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quirrrky · 2 months ago

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—•✦ THE BOY IS MINE

OIKAWA, KUROO, BOKUTO showing you that he belongs to you and you to him

≡ NOTES ⋮ I'M BACCKKK! and I'm super excited, can;t wait to fangirl w/ y'all! I'm gonna cri 😭 I miss my boys sm T^T bokuto's made me giddy and kuroo's got me smiling like shit...don't get me started with oikawa!

OIKAWA

You were on the sidelines watching the man you adored so much being adored by so many other girls. No lies, some of them were prettier than you, you’d think. They could be a good match for your boyfriend.

Still, you didn’t bother. Tooru always assured you of your worth and how perfect you were for him in every sense––the most beautiful in his eyes.

Tooru delivered an impactful serve, and the crowd cheered including the other girls beside you. Even from afar, he sent you a smile with a matching flirty wink. The girls squealed with so much giddiness, probably thinking it was for them.

He cast another glance at you, which you returned primly.

You were always his number one fan. You might not be on par with him when it came to Volleyball, but you didn’t mind being his cheerleader, his anchor and the source of his strength whenever he’d feel inadequate.

You were secured and not moved by how many fangirls he had until now. The reporter pulled Tooru to the side together with a known female Volleyball player who’s around the same age as him.

The two of them were the top players of their teams–the most competent. The reporter and everybody else simply admired seeing the both of them side by side.

“Oh! They look so good together!” You heard those around you murmured.

“Maybe they’re dating...” The others speculated.

A bitter sting gnawed inside you. The image of Tooru happily playing Volleyball with a partner who could really challenge him head-to-head was making it difficult for you to breathe.

You were lost in your thoughts when you suddenly felt a hand around your wrist, gently dragging you somewhere.

T-Tooru?

He brought you by his side and laced his arm firmly around you.

“Practice and perseverance are totally the keys in winning but for me it’s not just that,” Tooru responded to the reporter. “We all need a lucky charm, I tell you.” He pulled you closer to him, shifting his gaze to lovingly study your face, saying, “And I got mine right here.”

You blushed, feeling the heat crawling all over your face. The crowd squealed and hollered yet they didn’t matter in that moment.

The reporter ended the interview with lighthearted teasing directed at you and Tooru, prompting the start of the last match.

“How ‘bout a good luck kiss, huh?” He teased.

“W-What’re y-” You weren’t even able to finish as he already placed a sweet peck on your lips. “Tooru!” You complained when he parted, and he replied by playfully sticking his tongue out.

Your fingers travelled your lips. Perhaps, you’ve got nothing to worry about after all.

KUROO

It’s a big day for you and your boyfriend. It would be the first time he’d be giving a welcome remarks to open his institution’s black-tie event. You were even proud to be the one who did his speech.

As his extra special plus one, he never left your side with both of you just keeping things, hands to yourself, acting as a professional and sober couple.

However, you were bothered to say the least. You always knew that you had a fine boyfriend. He looked straight out of a novel after all. Tall, handsome and with a good suit to complete the look.

Tetsurou seemed like every billionaire bad boy in the books you’d encounter in bookstores’ new adult section. It’s no wonder that the girls in his company party all had their eyes on him like he’s a piece of hunky meat they’d jump on at any moment.

Deep inside, you’d want to be swallowed by the universe below. You were never insecure about your looks, well, maybe sometimes you were like right now! Were you not even pretty enough for them to keep their attraction to themselves? Were you not playing the eye candy part so well?

Do you even look good beside him?

Black dress, pretty face and hypnotic smile all amplified by the sweet scent of honey—you’re Kuroo’s most prized possession, not that he treats you as an object. Well, yes, to put it simply you’re the object of his desires, adoration and affection.

Wasn’t it obvious that you were with him? Yeah right, call him petty, but he couldn’t bear the eyes of these bastards on you.

Hell, pretty was even an understatement when it came to you. As much as he wanted you to be revered for being the goddess that you are, he still couldn't accept all the gawking you’re receiving and him being disregarded like he wasn’t even there when he’s the boyfriend, the future husband and the forever person.

He promised he’d behave himself and keep the PDA on low since today’s a formal event, but it looked like he won’t be keeping up with that anymore.

Jolted, your shoulders rose as Tetsu slithered his arm around your waist. He tugged you closer to him so you were both attached to the hip. You just froze in surprise when he leaned, placed a kiss on your forearm and dropped another one on your shoulder.

You felt the heat rushing to your face. Your eyes held his as they met. “What...what are you doing?” you whispered and he propped his chin on your shoulder.

“Showing them who you belong to.”

Internally, you’re partying. You’d be lying to say that you didn’t want that because you definitely want to show all these girls that Tetsu would only have his eyes on you. “Okay, just don’t overdo it.”

A lopsided grin appeared on his face. “Not very sure about that.”

BOKUTO

At last, your fiancé, superstar athlete Bokuto Koutaro, will be arriving home tonight. It has been several months since he’s been away to train and to participate in the Olympics. Now, he’ll be coming home after playing with his utmost best.

You were standing, waiting for him in anticipation at the airport. This was the moment you’d been waiting for and your face immediately lit up after seeing him walk from the arrivals. His eyes were still sleepy with his pillow still latched around his neck.

In anticipation, you took a step forward approaching him, but the reporters and his fans beat you to it. Now, he’s swarmed with the crowd taking pictures and asking him questions. Some of them were even bumping into you and all you could do was watch. You were just a mere ordinary citizen, lurking in the shadows of those who admire him.

You clutch on your chest. You were truly happy for him. Genuinely happy for the recognition he’s receiving. He deserved every bit of it, but...How you’d wish to be closer to him. Be the home he goes back to where he could be just Koutarou, the loving and silly boy you came to love. You just missed him so much.

A bitter smile appeared on your face, surrendering to your fate until his eyes met yours across the sea of people. He glowed radiantly, beaming at the sight of you. Without hesitation and despite everybody else around, he made a way for himself towards you.

With so much excitement, you yelped as he hugged you tight and carried you that your legs hooked around him in reflex. Koutarou peppered kisses over your face cooing so lovely that he finally got to see and be with his most adorable Y/N. You giggled, getting a little ticklish with his kisses.

“Babe, babe! Not here!” You protest in middle of chuckling. “There are people around.”

Koutarou pouted. “But I miss you so much.”

“Me too,” you said in a wide grin and he giggled like a school kid finally getting his favorite toy as present.

He rubbed his nose against yours. “Let’s go home!”

@pixelcafe-network

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yandere-wishes · 2 months ago

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˖ ࣪⊹𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞/𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐜𝐞 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⸸ Yandere! Capitano x reader

༒︎ Summary: He's the ice bearer, the monster sent to snuff out the flames of your homeland. But isn't that just love? To kill with such passion. Wouldn't anything else just be a lie?

🗡Warnings: Yandere behavior, blood, and gore, reader has a pyro vision and wields a claymore

�� author's note: I made some Girlypop Capitano edits to sorta fit the vibe: One & Two

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪⭑ ๋࣭

Do you love me? Or do you love how I make you feel?

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪⭑ ๋࣭

Kachina is lost

She does not emerge from the scared flame

Nor does her ancient name echo across the skies.

Life stills, death looms.

light wanes, darkness reaches.

The glow of the sacred flame burns your eyes.

It's ambers whispering grime truths.

"I volunteer to go, too. You'll need all the help you can get."

Mavuika's flame mane rasps across her shoulders as she shakes her head. Lips taut in thought, sepia brows furled in eccentric fret. You've yet to see this shade of worry painted across your archon's face.

"I can't afford to excuse you, especially now that I fear my powers are dwindling. I need someone to have my back. Besides I'm sure the champians can handle it."

Duty first, that's the oath of the Princesses of Flame. Guard the archon with your life, protect her through any means necessary.

You force your head into a sharp nod.

The chill in the stadium air sends a nervous tang rippling through your spine. You've heard the Wayob speak of this sort of frost before. This all encompassing thing.

His boots grace the stadium floor with all the grace of falling stars. Ethereal armor glows in the soft roar of dancing flames. Icicles in dawn's first light.

The tall figure tilts his armor-clad head up at the archon's perch, with impertinence. You almost swear you hear a chuckle of mockery chime from the inside of his helmet.

"Pyro Archon" he speaks, voice distant and distorted, ice on ice through hail storms. The chill glides across your body again, how can one man be so cold? Shouldn't the cold be a sweet thing? Relief from harsh suns and harsher fires?

"Since the oath made five centuries ago remains unfulfilled, what use is the gnosis in your hands?"

He is all ice. But not the sugar-laced ice cubes that float leisurely in spiced cacao milk. No. He is the harsh verglas only spoken of in hushed tones around grisly campfires. The ice that leaves plains frozen and destroyed. It kills all things warm, all things that breathe.

There is a chill in the air.

It penetrates the skin and nests between the bones.

subconsciously you run your fingers across your neck.

"I challenge you for the gnosis, for the right over Natlan's rules" He shrugs off the heavy cape, the multilayered garment with too much wool and heat.

Strange, strange thing.

It amazes you how he hasn't melted from wearing such stout apparel in such smoldering climate. He tosses it to the side careful to never ripe the precious fabric.

"Fight, or summon your champion"

Your hand rests heavily on Mavuika's shoulder. Eyes transfixed in a silent plea.

The people need their Archon.

Natlan needs its Archon.

Besides this is your duty.

Mavuika nods.

Red eyes never once straying from the intruder.

Vicious sparks flicker across your palm. Like sparking a match across dried bark. You feel the inforno's kiss licking past your skin, weaving into the bone, as your weapon materializes. Your fingers ring across the worn, burnt handle of your loyal armament.

"I shall fight you fatui, for the honor and glory of Natlan and the Pyro Archon."

He watches you through the mask, through the ebony darkness that shields his mysterious visage. He reminds you of how Saurians watch their prey. Weighing each tiny breath, tasting each heartbeat through the air. He looks nothing less than regally monstrous.

Like death, doom, and despair.

You've tasted this before, engraved the bitterness upon your tongue, and honed your body to fight it. He will not take Natlan, he will not condemn your home to his cold.

The weight of your claymore pulls you down. Plunging into hard rock. You watch as he bats the dust with his hand. Gloved and armoured. What is he hiding? You wonder. What man truly needs so many layers? Armor, ice, frost, steel, wool. You long to peel them away, desperate to find something human underneath. Something squishy and worm. You want to feel his heartbeath between your teeth. Drink from his warm blood and relish in the sweet aftertaste. A testament to how you conquered the cold.

You've never seen someone so eager to be hidden in layers up layers.

Snow on ice.

Ice on iron.

"You're awfully young to take on such a big responsibility little girl"

his voice makes you shiver, you can almost taste his ice on your tongue.

Bitter, like barbwire and salt.

"Don't mock me Fatui" You warn, molding your body into a battle stance, knees folded almost kissing the stadium floor, weapon clasped with both hands. Eyes on the target.

Just like Mavuika taught you.

Just like you taught Kachina.

You can feel the heat from your vision coursing through your body, cracking your bones and mingling with marrow. You wait, just one more breath. You use the pyro blessing to project yourself through the air, like an arrow aimed straight for the man made of ice and lies. Swinging your claymore, ready to dent his helmet - and hopefully his head inside- but he blocks it with his glacier sword. Just a thin dainty thing, capable of quelling your inferno-laced colossus.

Capitano advances, with a flick of his sword he pushes you back. Your heart hammers wildly, someone so skilled so strong, it's almost a shame he can never compete in the pilgrimage. That he can never be on your side.

You use the momentum of his push to frontflip through the foggy air. You land squarely on his wide shoulders, digging your foot into his trapezius muscle, while your knee scrapes his other shoulder for balance. You swing your claymore once more, trying to strike his head off. But to your shock, he parries it with the back of his rime gauntlets.

You keep pushing trying to slice through ice, armor, flesh, anything. Yet everything about this man seems to be made of inviolable steel adorned with everlasting cyro. For a second the metal of his helmet kisses the inside of your thighs. There is no shame in battle, no flirting with the opponent. There are only two bodies entwined until death and defeat. Until one rises and one falls. Still, there's something about the way his black face, regards yours that has a shy blush creeping on the hollows of your cheeks. The man, no this formidable monster is far too close, it's almost as if he's longing for a kiss. You leap back, whispering patronymic blessing to the Archon when your feet meet solid rock once more.

"You fight well little girl, but your attacks are careless, loose. You can not defeat opponents if you can not penetrate their defenses."

He dashes, so quickly you almost think he's flickering between the ground and air. You feel his familiar cold before, you feel the hilt of his sword nestle into your abdomen. He leans forward, helmet sending frostbite through the side of your head "You smell so sweet, like the roses of Snezhnaya". Capitan thrusts his sword with raw force sending you soaring into the stadium walls, the rocks crumple around you, as you struggle to lift yourself up once more.

Your eyes try to carve sight through dust and debris. The air is thick, hot and cold. You blink twice desperate for your eyes to focus. There are silhouettes dancing towards you twirling through the air like Yumkasaurus.

Capitano's ice projectiles glide through the air, they're almost beautiful if you could doubt their lethality. He commands them with flickers of his wrist, and it's only when their frost kisses your body that you fully remember this is a battle, not a dance. They lounge themselves between your ribs, underneath your heart, in the plump of your thigh, the bullseye of your shoulder. Pretty icicles cut open your flesh burying themselves deeply inside you, you'd almost dub it romantic, with how the icicles intonate to your erratic heartbeat.

The frost begins to infiltrate your vascular flow, cauterizing you from the inside. Spreading through the outside, you hiccup out a low moan. Capitano laughs, in a tone that feigns mockery. "I see my ice is to your liking". You bite your lip holding back another moan, it's so wholly painful yet so satisfying. You were right the cold does offer such a delicious relief from the blazing inferno all around.

Your opponent stalks closer, kneeling by your freezing body. You doubt Muarvirka can see through the grey air permutating the stadium. Maybe that's why, away from all prying eyes. The captain lifts his helmet revealing smirking lips. He grazes the side of your mouth with a faux kiss. savoring your warmth before, parting your lips, and deepening the kiss. Even his lips are utterly frozen, he sucks you flames from your mouth extinguishing your fires, with blood-deep frost. He runs a cold iron-clad claw across her cheek, scrapping up the skin, creating a rivulet of red. Before licking it lovingly with his icy tongue. "Why are you so cold?" you shutter, "Why so frostbitten? Has no one ever taught you the joys of the flame?"

He laughs, really really laughs this time. And while you still can't see his eyes, you swear they soften. "I've been burnt too many times, trust me the cold has its merits. But one must be willing to surrender to them."

Capitano plucks your body from the ground. He cradles you roughly in his arms.

He has no warmth to offer.

No heat.

He is only ice.

The fog yields, as you look up. Mavuika screams, her anger palpable. "I'll accept her as my prize for now archon" Capitano spits. "But next time I shall challenge you and know that I will take the gnosis too."

The flames in the stadium roar, trying to melt away the frost plaguing your body. Trying to replenish your spark. You begin to flail and kick, desperate to be liberated from Capitano's iron and frost-clad grasp.

You need to break free, to return to your archon's side, to be there when the others return with Kachina. You can not let this monster pilfer you away from your home, your people, your archone.

"Let me go!" you scream, your last attempt at a battle cry.

"Shhh, war trophies have no right to refuse."

⋆⋆⋆༺𓆩⸸𓆪༻⋆⋆⋆

Super tempted to draw the reader's outfit!!

🪐 @definitely-asexual-volcano @eth3realc0rps3 @numberonefanfury @madara3437 @crystalkat6747 @m00nlight-mexican @dilucragnvindr-my-beloved @orcasandtea @tecchoukisserr

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solarisfortuneia · 8 months ago

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— 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

✦ in need of a kiss? well, feel free to pick an experience from our finest collection! perhaps you’ll find one suited perfectly to your tastes?

(or, in other words, the types of kisses they give, and what it’s like to kiss them.)

✦ featuring: aventurine, dr. ratio, jing yuan.

✦ warnings: very kiss focused, not proofread.

✦ notes: these characters with this concept were particularly inspiring today, so i jotted down a little something really quick (might add more characters later in a pt. 2 later? idk)

also forgive me for any characterization errors please i'm still studying them

aventurine.

his kisses are greedy.

he’s greedy, far too greedy, and selfish to boot— he wants everything you have to give, all for himself. he tastes like a burst of citrus on your tongue, always, always keeping you on your toes, his lips sneakily capturing everything they can, right down to the slightest sound that leaves your lips.

he wants as much of you as he can possibly get, and he’s perfectly capable of drawing it all out from you, bit by bit. he just needs the right bargaining chip, and he has it already, doesn’t he?

a kiss, for a kiss.

a fair trade, wouldn’t you say?

(he doesn’t make deals that don’t pay off, after all. and this thing he’s doing with you? well, it sure is raking in the profits.)

veritas ratio.

dr. ratio doesn’t do things in half measures. when he kisses you, it’s all or nothing; he will put his all into it.

he doesn’t confine himself to your lips, either. the philosophy is simple: what kind of learning would one hope to achieve by limiting themselves?

his hands travel all over, learning the wheres, the whens and the hows, almost as if he’s trying to see how you tick, while his lips embark on a journey of their own across the skin of your face, your jaw and your neck.

he kisses with diligence and precision and passion, meticulous and methodical, quickly adapting his methods to even the slightest of hints you send his way. every action he does is intentional and deliberate, so why should this be any different?

oh, but make no mistake, for all his versatility and straightforwardness, he will not make it easy for you to keep up with him.

but you can take a challenge, can’t you?

jing yuan.

he is gentle, he is soft, he is slow— he kisses in the way that honey flows; lazy, languid, almost hypnotizing, like he has all the time in the world. he savors you the same way he savors the tea that lends his lips the subtle bitterness they carry, but they taste sweet all the same.

when he pulls away, a smile graces his face, one that lights up his eyes with adoration. soft as they are, they still command your undivided attention with the way you cannot seem to tear your gaze away from him. his hands still remain on your person though, holding you impossibly close.

and when he tenderly cradles your face in his palms, worries evaporate into air, thoughts slip away to spaces unknown, and moments stretch into lifetimes.

#—🖋#・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #dr. ratio x reader #dr. ratio x you #dr ratio x reader #veritas ratio x reader #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you

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bunnwich · 3 months ago

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Gifts (Leona Kingscholar)🧡

Leona muses on the gift you leave him for Valentine's Day. (Based on the official merch twst 2024 Valentine gift messages)

Characters: Leona Kingscholar, Yuu/MC!Reader (Can be framed as platonic or romantic)

Words: 936 words, Leona's POV

Notes: Wanted to challenge myself to do something short and sweet in a few hours and was inspired to improve upon yet another dry official Leona gift message response.

Gifts.

They came easy over the years, like plucking an oversweet tart from a dessert tray. He was disliked, feared even, but lucky for him easy on the eyes — and still a prince to occasionally bow and scrape to. So many folks over the years were eager to oblige him and follow the traditions of the Sunset Savanna. Idolize the royals; the divine oligarchy. He was simply “lucky” enough to be born under that umbrella. That’s all.

Those gifts and attention fed him for a while, but if he was being honest, some part of him always remained hungry.

After all, shiny trinkets were nothing like a dusty old book or the heady cedar smell of a well-used chess set. What was the value of pretty baubles to sit on shelves of his empty room or clothes that cost more than some folks' houses?

Pillars of sand.

Was it so damn pathetic and vapid to want something not given by his family's twisted obligations or plucked from the hands of a quivering servant? No games. No more ulterior motives.

Wishful thinking, maybe or a childish habit that he had dumped in the trash, like all those boxes of sweets that long went bitter on his tongue.

He reminded himself that others had suffered much worse than not being doted on in their preferred way. However, this reality failed to take away his distaste for each and every gift. Tch. How many times would he have to snuff out that damn sentimentality that he had been so “lucky” to inherit?

Leona’s eyes fell upon the small bottle vial in his palm and the wooden lion tag attached, tied carefully around the bottle. It had been nestled on the corner of his bed when he returned from Spelldrive practice this morning, all nice and wrapped in shiny paper.

His mouth crinkled and a small sound rumbled from his chest without his permission. Relief of some kind maybe. It had been one of the first gifts he received that was not for his birthday or from his family.

A friendly gesture or…somethin’ more insidious?

To think, someone who came to this world with nothin’ goin’ outta their way to get him somethin’...special.

But, “friends” weren’t something he kept. Instead, he had a collection of starry-eyed froshes, classmates, rivals, those few worthy of his respect. And then there was Ruggie of course but, would he be around if not for the understanding they had come to? Best not to dwell on it now.

Leona chuckled watching the amber liquid swish around the curved glass like liquid gold. How bold of them to choose a scent for him of all things. Beastfolk were sensitive to ‘em and he especially. But, they had been the brash and precocious type ever since they came to this school. Always skipping steps to pull off an advanced move.

Regardless of how big of a crowd he’d ever have cheerin’ at one of his games or how many brilliant trinkets he’d be gifted, nothing beat his chosen audience of one. Who, even after seeing firsthand all the grimy parts of him...still havin’ the audacity to stick around so long.

His eyes fell over to the chessboard at the corner of his desk. Brave little creature indeed, and brimming with Savanaclaw tenacity. A little pawn that made it to the other side of the board, ready to be crowned.

No way they knew the implication of such a small gesture, how important scents were to beastfolk, not that he was one for tradition, of course. Still, He brought the bottle to his nose for the umpteenth time as he leaned forward on his elbows. In an odd way, it reminded him of the gardens back at home when it rained, all those lonely hours pouring over books and chess games.

Alone but…if he concreted enough, he was able to catch a whiff of the oil where their fingers touched the glass. Yes, in their note they had mentioned that this scent reminded them of him, but to his nose it was missing something. A key complementing note. A missing piece.

The scent of a little herbivore turned into a formidable beast that he couldn’t get out of his head.

His brow furrowed as he glanced over at the small pile of notes, discarded by his boots. Then he tried again this time with more wit.

"Hey– Allow me to thank you for your generous gift. Heh. I can’t believe you actually picked out a halfway-decent fragrance. I might actually keep this. I thought about sending you something in return if the mood struck me, but this thank you note should do the job just fine, right?"

Leona kept it short and sweet. He knew they two were past formalities, but it was amusing to still play the game a little. He had been waiting for them to approach him in such a bold way, and finally, he had been rewarded for his saintly patience. Still, he wasn’t ready to show his hand yet, well-

He allowed sentimentality to win this time and flipped over the note, scrawling a little something extra for their eyes only.

“P.S. If you were gonna treat your lion so nice…the least ya could do is make good on such bold intentions and show him some proper attention.”

He chuckled again as he let the paper slip from his fingers, finally satisfied with what he had come up with. Honestly, it didn't matter much what he wrote. Maybe he was becoming sentimental in his “old” age but he knew...that they would always find each other in the middle.

It was their move again.

Besides, it was only fair that he repay them properly. Etiquette and all that.

#had this in my drafts for a while 🫶#leona kingscholar x yuu #disney twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst writing #leona x reader #twisted wonderland #leona kingscholar x reader #leona kingscholar #twst #twst leona #bunnwich writes📝

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pinkykats-place · 1 month ago

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Husband!Aemond x Wife!Reader Inserts

HotD FanFic Recommendations

Disclaimers!

The stories linked are not mine.

Some contain mature content.

All readers are female.

Credit to @winterswake and @hoosbandewan for the GIFs.

Note: if you read and enjoy any of these stories please like,reblog and/or comment on original post.

*************************************

Stolen moments under silk sheets (18+)

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Aemond is touch starved. That’s it. That’s the whole story. Kind of.

Bravery in love

Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Summary: For Prince Aemond Targaryen, bravery was in war and fighting. Until he met his wife and learned about different forms of bravery.

Leather gloves, jealous and dragons

Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Summary: After the moons pass and Aemond and Lady Y/n's marriage becomes increasingly stronger, there is only one creature capable of keeping the prince away from his wife for more than a few hours, Vhagar. Sometimes Y/n cares, sometimes she doesn't, but if there's one thing she never cares about, it's the thick black gloves that her husband wears when he goes flying.

Nocturnal Torment

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: As your husband comes back to his chambers in the middle of the night, you finally confront him about his nocturnal whereabouts, and learn about his most shameful secret.

Lust for love.

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Summary: Aemond's life has always been a bitter and sour one, the only sweet thing in his life was you, his wife, perhaps too sweet for his liking, yet he neglected you in the past but a series of events led you both together into love.

Nepenthe

Aemond x Pregnant!Wife!Reader

Summary: In the aftermath of the death of Lucerys at Aemond’s hand, Daemon was dead set on vengeance. ‘A son for a son’, that was how the phrase went, and Daemon intended to live by that. It was known that you, Aemond’s wife, were pregnant with your first child. And there was no limit to the revenge Daemon intended to take.

Unabashed

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Aemond wonders whether his pretty new wife is as shy in her sleep as she is awake, and intends to find out.

Electric Touch

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Following your marriage to Prince Aemond, you did not imagine there would be a bedding ceremony. Nor did you imagine yourself falling so quickly for the one-eyed prince. But you quickly learned he was more than met the eye.

Sweet, Wonderful You

Aemond x newlywed!fem!Reader

Summary: Aemond finds himself pleased with his new wife

Sweet Nectar

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Summary: Aemond feels ever so slightly jealous when he watches his wife feed their babe, he'll have a taste for himself tonight.

A Cure For A Bad Day

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Aemond has one of his worst days ever, nothing seems to go right. At night, at least, he gets the company of his new wife as he bathes.

A Balm

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: You assist Aemond in something and it brings you closer.

Dear Husband

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: It’s been a month since you’ve been wedded to Prince Aemond and he has yet to consummate your marriage. Fed up with waiting, you seek him out and prepare to seduce your own husband.

Of Flowers & Dragons

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Your daughter wants a sibling and makes it everyone’s problem.

Distracting him while he is reading

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

I Come To You A Sinner

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

summary: Aemond's wife has been made aware of his whereabouts by Aegon.

Urgency (smut)

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Desperate times call for desperate measures

Thou Shalt Not Covet

aemond targaryen x wife!reader, unrequited aegon ii targaryen x reader

Summary: Aemond is displeased to find his wife alone with his drunken brother.

Wine

aemond targaryen x wife!reader

A Dragon's Lullaby

Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Summary: Aemond’s fury is a challenge to contain, but it withers beneath the touch of his wife.

Lay Your Claim

king!aemond targaryen x wife!reader

summary: When rumors questioning his wife's fidelity reach the king's ears, Aemond seeks out answers in his own ways.

Morning Snack

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

synopsis | You're worried about your shape, and your husband's lack of worry about his.

To Touch Fire

Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: Isolated and weary of your solitary marriage with the prince, you gather enough courage to approach him one night with the declaration that the both of you try to become better acquainted. When you had proposed the idea, you never could have imagined how it would forever alter the dynamic of your union.

Pearl of The Realm

Aemond x newlywed!fem!Reader

Summary: Duty meant a lot of things to Aemond. But he had hoped that it would not mean marriage. And when the day comes for him to confront it, he finds with his new wife, small, naiive and innocent, that there is some pleasure to be found there also.

Like real people do

Aemond x newlywed!Reader

summary: The reader is Aemond’s new bride, a match fixed some time before Viserys’s death. Daemon’s daughter through Lady Royce navigates through a difficult now into a new chapter of being married to the one eyed prince, council and war.

Battlefield of women

Aemond x pregnant!wife!reader

In The Comfort of Our Chamber

Aemond (Canon Era) X Wife!Reader

Parallel Lines

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

SUMMARY: He fears her proximity, and she fears his distance. As war looms, they’ll have to learn to make their marriage work to find comfort in each other. Or at least, try.

Where Death Cannot Reach

Aemond x wife!Reader

Summary: Your husband has been deeply troubled as of late. In an attempt to guide him from his distress, he brings a concern of his to light that only serves to tip you into your own fears.

#house of the dragon #reader insert recommendation #reader insert recommendations #Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader #Aemond x wife #hotd x reader #fanfic recommendation #fic recs #tumblr fic rec #tumblr fic recs #aemond x reader #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen imagine #wife!reader #Aemond x female reader #Aemond x wife reader

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nerdy-novelist017 · 4 months ago

Note

that picture with benny and the baby ohhhh bunny would be so heart eyes for him and would try and stop herself picturing that WITH him because its just not his life at all.........but benny had seen you with the same baby earlier and wanted to try it out for himself....he'd felt Something thinking 'what if' ........the possibilities are endless

Baby Fever (Benny Cross x Shy!Reader)

Ohhh just imagine the possibilities! 🥰😍 Based on this pic! (I might have to make a Benny x Bunny x Baby series now)

Benny x Bunny Masterlist

Word Count- 1k+ (lil fella)

******

Deep in a conversation with Gail and Betty standing by the food table, you perked up at the sound of tiny giggling baby coos. You looked over your shoulder, trying to locate that adorable baby that one of the wives brought along to the picnic today. You'd already held the sweet little baby, being one of the first people to approach the family when they arrived.

But what you saw now, you had to blink a few times to make sure it wasn't a dream. That tiny baby girl was in the strong, tanned arms of none other than Benny Cross. You weren't sure you'd ever seen Benny hold a baby before, and the sight alone filled your belly with fluttering butterflies. You lowered your plate, having discovered a new appetite, and your eyes were positively drinking in the view before you. You were vaguely aware of the giggling from Gail and Betty behind you, but that didn't seem to bother you much. Your mind was too preoccupied in visions of Benny holding your own children like that someday. And you tried to not let your imagination run wild because you and Benny had already discussed the possibility of children someday -- a topic that left you covering your disappointment.

"You're not him. You're not your father, Benny," you had told him as you laid in bed next to him, hand running through his hair soothingly. You had woken to his arm tightening around your waist and the sound of his nightmare manifesting through his soft whimpers. It was another nightmare of his father. "You are never going to be him."

"You don't know that," he had replied, voice uncharacteristically weak, and though neither of you had turned on a light, you knew he was staring at that crack in the ceiling above you, something he did when he was deep in his thoughts.

"Yes, I do," you whispered as you planted a kiss to his temple. "Because I won't let you become him."

Because of Benny's childhood and the rough household he grew up in, he didn't think he'd be a good father. How could he, since all he knew was how horrible of a father he had? It didn't matter that you told him he was wrong, that you could see the goodness in him. He never seemed to believe you, and he certainly never saw it in himself. So the conversation ended in an uncomfortable draw after you both realized that the other had different plans for that aspect of your lives.

Watching Benny, with his calloused hands that you'd seen inflict so much damage, hold this baby so gently, so carefully . . . it clenched at your heart almost painfully, and you wondered how he could possibly see so little of his true character. A bitterness overtook you at the thought of his selfish parents ruining not only his childhood, but the future potential of becoming a father himself some day.

But maybe there was still a chance, you thought as you watched Benny lift the baby girl above his head, her tiny giggles growing increasingly louder at the excitement. Maybe, if you held his hand through the challenges, encouraging him when he had his doubts, maybe if you could be patient enough that could be your baby Benny would hold in his arms one day.

******

Benny had known the second his eyes found that baby sitting across the yard, that it would cause him trouble today. He knew that this would open a can of worms he had so carefully sealed back up. Because of course it was you who raced over to poke those chubby cheeks and rub its little socked feet. He had tried not to notice the way you seemed to beam at the baby, tried to look away when he saw you immediately reaching to hold the infant. He kissed the top of your head before he grabbed a beer from Johnny and purposely turned his back to the sight of you because everything in him wanted to see it, but he couldn't. He followed the guys as they made their way across the field to where the race would be held, knowing that if he put physical distance between you, it always seemed to help him think more rationally. That way he didn't have to look into your silent but expressive eyes, and he didn't have to hear the bittersweet longing in your voice as you played with the baby. No, that required a considerably strong will, and Benny often lost all sense of his when you wanted something.

Benny didn't want to be a father, he could never do that to a child, could never take the chance of letting a child be broken by their own father. He needed to break the cycle of abuse he'd inherited from generations of men in his family, and the only way he knew how would be to never become a father. It was as simple and as difficult as that. Simple because anytime he thought about becoming a father, he'd just have to remember what his own childhood was like. Difficult because he knew you wanted to be a mother some day. Simple because he knew he shouldn't be a father. Difficult because he knew that you would be a good mother. Difficult because he was selfish, he knew that. You deserved to be with a man who was better than him, who would want to have children. Simple because you were the one good thing Benny had in his life, and he couldn't let you go.

And as the men began to set up a race on the bikes, Benny couldn't help but let his gaze wander back to where you sat across the field, baby bouncing gently on your lap. He zoned out, not really bringing himself to care about the race anymore. How could he when you looked so beautiful as you smiled brightly at that baby, the afternoon sun basking you both in a warm glow. You only laughed as those pudgy fingers tugged at your pin-curled hair, and Benny's brows pinched together because you were just so sweet, so patient. You were perfect, so perfect. You were everything Benny wasn't, in fact, he was far from even being considered a good man. But watching you with that damned baby? It stirred something conflicting in him, something he thought he had closed off a long time ago, and he wondered if maybe he could make you a mother some day.

-Tag List-

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boop-le-snoot · 1 month ago

Text

kinktober #2

Strange Candy

kinktober day two | aphrodisiac | 18+, cw: intoxicated sex (all consensual), female reader. both of them hella sassy, book-ish!thran because no angst in my house. this is very silly, just like the author. don't eat funny mushrooms you find in the forest! | wc 3,7k | want more kinktober? click here |

“Strange indeed.” Said the King thoughtfully. The group of hunters who'd led him to the newfound development traded a long look. Crouching down, the King's majesty eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead as he studied the newfound addition to his great Elven forest. “And the beasts have returned seemingly unharmed, you say?”

“Yes, my Lord. The bears had retreated into a den and so did the foxes, emerging approximately three days afterwards. All seemed in good health and very hungry.” The Silvan hunter replied.

“Then these must be harmless.” Deduced the King, taking out a thin blade to poke at a dense cluster of brightly coloured fungus.

At least, he guessed it was a fungus. Upending one cluster, he found no roots. The flesh of the mushroom was white and fragrant, pleasantly earthy and rich, with subtle floral undertones that made his mouth water slightly. The smell intensified tenfold upon cutting the mushroom down the middle. The King brought it closer to his nose, carefully scenting for any bitterness or rot.

“My Lord...” A concerned Feren piped up from his spot behind the King.

You offered the Captain a glance full of genuine compassion, without a doubt considering his job to be the most complicated and tedious in the whole of Thranduil's kingdom. Minding Greenwood's fiery monarch was not for the faint-hearted.

“Surely you are not thinking of putting it in your mouth?” You added a dash of sarcasm into your question, equally concerned.

You were sassed right back, eyeroll audible. “It is a mushroom, where else would I put it?” Thranduil straightened up, holding the newfound addition to the flora of the forest impaled on his knife. As soon as his eyes zeroed on you, you gulped. Thranduil gave you a nasty little grin. “What is the worst that could happen? I have the best healers of my realm at my disposal.”

Feren's fingers twitched, a tell-tale sign of his withering self-restraint. You sighed and contemplated the best time to begin backing away.

Thranduil simply raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. “Worry not, the Kingdom has forgotten of your and Feren's...” Elegant pause, Feren's sigh. “Accident.”

“'twas no accident,” you said defensively. “You gave us your Ada's moonshine to see if it was still good. On purpose.”

Thranduil shrugged as the mushroom was evenly divided into two parts with the help of his knife. A perfect picture of innocence, he held up the treat in his palm, grey eyes sparkling.

“I am NOT doing it, my Lord!” Exploded Feren, and gave into his urge to take a step back. He, more than anyone, knew how insistent Thranduil could get. A seven-thousand year old elf giving huge puppy eyes! And it worked! The Captain shielded his own face with his palm. “Throw me in the dungeons for a fortnight, I care not!”

Contrary to your expectations, Thranduil simply rolled his eyes, and swiftly stuck one part of the colourful fungus in his mouth. Everyone gasped, including you, but the old Elvenking remained completely unbothered.

“Hm,” he blinked after a second. “That is not bad.”

Waves of impending doom washed over you with each contemplative movement of Thranduil's jaws. Looking first to the left, and then to the right, you found no immediate means exit of the situation. It was you, the resident human, and the tree behind you, which your King had no problem with crowding you against. Not that he moved or anything. He was just... Large. And very handsome. And spectacular at rounding his shiny, bottomless eyes with great purpose.

“We must know if this fungus is harmful to Edain,” he said, honey-sweet. You hated that he was right. “According to hunters, there is an abundance of it, and, knowing how curious you Edain are...”

“Ugh!” You shook your head. “Just give me the mushroom. If I die, I will haunt your halls for all eternity.” Obediently and with no small worry, you snatched the piece and stuck it in your mouth, chewing quickly, not even taking note of the taste.

Thranduil's last experiment that involved you and Feren still fresh on your mind, you turned back towards the Halls before you'd even finished chewing. You'd rather be in the privacy of your rooms least intoxication has you do something embarrassing... Again. Thankfully, the King conceded, and after giving the hunters a command to gather more of this mystery fungus, the party set out back home.

It was Feren's turn to offer you fleeting looks of compassion. You quietly smiled back, not feeling anything out of sorts. The ride back was pleasantly uneventful. Not a creature was stirring: even the ever-present spiders were absent in their bothersome scuttling.

Too smug for his own good, Thranduil entered his halls with a spring in his step. “The haunting of halls of Greenwood has been postponed indefinitely, I see,” he said in passing as he shrugged off his outer travel robes. A maid immediately offered him a silver robe of heavy satin which he politely declined. “Nay. The discovery has warmed me plenty.”

You noticed that yes, the weather has turned rather warm indeed and bowed before departing back to your daily business. Mid-way through your chores, a thin, translucent sheen of sweat glistened on your brow as you silently cursed the Vala responsible for such unusually pleasant weather. The Halls had already began to prepare for a long winter with covering unnecessary exits and patching up drafty areas.

What wouldn't you give for a gulp of fresh, cold air! Chores forgotten, you hurried to the nearest balcony. There was one not frequently visited by Elves as it was hidden behind a clever alcove; stepping aside and squeezing through the narrow opening, you sighed happily and deeply as your clammy skin finally felt crisp late night air.

Your shoulders dropped as you exhaled, finally shaking off some of that uncomfortable heat. A tranquil scene of swaying treetops and budding stars over a darkening sky emphasized the calamity of your solitude.

“Hm.”

“My Lord,” you greeted without turning, familiar with the timbre of voice and soft swishing of expensive fabric coming from behind you.

Thranduil's profile appeared within your field of view as he posted up next to you and demurely placed a hand over the stone railing of the balcony. “I was unaware someone had found the secret entrance to my private balcony.”

“Oh,” you froze. “I apologize... I was simply...”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “I take no offense. Indeed, it was quite clever. Even keen Elven eyes miss the opening behind the alcove.” Sans outer robe and clad in a simple but rich ensemble of sateen shirt and velvet breeches, it became evident you'd caught the King in a private moment of relaxation. His brow, usually tinted with concern with kingdom, was pleasantly warm.

You swallowed, looking away. He was a beauty even among his own kin, and like this - relaxed and comfortable - bordered on irresistible. A flash of heat spread through your body at the realisation. It took no small effort to squash these thoughts and steer them towards some semblance of propriety.

“The Valar have blessed us with good weather this autumn, my Lord. I was doing my chores and nearly felt faint from the heat.” You said, noticing Thranduil's eyebrows rise. “And the construction of your halls is incredible! Not a single drafty corner.”

“Heated, you say?” He interrupted suddenly, turning to face you fully. Etiquette (whenever you remembered it) dictated you should, too, and you two faced each other. Thranduil radiated curiosity, eyes lingering on your flushed cheeks and the warmth crawling down the neckline of your clothes. “Strange.”

“What is, my Lord?”

“I have said the same thing to Galion but he gave me a very pointed look and gestured towards Lady Anariel, who had been complaining to her maid about not lighting a fire in a timely manner.”

You frowned, too. The Lady Anariel was as Northern as Elves come and was fairly tolerant of wintery weather. When others wore furs, she got by with an outer dress of wool and, perhaps, a pair of gloves.

“Do you feel... Strange, my Lord?” You had a slight suspicion. Just a teeny-tiny one, that boiled down to those Eru-forsaken mushrooms.

In response you received an impish sort of shrug. “Not necessarily so. Do you?”

Your face blanched. Aside from suddenly finding him irresistible and feeling a little hot under the collar, nothing was amiss. But the longer you lingered on those two thoughts, the stronger they became. It was as if you were an adolescent again: barely any impulse control and all feeling.

‘twas a delicate situation. You could speak to a healer, of course, or let the strange circumstance run it's course. If it even could do that. Thoughts growing jumbled by the second, you said the only clear thing on your mind.

“Those cursed mushrooms.”

Thranduil was unperturbed. “I do not believe they are cursed. Potent, yes, but not cursed.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “... You too?”

He sighed. “I came out here in hopes of clearing my head from this fog of lust.” As you prepared to mutter- what, exactly? Apologies? - Thranduil's finger reached out for tour face to trace the curve of your jaw. “And in the process I found something much more exciting.”

Your bottom lip trembled. Such a simple gesture felt heavenly. Wherever his skin came in contact with yours, the heaviness receded briefly. Your breath caught in your chest as your heart picked up a hare's pace.

“Am I being propositioned?” You wished to say to yourself but in the fog, managed to sputter out loud.

“We could help each other out...” The King, unfurled to his full height and radiating heat equal to that you felt on the inside, grinned a crooked grin. It sat youthfully on his timeless features, just the right amount of flirtatious and reassuring.

You pretended to think about it. No, you really did, out of concern for your dignity. Throwing yourself onto the King was simply uncouth. Such was your next course of action, but the necessary amount of time had passed and the need, having been brought to the forefront or your mind, took hold of your sense. Slowly, you leaned into the touch and brought your hands to Thranduil's forearm, tilting his fingers to your mouth. Hot breath caused them to twitch.

“Does this answer your question?” You tilted your head, lips brushing against the multitude of rings he wore on his persona. It was most exhilarating to see his pupils widen and his mouth tremble.

Adam's apple bobbing, Thranduil swallowed. “No.” And smirked, the stunning bastard. “I need a clear, straightforward statement.”

You sighed, feigning annoyance. “I enthusiastically consent to having uncouth, untoward and potentially nasty things being done to my body by my Lord and King...”

You did not even get to finish. In a flash, Thranduil's hands had encircled your face and he bent himself over you, pushing your body into the balcony as he devoured your mouth with his. There was no grace and no finesse; something heavy and hard poking your stomach showed you just how much self-control your King had.

Seconds ago, you'd been having a perfectly normal conversation and now you found yourself airborne, having been unceremoniously picked up by the tall Elf and carried towards his chambers like the most coveted spoil of war while he devoured your mouth. You hummed into the kiss and responded with a groan, tearing the back lacing of your clothes clean off.

Your back connected with the mattress of his bed. Blinking at the rapid change of pace and scenery, you moaned out in frustration regarding your ruined clothes.

“I will commission more for you,” he said carelessly, throwing his own shirt Mordor knows where. His bare chest, chiseled with lithe muscle and pale as fresh milk, captivated your attention.

Previously having contended yourself with the occasional glance at the tiny window of bare skin where the sides of his robes met, you used your newfound opportunity to drink yourself full of Thranduil's fair skin. It felt as soft as it looked when he laid upon you, the weight of his body offering a delicious momentary reprieve from the tension building up in your muscles. Gossamer hair shielded you from the outside world as he leaned in towards your mouth again, this time capturing yours in a sensual dance of tongue and teeth.

A nimble hand took care of your bottoms, sliding inside your underwear as slick and cunning as a snake, to cup your mound. Thranduil groaned into the kiss, finding you soaked and willing, fingering the cleft of your lower lips with practiced gentle moves. The tenderness of it drove you crazy. Your need flared as a wall of standstill fire and you were surprised you did hadn't noticed it earlier. If the pulse in your cunt was anything to go by, you would come undone the very moment your King would finally allow you to feel full.

He was fairly content with sucking your soul out through your mouth and mapping the fat outer lips of your cunt. Never quite breaching and wholly avoiding your throbbing pearl, Thranduil simply basked in the amount of sticky juice your cunt was capable of producing.

The first loud moan of the night broke free if your lips and it was one of frustration.

Thranduil smiled into the kiss, your teeth clashing together. “What is it, mm?” He queried in-between wet pecks.

“I want to come.” You whined.

He chuckled. “And what's in it for me?”

Thankfully, your eyes were closed and he did not see your eyeroll. “You'll get to come, too?” Cringing at how lame it sounded, you were nonetheless powerless beneath him and overwhelmed from your desire.

“I prefer to play with my food.” He grinned a predator's smile, all shiny teeth and lidded eyes, but tugged down on your bottoms nonetheless. “Try harder.”

That became difficult as you were now bare; shivering in your King's arms, you cracked open a hazy eye to see him settle himself closer to your dripping center. It captivated him. Sliding two fingers along your lips, your eyes closed and head fell back as every nerve in your body came alight. Rewarded by a long moan, Thranduil gathered ample amount of moisture on his fingers and brushed over your quivering entrance.

Your back arched as he plunged them deeply within your aching cunt. The sticky noise it made was positively scandalous.

“I will-ah! forgive you for gathering the entire -ahh! King's guard to look at Feren and I!” You managed to form a quasi-coherent sentence through the moans and gasps spilling from your lips and were rather proud of yourself for it.

Thranduil's laugh echoed in the room as it did in his chest, a pleasant rumble vibrating through your core. “Whether Galion forgives you two for barking at him remains to be seen.”

Genuine amusement briefly overshadowed your shame at the situation of the past and at your own current neediness. The combination of emotion startled a laugh out of you, causing your core to clench around Thranduil's fingers and coat them in your wetness. He groaned low in his throat and rubbed your inner walls, reveling in the resulting moan. It did nothing to bring you closer to the peak.

“Sadist!” You accused and attempted to grind down on his hand, fisting the crumpled sheets.

“Slander!” He punctuated the rebuttal with an expert curl of his fingers. You arched. He smirked. “You should learn patience.”

There was no strength in your mind to formulate another witty comeback. Sensation, low and insistent, built up in the pit of your belly, an ache so sweet and tender you were sure it would be any second that you'd burst with it. Every pore on your skin open and receptive to touch, even the slide of silk sheets as your body bent with pleasure was overwhelming. You panted wetly through parted lips as a third finger joined in, the stretch of it making your eyes roll back into your head.

Thranduil would kill you. You were sure of it now. He would end you with a blinding smile and clever fingers never ceasing to move within you, the movement just shy of where you needed him most.

“Mercy!” You moaned. “Mercy, my King!”

You should have known his idea of it would be no less torturous than the ‘kindness’ that led you to your current place writhing atop his bed. Slowly, his tongue traced a path around your outer lips before dipping inside; it was hot and wet, like a summer storm, when it connected with your engorged clit and flicked it from root to tip. Electric feel of sensation pierced your body in a lightning bolt as your leg muscles seized. The King gave a pleased rumble and went for seconds and thirds, effortlessly holding your thighs open with one strong, long arm, palm digging into the soft meat.

Even the pain of it echoed with pleasure.

While the need within your loins kept steadily climbing with no end in sight, your King treated himself to a leisurely late night snack. His tongue delved in and out of your cunt, lapping up the waterfall of arousal. You would have been mortified, really, for the mess had you glued stuck to his face, your hips attempting to follow his mouth in circles.

Coupled with the digits slowly but surely stretching the entrance to your channel, brushing over the sensitive fornix, you knew the night would be long. Dark, but not cold. Hazy.

“Ngh!” You articulated through gritted teeth, feeling him pull away from a particularly sensitive spot in favour of sucking a bruise onto your inner thigh. Thranduil followed a path only he himself knew, marking your flesh with pulling, precise bites that left discoloured spot damp with spit. They pleasantly ached.

Over your stomach and at the underside of your bottom rib. The sides and bottoms of your breasts, all the way up at the root of your nipples. He took each one in into his mouth, suckling on it like a hungry babe, before releasing them with a wet pop just blow a gentle breath onto the pebbled nubs. Through parted lashes, you watched him, aptly fascinated by the lack of colour in his eyes, pupils blown wide and deep with lust.

You tasted your cunt on his tongue as he made way back up. Risking a glance downward, you saw Thranduil's cock hard, flushed and heavy, hanging out of his breeches. He hadn't bothered with removing them and that single detail had you nearly undone. How the King himself could not wait to he inside of you!

An understanding of his previous games had come too, for he was rather proportional everywhere. Just the slide of his weeping tip against your bruised thigh invoked a shudder in you, back arching. You presented yourself to your best ability, eyes shining with pleading as he rested his forehead against yours.

Thranduil held himself above you, weight on his elbows, as his cock nosed at your sopping entrance. Immediately, it tried to suck him in, coaxing his lips to bend into a smirk. Such proximity was putting your sensibility directly into negatives. With a wild look mirrored in his own darkened pupils, you petulantly stuck out your bottom lip and panted with all the sarcasm that you could muster:

“we'll get to the good part... About tomorrow?” You wished to add more, something about him being old, but that remark and many more drowned in the absolute extasy flooding your body as he slid into your cunt in one single smooth stroke. “Aah...” Left your lips instead, and with it, any remaining oxygen departed from your lungs as well.

“Mouthy,” Thranduil remarked, sounding unfairly put together for someone who's mouth was as slippery as wet stone and cheeks brighter than a ripe beetroot.

You forgave him then and there. In awe, you watched him give you another one of his impish grins and nudge at that spot deeply within you. And he did it all over again, plush mouth releasing the sweetest, quietest of moans as he did so. Time got lost in the tug of war tour cunt played with his cock; like this, your release was imminent and fast approaching.

You grabbed Thranduil's arms, rubbed his shoulders as your legs wound up around his narrow waist while he contentedly and systematically unraveled you apart with rapid, smooth snaps of his hips. For a while, there was nothing in the room but the two of you and the lewd noises of damp skin slapping against skin. Clutching harder, you felt yourself tighten around his girth. Each measured stroke abused your engorged clit, heavy sac adding extra sensation on your perineum.

A low, feral groan joined the thrilling cacophony of sex. Thranduil fucked you through your first orgasm with gritted teeth, barely slowing with the new resistance of your cunt attempting to milk him for his worth. Hair hanging over your faces like a curtain, he claimed your lips in a searing kiss as you whimpered with overstimulation. Evenly, his thrusts became shallow, grinding.

Having become a acquainted with your bearings somewhat, you made a confused noise. The King just grinned. His palm connected firmly with the side of your hip as you squealed. He withdrew.

“Present yourself to your King.” He ordered, both smug and slightly breathless, helping you along onto all fours.

You chuffed into the damp bedding and obeyed, arching your back at a sinful curve. Within seconds, you were once again blissfully full.

a/n: I am way too horny of a person to write anything LACE compliant. Or is that my commitment issues talking? Anyway, ELVES FUCK SEVERELY! At least this October. mwah 💋

I once ate like 12 grams of cubensis and was a cat for 3 hours, so Feren barking at Galion with the help of some 3k+ year old mushroom infused moonshine isn't that far-fetched.

#thranduil x reader #thranduil smut #thranduil x you #thranduil fluff #(question mark?)#lotr x reader #lotr smut #this sexy blonde pointy eared menace smh #LACE non compliant #female reader

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sunsburns · 5 months ago

Text

naked in manhattan

pairing: tashi duncan x fem!reader / implied art donaldson x fem!reader

summary: you’re just hours away from a flight that will change your career forever—one that will take you to london, england, for the 2012 olympics, a milestone you never thought you’d reach. thrilled yet trembling with nerves, you find yourself at the hotel bar, celebrating alone. it does not help when you run into art donaldson and… his wife?

—or: you and tashi rekindle an old flame

word count: 6.9k

contains: SMUT 18+, smut with a lot of plot, semi-public sex (a gym at the middle of the night so idk if that counts), mid-challengers movie (a year after the atlanta scene with tashi and patrick), angst with no comfort, fingering, homewrecking, cheating but also not cheating but also a worse third thing, no use of y/n, old situationship best described in terms of “casual” by chappell roan (iykyk), art is lowkey a shit starter

author’s note: so i finished this a while back and added it to my queue and did not realize i put it for july instead of june so LOL MY BAD. this is kinda like a prequel to “good luck, babe!” but you don't need to read that to get this. alsoooo thank you for all the love and feedback in “good luck, babe!” i’ve read every single message and tried to reply to all of them! you guys are so sweet and inspired me to write more! thank you thank you <3 i hope you enjoy this one!

Manhattan, New York City, 2012

"I hope you're planning on getting laid tonight."

Your drink is cold, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as you swirl the straw absentmindedly. The dim lighting of the hotel bar casts a warm, golden glow over everything, making the polished wood of the bar counter gleam. Around you, the murmur of conversations, bursts of laughter, and the occasional clinking of glasses create a lively yet intimate ambiance. You glance at the TV mounted in the corner, where a muted sports channel displays highlights from a basketball game.

You try not to snort into your drink at the words of Patrick Zweig on the other end of the call. You push your phone closer to your ear, unable to bite back the grin spreading across your face.

"Are you serious?" you ask.

"What?" Patrick's tone is mockingly innocent, full of playful mischief.

"I thought you called to say something a little more... I don't know, sincere? Heartwarming?"

He lets out a loud, boisterous laugh that you can practically feel through the phone. In the background, you hear the faint sounds of a city—honking cars, distant chatter, and the occasional bark of a dog. The noise fades slightly as Patrick likely moves to a quieter spot, and you can almost picture him getting in his car in some other state—you think he's in Arizona.

"The only kind of warming I wanna hear about is cockwarming," he retorts, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.

You make a face, "You're disgusting."

"I mean it," he insists, still laughing. "I'm actually so jealous of you right now. You qualified for the Olympics, for fuck's sake! How's your mom doing? Did she have a heart attack? Did she call you already? I hope she packed you some condoms. There's gonna be such a wide variety. Literally every country in the world."

"Shut the fuck up, Patrick."

Your mother did call, her voice crackling with emotion over the phone just before Patrick rang you. She told you how proud she is of you, how she can't wait to watch you play and tell everyone she knows that her daughter is an Olympic tennis player. A gold medalist, maybe.

Her words echo in your mind, filling you with a warmth that battles the nerves simmering beneath the surface.

You take a sip of your drink, savouring the blend of fruity and bitter flavours, a welcome distraction from the whirlwind of thoughts. You try not to spill it on your Ralph Lauren sweater, custom-made, just for the Olympics, with your name stitched on the arm.

Around you, the hotel bar is alive with the buzz of other athletes celebrating with their teams. The fellowship is appreciable as laughter and cheers fill the air. But for some single athletes, like yourself, it's a different story. You feel as if you're in high school all over again, too awkward to make friends, hoping someone braver than you will come by and say hello first.

"You better not be sitting at the bar alone, drinking that orange juice you like."

"A sangria isn't just juice, you dick," you retort, rolling your eyes.

"You're such a loser."

You do feel a little bit like a loser, sitting alone at the bar, but you know you shouldn't. You're hours away from your flight to London where you'll have the chance to play tennis in the Olympics. This is all you've ever wanted since you were a child, all you've been working for—sweat, blood, and tears. You can't even remember a time when you've dreamt of something other than this.

Tennis has always been your escape, your sanctuary. You remember those early days when you played with second-hand rackets and makeshift nets, the local court becoming your second home.

And then there was Patrick, your closest… friend(?) and fiercest rival. His encouragement, his competition, and his company kept you grounded and motivated. When the going got tough, the dream felt too distant, and all of it made you feel far too guilty as if you had stolen someone else's life, Patrick was there to reassure you that you deserved it just as much as the next. Without him, you likely would have walked away from the sport you love.

"I can't believe you made it to the Olympics before me," Patrick's voice pulls you back to the present, a mix of envy and pride lacing his words. You can almost see the playful smirk on his face, a familiar expression that often surfaced during your countless matches together.

"I wish you were here, Pat." Your voice softens, the longing evident. It was hard to track down Patrick Zweig, especially while he was constantly on the move, hopping from state to state, playing as many challengers as he could sign up for, each match a stepping stone toward his dream of winning the US Open. And you think he will. You've played against him enough times to know he's better than you at hitting a ball with a racket.

There were nights when you'd both crash in a shabby motel or back at your place after a gruelling day on the court, strategizing and critiquing each other's play styles (sometimes in more than just tennis). His tenacity was a beacon for you, pushing you to strive harder and to reach further.

His voice softens, becoming more earnest. "Yeah, me too. I'll try to get tickets for one of your games in London. If not, I'll catch up with your mom and watch it with her. Is your dad still in the picture?"

You roll your eyes, a reflex to his familiar teasing. "Oh, my god."

"I'm just asking," he chuckles. "Listen, I'm gonna let you go, 'cause I've got a date tonight. But call me when you land."

"Oh, yeah, okay." You try not to let the disappointment seep into your voice, but it's hard. It's not like you and Patrick were together, at least not publicly, at least not in the sense that you couldn't see other people. But even as you tell yourself that, a knot tightens in your chest.

It feels a bit teenageish, you think, messing around with friends and acting like it means nothing just to avoid making things awkward. Yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were leaving something unsaid, something unacknowledged. Patrick was one of the few people in your life who kept you on your toes and made you feel good—truly good.

Now, the idea of him with someone else, going on dates while you chase your dreams, feels like a betrayal you can't quite articulate. But what right do you have to feel that way? You never made things official, never dared to cross that line.

You never bothered to search for love outside of tennis.

"Have fun on your date," you manage to say. It comes out more brittle than you'd hoped. "Talk to you later."

"Bye!" he says, oblivious to the turmoil in your heart. His voice is light and carefree, and why wouldn't it be?

You end the call and set your phone down on the bar with a bit more force than intended, the hollow thud echoing your frustration. The bartender glances your way and you try to flash him an honest smile before ordering another drink. The TV overhead flickers, switching from basketball highlights to a recap of the latest tennis matches. You watch the screen without really seeing it.

The bar is still lively, yet you feel an overwhelming sense of solitude. You can't help but feel like you're stuck in limbo—caught between your dreams and the reality of your personal life.

You take a deep breath and a long sip of the rest of your first drink, the cool liquid doing little to ease the heat of frustration building inside you. You tell yourself you should be happy, grateful even. But right now, all you can think about is Patrick, and how much easier it would be if he were here with you.

But he's not. And maybe he never will be.

Maybe no one will.

Maybe you will die alone, your tennis racket as your only companion.

"This seat taken?" A familiar voice breaks through your thoughts.

You turn, startled, "No-" you start, but then the blur of blonde hair comes to focus and you're stumbling over your words, "Art? What- what are you doing here?"

"Oh," he smiles, a shy faint red blush already growing on his pale skin. He sits beside you, almost hesitantly, "Just stopping by the city. I saw you and thought I'd say hi."

"Hi." You return his smile, albeit a bit warily.

It's been years since you last spoke to Art properly, though your paths have crossed a few times. You've seen him in magazines, TV, and brief passings usually at major tournaments—Wimbledon, the Australian Open, the US Open. Each time, there were shy smiles and waves from across the room, lingering eyes, and awkward conversations where mutual friends tried to reintroduce you as if you hadn't once known each other

Art looks different every time you see him. His hair, now a little shorter than you remember, still maintains that boyish shagginess. There's a darker tan on his skin, evidence of his time spent under the sun. Some days he has a brighter smile, other days, it's a smile that never reaches his eyes.

As he sits there, you can't help but think of how golden his hair used to look whenever he wore his old Stanford hat, the one he used to pull low over his eyes during your college days. The memory makes you aware that you're staring, maybe a little too long. But he's looking at you too, his blue eyes trailing from one end of your face to the other, as if trying to memorize it all, capturing a photograph of who you are now.

A warmth spreads through you under his gaze, and when he finally looks away, you turn too, tapping at your empty glass, pretending to seem interested in the way the ice has started to melt.

But your eyes betray you, slowly trailing back to him. You watch the way he sits, the way he calls over the bartender and orders himself a glass of water. You try not to notice the deep timbre his voice has gained over the years, and how it resonates in the noisy bar. He looks at you, then the empty seat on your other side, and finally scans the room anxiously, as if he's searching for someone or something.

"He's not here," you finally say, breaking the silence that has grown too heavy. "If that's what you're wondering."

He nods, trying to act nonchalant but failing miserably. "What city is he in now?"

"Vegas, I think."

He makes a face and rests his chin on his hand. "There's no challengers in Vegas this month."

"Then he's just visiting. I don't know." The truth is, you don't want to talk about Patrick right now. Especially not with Art. Not after the way they ended things. You watch Art shrug, and the bartender sets your drink in front of you. You take a grateful sip, savouring the blend of flavours. Art holds his glass carefully, and the two of you sit in strained silence for a moment, the noise of the bar fading into the background.

You can't help but ask, "What are you doing here? In Manhattan?"

"I have an interview tomorrow. For the New York Times," Art says, leaning back slightly. He seems a little surprised as if he expected you to sit there without acknowledging him for the whole night. It makes you wonder what he thinks of you. "They're doing a piece on my career, the highs, the lows... the beginning and stuff."

You study his face, trying to gauge his emotions. You know what it's like to be interviewed, to have a team of people making you look your best for photos and another team crafting answers to help you maintain your reputation. It’s exhausting and thrilling all at once. "Congrats, I'm happy for you."

"Thank you. If anything, I should be congratulating you. Olympics? That's huge..." He continues talking, his lips moving, but you’re barely registering the words. For the first time that night, he seems genuinely enthusiastic, a faint spark in his eyes as he talks about you, about London, gesturing with his hand in excitement.

That's when you notice it. The gold around his finger. It glimmers under the warm lights of the bar, catching your eye like a beacon. You can't stop staring at it even after he's done talking.

"Oh, yeah. It's great." The words feel hollow as they leave your mouth. You struggle to find the right response, not wanting to be rude. "You're married?"

His face falls, and he looks down at his hand resting on his lap. "Oh, yeah, yeah. We, uh..." He scratches the back of his head, his eyes darting up to meet yours briefly before looking away. He seems nervous, like he's bracing for your reaction, worried to tell you, as if you weren’t supposed to know at all. "We got married last year. We kept pushing the date for a while because we were... we were busy... and stuff just kept getting in the way."

"We...?"

"Tashi."

"Tashi," you echo, the name tasting foreign and bitter on your tongue. "You're married? You married each other?"

He nods, "Yeah, we've been engaged for a few years now. You haven't heard?"

You feel a lump form in your throat. "No, uh. My coach tries to keep me away from certain news... my mom suggested it. So I don't get uh, distracted."

This is exactly the kind of situation your team has been trying to avoid.

The reality of his words sinks in, and you feel a sharp pang of something—loss, regret, maybe even jealousy. The air around you feels thicker and harder to breathe. Each word he says feels like another brick being laid on your chest, pressing down, making it harder to stay composed.

"Oh. Yeah, that makes sense."

You force a smile, but it's a fragile thing, threatening to shatter at any moment. "That's... that's great, Art. I'm happy for you. Really. How was... how was the wedding?" Your mind races with thoughts of broken promises and missed opportunities. You imagine Tashi in her wedding dress; you know she looked beautiful. The image stabs at you, and you wince.

"It was beautiful. Both our families came in, and we kept it traditional, in a church. It was..." He pauses, watching you before adding, "It was a small ceremony. Private. Just family."

His words twist the knife deeper. Tashi's family used to see you as such. "No, yeah, I get it. Wouldn't want any trouble at the wedding. I'm happy for you. I'm happy for the both of you." You turn to the bartender, desperate to keep your voice steady. "Hey, can I get another drink? Something stronger?"

Patrick was right; your stupid orange juice won't get you through the night.

Art watches you with concern, his brow furrowing. "How many of those have you had?"

You laugh, but it sounds hollow even to your ears. "Not enough."

"Does your coach know you're drinking?"

"Does yours know you're talking to me?"

Art leans back, his posture stiffening. He turns to his drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass as he takes another sip. The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable. You watch as he processes your words, his expression shifting from defensiveness to something more pained. You instantly feel a pang of guilt, realizing you've struck a nerve.

You've heard all about Tashi's coaching with Art. Whispers in the locker rooms during tournaments, hushed conversations about how she's pushing him until he cracks. You never wanted to believe it, never wanted to think that Tashi, of all people, would be the one to break him down.

"She calls you Ace, you know."

You make a face at the name. A journalist had written an article about you a few years ago when you won your first US Open, nicknaming you Ace since your serves were almost impossible to hit. The nickname stuck, plastered across headlines, magazine covers, and merchandise. People even bet on you becoming the youngest tennis player with the most aces in history before the season ended. You were only off by a dozen.

"Does she?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, unaffected.

"You do have a killer serve."

You scoff, shaking your head. "Killer." The word feels bitter on your tongue. "Tashi used to hit those back at me like it was nothing."

Art nods, taking another sip of his drink before pausing to look at you. "Only 'cause she knows you."

"Knew," you correct him.

The silence stretches again, heavier this time. You're about to say something, anything to break it, when Art speaks again, his voice softer, more earnest.

"I miss you."

What. The. Fuck.

"I do," he insists, leaning forward, his eyes searching yours. "I miss hanging out with you. I miss playing with you. Watching your games live and not recorded on my TV."

"Art, c'mon." You feel the dread crawling up your throat, wishing you had left the bar sooner. Every word he says seems to pull you deeper into a past you've been trying to escape. Art has done nothing but throw you off your game all night.

"I miss you outside of tennis, too," he continues, his voice tinged with regret. "I miss our late-night walks, studying in the library. You remember those?"

"Of course I do."

"Tashi misses you, too," he says, and you can tell he's crossing a line, testing your patience. You can feel the corner of your mouth twitch, your eyes unable to meet his. "She tells me every night. She's always keeping up with your stats, watching all of your games, rewatching your old ones. She makes notes for you, how you could improve. She wants to coach you."

"Art, stop it," you finally snap, turning to face him. The night feels ruined, any semblance of peace shattered. Was this all some elaborate scheme against you? After all these years, is this how they repay you? Out of spite? Is that what it is, a way to get back at you because you somehow got it all, and Tashi's taking whatever she can scrape off from Art?

"I don't want her to coach me. And I highly doubt she wants to coach me either."

"I booked the hotel," he says suddenly, his voice softer, more sincere. "She doesn't know you're here. And I really think it will be good for you two to talk." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper, placing it carefully on the bar in front of you. "Here's our room number. I'll be out tonight with some friends, so the room is yours till late. Just, don't kill each other or break anything if you fight."

"I'm not going—"

"She really does miss you," he interrupts, his eyes searching yours for any sign that you might understand, might relent.

You stare at the piece of paper, feeling its presence like a burning brand. Art stands up, hesitating for a moment as if he wants to say more but thinks better of it. "I mean it. Think about it," he murmurs before turning and walking away, his footsteps echoing in the hollow space of your mind.

You watch him go, each step he takes pulling at the threads of your carefully constructed facade. As he nears the entrance, your eyes follow him instinctively, and that's when you see her. Tashi. She's standing there, with her bags looking around with a familiar intensity, her eyes scanning the room until they lock onto yours.

You feel sick.

Meeting Art was a pleasant surprise; he makes your heart race and your cheeks burn. But Tashi makes your heart stop and your brain shut off.

She looks different—older, more mature, hair straight and cut to a mid-length but also a lighter colour—but still heartbreakingly familiar. Her eyes widen slightly as she recognizes you.

She opens her mouth as if to say something when Art stands next to her, pressing a kiss to her temple, but no words come out.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

The weight of her gaze is too much. You're the first to look away. You stand up abruptly, nearly knocking over your drink in the process. "Excuse me," you mutter to the bartender, slapping a couple of bucks on the counter. Your voice feels distant, and detached, as if it belongs to someone else.

You push through the crowd, your mind a chaotic whirl of emotions. You need air. You need space.

As you reach the elevator, you can feel Tashi's eyes still on you. But you keep moving, your footsteps quickening with each step. You need to focus on tennis. That's the only thing that's never let you down.

Tashi had once picked tennis over you, and now it was your turn to do the same.

You reach your room and close the door behind you, leaning against it as you finally let out the breath you've been holding. The walls seem to close in on you, and you slide down to the floor.

You need to remember why you're here. For the game. For the dream. And that has to be enough.

Only one problem.

You can't sleep.

Hours later, you find yourself in the hotel gym, the quiet hum of the machines the only sound in the stillness of the night. Your mind is racing, a chaotic swirl of thoughts and emotions you can't control. Desperate for an outlet, you hop on a treadmill and start running, hoping to exhaust yourself into some semblance of peace.

Anything is better than sitting in the hotel lobby, scouring the internet on the public computer for any proof of Art and Tashi's marriage while drinking wine straight from the bottle.

Art was right, it was a small wedding. There were almost no photos of it caught by the paparazzi, only articles upon articles talking about it, magazine covers and everything. God, how could you have missed this? How out of the loop were you?

There was only one photo posted, and it was from Tashi's Facebook and Instagram from less than a year ago; a picture of just her hand holding onto Art's, where you can see her wedding ring. There was no caption. But the photo had millions of likes.

You wonder if Patrick knew. He probably did. He stalks her account religiously and only recently started to tone it down. And then there's you, who had her blocked on everything since your last argument.

The music playing in your ears drowns out the world around you, a heavy beat pulsing as you hum along. Your eyes fixate on the rising numbers on the treadmill screen, sometimes glancing out the window at the city skyline, other times catching your silhouette in the glass reflection.

Sweat makes your clothes cling to you like a second skin, rolling down your spine in rivulets. You're still a little tipsy from your drinks, the taste lingering in your cheeks, but you think you're sober enough that a few more miles will drain it all out.

Art's words are burned into your mind. The wedding you were never invited to, how he suddenly wants to be friends again. You can see where he's coming from; tennis is lonely. You're lonely. You press the button to go faster, your legs burning as you push yourself harder, trying to escape the thoughts that chase you.

You don't hear the door click open, and it takes a few seconds for you to spot the reflection of someone walking behind you in the window's reflection, rolling out a pink yoga mat. But they don't step onto it, they don't move, and even worse, you catch their eye in the reflection.

Fuck.

It's Tashi Duncan.

Your heart lurches in your chest. You quickly look away, panic setting in. You turn your music up higher and make the treadmill run faster, the machine whirring louder in response. Your pulse races, not just from the exertion, but from the presence of the one person you can't bear to face right now.

In the corner of your eye, you see her approach you. When you hear her call out your name between songs, you pretend you can't hear her. You pretend to be captivated by the sight of the city at night, pretend that you're lost in the music as P!nk's voice blares into your ears, cursing out one of her old lovers.

You wonder how long you can keep the act up.

Tashi moves with a determination that you've always admired and feared. She walks around your treadmill, eyes locked onto you with a fierce intensity. Without hesitation, she reaches down and unplugs the machine from the wall, forcing it to power down abruptly.

Not long enough.

"What the fuck?" You huff, yanking out your earbuds. "What's your fucking problem?"

"You're my problem," she says, her voice steady, unyielding as she rolls her eyes.

"I haven't said a word to you."

"And that's my problem. I'm talking to you," Her gaze bores into yours, refusing to be ignored. You can see the resolve in her eyes, the same decisiveness that made her a force to be reckoned with on the court.

"I'm busy," you snap, and your breath comes in ragged gasps, both from the exertion and the emotional storm raging inside you. You feel trapped, cornered by the very person you’ve been trying to avoid.

You bite your tongue, stepping off the treadmill and walking around her when she steps in front of you. You make a straight line for your bag, watching her from the mirrors as she follows you closely.

"Can you listen?" It's more of a demand than an ask, "I just... Art told me what he did. He's a little shit, I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. You have other shit to worry about."

You're taking long chugs from your water, staring at her without saying a word. Part of it is because you have nothing to say to her, and another is because you're afraid that if you speak, she'll see through you.

Tashi's eyes roam over you, lingering on your shorts and the way the wires from your earbuds snake from your iPod, under your tank, and peek out from under your sports bra. Her gaze is both appraising and filled with something unresolved between you. When you don't respond, she sighs. "You look great, by the way. On the court. You've changed your approach. You're vicious."

The compliment stings more than it soothes. You still don't say anything, letting the silence stretch between you like a chasm.

"...Or maybe you've always been. I haven't seen you in a long time. So a lot could've changed, I don't know."

You lower your bottle, swallowing the water. It feels cold as it runs down your throat, a stark contrast to the heat of your rising anger. You can't help the way your eyes drop to her hand when you pull your hair down from its ponytail. The sight of the ring on her finger feels like a punch to the gut.

She notices.

"We didn't want you to find out this way."

Your eyes snap up to hers. "And how was I supposed to find out?"

Tashi looks taken aback for a moment, her confident façade faltering. She takes a deep breath, as if bracing herself. "I don't know. Maybe we should've told you. Should've invited you. But I thought... I thought it would be easier for you if you didn't know. I didn't want to hurt you more than I already had."

Your laugh is bitter, devoid of any real amusement. "Easier?

"Look," Tashi begins, her voice tinged with a hint of impatience, "I'm not a fan of the way I ended things. But I think that keeping a grudge for this long is embarrassing. We were teenagers."

"You're right," you concede with a bitter chuckle, "it is embarrassing. But you know what's even more embarrassing?" Your voice rises, fueled by a mixture of frustration and hurt. "Having your husband come to me and tell me how much he misses me. And how you miss me. But you don't have the guts to tell me that yourself, do you? Do you miss me, Tashi?"

"Of course I miss you," she scoffs, her tone defensive. "You were my best friend. My serving partner. We played and won doubles together."

"Is that all I was to you?"

"Was there supposed to be anything more?"

There it is, the moment you've been dreading, the confrontation you've been avoiding. You can feel the familiar ache in your chest, "You know I fucking loved you, Tashi," you admit. "And yeah, whatever, everyone loved you. No one could get enough of Tashi Duncan. But you know damn well I loved you for more than just that."

"Loved?" She steps closer, her eyes searching yours. "You don't love me anymore?"

"No," you tell her. "I don't. I dropped out of your groupie a while ago."

"What do you love, then?" Her voice is almost a whisper, the distance between you closing.

"I love tennis," you confess, your gaze never leaving hers. "I love winning. Turns out I'm great at both. And I love that too. And people love me. That's more than you could ever give me. Or Art."

"Even Patrick?" The mention of his name is a sharp jab; she's trying to get under your skin.

"I don't know, you tell me." You're taunting her. And you love the way she falters for a split second. "You saw him at the Open last year, didn't you?"

The air drifting between you is almost palpable, shrinking smaller and smaller like it’s terrified of being trapped between you. "Listen," she says, her voice dropping lower, "I just came here to tie some loose ends. For Art's sake. He says It'll be good for me."

"Okay," you reply, seizing the opportunity to turn the conversation in your favour. Hook, line and sinker. "Is there anything else you want to get off your chest?"

Hook.

Tashi's eyes narrow slightly, but she takes the bait, her expression shifting to one of determination. "You raise your arm too high when you serve. You're gonna dislocate your shoulder one day."

"I bet you're waiting for the day I do."

"I can make you the best."

"Am I not already?"

Line.

"You're one of the best at most. But not the best. I'd be surprised if you bring back bronze. You're too short-tempered for silver. Let me coach you. I'll make sure you bring back gold."

"I don't need you," you say, the words catching in your throat.

"We both know you do," she whispers, her breath warm against your lips.

And sinker.

In that moment, everything else fades away, leaving only the two of you suspended in time. The words hang in the air, a silent challenge. You can feel the heat radiating from her, the closeness almost unbearable.

Without another thought, your lips crash together in a desperate kiss, a release of all the pent-up tension and longing that has simmered between you for far too long.

It's a whirlwind of heat and passion, each touch igniting a fire within you that threatens to consume everything in its path. Her hands are in your hair, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your body pressed against hers with a fierce urgency.

The kiss deepens a symphony of desire and desperation, all the words you couldn't say pouring into it with a fervour that borders on reckless abandon. You can feel yourself start to become absorbed into the bubble that is Tashi Duncan, it sucks you in, and it scares you, makes you feel as if you're sinking into the bottom of the ocean.

She grips the back of your neck, hard enough that her nails dig into the skin. Tashi waits for your gasp, and when you do, she pushes her tongue into your mouth, past your teeth until it collides with your own.

You're moaning, groaning into her mouth with the way she shoves you until your back hits the mirror behind you. You're arching into her at the way she fucking smiles against your lips at your reaction.

It's pathetic. You're pathetic. Almost in the same way Art is. You know it. She knows it. But in your defence, it's been a while since you've been kissed, it's been a while since someone's touched you this way, with heat and flavour. You're a little dizzy from it, cheeks flaring with embarrassment.

Tashi sucks your tongue into her mouth and you buck your hips against the thigh she's pressed between your legs.

There's a sweetness that lingers when she bites your lip, you wonder if she's wearing lipgloss, maybe chapstick. You hope she can't tell you've been drinking, that talking to Art made you spiral, that you've been bluffing since the moment she walked into the gym. Since the night she packed her things and told you she was leaving Stanford, her scholarship has no use since she can't play anymore.

When her hands run down your neck to your waist, gliding over the sweat on your skin, you can feel the cold touch of her wedding ring. It's frigid, making you shiver when Tashi starts to lick up the column of your throat. You almost feel bad about how wet you've become.

"Tashi..." you huff, her hands found their way to the base of your ass, guiding you to rock faster against her, only making you whine. Her grasp is tight, wanting. She pulls at your hips, slowly, dragging your crotch closer to hers and then pushing you back down on her leg. She repeats the motion a few times, rolling her own hips up into you a little more with each motion, and soon your muscles start to work so you can grind down onto her.

Tashi rewards you with a quiet moan—oh, you want her to do that again, you're going to make her do that again, louder and louder—and then, with a touch so light you could cry, she traces one hand over your hipbones and down to your pussy.

You can feel your stomach nearly drop, "You're married, Tashi."

She pulls away just to laugh at you. One finger traces your slit through your shorts, and you hear yourself moan. She raises her brows, a challenging look in her eyes, "Are you jealous?"

You try to scoff, but the cold glass of the mirror behind you squeaks when you shift. Even just this feather-light pressure through two layers of fabric, and every nerve ending in your body sets alight at once.

"What would Art say?" You try to say, your hair falling over your face as you try to collect some kind of morality. If you were caught, you can already imagine the headlines and the stories people would write about you. "What would he do if he found us right now?"

"I don't know," Tashi hums, leaning closer. She pretends to think as if the answer isn't obvious, teasing you a little when she gets close enough to kiss you but doesn't. "He'd probably ask to join."

You can't stop the way that thought alone makes you melt. You remember the jokes Patrick used to make back when you were in college, of you and Tashi being his wet dreams. You can almost imagine, how he would moan at everything, want everything, his whiney moans too similar to the ones he makes when he's on the court.

Tashi rubs gently at your pussy a few more times like she's exploring you, and then suddenly she taps right where your clit is. You cry out, and she sighs against your mouth. "You're so wet. You like it when I touch you?"

"Yeah, please... touch me." You nod. And in your head, you're telling yourself you only like it because you haven't been with anyone since Patrick left for his tour.

Tashi kisses you again, and it's a tangle of teeth and hands and smiles kept hidden, as you slip your fingertips beneath her shirt she starts to fumble with your waistband, and you're both angry and resentful and incredibly destructive, but it doesn’t matter yet.

Her fingers are clumsily slipping into your underwear and then she's there, her fingers are brushing right against your clit—you're so wet that her fingers brush right through your folds, gliding like silk, and by the time she reaches your hole, two fingers easily sink in right to the knuckle.

Tashi leaves you gasping and she teases you for it. "So sensitive," she taunts against your lips, pressing her thumb against your clit so she can see you squirm, pumping her fingers at an urgent pace to hear you moan. "So needy."

With each movement, she scissors her fingers a little, spreading you wider every time, and she starts to mouth at your neck with hot, wet kisses. "Do you like that, yeah? Am I making you feel good? I am, aren't I? I'm exactly what you need. C'mon say you want me. Tell me you need me, Ace."

"Maybe—" You're breathless, and the nickname has you tugging at her hair again, "Shit, I saw the way you made Art. He... oh god... he wouldn't be half the athlete without you. I also... I also wouldn't want to ruin my shoulder... while—while serving."

"I'm not talking about tennis."

For a moment, you worry that you've fallen for a trap, that you've said too much. You're vulnerable, a little drunk on lust and wine, and Tashi isn't stupid to not catch your sapphic crush on her since the two of you became friends, an old high school love that's never really disappeared, from slumber party kisses and how you've gawked at her, at her husband and even her ex-boyfriend.

"C'mon, Tash, you're always talking about tennis."

"Not this time."

You barely catch onto what she says. Your body feels like it's going through the most intense orgasm of your life, especially now that she's given up on pumping her fingers in favour of curling them in rapid beats against your g-spot, but you know that you're not even coming yet: you're close, though, judging by the way the room is spinning around you, and the pressure building in the pit of your stomach—"I think I'm close... oh, I don't—fuck—keep touching me like that."

She bites your neck until you say her name. You pull her hair until she moans. Her touch is blistering against your skin. She says your name in a breathy drawl like she's pleading with you, humouring you, wanting to take everything from you.

"Keep going, please, please don't stop," you all but shout, and Tashi continues the massaging movement right up on your g-spot: the positioning of her hand means the heel of her palm is dragging over your clit, and your hips are frantically grinding up into her hand—you're gonna come, the world feels like it's crashing down around you.

Every muscle in your body tenses up and through it all you hear Tashi whispering, come on, that's it, I've got you, come on, come on, and then you're coming—

Distantly, you can feel her fingers continue their movements inside of you, unrelenting—and the other hand keeps a firm grip on your hips, grounding you onto her lap—but other than that, all you know is the pleasure slamming into each nerve in your body, one by one and then all at once. A hot sting against your skin that reminds you of the sun whenever you're on the tennis court, deep into the game you've turned into the love of your life.

It can't have possibly been this long since the last time you've gotten laid, right?

Then, suddenly, you're back in reality. Tashi is heaving for breath against your shoulder and her fingers are back to a slow, steady pumping, in and out of your swollen pussy. "You're so pretty, you know that? No tennis talk."

You lean your head back against the mirror, a slow grin forming on your lips, "You don't think I'm pretty when I play."

"I think you're hot when you play."

You peek a glance at Tashi, meeting her eyes as she watches you, watching the way you catch your breath, skin shining against the fluorescent lights of the gym, similar to how you shine on the court. Yeah, you're a sight for sore fucking eyes.

Tashi takes slow, taunting steps back and away from you, and then she brings her fingers to her mouth and sucks, moaning around the digits, and through hazy eyes, you can see the most fucked-out look on her face just at the taste of your cum.

She licks her fingers clean—you feel your pussy clench down again at the sight—before opening her eyes, fixing you with an intense stare, and panting, "I'll be in my room," she rolls up her pink mat (which she never used) and picks up her bag, "I'm sure you know the number. I'm hoping you can return the favour and touch me or something. You know, before you leave in the morning."

tags 🏷️: @begoniaespresso / @sceletaflores / @too-deviant / @wolflover384 / @sevikasblackgf / @supercutszns / @diorrfairy / @24kmar / @apolloscastellan

reblog to support your writers!

#and that is tea #tashi duncan smut #tashi duncan x reader #tashi duncan #tashi donaldson #patrick x tashi #art x tashi #tashi x art x patrick #challengers 2024 #challengers smut #art challengers #challengers movie #patrick zweig #art donaldson #tashi’s hotel room

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demonicbaby666 · 5 months ago

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hi pookie🥰 any chance you’d write a fic where fem!r has never had an orgasm and Emily thinks she can change that?!

Never Have I Ever

One shot | Criminal Minds Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x fem!Reader

Genre: Smut

Words: 2.9k+

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, oral sex, fingering (r!receiving), top!Emily, bottom!reader, reader is also a bit yapper, there's like the tiniest bit of fluff if you squint at the end

Summary: A history shadowed by unfulfillment and shortcomings in the bedroom was an unfortunate reality for you. It was why one night, when you found yourself alone at a bar at the centre of a certain stranger's attention, it didn't seem so outlandish to give something new a try.

A/n: She's backkkkkk! and probably not gonna post for another month UwU... Also, thank you as always to the lovely, amazing @hotchscvm for reading it through and giving me live reactions MWAH <3

The music, that’s what you remember: the sound of smooth saxophones, sweet piano chords and the occasional tick of a snare drum. It played perfectly in your ears as you sat alone at a local bar, nursing an exceptionally balanced martini on that sublime Friday evening. The weather was pleasant, and the previous company was friendly after a tiresome day—interesting enough to engage you but casual enough not to exhaust you. And it all ended with the quiet buzzing of a vacated table and an inviting presence beckoning you to the bar.

End the night at an appropriate time, take an Uber home and perhaps dodge a frightful hangover or walk over to the exceedingly beautiful brunette sitting alone, get close enough to her lips to smell the rich whiskey that was being lazy swirled around in her tumbler, and perhaps taste the sharpness of the distilled grain on her tongue? It was your decision to make.

Her eyes, the bitter shade of coffee, sweetly called for your attention, flickering to and from the empty seat beside her. It was not so much a command as it was a challenge. The playful glint in her eyes told you as much. She studied you with piqued interest that was far from unwelcome and filled your stomach with a reverent fire you had not experienced in quite some time. You ached for more.

Mind made up, you grabbed your drink, slung your purse strap over your shoulder, and walked over to this enticing stranger. And as you did so, you took care in matching the sway of your hips to the lulling melody of a saxophone, enjoying the view of the brunette’s pink tongue peeking out to wet her lips. The fire in your stomach roared.

You set your drink down and slid onto the bar stool, noting how you were observed. It was neither clinical nor invasive. It was more inquisitive. Like the older woman was trying to figure you out without so much as asking you a question, and honestly, with how her eyes squinted and her lips curled ever so slightly at the edges, you believed she might already have you read.

It was nothing short of intimidating to feel so bare whilst completely clothed, well completely clothed with a generous helping of cleavage. There was an itch to be on evening footing with this illustrious stranger, enough to start a dangerous game.

“Never have I ever…” you purred.

The game was well received, and you found that Emily, you discovered was her name, was rather bold. She didn’t shy away from any question you threw her way. If anything, they seemed to amuse her. By the time she’d come to ask you the question that turned the evening’s tide, Emily was coming close to needing a third drink.

“Never have I ever slept with a woman,” she said, her gaze so attentive it was almost unnerving to leave your drink untouched.

She was disappointed. You saw it in her eyes, in the way she threw her head back to down the remainder of her whiskey. You knew she wasn’t grimacing from the burn. No, the ice had melted a long time ago and watered down the rich liquor. The lines of displeasure around her mouth came from realising the evening was probably all for nothing, that she should have gone home instead of trying to find stress relief in the bed of another stranger.

“It’s not that I haven't wanted to,” you began, trying to find the confidence to continue in her shifting expression. “I’ve never really had the chance.”

Emily wasn’t giving you anything, and unfortunately, in an effort to drive away the awkward silence, you kept talking. “I find women attractive, and god knows I imagine it.” Blabbering was more appropriate. “Not in a weird way. I mean, is there not a weird way? What I mean is I seem to attract men, specifically ones with an aversion to loyalty, which is crazy as none of them could get me to,” You cut yourself off, far too embarrassed to even look the older woman across you in the eyes. “Please say something before I dig a hole deep enough to bury myself alive in.”

“No.” Emily drawled, suddenly glowing with a newfound sense of purpose. “I want you to finish. What could they never do?”

You looked up at her wide eyes, then carefully around the bar as if one of your aforementioned exes was hiding in plain sight.

You muttered, “Can’t you put two and two together?”

“Oh, I can. I’m just desperate to hear you say it.”

Did you want to answer? No. But there was something niggling away at you—the feeling that this woman would not let this go. She seemed like the determined type.

“Fine,” you huffed, looking down at your drink, using your straw to stir the clear beverage. It was painfully obvious you were avoiding Emily’s eyes, but you couldn’t care less. “None of them could make me cum.”

There was another bout of silence, stretching long enough for your cheeks to turn to fire. You took small sips of your drink, trying to occupy your mouth before you started blithering on again.

“I could change that.”

Your head snapped up.

“What?” You asked, winded, slightly dazed, and mildly alarmed that if you had swallowed a second later than you did, you’d probably have spewed your drink all over yourself and Emily.

“Never have I ever let a stranger give me my first orgasm.” And the way her eclipsed eyes twinkled under the overhead light left no doubt in your mind that Emily had found a goal for the night, one she would not easily let go of.

“Okay,” you whispered.

—

Leaving the bar together, standing side by side in the chilly evening breeze, Emily took out her phone. One sideward glance told her all she needed to know. Your hands were clasped together, fingers desperately grasping at the sides of your trousers. Your jaw slung to the side as your teeth gnawed the sides of your mouth. Your eyes followed every moving vehicle that sped past, though Emily suspected you didn’t see much of anything beyond the subject that seemed to plague your mind. That’s when the older woman passed her phone over to you.

You shot her a puzzled look, to which she simply rolled her eyes teasingly enough to colour your cheeks rouge. Apparently, it was obvious what she wanted from you, though you seemed to miss the memo completely and continued to stare blankly at the lit screen.

“You’ll be more comfortable somewhere familiar,” Emily wittingly sighed.

A meagre ‘oh’ was your only response, that and finally taking the phone from Emily’s outstretched hand and entering your address into the blinking search bar. When you handed it back, you didn’t miss the humoured smirk on her face or the little shake of her head as she slid her phone into her back pocket and looped an arm around your waist.

As it turned out, Emily was right. The moment you stepped into your apartment, your anxieties did not disappear but did lessen. The excitement of your predicament bubbled in your stomach, no longer masked by nausea, excitement that only grew with each kiss Emily placed on the back of your neck.

It felt a bit like being young again, staying out past curfew, playing tag with friends and toppling over one another in and among all the excitement. Hell, you almost did fall over on the way to the bedroom, laughing and wrangling with your trousers until Emily calmed you, dropping to her knees and pressing light kisses along the outskirts of your thighs. She helped you out of your pants, making no effort to get back up. Instead, she continued to map both your legs with her hands, kissing up and down and occasionally marking the spots she found you most responsive to.

“Lay back on the bed,” Emily instructed, finally standing up.

Despite spending the last year of your life in that bedroom, you couldn’t quite remember anything. Not where your wardrobe was, not where your bedside table was, and not where the end of your bed started. That’s why when you greedily tried to continue to kiss Emily, walking back, you completely misjudged the distance between the back of your knees and the edge of your mattress and went tumbling back.

It would have been slightly mortifying had the look on the older woman's face been anything less than thoroughly amused as she followed you onto the bed. You met her eyes with a shy smile, in contrast to your brave hands that led her to your breasts. Once there, Emily squeezed and kneaded them till you were sure you’d go mad if you didn’t feel her touch directly against your skin. The older woman seemed to have the same thought, with fingers at the bottom of your shirt pulling it up and up and up till she had to break away to remove it.

Then there you were, in your bed, in only your bra and underwear, a stranger above you admiring the contours and curves of your body. What you expected was that uneasy feeling deep in your stomach, which people usually get should they find themselves in a position in which they are singled out, like a deer caught in headlights. Instead, what you felt had a stark resemblance to waiting in line for a ride. There was, of course, some unease churning in your stomach, a sprinkle of fright hastening your heart, but unsurprisingly, excitement seemed to be the dominant emotion. It bubbled away in your chest, rumbled low in your tummy, left your head dizzy, and it was perfect.

You were smiling like an idiot by the time your senses came back to you. A moment short-lived and stolen away when Emily decided it was time to do away with her clothes, ridding herself of them piece by piece till she too was left in only her bra and underwear.

She was perfect, from head to toe, pure perfection that it became a challenge to find something to settle your eyes on. There were her shoulders, toned and balmy, begging to be touched; her breast, firm yet soft like silk, demanding to be kissed; there was her heat, hot against your thigh with only a piece of lace shielding her arousal from wetting your skin. It was a new sensation, but not an unwelcome one, and as if possessed by the need for more, you latched onto her ass, pushing her firmly against you and tasting her tongue as her mouth fell open in a silent gasp.

Emboldened, you raised your thigh, pressing it to the growing wet patch of Emily’s underwear. You relished the small moan that came from the older woman, how it echoed into your throat, but that was as far as you were allowed to press before control was seized from your grasp, quite literally. In a flurry, you found your wrists pinned beside your head, Emily sitting up above you, smiling like a Cheshire cat, though you were not oblivious to the rapid rise and fall of her recovering lungs.

She took a moment to gather herself, letting her eyes wander over your body. The brown pools of her irises had eclipsed black with lust, forcing a whole-bodied shudder to traipse down your spine. She looked hungry, needy, and determined.

The pressure eased over your wrists, and you were given a look that told you enough not to move but instead observe Emily freeing her breasts from the shackles of her bra. And that you did. You watched, enraptured, breathless and in awe, and said nothing when she leaned down to reach behind your back. With practised ease, she pulled your bra from your arms, tossing it to the floor and turning back to give attention to your air-kissed nipples. Her teeth played around one pebbled tit whilst her fingers taunted the other.

Foreplay was something you had experienced, but Emily was taking the trophy home for stretching it out to perfection. Already, you could feel the beginnings of your arousal slick between your thighs. There wasn’t a second where her touch left you as she wormed her way down your torso, her fingers tickling the sides of your belly, the underside of your breast, her mouth insistent on kissing every inch of your skin. Her warmth surrounded you like a blanket.

Eventually, when she reached low enough to come face to face with your panties, did she raise her eyes to your own and ask without so many words to remove the last barrier standing between her mouth and your waiting sex.

“Never have I ever let someone go down on me.”

She waited for your nod of approval, small as it was, to peel the soaked panties down your legs.

There was a moment’s pause when the evening air of your bedroom kissed your tender flesh, forcing the emergence of a little gasp to leave your throat. The inhalation and pleased sigh that came from between your legs beckoned your attention, but there was nothing to do but throw your head back when cold was replaced by warmth—the tickle of Emily’s breath and the tip of her tongue slipping between your sex.

Bated breaths were all you knew. Breaths that chiselled away at your lungs till they both felt simultaneously deflated and full, till the first appearance of sweat glistened over your brow, and the dawning of slight tremors shook your belly. And only when a single digit was eased into you did you finally breathe again, a breath so sharp it felt like your body was reawakened.

Vaguely, you registered the shuddering of your limbs; you weren’t so far gone to have lost all control of yourself, and the soft caresses of Emily’s tongue against your clit weren’t enough to have you writhing. They were, however, enough to pry small whimpers out of you.

Being vocal had never been your thing, though, in truth, it was hard to be vocal in earnest when you were gaining nothing out of the inconsistent jamming of a cock inside you or the never-ending cycle of a vibrator pressed against your cunt, buzzing and buzzing till you felt as though maybe you’d tip over the edge, only to come to a standstill and a slow torturous come down from nothing. In those situations, it was hard to get even a moan out, excluding the fake pornographic ones men go crazy for. Emily, however, was successful in changing this.

One finger suddenly became two, then three, and whimpers and little gasps were a thing of the past. For a moment, you thought the neighbour was banging against your wall, screaming out, only to be muffled by the dense wall dividing you. That was, of course, till you realised the banging was the blood rushing and thudding in your ears, and the screams were none other than your own. They were loud and boisterous, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to care because this was surely heaven. The perfectly paced pumps of fingers, the sucking, licking and occasional nibble against your clit, and most importantly, the encouraging squeeze of Emily’s hand against your chest, it was all heaven.

Every grain of pleasure you felt was monumental, simmering and exploding inside you over and over again. It felt like you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything other than simply exist under the tense pressure that was reaching a colossal peak. Your hips moved purposefully, matching Emily’s rhythm until the push and pull between the both of you was symbiotic.

The closing act, the final push, was the press of fingertips curving against a spot within you so sweet you tasted honey on your lips, sugar on your tongue and nectar spilling from your sex.

When you came, you cried.

It wasn’t an outburst of pouring tears nor a cry of eternal joy. It was simply a few tears running down the sides of your face as you smiled and let out a sigh of contentedness, one, perhaps, you had been holding in for years. Years of bending to people’s wishes, even if it meant giving up your pleasure, years of shameful attempts at fucking yourself to exhaustion only to gain no reward, years of yearning for precisely what you were just given.

“You’re loud,” Emily whispered against your belly, kissing the small divot of your belly button.

You waited for a spell, colour draining from your face. Dawning on you was the realisation that whilst you may have thoroughly, thoroughly enjoyed yourself; your counterpart may not have.

You shifted uncomfortably, turning your head to mask your blush.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, hoping the blotchy red patches on your cheek mirrored ones of exhaustion, not embarrassment.

Emily shook her head, making no rush to work her way back up your body. Each kiss felt like fire and ice.

When she finally did meet your eyes, she gave you a small smirk.

“I like it. It’s refreshing,” the brunette muttered, touching her lips to yours, painting your mouth with the tang of her tongue.

If the kiss wasn’t reassuring enough, the next thing Emily said ensured she would find pleasure only momentarily.

Slipping her underwear off to her ankle, she flicked the offending garment far across your room and sidled up your body till her sex was waiting directly over your mouth.

“Never have I ever…”

Tags: @ssa-sapphic @red1culous @sapphicprentiss @five-bi-five-mind @whosprentiss @asolitaryrose3 @imlike-so-gaydude @maybe-a-humanbean @bossofcriminalminds @jareguiromanoff @lovelyy-moonlight @storiesofsvu @mrs-prentiss @romanoffsho @waitaminutebaby @jarexuslover @lesbodietcoke @milfsincrime @noahrex @pnsteblnme @girloversstuff @ratsnestinmyhair @propertyofemilyprentiss @chloeelou02x @gayestswiftie @waitaminuteashh @chestnutninny @evelinearmani @luv-unknwn @lesbodietcoke | click here to be added to my taglist

#emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x female reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss smut #emily prentiss #emily prentiss fanfiction #criminal minds #emily prentiss x y/n #lgbt #Emily Prentiss x fem!reader #criminal minds fanfiction #fanfic #cm

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