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flickeringquip · 3 hours ago

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Convince the Fighter abstinence is bad for his health. There may be consequences(?) <<

Part 2 of this post, feat. @thedolmainblog's Blythe

(smut continues below the cut + link for the full nsfw aster pic)

(full & uncropped picture here)

(1) Arrive at Blythe's flat.

It's only when the engine cuts out from beneath you that you realize you're shaking, clinging to Blythe as tightly as you can. It would be easy to assume it was from some manner of fright or nerves from the reckless ride—

But it was certainly not fear that had your face burning beneath your helmet, caught somewhere between dazed by the experience and mortified at the very real worry you'd left a stain on the leather seat of Blythe's bike.

Blythe who disentangles himself from you with little difficulty despite your death grip, dismounting in a smooth, practised motion before turning sharply back in your direction. A few seconds later finds you free of your helmet — and realizing all at once that he hadn't worn one.

"You shouldn't ride one of these things without a h—" The concerned admonishment slips free of you before you even really think about it, but your scolding is interrupted when the Fighter hoists you onto his shoulder like a particularly prized sack of potatoes, your voice pitching high as you cling to the back of his shirt, "—elMET!"

(1) And once again you're along for the ride as Blythe makes for his apartment with the same single-minded focus as before.

You expect this ride to be much shorter than the last, and it is, but you can't help but be a little confused when you aren't set down as Blythe steps into his apartment like you'd been expecting.

It's a confusion that only grows when you remain slung over his shoulder as he locks his door. As he crosses the length of his apartment. As he steps into what you assume to be his bedroom.

He only lets you down when it's to drop you the short distance to his bed, leaving you to blink up at him as he whips his shirt off and tosses it somewhere out of your line of sight.

(1) Get a little distracted ogling Blythe's chest and biceps.

Look.

The man is shredded.

You may be a little restrained compared to some other residents of this hell hole, but you do have eyes. Eyes that are all too happy dip as Blythe shoves his trousers down his hips, and you aren't sure if he had simply skipped on boxers or if they went down with the pants, but it's a question that'll have to wait, because—

(1) Turns out Blythe was very proportional.

In the span of time it takes for you to force yourself to stop gawking at him, Blythe closes the distance between the two of you once more, stripping you from the top down with the same ruthless efficiency he'd rid himself of his own clothes. The last to go are your own pant and panties, tugged off in one go that leaves you splayed on your back on his bed, more exposed in front of someone than you've been in a long time.

"It's-" Your tongue sticks to a suddenly dry mouth as you push yourself into a seated position just in time for the Fighter to lift one knee to the bed — your voice pulls his attention up from your body so fast it almost startles you, the intensity in his gaze more than enough to have you squirming a little beneath his attention, "It's been a bit for me, that is, since the last time I, y'know— I mean, not as long as it's been for you of course—"

After transitioning to working for Landry full time, you had seen no need to continue doing sex work on the side; working for the Criminal had proven more than profitable enough, and you didn't even have to see Bailey's stupid face anymore thanks to automatic deposits. And without that pressure to constantly have to make more money, you simply had found your interest in sex greatly reduced.

You weren't unhinged about it like someone — and besides, you weren't part demon, so it's not like being abstinent would've even hurt you the same way — but it wasn't uncommon for you to go months and months between your little dalliances. You'd never experienced sexual attraction quite like most of your peers, and you found that now that it wasn't a transaction, you generally needed to get to know the person before you'd even really think about sex.

(1) Which was really all to say: you weren't fitting him anywhere without some prep first.

The moment you opened your mouth to offer to handle it yourself (look, you'd never really gotten the hang of the whole 'rely on others' thing), a yelp stole free of you instead. Why?

It probably had something to do with how Blythe grabs your thighs and yanks you towards the end of the bed, looking for the world like he'd heard the words you'd been about to say and found them truly, deeply insulting.

And then his gaze dips between down to your legs as he hoists each of your thighs over one of his shoulders, you, well—

(1) You're not sure what's going to kill you faster: the sudden shocks of intense arousal or the overwhelming embarrassment.

And you just wanted it on the record that you're hardly some blushing virgin, and while you have far more experience giving oral than receiving it, you had been eaten out before. It was just. . . a long time ago. By a client you really hadn't liked much.

And yeah, fine, you are blushing, but it's because this is Blythe, who you'd formed something resembling a friendship just by proxy of co-existing in the same spaces long enough for you to get a little attached — even if you hadn't really thought he felt the same. It had never bothered you, if the people you cared about reciprocated the feeling; you'd managed to shake the guilt over the years, but the caretaking habits had held fast. And it had been nice, knowing someone else who had clear, simple loyalties — him to Aiden, you to Landry. You didn't have to really worry about navigating weird backstabbing bullshit, and if down the line your respective employers' relationship turned sour, well. . .

. . .There wouldn't have been hard feelings, at least.

(But wow, that's an anxiety that's gonna haunt you later, isn't it?)

Which was ALL to say, you think you have a pretty solid grasp on what's about to happen as Blythe yanks you a bit closer, close enough that the feel of his breath has your thighs jolting a little overtop his shoulders.

(1) It only takes one lap of his tongue for those confident expectations of yours to Go Out. The Fucking. Window.

Because you were so wrong, holy shit, you were so wrong it's not even funny, you hadn't even come close up realizing what you were in for—

But how could you have possibly known he'd be this good? That it would only take a couple minutes for you to be squirming something fierce in his hold, mewling as his tongue laves through slick, sensitive folds to flick against your clit. That it would take barely a few minutes more to find yourself cumming embarrassingly fast, hips jerking fruitlessly in his hold as he keeps your climax going for as long as physically possible, pausing only when you slump in his hold, breathing hard.

". . .Why on earth are you so good at that?" The words spill out of you as soon as you have enough air for them, an arm tossed up and over your eyes because you aren't sure you could survive whatever sight he must make between your legs right now, "You've been abstinent for like— Ack!"

The startled squeak that leaves you is far from dignified, but that's a hard thing to maintain when Blythe slides your thighs off his shoulders — only to push them up towards your chest instead, making use of your flexibility to all but remove your ability to squirm and wiggle as he holds you in that position with just his hands.

. . . It's both a little insulting and incredibly enticing how little effort it takes him to keep you pinned down like this.

(1) That's the last coherent thought you have for awhile, because—

Blythe isn't satisfied with only making you cum on his tongue once. The man eats you out like a man posssessed, and each new noise he pulls from you only seemed to encourage him. And when he closes his lips around your clit with a moan that you feel all the way to your core and you're all but thrown into your next orgasm, he works you through it and keeps going until the next one, until your thighs are trembling in his grasp and you keen loudly enough for the sound to echo throughout his room. It's only then that he at last pulls away, and even the groan that escapes him is enough to have you whimpering from sensitivity.

Your legs feel like jello when he finally releases them, pleasure long having robbed your limbs of any semblance of strength. For all that you haven't really done anything, you feel like you've run a marathon, flushed and panting. Blythe's palms are rough against your skin as he smoothes his hands down the backs of your still faintly-trembling thighs, a soothing gesture—

And one that is very at odds with the salacious way he licks his lips and the ravenous glint in his eyes.

(1) Which is obviously a great time for you to realize that you had yet to even really touch him, let alone help him release all that pent up stress form his abstinence.

"Do you want—" A true seductress you are, truly a vixen to be feared, your words winded and blurted as your hand meets his thigh and sweeps upwards, "I could suck you off—?"

Your fingers don't quite get to brush against him before you find your hand caught in his grasp, a full-body shudder rolling down your spine when Blythe growls and guides both of your hands above your head, pressing both wrists hard into his sheets with one hand in clear command — stay — before letting go.

You- you stay.

"Next time," His voice is even rougher than usual, guttural in a way that would've made your thighs clench, had he not already reduced them to jello — he splays a hand over your belly that feels hot enough to brand, something in you coiling hot and tight beneath your skin, "Only place 'm gonna cum tonight is inside you."

(1) This man was going to fucking kill you.

A fact you become more and more sure of when Blythe hits you with that fucking bombshell and does not immediately fuck you into next week, because first he has to loosen you up a little first.

Any attempts on your end to convince him you probably don't need any more prep are utterly ignored as he works one, and then two fingers inside of you — and, to his credit and despite your assurances, even with you all but dripping off his wrist thanks to his earlier affections, there's just enough of a stretch to it to make you shift in discomfort.

And for all that you might have expected him to call you on being wrong about how ready you might have been, Blythe seems to instead throw all of that energy into actually accomplishing that goal. There's a level of meticulous care to the careful way he works you open that you wouldn't have thought possible for someone in his state, and it does things to you, things that have you clenching around his fingers with a shivery little moan.

(1) The sound seems to chip away at the remnants of restraint you're not even sure how he's been hanging onto.

Blythe fingers you through two more orgasms — once with his thumb pressing sinful circles around your swollen clit and another by fucking his fingers and curling them into a spot that makes your legs shake with every stroke — before you start to crack.

Like you'd been the one who'd had a decade-long stint of abstinence.

"—Please," There's just enough desperation in your voice to bring Blythe to a pause as he teased a third finger against your entrance, one trembling leg hooked over his forearm to keep you spread wide for his touch, "I'm ready, I-I promise I am, please Blythe, I want- I need you to—"

Blythe seems to freeze above you, but you keep pushing, because you're not sure how much more of this you'll possibly be able to survive but you know you have to at least accomplish the singular thing you'd set out to when you'd kissed him.

(1) "I need you to fuck me, Blythe, please—!"

Even if you hadn't already been spread too thin to have room for embarrassment, you simply wouldn't have had time to even feel things like that with how fast Blythe sets upon you. The words have barely slipped past your lips when you find them claimed, the kiss as ravenous as the man himself as he hitches your thighs up around his hips, the heavy weight of his cock a brand against your dripping sex that has you both moaning in tandem.

Blythe doesn't leave you in suspense, driven by a lust you barely imagine as he lines himself up and pushes forward with a groan so deep in his chest you can feel it through him and it's—

It's a lot.

Your arms twine tight around his neck as your legs squeeze tight against his hips, needing something to ground you against the almost dizzying sense of fullness as Blythe sinks deeper inside of you inch by agonizing, amazing inch. You realize at once why he thought to prep you to three fingers, but it is not pain that has your nails scrabbling against his back as you cling tighter to him.

It's the way every inch he sinks deeper has you pulsing around his cock; the way his weight above you presses you down into his sheets like he never wants to part from you; the way his lips suck bruising marks into your pulse; the way he sounds, the shuddering gasps and broken groans breathed right into your ear—

(1) And above it all it's the words spilling from him like the sweat across your brows, rough and breathless and adoring.

"Fuck, you feel—"

"You're so—"

"Perfect, fuck, Aster, you're perfect—"

And it's his fault, it really is, it's his fault because you're already so sensitive, so hyper-aware of his everything, and what right did he have to say your name like that? To talk to you like that? Of course you find yourself pushed to the very edge just as you feel him press flush against the back of your thighs, and realizing you'd taken every last inch of him does things to the both of you.

"Blythe—" Your voice quivers alongside the rest of you, his name nearly a keen as tension winds tighter in your middle, eyes squeezing shut as you tried to hold yourself together just a little bit longer—

(1) Only for them to fly open with a yelp at a stinging smack to your hip.

"Eyes on me," Blythe chooses then to begin to pull back, establishing a rhythm that's slow but deep as you shiver and squeeze around his cock, his words half-groan, half-command, "Want to watch you— cum."

His hips snap forward with a force that steals the breath from your lungs, feeling what scant control you'd mustered beginning to slip as you turn your burning cheek to the side despite his demand—

Only for the sound to taper off into a whimper when strong fingers catch you just under your jaw and turn you back to face him with a strength that brooks no room for argument and the barest little squeeze that sets your already racing heart beating even faster.

Your lashes flutter unsteadily, vision blurring as you desperately try to hold your pleasure at bay when every slam of Blythe's hips threatens to send you careening over the edge.

"Aster," One of his hands slips down from your hip, and your whole body jolts beneath with a stuttering cry as his thumb presses into your clit with tight, devastating little circles, "Cum for me."

(1) And damn him, you do.

A pleasure crashes through you that blinds you to all else; light splintering through a prism as waves of heat burn through your veins. Some distant part of you is sure you're going to be mortified by the noises you're making right now, sure to wake his neighbors, but you cannot stop them anymore that you could the climax currently shattering you to pieces.

And throughout it all, Blythe's rhythm only grows more desperate, the sordid sound nearly as loud as you as he fucks you deeper into his bed — and beneath it all, you can hear his voice, a strained mantra of curses as his fingers squeeze and shake around your hips.

(1) And all at once, even beneath the all-consuming tide of your climax, you're filled with a fierce, singular desire: make Blythe cum — isn't that why you'd come?

(a few times, at this point.)

"Blythe, p-please—" It's all you can do to mewl the words, your voice raw from all your cries and still shuddering through your own release; it takes everything you have to focus up on him with blurry eyes, to keep them on him like he'd wanted because you want to be good for him, "You p-promised— wanna feel you cum i-inside, please—!"

"Fuck—" He tenses above you, every muscle taut as his his hips slam into once, twice more—

Before a scalding heat bursts inside of you as Blythe makes a noise so relieved he sounds almost pained by it, fucking you through his orgasm while the feel of him has you whimpering a new, aftershocks of your own pleasure skittering up your spine.

(1) You all but melt into his sheets, feeling well-fucked and accomplished.

Blythe's lips meet yours in a kiss sweet enough to make your chest warm, hands rubbing up and down your sides as he breathes praise against your lips; how well you'd taken him, how perfect you feel, how perfect you are for him — and you ride an altogether different kind of high, a euphoria that has you shuddering as you coast along cloud-nine.

Before you can sink too deeply into the afterglow, all soft-limbed and sleepy-eyed even as the slow drag of Blythe's cock from inside of you, the spill of his cum making your face flush anew—

(1) You're startled back into full-alert as Blythe rises to his knees and rolls you onto your belly, pulling your hips back towards himself and pushing back inside of you with a groan.

"Blythe?" You shake and squeak below him, twisting to look over your shoulder in time to watch and feel him tug your hips higher, trembling thighs unable to support your own weight but so easily supported by his strength, "D-didn't you just—"

He does not start slow this time, setting a rough pace that quickly finds you keening into his pillows; you're just so sensitive now, pleasure bringing tears to your eyes as you squirm, only to yelp when Blythe answers your wiggling with a spank that makes you squeeze around him for reasons you aren't going to think about.

And then you hear a word you've heard once before tonight already, a pattern he's spent all night establishing as his fingers slip over your hip to find your clit, still flushed and swollen from his loving abuse—

"Again, love."

(1) And for the first time this evening you begin to realize the predicament you'd gotten yourself into. Good luck!

#I DIDNT EXPECT THIS TO BE SO GODDAMN LONG #this might the filthiest thing ive ever publicly posted but i am POWERING THRU THE EMBARRASSMENT #because Blythe Deserves It!!!#the world conspired to stop me by starting my period and rendering me bedbound for like 2 hrs immediately after work cuz #anemias a bitch all the time but gives me wicked headaches that make me hella light sensitive until i take some iron #but tylenol + iron + coffee FINALLY got me able to look at a screen again #and my determination to get blythe laid and aster absolutely wrecked handled the rest #this was very fun!!#i think im gonna do more of these aster pov 2nd person things #for when i wanna be creative but drawing is a little too much Brain #aster the gutsy #blythe the scrapper #aster the agent #blythe the fighter #degrees of lewdity #dol fanfic #flicker writes

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wutheringmights · 1 month ago

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2024 Reading Wrap

Another year, another reading wrap-up. This was not a great year for me. I read way less than I wanted. While I managed to hit 21 books overall, they were shorter and easier reads by large.

They also weren’t that good. Almost half of the books I read this year were either disappointing or outright bad. Granted, the worst books I read were on purpose. But many of the books I wanted to be good just weren’t. I soured on a lot of books the further I got from completing them, while there are a select few that have gotten better with time. Nonetheless, I am leaving 2024 with a general feeling of meh.

I really want 2025 to be a good reading year. My goal is to read about 10 classic novels (though I’m going to be a little flexible about what I’m going to classify as a “classic”). I’m also in a book club now, so hopefully that will help filter out the slop. However, I won’t be entirely slop-free. I have another Fourth Wing sequel to read in a few weeks, plus three new Alex Aster productions to look forward to. As long as the things I read outside of those are good, I should be okay.

Anyway, onto the ranking!

Like last year, I’m going to group completed series together. If I didn’t read all of the books in a series, they’ll have their own spot on the list. Why? My brain just works that way. Deal with it.

18. Heirs of the Founders: Henry Clay, John Calhoun and Daniel Webster, the Second Generation of American Giants by H.W. Brands

It’s genuinely shocking how blatantly biased this book is-- and not even to any of the men in the title! Brands has such an unflinching adoration for Andrew Jackson that I am skeptical of any of the other more “objective” narratives this book tries to push. Genuinely, the worst book I read this year, and that’s saying something.

17. Nightbane (Lighlark Saga #2) by Alex Aster

Is this the worst Lightlark book? No, but it's also the most boring. A prime example of the sophomore slump, if the freshman year was also allowed to stink. Apparently, if it comes down to it, I will favor bad books that are at least entertaining in its badness over one that is more plainly trying. Aster really didn’t have to drag Cato, A Tragedy into this, though.

16. Iron Flame (The Empyrean Series #2) by Rebecca Yarros

Another victim of the sophomore slump. I almost dislike this more than Nightbane because it doesn’t even try to hide how meandering it is. This book was so boring, my rental from the library ran out before I could finish it, and I had to check it out a second time. But it is an overall more competent product. I just need this narrative to stop painting Dain, a perfectly reasonable person, out to be the Worst Guy Ever.

15. Skyshade (Lightlark Saga #3) by Alex Aster

In pottery, there’s this wedge tool you use on the wheel to smooth out the walls of your piece. One hand holds the wedge up to the clay while the other goes inside your piece and presses the wall into it. You use it to straighten lines to give a more professional finish. You might have seen it in a TikTok or something.

Anyway, that’s what this book did to my brain. It was funny as fuck though, so props!

14. Fourth Wing (The Empyrean Series #1) by Rebecca Yarros

Say what you want, but it is far more competent than the rest of the slop parade we’ve had so far. Did I like this? No. But that moment when I was on a plane and realizing that this entire book was just a reflection of American military intervention overseas? Transcendent. I felt like I was high. I could have killed god.

13. The Library at Mount Char by Scott Hawkins

The more time passes, the more I realize that I do not really like this book. I called it a Neil Gaiman derivative when I first read it, and I still think that holds true now: the plot summary executes more of the premise of the plot more than the actual plot itself. For a “weird” book, it was pretty mid.

12. Captive Prince (Captive Prince Series #1) by C.S. Pacat

The more time passes, the more I sweeten on this one. My unironic, favorite reading moment of the year was reaching that one line in the novel that perfectly explained why Laurent was the way he was-- the perfect set-up and execution, subtly and perfectly executed. A masterclass of restraint. Unfortunately, Pacat shot herself in the foot with nearly every other decision the book required. I would give this series another chance if my library had the next two books available.

11. Gideon the Ninth (The Locked Tomb #1) by Tamsyn Muir

This was the most disappointing read of the year for me. It really stung. For a book that I love the ideas behind, none of the execution worked for me. The humor, the pacing, the plot: they all came together to form a story that just felt at odds with itself. Sadly, it just paled in the shadow of years-long hype.

10. Juniper & Thorn by Ava Reid

I still think three-quarters of this book was poorly paced and a slog to get through. But the last fourth where all the pieces came together were a wonderful exploration of monstrosity and trauma. Ultimately, I think Reid should have written a short story.

9. Crying in H Mart by Michelle Zauner

Zauner’s ideal audience is someone who has never experienced the specific grief of losing a your mom, who you had a rough-ish relationship with, very suddenly and brutally to cancer while you are still an impressionable young adult with no direction in life. Unfortunately, I am not that ideal audience.

8. The Song of the Lioness Quartet by Tamora Pierce

I reread this series because I needed it to fix me. And you know what? It did. It fixed me.

Also-- George Cooper if you are real, I am free Thursday night.

7. The Epic of Gilgamesh by Anonymous (Translated by Benjamin R. Foster)

I know a lot of people live and die by the tragedy of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Unfortunately, I just found the whole thing funny. Every now and then, I remember that time Gilgamesh played stick and ball while riding on the back of fatherless men and ended up having to venture into hell because they tossed the ball there by accident, and I lose it all over again. Foster’s footnotes and curated study guides were very helpful, though!

6. Doppelganger: A Trip into the Mirror World by Naomi Klein

Some chapters were more effective than others, and your mileage with Klein’s framing devices may vary. If you are already adequately well-informed and generally agree with Klein’s politics, you won’t get much out of this one. However, I think everyone should read her chapters on the convergence of the far right and wellness culture.

5. Autobiography of Red: A Novel in Verse by Anne Carson

Almost a full year later, and I still don’t think I have a good grasp on what Carson is doing here. But the parts I did understand were incredible, and I have really enjoyed mulling over Caron’s prose. If I could, I would take a class on this novel.

4. Normal People by Sally Rooney

It got the job done 👍

3. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

I just recently watched the 1939 adaptation with Laurence Olivier, and it imbued me with a newfound appreciation for the way Bronte portrays Cathy and Heathcliff-- their love for each other and their unpleasant personalities. I also appreciate the biting social commentary that featured heavily in the second part. But as much as I love so many of the little moments in this book (the famous “whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same” barely scratches the surface of the novel’s iconic lines), I can’t decide if I like this book more than I respect it (or any classic, really).

2. The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes by Suzanne Collins

Shortly after finishing this book, I got it into my head that it may be towards the middle of my end of the year list-- it’s the best installment of The Hunger Games universe, but it’s not perfect. But this was not a good reading year, and this book turned into a bastion of quality writing in my mind. I love the main character and his perspective, and as the year went on, I kept going back to think longer on what Collins had to say about power and privilege.

1. The Iliad by Homer (Translated by Emily Wilson)

All year, I really wanted to read something that made me feel the same level of satisfaction that Dumas’s The Count of Monte Cristo gave me last year. This came the closest. Wilson’s translation is as impeccable as ever, and her introduction is still brimming with fascinating historical and cultural details. By the time Hector dueled Achilles, I was on the edge of my seat. It’s a fantastic read, and one I will surely return to again someday.

#every reading post I make is an act of vanity on my part #i know that like only two people care max but I will share my book opinions whenever i can #but yeah. bad year of reading for me. It got really rough toward the end there having to read all that alex aster in a row #but it's over now so hopefully 2025 will be better. or else #me rambling #me reading #bookish #books and reading #book review #books #booklr #bookblr #reading

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