Constantinople, outward to European capitals and the known world. Newly available luxury goods made life easier and more enjoyable—tobacco, tea, coffee, silks, and spices facilitated a culture of male comfort in which wives and daughters played an important though entirely passive role. In ancient Greece and Rome women were kept mostly in the home, but during the Renaissance men put their velvet-swaddled wives and daughters on display, trotting them out in public, where they would often sit separately, saying little if anything but fulfilling a necessary decorative function. A woman’s beauty, or wealth, was most of all a statement about the social status of her presiding male, be he husband, father, or brother.

For much of the Middle Ages and into the Renaissance, sumptuary laws on food and goods defined and limited social space. By legislating who could obtain specific fabrics, foods, drink, and other luxuries, governments prevented servants and the middle classes from masquerading as aristocrats by denying them access to the materials necessary to appear richer than they were. Pre-Reformation Europeans were just beginning to let go of feudal social organization.

Though more people now lived in cities, family patriarchs had long made decisions for their large clans and were not interested in giving up a privilege that had served them so well. Daughters were married to create important and lasting connections between families. Those who could not be married off in a way that would benefit the clan were often forced into nunneries. For a noble family, sending a daughter to a convent or forcing her into spinsterhood was far preferable to tainting a family line by permitting her to marry beneath her station.

This system of dispensing with daughters worked peaceably for hundreds of years, until Henry VIII came to need a son and heir. When his attempts to have his first marriage, which had produced no sons, annulled by the pope failed, Henry charged ecclesiastical and secular legal scholars in England with finding a way to divorce his consort Catherine and marry his pregnant mistress Anne Boleyn. Their solution was divorce and breaking away from the Catholic Church. Henry began the violent dissolution of Catholic monasteries in 1536. It lasted for four years, during which the crown plundered church lands, sold them off to rich allies, and used the surplus cash to wage dubious wars in France. For wealthy young women, newly Anglican, there was an additional change, perhaps the single most significant social change women would see until suffrage. Their safe haven—the convent—was now gone.

The absence of nunneries sent numerous marriageable aristocratic young women into circulation. When once they would have been in the country, awaiting the marriages arranged for them, or preparing to enter a convent, these young girls were now brought to court, which is where they were most likely to find husbands. By the time Henry’s daughter Elizabeth I began her reign in 1558, the atmosphere surrounding marriage had a new urgency.

Elizabeth’s rule began in religious chaos after her predecessor, her half sister Mary, violently restored Roman Catholicism to England. Elizabeth spent the better part of her first years on the throne fighting for her father’s Protestantism in an effort to fend off those who wished to depose her. Her legitimacy was questioned with every decision she made, and she understood that her courtiers were her key to maintaining the throne. She tightened her control over the aristocracy by reducing its size to a new low. She stripped disloyal aristocrats of their titles or made it known they were not welcome at court.

It was against this tumultuous backdrop that Elizabeth, in an effort to form beneficial social and political alliances, began having young ladies ceremonially presented to her at court. These presentations were small affairs and limited to the daughters of Elizabeth’s most important courtiers. They took place in the queen’s “withdrawing room,” a private room, but located next to larger public rooms, where she could go with a smaller party. The girls were led from a public stateroom into the smaller adjoining room at Hampton Court palace, so that other courtiers would know who was being favored.

At the more private ceremony of presentation, the young girls curtsied to the queen. The young girls had a vivid experience of being watched and assessed, enhanced by the fact that of the roughly 1,500 people in regular attendance at court, only fifty were women. These presentations came to be referred to as “drawing rooms,” and they engendered a curious experience that blended ostentatious display with the familial and private, a mix that would continue to characterize the debutante ritual for its duration

Many of the presented young women served her as attendants and became intermediaries between Elizabeth and the wider circle of her court. They helped Elizabeth to exert control over the nobility by creating an elegant buffer between the monarch and her courtiers. In order to present a petition to the queen, one first gave it to a lady-in-waiting, along with a fee that the lady in question would determine based on her closeness with the queen. Elizabeth encouraged her ladies to charge exorbitantly for this service—not so much because they’d have some independence, but so they would have enough money to be able to gamble with her.

She also regularly rejected petitions based on their lack of generosity toward her ladies. The queen could also be capricious—Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting could not marry of their own volition. Elizabeth Vernon spent a week in prison (with her new husband the Earl of Southampton) for marrying without the queen’s permission. Lettice Knollys was banished permanently for marrying Elizabeth’s favorite courtier, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. When Elizabeth discovered that another lady-in-waiting, Mary Shelton, was secretly married, she attacked her and broke her finger.

Elizabeth’s social standards and rituals persisted after her death, with queens taking over control of drawing rooms and social presentations even when there was a king on the throne. Elizabethan presentations-at-court served a very clear political purpose. Though they bore little resemblance to the feverish social theater that characterized the fully developed debutante ritual of the nineteenth century, these court presentations provided the foundation for modern debutante culture and served, too, as its myth of origin.

They show the important link between society and politics, a symbiotic relationship that only deepened as the ritual became institutionalized and spread outward to all corners of the British Empire. Elizabeth’s backroom maneuvers—quick conferences with her ladies or political advisers—provided the precedent for the many political meetings that took place at debutante parties in later centuries, and emphasized the soft power of social settings, which were controlled by women who understood that the way to power was not always hard work or even fortunate birth, but judicious conversation next to a sloshing punch bowl or quivering trifle.

The Stuart monarchs who followed Elizabeth continued the tradition of the drawing room (“with” was dropped from “withdrawing room” in the late seventeenth century), which retained its function as a matchmaking tool. Elizabeth’s successor, James I, arranged the marriage of his favorite courtier, the charming spendthrift James Hay, to Honoria Denny by granting Honoria’s reluctant father a title and royal patent. While these high-level marriages took strategy, marriage law remained chaotic. There was no legislation that defined marriage, and there were no protections for women after they were married. Rather, the absence of law meant that women might be forced into marriage by their fathers, married by capture, or tricked into marriage.

The age of consent to marriage was twelve for women and fourteen for men, and contracts were often made during the “unripe years.” It was a particularly dangerous time to be an heiress. During these years women could inherit property. Inheritance law was not clear on whether her property would become her husband’s upon marriage. Without knowing if they could control their property, many women resisted marriage.

Restrictive regulations for daughters intensified after they were wives, especially if they were considered to have broken proper codes of behavior. If a wife were to be convicted of adultery, she would lose her dowry or marriage portion and her husband could make a good case that she could punitively lose her property as well. There was no comparable financial forfeiture for adulterous men, and courts habitually disbelieved women who tried to defend themselves against claims of adultery. It is not difficult to explain widespread female acquiescence.”

- Kristen Richardson, “Marriage (Market Price).”

#kristen richardson #history #marriage #ancient #medieval #renaissance

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creatingblackcharacters · 19 days ago

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I LOVE your Black Hair Lessons so much. Hair is one of my favorite symbolic things to play around with in character design and i feel like i just have way less ideas/base knowledge of black hair styles. I feel like the world has opened up and im very excited to implement this into my black characters. I have a fewww more question though, I hope you can answer them! 1) how long do hair styles last? How frequently could a character change their hair and what are plausible reasons for frequent changes? (As a writer im changing it for Plot, but i want in-universe reasons too). 2) are there any common emotional perceptions black people (men and women) have to certain hair styles? Im thinking in terms of how it will come across to black readers. Say i want to convey that a character is carefree in a scene, or theyre stressed and uptight, or theyre falling apart, or theyre in complete control, etc. Thanks again!!

You had it right the first time with Black 😅!

1) it depends on the hairstyle! The questions you're asking depend on the hairstyle, and the type of activity and lifestyle they have. If you have a character with less time on their hands, or they just don't care to do too much, you'll want to pick a style that's either protective and long lasting, or that's simple and low maintenance. If your character wants to change their hair all the time, they probably don't want a style that takes hours to do and undo. Consider your character first, and then consider a style.

2) there is no such thing as Bad Black hair. No hair is going to look "bad" on its own. It's the care put into it. If I see someone with their afro and it's matted, I would think they were going through it. There is a perception that locs and wicks are inherently dirty or unkempt, and as I addressed in those hair lessons, they are not! They will only be dirty if they weren't taken care of! It also, again, depends on your character. Your stressed and uptight character might focus on "perfect" hair- maybe if it's falling out of its bun, or her wig isn't on properly, or her roots are showing new growth in her braids, that can be a sign of stress. But all Black people do not have the same opinions on what constitutes as "not together"- depends on what culture they have. Do they think straight, relaxed hair is best? Do they think wigs are a sign of bad hair? What do they believe?

In summary, I would try to understand your character and their lifestyle, choose a hairstyle that works with it, and study the maintenance required. If that's something you really feel passionate about showing in your story.

#creatingblackcharacters #thatsjusttips #black character design

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marsplastic13 · 7 months ago

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Knock knock - Part 3

Part 1

Part 2

It was a freezing Tuesday night, the crows were out to celebrate the end of an heist that required weeks of planning. Since not many people among the Dregs knew about the job, they decided to have their deserved night out in a club almost outside the Barrel, were they would not be easily recognized. Jesper extended the invitation to Vik, and even Kaz made his brief apparition for a few drinks. At some point during the night, Vik decided to head back home, since she had to work in the morning. Nina insisted that she let somone walk her home but she assured everyone that she lived nearby and there was no reason to worry.

She was half way through when she noticed a man collapsed on the ground, trembling. Vik was unsured of what to do, there was no one else around her and this man could have been dangerous. Her medik sense of duty was battling with her self-preservation instinct when she noticed a cane with a crow head near the man. Kaz.

She was quickly at his side, he seemed barely conscious. "Kaz, Kaz what happened?" she checked his pulse while he tried to get away from her hands, "I know, I know I'm sorry but you loook really bad Kaz, what is going on? Should I call someone?" Kaz's sight was blurred, he could only hear half the words she was saying, but no one could see him in that pathetic state, so he used all of his willpower to shake his head. "Okay can you stand? I can't let you here, you'll freeze to death."

She was very worried, if for some reason someone passed from there and happened to recognize him, hell would brake free. A lot of men would pay good money to have a chance at a barely concious Dirtyhands. "Leg" was all he was able to say. "Your leg hurt?" he nodded "I think you have a fever, did you had any rest in the past weeks? Your body passed his limit Kaz" He knew, he absolutly knew. But he couldn't stop, not for a moment, not when the lives of his crows depended on his meticulous plans. "I'll bring you to my house, but you'll have to stand okay? Tell me when you're ready". She saw him trying to formulate an answer "No one is going to see you Kaz, I'm your medik, its my job to help you."

Her words convinced him to gave in and he tried to get on his feet, leaning heavily on the girl, putting his arm around her shoulders, while she passed her arm around his waist. "How do you-" Vik was interrupted by the boy starting to puke. The pain of getting up was too much. "Okay try to breath" he felt her cleaning his face from vomit and sweat "Yes, you're doing a good job, know here's your cane, I can make you feel a bit better until we arrive at my place but I'll have to touch your bare skin alright?" he nodded frantically, he would have done anything to get out of that situation.

"Good, I'll take your hand, you'll feel better but it's temporarily okay? When we arrive I'll check you properly". She removed one of his gloves, took his hand and his mind felt clearer, his pain felt distant. "Talk only if you have to puke again, we're almost there. Saints, you're heavier than you Iook". Vik had no idea of how she managed to drag him up for a flight of stairs, but there they were, in front of her apartment's door. "I'm going to leave your hand, you're going to feel really bad" he nodded, preparing himself. In any other situation, the accondescending tone she was using would have make him go crazy, but in that moment when his thoughts were all mixed up, he felt almost grateful that she was explaining everything like he was a child. "There you are" she left his hand and he collapsed back into her.

"Not... safe" Kaz muttered while she unlocked her door. He wanted to say that her lock was not safe but everything felt blurred. Vik dragged him on her bed, then lighted a few candles. She helped him remove his coat and his dirty shirt. Then, she took a cloth and some water to clean his sweat. "Kaz I can give you something for the pain and to sleep off the fever but you have to be good and tell me every medicine you take alright?". He used all of his strenght to give her the names and the doses of what he usually took, only after a long moment he noticed that she was writing everything with one hand while her other hand was back into his.

He felt too bad to process how that was making him feel. "Great, and how about illegal ones?" She kept watching her paper, he esitated. "Kaz I've been trained for this, I can see that you take drugs sometimes, and I'm not judging you, no one can imagine how much pain you feel everyday" still no answer "I would really like if what I'm about to give you doesn't make you od on my bed, okay?" he sighed. He always managed to keep that part him to himself, even Inej had never known those kind of secrets. He never wanted to make his people be worried about him or to think at him like someone that needed help. But this was an entirerly different situation, and he would not die because he felt ashamed, so he took a shaky breath and gave her the names. "Okay good, and what have you taken today?" "Didn't had time". She nodded and left to look for a strong painkiller. A new wave of pain washed over him when her hand left his.

"Hope you're not afraid of needles" he extended his arm while she prepared the syringe. A sudden relief came from the puntcure, Kaz closed his eyes breathing in deeply. "I'm leaving next you a bucket if you feel like throwing up again, I'll take a quick shower and try to clean up your shirt" she noticed he must've fallen asleep faster then she predicted, "You fucking scared me Kaz" she whispered moving his hair awawy from his forehead "sweet dreams" "No dreams" he mumbled before starting to snore lightly. Vik shaked her head while reaching her little bathroom, under the hot water she was finally able to let go that night's stress. The boy didn't notice when she climbed into bed next to him, and he didn't woke up when she left the next morning.

Still with his eyes shut, Kaz felt awake. His mind was clear, his pain at the usual level. He could sense there was sunlight in his face, weird, he never left his curtains open. That wasn't his room. He opened his eyes, the brightness was too much to focus on the surroundings, but covering with his hand, he found himself in someone else's bed. Slowly, memories from the night before started to resurface. The job, the bar, the alley when his body rivolted against him, Vik's worried face. He sat on the edge of the bed, with his head in his hands. He felt the start of a migraine forming in the back of his mind, probably because he couldn't remember the last time he ate. After a few deep breaths, he saw a note on the handstand.

Good morning sunshine! When I left earlier you looked so peaceful that I couldn't bring me to wake you up. You should eat, I left you something sweet and something savory on my desk (I have no idea of what you prefer). You'll find there a pill for the migraine you probably have right now, but please eat and drink a lot of water before you take it (it will pierce a hole in your stomach if you don't, I swear). I tried to clean your shirt, it's in the bathroom. I should be back around 4, don't leave before, I want to be sure you're fine (please!). In the mean time, my home is all yours.

-V

Kaz shaked his head and got up to take the painkiller. Next to it there was a cream and chocolate pastry and what looked like an ham sandwich. Vik actually went out to buy him breakfast. The pill wouldn't actually make a hole in his stomach, right? After the past night experience, he didn't really felt like testing his body, so he recluctanly sat at the table and ate the pastry. To ignore how good it felt to eat something, Kaz looked through the papers left on the desk. There were mainly medicine books, with her notes all over the margins.

After a while, the boy started pacing around the apartment: her flat was made of large room, with a bed, a table that she probably used more to study than for eating, a library filled with books, a few cupboards that he guessed was her kitchen, and a wardrobe. Then there was a small bathroom, the door didn't close properly, it needed fixing for sure. The first thing he noticed there was the strong smell of vanilla, all of her products were vanilla flavored. His shirt was almost dry but he put it on anyway, drowning in her sweet perfume. Then he proceded to inspect all of her locks and windows, that house was absolutely not safe. It was absurd that no one had already tried to brake in.

When Vik came back home, she found Kaz weirdly tapping on one of the window's lock with one of his picks, his head leaned on it, listening. "Hey you're awake!" the sudden noise made him snap out of his focus and bang his head on the metal part of the window. "Oh shit are you okay?" he nodded massagging his forehead. She made a few steps in his direction, then stopped "Wait I had a shift in the Infective deseases wing, I should take a shower before staying close to anyone".

She emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a short black robe, her wet hair were letting water drops slip on her face and neck. Kaz found himself following one of those drops along her features, until it disapperead between her breasts. "Kaz are you listening to me?" He cleared his voice and diverted his gaze to the ceiling "I was distracted" he mumbled. Vik grinned, getting closer to him "How do you feel?" She was so close she just whispered, laying her hand on his forehead to check his temperature, while locking eyes with his. "Good, I feel good" her hand felt so hot against his skin that it didn't bother him. After years and years of shying away from human contact, Kaz could feel her delicate hand without flinching. "What are you doing?" He found himself whispering too. "Is it working?" She tilted her head a bit and moved her hand on his cheek, without breaking eye contact. "Yes".

She pulled away smiling. Keep touching me, don't leave. "I figured it's the cold that really bothers you, I tried to increase my temperature, guess it was a good call". He didn't know what to say, it was simple and brilliant at the same time. "So how's your leg? Your head? Everything alright?" Kaz nodded distractly, "I can fix your locks" Thank you for taking care of me. Her smile grew "You can? It would be amazing Kaz" he nodded moving away from her, towards the windows "Your door is not safe enough, I'll take care of that too" "Kaz" she moved a bit closer, her desire for touching him was becoming too strong and it took a lot of strenght to stay where she was. "You know you don't owe me anything, right? I did what I had to, it was not a favor you have to return" "I know" But I don't know how to say how grateful I am. She watched him with an worried frown.

"Where did you sleep last night?" he blurted out. Why do I keep saying stupid things? She didn't have a couch, so it was obvious that- "In my bed, next to you" Vik looked surprised, maybe for the first time after he asked her to work for him. "Is there a problem? I really didn't felt like sleeping on the floor and I promise no one tried to cuddle the other" Kaz had no idea what to respond, probably because he had no idea of where he thought he was going with that question. Better if he left before other stupid shit found its way to his mouth.

"I should go now, I'll come back tomorrow for the locks" He crossed the room, hand already on the doorknob. "Great, I'll see you around 7?" She leaned on the wall beside the door. Kaz nooded, for a moment his gaze shifted on her lips. "Can you-" "The bathroom door, yes, see you tomorrow".

Vik closed the door behind him, letting out a breath. Did she really just put her hand on Dirtyhands' face and lived to tell others?

The next day, at 7 sharp, Kaz arrived with tools and new locks. And it went on for a few days. He would arrive, start to work on what was left from the day before and then the girl would remember about a broken drawer, an unstable shelf, and they would spend another evening chatting, eating something when she managed to convince him and walking together to The Slat when she had to work. She even made him laugh a couple of times.

That night, a fight broke out at The Crow Club, and Kaz got out with a bloody nose and a sharp pain in his bad knee. The other guy had it much worse. Normally he would just ignore it, but Vik was at The Slat for another few hours, so he guessed why not?

He found her outside smocking with Jesper and other Dregs "Oh Gods Kaz, that nose is broken" Please, help me. He was about to respond that his nose was just bleeding when he noticed her wide eyes, eyebrows raised. Kaz frowned, was she trying to signal him something? She made an almost invisible nod. "Yes, definitely broken. Come on I don't pay you to chat" He said annoyed, and disappeared inside the building without sparing her another glance.

Vik entered the infirmary a moment after him. "Thank the ugly Saints that you arrived" "Did something happened?" He sat on the bed and she came closer to look at his nose. "That Erin or Eric, I dont know, was becoming a little handsy and Jesper kept ignoring my signals" Kaz snorted "I don't think Jasper even noticed your signals. What was Erin doing?" " Just touching my arms, he tried to put his arm around me a few times" she released a breath "I know it's not that bad but I felt really uncomfortable" "Hey it's not your fault, he shouldn't had tried to touch you in whatever form if you don't want to" And I'm going to brake all of his fingers with my cane. "Thanks Kaz, I think you're all fixed, your nose stopped bleeding and you can take this pill for the knee"

"Good" he was back on his feet in front of her. "l'Il see you tomorrow? At your house?" he said clearing his voice and cursing himself. What am I doing? She delicately gripped his arm "Kaz..." "Yes?" Vik let out a nervous giggle "I think you fixed everything in my house at least two times". Kaz chuckled, biting his lower lip. The boy took a moment looking around "Yeah, well, I figured I'm a very bad handyman or you're more clumsy than you look". The truth was that they both tried to extend their evenings together as much as possible. Did she broke a few things on purpose? Maybe. And did he took an enormous amount of time to repair things? Also maybe.

"I don't want this to end Kaz, I genuinely liked spending time with you and I know that if I just walk out that door we'll act as if nothing happened and I'm not letting that happen". He raised his gloved hand to put her hair behind her ear, and after a moment of hesitation, his fingers started to trace the line of her jaw. "This is a very bad idea" he whispered "I know" "I'm a dangerous man with a dangerous job" "I won't wait up" A genuine smile took place on his face, making her grin. "I have a lot of powerful enemies" "I'll learn how to fight". Kaz's hand was behind her neck. "There are things that I dont know if I can ever give you" his voice was almost inaudible "I don't want anything you can't give me". "If we really do this, it's not going to be easy, Viktoria" "I want this". Vik carefully rested her hand on his chest. She could feel his heart at an impossible rate. "You're going to give yourself an heart attack" "I hope it's worth it then". He leaned towards her, slowly brushed his lips against hers. "May I?" "Please Kaz". And so he kissed her. A real, breathtaking kiss.

At the end, they were grinning like teenagers. "How about I go to break Erin's fingers and then I'Il walk you home?" "Can you break his fingers after taking me home? I don't want him to ask me to repair them". Kaz looked at her with his eyebrows raised "I think the Dregs have a really bad influence on you".

"Oh but it's such a romantic story Vik" said Jasper in awe "How I wish I could tell someone" she laughed "Kaz would have your head on a silver plate" before Jasper could respond, they heard the unmistakeble noise of a cane behind them "Why would I have his head on a silver plate?"

#kaz brekker #kaz brekker x y/n #kaz brekker x you #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker fanfic

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