#crown ridge

[firstroseofspring]

exploring klingon ridge variation!

[maxknightley]

What kind of beetle is solo?

scarabaeus satyrus, a species of scarab noted for its ability to navigate by the glow of the Milky Way.

^ Original Solo. Don't bulling him.

[alltimefail-sims]

Taking care of a ranch by yourself is a full time job. Lea barely has time to sleep or eat, and is running out of money quickly. Chicken eggs and crops seem to be making enough profit for now, but it might be time to pick up some lucrative skills.

She seems pretty chill about it though. 🤷

[clwhowrites]

The Randy Cloud

I think Zeus has seen someone he likes. Taken at Crown Hill Park. Like this? Than support my work at Ko-Fi or Subscribe Star where you can get high rez (5184 x 3456) watermark free version of my photos and check out my other photos and art at C.L. Whos Photos and Art.

Posted using PostyBirb

[kidfocusdentistry]

Pediatric Crowns Wheat Ridge

Kid Focus Dentistry provides pediatric crowns and porcelain veneer crown services near you in Wheat Ridge, CO. Schedule your appointment today!

[moonlight-prose]

SWEETNESS OF THE DAMNED

a/n: this was a quick drabble at first, but somehow turned into an allegory for persophone and hades. which isn’t surprising for me given that i’m already plotting october fics. logan isn’t a monster in this, nor is he a vampire even though the vibe and title may give that off. i just really love gothic vibes in everything i write so who better to give it to than old man logan.

summary: when night falls and wine overflows in glasses of crystal, logan finds his home in between your thighs.

word count: 1.2k+

pairing: old man!logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, p in v sex, alcohol consumption, allegories for persephone and hades, biting, scratching even though he heals, cumplay, overstimulation, squirting, dirty talk, older logan is so filthy i’m blushing.

The acrid embers of the fire burned your nose the deeper your breaths became. Red wine remained chocolatey and bitter on your tongue; the dinner you tried to eat quickly was now forgotten in favor of something else. You thought you could smell the cigar he smoked on the porch an hour ago on his bare skin. You couldn't.

Not when his fingers dug into your hips, lips pressed against the shell of your ear. He grunted with each slap of skin. The wet slick of how he pounded into you echoed loud and bright in the cabin.

You would have been embarrassed if it weren't for the sounds he let out. The way his eyes fell shut the closer you got to that fiery peak.

"C'mon baby," he sighed, ragged and needy. "I can feel ya."

Wine had gone to your head the second he poured you a third glass. Your red dress of crushed velvet lay in a heap on the floor. A pair of his jeans and a shirt beside it. The soft fabric of his flannel was smooth beneath your knees where he dropped it. Careful to keep your skin from going raw as he took you before dinner could even finish.

The alcohol is what brought this night to an early conclusion.

You already knew it would happen. Hoped for it on long days with hours that stretched for miles. Ached for his presence when you curled up in bed—the scent of his body still stuck on the cotton sheets. Logan promised to give you everything with a soft kiss at the door, his fingers gripping your chin to hold you there a minute longer. To slip his tongue past your maroon painted lips and lick along your teeth.

"'S too much," you garbled.

He laughed as you clenched around his leaking cock—tearing a deep moan from his chest. The heat of his body burned its way into yours where the fireplace couldn't reach. Each muscle and ridge along his stomach pressed into your back—his hips strong enough to break you slowed into punishing thrusts that bounced you on his thighs.

Time didn't exist; seasons began to blend into one.

The both of you resided where spring met summer and the shadow of night met fall's full moon. You wore a crown of wilted flowers—red spilling over your hands from where he asked you to bite into his skin. This was your damned hour. Your time of need.

You were the other half of an already broken soul, and he found that in your absence he couldn't hold it together for quite as long.

"You feel that?" His hand cupped your cunt—fingers spread around where he ended and you began. "She's leakin' for me baby."

"L-Logan," you gasped your throat thick with too many emotions.

The slow grind of his hips into yours sent your body hurtling towards yet another release. Your stomach was sticky where his other hand pressed - already coated in the three before. Holding onto the fraying pieces of your mind proved to be difficult when his teeth latched onto your shoulder. His fingers drew a shape around the edge of your throbbing clit.

His initials.

"You want another one don't ya honey?"

Yes. No. Please never fucking stop.

Instead all you could get out was a whine of his name. Your back arched into his hold, head pressed hard against his chest, as you fought to keep up with him. To grind against his lap and feel the drag of his cock along your walls.

"Yeah. You do," he murmured against your ear. "She wants to be good for me."

Down in the base of your stomach you felt the familiar pull of bliss begin to draw tight. You knew what came next. The rush of mind numbing pleasure trickled into your veins. Slowly drawing you higher with each stunted thrust—each echo of his fingers toying with your stretched cunt. You could count the seconds until it finally burst.

"I'm gonna–" The breath caught in your throat, hands clasping around his wrists as something shifted. "F-Fuck. Logan I'm–"

"Fuck yeah ya are," he grunted into your neck. "Gonna lick you clean after this. Get my fuckin' dessert."

His cock pounded deep against your walls, fingers pulling up the hood of your clit to circle rapidly against nerves that were already shot. And you sobbed his name. Your nails drew red angry marks on his arms that healed moments later; your body too fucking rigid and too hot to process what the fuck he was doing.

Elysium and the River Styx were ripping you apart. As if you were being pulled in two very different directions.

A clatter echoed beside you when he reached for your glass of wine, still stained with the now faded red of your lipstick. You felt his thigh shake—his cock twitching in the heat of your body. You wondered if this is what it felt like to burn alive. The sweet aching bliss of being held by your lover as he drowned you in the fire. Would this be how he took you to the Underworld?

The cold wash of wine spilled along your body as he poured out the remainder of the glass. His tongue quickly dragged across your blistering skin—drinking the cabernet off your body with a raspy groan of your name.

"'M almost there." He gripped the back of your neck and yanked you back with a kiss. His tongue plunging into your mouth—sharing the wine as his fingers pressed hard and fast against your swollen bud. "Give it to me huh? Fuckin' cum on my cock."

Your release ripped through your body with a scream. The echo of his name came back to you eventually, yet you couldn't figure out if you were the one saying it. With your nails piercing his skin, he felt you gush, choking his cock and milking him dry. A splatter of something wet landed on his thighs as he wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you still.

To bury himself as deep as he could go and finish with a blissful ragged groan against your shoulder. Wave after wave of ecstasy washed over your spent body and you felt him fill you until it began to leak out. Coating the inside of your thighs.

"Are you breathing?" he chuckled, lips sliding along your neck to find your mouth.

You answered with a whimper. Which proved enough for him.

The stickiness of the wine began to dry against your bare body while his fingers dragged through the mixture of your cum that stuck to your thigh. He sighed—content and warm—as he lowered himself to the floor. His back pressed against your clothes and softening cock still buried in your dripping cunt.

"Speak to me bub." His fingers tapped your cheek, nose nudging against your jaw. "I can't have killed ya."

"You almost did," you mumbled, barely able to open your eyes.

Exhaustion sunk right down to your bones the longer you lay there wrapped in his arms. You knew the both of you should shower. Clean up and actually eat something in its entirety this time around. Logan would say the same if it weren't for the comforting press of your weight against his body. He cupped your breasts, thumbs toying with your peaked nipples, and kissed you with a sigh.

The both of you should say something to get the other moving. Yet neither of you did.

Instead you were met with silence and the crackle of the fire. Time, now a nonexistent variable to a night spent in each other's arms.

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 4]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 7.2k

Summary: It is very, incredibly important not to get attached to someone who will no doubt be leaving you high and dry to die stranded on an island any day now—be they man or fish. And you are definitely, definitely following that rule. For sure.

🌶️ Obligatory Warning for Mild Spice

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

The next morning, there was a conch shell set beside the familiar offering of half-mauled fish.

The insides were a shining, pearlescent pink—smooth and sleek. You picked it up curiously and turned it over in your palms. You’d never seen such a complete one before. Normally they were at least a bit dinged, cracked here or there along the thin edges. But this one was practically perfect. It sat heavy and warm in your palm, and you brushed a finger along the rough ridges.

You looked up and the Siren was lounging at the shoreline, waiting expectantly.

“Thank you,” you said. “It’s really pretty.”

He preened, the fins along the side of his head fluttering wide and colorful. You huffed, amused, and set the shell neatly at the forefront of your slowly accumulating corner of Things. You’d rebuilt the little shanty shelter that he’d had his seagull minions pick apart into useless nonsense that first day together, and it wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep some of the sun off your shoulders at the height of the afternoon and would probably (maybe) hold up under a bit of rain. And that pleasantly cozy hovel of yours was where you’d been keeping your Stuff. The best sticks for poking at the fire, a rock that you’d found with a dip in the middle that made it sort of, almost a bowl if you squinted hard enough, bunches of drying beach grasses that you’d been tediously twining together into bits of rope and other nonsense. That sort of thing.

You placed the conch shell on the roof of it, prodding at it with the tips of your fingers until it sat just so. Like a figurehead on a ship. The crown jewel on your little mess of ferns and driftwood.

“What do you think?” you asked, turning back to the Siren. “Really brings the room together, huh?”

He puffed something under his breath and rolled those amethyst eyes of his, but there was a curl to his lips that looked far more amused than irritated.

You trudged back over and plopped beside him in the sand, the soft, low roll of the waves playing against your toes.

“Today feels like it’s going to be gross again,” you sighed, squinting up at the sun overhead in distaste. The big ball of glowing fire had barely crawled its way over the horizon and already it felt like the world was beginning to steam.

The Siren curled his claws around your ankle and tugged.

You arched a brow at him and he pushed his stupidly, perfectly shaped ones up right back. Like he was positive that he could out stink-face you with ease.

“It’s too early to swim,” you complained.

He tugged again.

“I can’t be in the water that long. You’re going to turn me into a prune.”

He said something back, mouth quirking in irritation, and you focused hard on the shape of it. His expression smoothed with that familiar, near-eerie perception of his and he was reaching forward to dig his free fingers into the sand at your hip.

‘Don’t know what that is.’

“It’s like a—” you frowned, waving your hand around your head. “Y’know. A fruit, that’s gone pruney. A prune.”

He looked at you like you were the dumbest human he’d ever met, and to be fair you very well could have been. You doubted it was an extensive list. And even if it was, you tended to have a proclivity for landing near the top of those illustrious sorts of rankings either way. At least that’s what your Captain saw fit to remind you ad nauseum.

So, like the very mature and intellectually competent person that you were, you kicked a mess of seawater right into his face. And then the Siren was screaming something silent and mad that had all the goosebumps on your arms popping up to say hello, and he was dragging you into the shallows ass first. You skidded along the wet sand and landed in the white surf with a laugh that you had to swallow real fast. Because if you drowned in three inches of water just because you couldn’t manage to not choke to death on a giggle fit, you’d never forgive yourself.

.

.

That night, you were lounging by the fire with a belly full of seared snapper and the Siren curled just as contentedly only a few feet away. His fins were splayed out across the damp sands, and you couldn’t help but compare them yet again to some of the finest, spun silks you’d ever seen. Even when they’d been pinched and shredded beneath the prickly teeth of your ropes, they’d still been lovely. But now that they were near-fully-healed, the spread of them was truly impressive.

And they were. Almost healed, that is. You could barely make out the trailing, scar-puckered lines of even the biggest tears anymore. Which was good! Great, even. Because that meant he’d be able to begin his journey home soon, didn’t it? And then at least one of you would manage to get away from this barren mess of rocks and sand.

There was a thump against your thighs that had you jolting back into focus, and you looked down to see a pair of familiar, gem-cut irises staring back in the dark.

The Siren was glaring up at you like there was a Purpose to his sudden loss of personal boundaries, and you blinked down at him in confusion. After a long moment of nothing but your silent gawking, his brow started to pinch and the skin around his eyes went tight with irritation. The fins along his ears rippled like a pissy cat raising its hackles in preparation to lunge, and you cautiously placed a hand against the edge of one. The grumpy fluttering stopped all at once, and if you were a touch more sun-poisoned you would say that those delicate, purple pins relaxed against your palm. Either way, you were clearly on the right track. So you let your fingers trail down towards his temples, and then to the salt-curled waves of his hair. His eyes slipped closed with a pleasant rumble that you could feel all along your skin, and you puffed in half-hearted irritation. Prickly, fussy, bastard man.

You weren’t really sure what he wanted, but for now the gentle scratch of your nails against his scalp seemed to do the trick. After a few cycles of lazy petting, you let your fingers catch in some of the softer, pale hair beneath his fins. It was a bit tangled—possibly from all that frilly posturing of his—and you carefully began picking apart the small knots there one by one. Once those were cleared away, you found yourself with little else to do but sit and play with the newly freed waves of lavender-tipped gold. You tucked one strand over the next, twisting the familiar pattern of a simple braid beneath your palms.

“Deuce grew his hair out at one point,” you chattered idly as you wove those silky locks together beneath your fingers. “That’s someone from my ship, by the way. Deuce. Anyways. He thought it’d make him look more rugged, or whatever. But he just ended up looking like some rogue, sea elf, and everyone was teasing him about how he’d gone for ‘windswept sailor’ and ended up with ‘foppish, little lordling.’ So he chopped it all off again.”

The Siren hummed, and you could feel it against the pads of your fingers.

“Which was a real shame,” you continued. “Because obviously I spent all that time learning to braid it, but also because it actually looked pretty nice—OUCH! What is your problem—"

You yanked your hand away from his sharp teeth and cradled your smarting fingers to your chest. Because the stupid fish had bitten you! Not hard, or anything. Just a little nip. But it’d still hurt. If less as a genuine injury and more as a sting to your pride.

The Siren spat something quick and harsh under his breath, turning up his nose like you’d been the one to err here, and not his wandering fangs.

“What?” you huffed, reaching out to flick at those purple fins in irritation. They twitched against the side of his head to smack at your fingers. “Oh, I’m sorry, am I not allowed to call anyone else pretty, your highness?”

The Siren rolled his eyes with a look that screamed ‘well, duh,’ and you forced your irritation to override the little, bursting bubble of fondness in your chest. So silly, so silly. This ridiculously primped fish of yours.

“Well, too bad,” you grouched, tugging at the end of that half-bound braid. “Just because you win ‘most attractive specimen on the island’ doesn’t mean you get to tell me to pretend I’m blind on top of being deaf. Let me have something, you prick.” And it wasn’t like it was much of a competition—seeing as the entrants were you, him, and the octopus (if you were being generous). Less of a contest and more of a merciful slaughter, perhaps. A kindness that you were even allowed to share the same stage at all.

The Siren muttered something low and amused under his breath, the amethyst in his irises twinkling with the crackling, orange light of the embers beside you. He reached up to twist his claws along your palm and snatch the hand he’d so viciously nipped—bringing it down to eyelevel to observe it more closely in the dim glow of the fire. There was a steady trickle of blood bubbling up along your thumb. Honestly, not much worse than a papercut. Nevertheless, his brow quirked at the soft trail of red and his gaze jumped up to yours with a pointed sort of curiosity.

“What were you expecting to happen? Humans are fragile,” you huffed. “At least more than you are. It’s not like I have scales or things to keep me safe.”

His mouth tucked down on a frown, and his tail swept irritably back and forth through the sand.

“What? It’s not like you didn’t know that,” you tried, awkward. Because he ate stupid, little flesh bags like you for breakfast. Surely he ought to be well aware that there wasn’t much there. Just skin, and muscle, and all the gory, gooey bits beneath. Just like how you knew what it felt like to bite into a piece of bread, or the crunch of an apple. Solid enough to survive in its own right, but something that would give beneath your teeth easily enough that calling it anything other than ‘delicate’ would have been a gross exaggeration.

He turned your palm this way and that, brow pinching down more and more with each fresh prick of crimson. His tail beat against the sand and his talons curled up and away from your skin—like he was worried just touching your fragile, little, egg-shell of an exterior would burst it.

“It’s fine,” you blurted out, still far too confuddled over his progressive panic. You pulled your hand away from his claws and popped your finger in your mouth. “See?” you garbled around the faint taste of copper. And then pulled it out with a pop to show him the slowing trickle. “Totally fine. Just a scratch.”

The Siren watched that little bubble of red with all the vigilance of a hawk eyeing its super, and then he was snatching your wrist back between his talons and dragging your hand down towards his own mouth. And oh my God, this was it. He’d finally decided to eat you after all. What was it? Had your oh-so-breakable human foibles finally pushed him over the edge? Or was it the blood? Were Sirens like sharks? Driven to hungry frenzy by the very scent of your—

There was a gentle, wet warmth along your skin and you blinked through your hysteric descent into adrenaline-manic-mania to see the Siren carefully cleaning the blood along your cut, just as you had only moments before—his tongue running smooth lines along the teeny wound until the sore skin was tingling and spotless. Granted, his endeavors were carried out with a great deal more delicacy than your earlier example of just shoving your whole finger into your mouth like a gremlin, but…

“Uhm—” you spluttered, too gobsmacked to come up with much else. “You—ah—you don’t have to—uh—"

The Siren grumped something at you that you could feel the shape of against your palm, and then returned to diligently wiping away each new drop as it appeared. It was a strange sort of sensation. Not bristly like a cat’s tongue, but certainly not all human. There was a sting to it—something hot and prickly. Poison, maybe? Or… something. Whatever it was, it had the hair on the back of your neck rising to attention and a shiver working along your shoulders. He kept at, silent and meticulous, until finally—finally—the bleeding slowed to a stop. He hummed and turned your palm this way and that, looking over the drying nick in your skin like an artist admiring their work.

Once he was content with whatever it was he’d been searching for, he tucked your hand back along the fins at the side of his head and butted up against your palm in as blatant of a ‘get back to work’ as you’d ever seen.

You swallowed the weird mess of something that had clawed its way up to tangle your tongue and dug your nails back against his scalp just to give yourself something to do other than—than—

“I hope you don’t expect me to do that for you,” you babbled, still far too out of your head with What In The Fuck Was That to do much but gawk like an absolute imbecile at the fact that he’d actually, factually, just—

The Siren rolled his eyes and reached over to drag the point of his talon along the sand at your hip.

‘No need. Already healed.’

You barked out a startled laugh and tugged at the ends of his hair. Your fingers caught at the edge of the braid you’d been weaving, loosening one of the twining sections, and he was hissing and swatting your hands back into place—poking around with his dark claws at the little end you’d fussed with until it was exactly how it had been. And then was dragging your hands back to the half-woven bulk of it with a pointed snarl that was clearly an order to finish what you started, human. Or else.

“Okay, okay, jeesh. I’m on it.”

The Siren trilled low and rumbling under his breath, and beneath the weight of your palm it almost felt like the steady drone of a cat’s purr. Warm, and pleasant, and comfortable in a way you couldn’t quite place. The thin strands of chain-twined-rope you’d woven to make his necklace pressed into your thighs with a scratchy tickle, and the pretty piece of sea glass at its end reflected the low light of the fire in a kaleidoscope of purples. His fins flicked against your fingers in a steady tempo, and when you gave in and pinched one he was rolling onto his side to shove the full weight of himself into your lap. You whined, and bitched, and complained about suffocation, and the stupid bastard of a fish just smacked his tail indignantly against the wet sand and draped over you even more.

Seven, he was such a nightmare. And you were going to miss him so, so much.

.

.

The next day passed in much the same way as the one before, and the day after that, and the day after that. And as pleasant as it was, you couldn’t help but feel like the headsman's axe was hanging over your neck. Always there—just a breadth away from falling.

You were fixing your Siren’s hair—redoing that braid of his that he insisted you tuck into his golden locks each and every morning—and normally he was quite responsive to your prattling. Flicking you with his fins and curling his tail along your ankles as you rambled. A silent, steady way of expressing his interest when you couldn’t hear his own responses in return. But today he was… distant. Amethyst eyes locked on the grand expanse of the ocean before you with a forlorn sort of expression on his face. The water was still and quiet today, with sunlight bouncing off the low, rolling waves in a pretty glimmer like the glow off his own, shining scales.

You trailed off, fingers falling from his finished braid to twist in your lap. And he just kept staring. Fins half-pricked along the side of his head and gaze heavy with focus.

You swallowed around the tightness in your chest and forced a smile. You hopped to your feet with a merry, little bounce and reached down to pat him on the shoulder.

“It seems like a nice day for a swim,” you said, and ignored how you could feel your nerves eating through the words. The wobble of them in your throat.

The Siren startled, as much as someone as grandly majestic as he could really do such a thing, and turned your way with a fondly exacerbated huff. He held up a hand, like he was expecting to drag you along with him into the lulling tide, and you shooed away his fingers. His brow pinched and his mouth turned down at the corners.

“For you, I mean,” you clarified. Like your blatant stepping away from the water’s edge wasn’t an obvious rejection in its own right. You turned back out towards the ocean beyond your little cove. “Your fins are doing a lot better, aren’t they? You could probably stretch them a bit, right? With how smooth the waters are today.”

He hummed, considerate, gaze skirting out to track your own. You swallowed around another ball of prickling ice in your throat and kept your grin buoyant and encouraging.

And then he turned back and offered you his hand again.

You frowned, confused. “I can’t follow you out there.”

He rolled his eyes and leaned forward to dig his talons into the damp sand.

‘I will swim with you.’

A pause, where he reached out to poke at your ankle with a pointed jab, jab, jab before finishing off with a—

‘Like always. Stupid.’

“Oh, yeah? Well, I won’t be so stupid when you ditch me halfway out and I drown in the riptide,” you harrumphed and his eyes narrowed grumpily.

He dragged his claws through the sand in short, angry jerks.

‘Won’t leave.’

“Uh-huh,” you drawled, swallowing stiffly again when that curl of awful something tightened behind your ribs. Hoping you could manage to choke it down. It sat heavy and unpleasant on the back of your tongue, like food gone off.

He underlined the ‘won’t’ with hard, pissy strokes.

“How about this,” you tried, because man oh man, you couldn’t do this. It was going to turn you into a ridiculously weepy, clingy mess if he kept talking (writing?) like this. “Prove that your fins work well enough to keep you up and alive before I risk it. And then we can go from there.”

The Siren huffed, sending the longer ends of his hair flipping out to the sides. But those gem-cut eyes of his kept flicking out to sea, and you could see the tip of his tail twitching back and forth—like he was itching to just leap forward and swim. The fins along his ears pricked up again, and then he was turning his nose up at you with some petulant comment under his breath and diving forward into the surf. He smacked his tail down with a splash!, drenching you in a mess of salt and seafoam. You spat, and hacked, and scrubbed the water from your eyes.

“Great way to prove you won’t try and drown me!” you called, hands cupped over your mouth and still spluttering around lingering saltwater. He reared up quick enough to swipe another wave your way before slipping back under, and you laughed through the spray of mist.

You settled yourself back in the sand, ankles crossed and chin pillowed in your knees, and watched the shadow of him dance just beneath the surface—starting in his familiar, looping circles before slowly venturing towards the mouth of the cove. He paced along the breakwater, pectoral fins cresting above the waves to glint bright and sleek in the light of the morning. And then he was darting forward with a great beat of his tail, spraying salt behind him as he dove towards the depths. You waited, anxious, as one moment faded to the next, and then—finally—there was a burst of frothing bubbles as he broke the surface with a great, curling leap—fins flared wide like the wings of a great bird and scales shining like jewels. It was nearly effortless, how he crested over the water. Diving back down in a mess of spitting mists with a flick of those long, trailing fins. He leapt up again, twisting in the air to crash down on his back and it almost looked like he was dancing. You could see the white flash of his grin even from all the way where you were sat. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him so happy. Truly, a sight worthy of every grand tale you’d heard of the Sirens of the Sea.

He circled the mouth of the bay at least a dozen times more—fast, and wild, and breaching the waves in a burst of seafoam like he was trying to give every pod of dolphins out there a run for their money. Gradually, he began to lose steam, and those grand leaps melted into soft curls of his tail in the tide. And honestly, this was the part where you expected him to sink beneath the surface and glide off into the sunset. You braced yourself for it—for the moment that golden head of his would vanish beneath the water and never pop back up again—but instead he bobbed closer.

The Siren rolled in with the waves, panting, and flushed, and looking like someone coming off of a marathon. The muscles all along his torso were jittery with the strain of it, and he looked positively exhausted. Ecstatic beyond compare, but exhausted. He slipped up the damp shore with wobbly arms and came to a stop at your side before very gracelessly and rudely flopping the entirety of his sopping wet bulk onto your person and squashing you into the muck.

You squawked, rightfully indignant, and he just puffed against your neck and let his tail smack harder against your flailing legs.

“You’re going to crush me!” you wailed, shoving at his shoulder.

He rolled his eyes and curled his fins along your hips—spreading himself out in the sands like your complaints held no merit whatsoever. You could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours, and the rabbit-fast thump-thump-thump of his heart. His skin was so warm. You could even feel the heat of it off his scales, which you hadn’t even thought was possible. Weren’t all fishy, scaly things supposed to be cold? Slimy, and gross, and like poking a wet blob of some unmentionable gunk scraped off the hull of a ship? Instead it was just… smooth. Glass-polish sleek and all warm muscle twined along your much, much smaller self.

You cleared your throat and turned to blow a frustrated raspberry against the sand.

“You do realize if you break all my bones that there isn’t going to be anyone to cook your stupid fish for you anymore.”

The Siren grumbled something against your shoulder that almost felt like the breathy puff of a laugh, and then he was collapsing all over again with a sigh that ruffled all the soft, short hairs at the nape of your neck. He scrubbed his cheek against the curve of your throat and you froze. Because it almost felt like—was he purring?

A deep, low, tremulous thing that you could feel rumbling against your skin. Like laying a hand against a mast strung too tight in a storm. Or maybe more like that one time you’d found a stray cat lounging in the sun by the docks—the sweet, old thing chirping softly beneath your palm in a lulling drone that tickled all the way up your arm.  

The Siren’s purr wasn’t quite like either of those things, but perhaps a mix of the two. Dangerous but warm, powerful but cosseted. More predator than pet, and, well, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? And honestly, it was pretty nice. A language you could feel rather than hear, something just for you.

So you let yourself relax beneath the weight of his scaly bulk with a sigh that wasn’t quite as aggrieved as you would have liked, and his tail twisted another loop around your calves. His fins spread around the pair of you like a roll of fine silks, and while the texture wasn’t exactly soft, they were delicate enough not to feel suffocating or coarse either. Sleek and cool to the touch, and maybe the thickness of canvas. And there were just so many of them. Long, and trailing, and ruffled along the edges like the folds of a fine-boned fan. Your weird, purple blanket. If Riddle ever found out you’d been using a Siren as bed linens, he’d probably have an aneurism and scrub you in one of the scullery buckets for a week straight.

It was stupidly easy to fall asleep like that—wrapped up in lavender and plum, with the thrum of his heart next to yours. You napped all through the afternoon, and only woke up once the sun had set over the horizon.

You blinked awake to stars in the sky and a strange, scratchy sensation at your hip.

The Siren had apparently finished up whatever little bout of insanity that had made him think you’d be the perfect impromptu pillow. He hadn’t gone far—or even anywhere at all really—but he was propped up at the hip now instead of crushing you into the shore. His hand was resting just beneath the hem of your shirt, right over the origin of that bizarre, ticklish feeling. You blinked again to clear the salt and sleep-grit from your eyes, and realized it was his talons. Not ripping, or tearing, or rending. Just very, very carefully tracing a set of shapes into your skin. The same three symbols, over and over. Up, and down, and up, and curled.

He traced those shapes again, and again, and again. It was almost—you’d think it was letters, if not for the strange, swirling pop of them. Almost like the words he’d written in his own language all those days ago. His claw dragged along the skin there in the faintest prickle, leaving slowly growing streaks of red in their wake with each repetition. You opened your mouth, ready to ask him what exactly he was so painstakingly etching into your hip, and paused.

You’d realized over the past however many weeks you’d been marooned on this little crescent of sand and stone that maybe Sirens weren’t all you’d thought them to be. And that maybe you really didn’t know much about them at all. Something about the slow, cautious way that his claws were tracking along your skin made you think that this was another of those things that you just didn’t get. And going by how quiet he was, how stalwart and careful he was being not to let the knife-sharp curves of those talons dig too deep or do anything other than trace back and forth, and back and forth, it might be something… Something important. Or at the very least something that you had no business bothering him about.

Least of all if he’d be leaving any day now.

So you tossed your head back on a very loud, very dramatic yawn and used the ensuing stretch to gently swat his hands away.

He didn’t look put out by your ridiculous show of flopping around and scooching out of his grip, so that was good at least. You sat up and rubbed at your eyes, and he just kept staring. Kept to his place in the soft, wet sand not a foot away and eyes sharp in the lowlight of the evening.

“Well,” you chuffed on another yawn. “I’m starving. Dinner?”

The Siren rolled his eyes and dipped his chin in what could perhaps generously be classified as a nod. He reached up to flick at the mused braid in his hair with a pointed scowl—twisted and tangled from the salt of the sea and his earlier rambunctious tomfoolery. You sighed, overly put upon, and hefted your way to your feet.

“Yes, yes. And I’ll fix your stupid hair.”

Another nod, this one far more pleased, and the Siren settled himself neatly back into the low roll of the waves to watch you work.

.

.

The next morning when you clawed your way back into consciousness, the Siren was already awake and staring off into the distance.

The fins along his head were pricked in that same, focused way from before that made you think of a hound dog catching a scent. There was a strange sort of energy about him—not quite nervous, but certainly not anything comfortably at ease either. Unsettled. Jittery. The end of his tail flicked against the sand, and the fins along his spine curled and arched to an unsung tempo.

You followed the path of his leer and didn’t see much of anything yourself. Just an endless stretch of blue in all directions with the occasional white crack of a wave breaking along its surface.

His tail smacked at the muck again and you felt something tight and stupidly, stupidly selfish curl in your stomach.

You swallowed it down, just like you’d said you would. Because you’d meant it when you’d told him he deserved his happy ending, and you weren’t going to let the rotten, nervous thing growing in your guts stop him from having that. Not that you could even if you wanted to, but it was the principle.

“…are you going to swim again today?” you asked, and one of those fins swiveled in your direction. You came to stand at his side and curled your toes in the sand to keep yourself steady. “You should, you know. To make sure everything is really all fixed.”

The Siren tore his gaze away from the sea to cant his head at you with a sharp, suspicious narrowing of his eyes.

You held your hands up in defense. “I’m just saying. You want to be able to go home, don’t you? Back to your pod?”

He frowned, tight, but his glare flickered back out to the mouth of the bay like he couldn’t help himself.

After a long, long moment, he reached out and dug his claws into the sand.

‘Not safe yet.’

You arched a brow. “Oh, come on. I’m sure it’s fine. If anyone could make it back, it’d be you.”

He turned back your way and arched a brow, looking entirely unconvinced.

You huffed and crossed your arms. “Don’t get all modest now. You’re the most obnoxiously proud person I’ve ever met—fish or otherwise. I’m sure you can do anything you set your mind to.”

His brow pinched again, and there was something almost like worry sparking in those amethyst eyes of his.

“Look—” you said, reaching out to plant a palm against his shoulder. “If it doesn’t work out, you can always just come right back here, okay? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

You weren’t going to think about how nice that sounded, and how absolutely, bitterly selfish it was to hope that he’d turn right back around and head back. You weren’t.

The Siren’s brow pinched and he turned back to the open water, fins rippling against his sides and mouth twisted down at the corners.

You tugged at the braid in his hair.

“Don’t make me tie you back up again just so I can drag you out.”

He scoffed and spat something at you that looked like it was properly bitchy, and it had your lips quirking on a smirk. But prissiness or no, he’d started to let himself slip down against the surf, to lull deeper into the shallows and flare his fins at his sides for balance rather than a show of irritation.

You swallowed the last, lingering bite of dread at the back of your throat and offered him a winning smile.

The Siren huffed, and right before he sunk all the way into the water, he set his talons by your feet and scribbled—

‘Do not do anything stupid.’

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved off. “Sure.”

He underlined the ‘do not’ with a harsh sneer that could have made paint curl and the fiercest of generals quake in their boots, and you burst into peals of too-fond laughter.

“Okay, okay. I promise. Swear.”

He nodded, firm, and finally—finally—sunk beneath the surface with a grand, sweeping beat of his tail.

He circled the whole of the bay once, twice, thrice, and then set out past the breakwater with another of those bounding leaps that looked like something straight out of a painting.

You sat and watched the rolling waves until the sun was high in the sky, and then long after it had begun its creeping descent. Fat and sluggish over the horizon, dripping gold along the water like the strokes of a paintbrush. Until there were no shadows in the tide, no purple fins popping up from beneath the surface to smack at your ankles. There hadn’t been for hours now. The glint of his tail had slowly grown further and further away, and you’d been staring out at nothing for longer than not.

You stood with a sigh, legs wobbly and prickling with static as you stretched out of your scrunched up crouch.

You moved towards your little shanty hut and carefully readjusted the conch at its helm so that it sat just so. You stepped back with a soft nod and began your familiar trek towards the other side of the island, dutifully ignoring the stutter in your steps and that tight, miserable something twisting in your guts that you refused to name.

It was fine. He’d be home soon, surely. With his pod—his family. Which was what you’d wanted. And now… well, you had to go catch some dinner for you and your octopus. And there was no use waiting around.

.

.

You fucking sucked at fishing.

Which was a lesson learned with miserable, sopping wet consequences. You sat in front of your stupid fire, ringing out your stupid, soaked shirt, and sneezing in the chill of the night air. You’d never been responsible for hauling in food on The Rose Queen, and the Siren had basically been feeding your stranded ass from day one (whether intentional or otherwise). And so now here you were. Fishless, friendless, and freezing.

You sighed, miserable, and carefully made your way back to the familiar, little tidepool in the crags. You knelt down by the teeny pool of water there and the octopus inside was immediately scurrying for cover. When no tasty treats rained down overhead like the gift of some benevolent god, it slowly creeped its way out from beneath the stones with a trudging sort of paddling you wanted to call pouty.

“Sorry, little guy,” you huffed. “I don’t have anything for you today.”

You reached forward and the octopus panicked—trying to flee so fast that the poor thing wound up twisting itself in knots. Its stubby tentacles curled and flailed uselessly in its puddle, and you tutted in sympathy. You scooped the blob into your palms and immediately four sets of tentacles were curling around your fingers like a lifeline. Its little suckers pulled at your skin with sticky smacks as it tried to burrow away into your skin. And Sevens—OW! What the Hell!

“Chill, chill!” you squawked, trying to wrangle the thing more securely into your hands and stop it from pinching the flesh clear off your bones. “I’m just—would you—look, I don’t want to drop you, okay? So would you just—"

The octopus screamed, and you didn’t even think that was possible. You could feel the sharp, yowling vibrations of it all along your fingers and a few of the gulls nesting along the rocks took off into the air with a harried flurry of feathers and scrabbling claws. Their wings thwacked the back of your head and you swatted them away with a shrill scream of your own. Why did everything on this stupid island have to be a no good, dramatic, serenading, piece of shi—

“Fine!” you shrieked, feeling your molars ache with it. “Begone!”

And hurled the thing as far as you could over the edge of the rocky shore. It landed in the water with a lackluster plop of fat bubbles and immediately darted away like a prisoner fleeing captivity. And not, you know, the benevolent hand of the very lovely pirate who had been feeding and caring for it all these weeks.

You kicked angrily at a mess of pebbles, and then swore loud and furious when all it did was scuff up your toes and prick bruises into your heels.

You trudged back to your stupid, little hovel and collapsed miserably into the sand.

Here you were, trying to be noble, and kind, and give all of these ridiculous sea creatures the second chance at life that you would never have. And what did you get for it? An empty stomach, an aching heart, and gravel in your fucking feet—

“Well,” you chattered to yourself. Pleasantly poisonous and tendons jumping in your jaw, “I suppose at least it can’t get much worse.”

Which should have been the universe’s signal to do something truly petty. The skies opening overhead in a torrential downpour. Your little, stick home collapsing under the sheer weight of your patheticness. A crab scuttling up from the depths just to pinch your toes. Something like that.   

Instead, there was a gentle breeze that tickled your cheeks and coaxed you into looking out over the horizon.

There was something there—something in the distance that you couldn’t quite make out from where you were curled up suffering in the sand. You sniffled past angry tears and scrubbed the back of your hand over your nose, and then let that touch of wind guide you forward on wobbly legs.  You had to climb all the way up the salt-slick rocks to get a good look at it. But there it was. Not too far at all actually.

A ship.

Large, and wooden, and cresting through the low rolling waves with all the ease of the monstrous vessel it looked to be. There was a silver insignia emblazoned on its side, but it was still too far away to make out the particulars. But you didn’t care, because it was a ship. An actual, factual ship.

You waved your hands high over your head and shouted at the top of your lungs.

And holy shit, holy shit—maybe the universe didn’t actually hate your poor guts. Maybe there’d be a happy ending to this whole thing after all.

You watched in the distance as an anchor dropped, and you had to stop yourself from tumbling off your rocky perch in your excitement. One of the small dinghies was lowered into the water and a gaggle of crew climbed down to man it. Slowly but surely, that little boat grew closer, and you sprinted down to the shoreline to meet it.

A man with short, dark hair climbed over the side and met you halfway. His eyes were soft, and brown, and kind, and he offered you a warm smile when you nearly tumbled straight into him in your haste—catching a hand around your arms and helping keep you upright.

He said something polite that you assumed was the usual sort of greeting and intrigue into how exactly you’d managed to find yourself in this state of affairs, and you hastily made to explain your situation as you always did.

‘Thank you—I can’t hear, but I can write and read—And I—’

Your train of thought cut off sharply, and your rambling explanations with it. The brunette was already nodding your way in sympathy and rattling off instructions to his crew. They were all decked out in slightly differing variations of the same, white and navy uniform. With golden buttons and sashes glinting in the low light and silver pendants pinned to their breast pockets. Your doe-eyed savior turned back your way and offered you his arm with another of those sap sweet smiles that lit his cheeks in a merry, rosy pink.

You hesitated, throat bobbing around something tight and cold that curdled along the back of your tongue.

Twining songbirds, wings frozen in flight as they soared up towards an endless sky.

The intricate, little emblem stared back at you proudly from its place on his chest, and you couldn’t help but think of the Siren who’d only just left your cove a few hours before.

‘Not safe,’ he’d demanded, dragging you away from the wreck so frantically you’d nearly drowned from it. ‘Not safe.’

The brunette’s smile wavered at your hesitance, and he wrapped his hand around yours to tug you into the boat.

You climbed in on wobbly legs, because—what else were you supposed to do? Stay stranded on this little patch of sand and stone until you starved to death or went mad from loneliness? Run? From sailors with swords on their belts as long as your arm? To hide on an island that you could traverse in its entirety in a half hour or less? You were always one to happily snatch up the weird and wonderful opportunities life could present to you and run them into the ground, but now… What else was there?

You were settled against one of the small, wooden benches and the brunette shucked off his jacket to drape over your shoulders and the silver songbirds glinted in the low light. He offered you another of those warm, warm smiles before turning to call an order to his crew.

You sighed, miserable, and slouched against the siding—fingers dangling down to brush along the surface of the water.

‘Do not do anything stupid,’ your Siren had said.

And you’d really been hoping to last more than twenty-four-freaking-hours before inevitably breaking that promise, but it seemed the universe really was out to get you after all.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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[flametrashiraarchive]

Hey, hun is it possible to do a part 3 of Muzan with reader with big boobs or even do a version with Kokushibo please?🥺

*runs to her laptop so fast she breaks the sound barrier*

Yup!

(I'm just gonna do Muzan for right now- I'm kinda struggling to figure out Koky's character)

NSFW below the cut.

Also, for those who haven't read it, here is PART 1 and PART 2 of the Muzan x boobs saga.

MUZAN x boobs pt 3.

You're not exactly sure when the Infinity Castle became your permanent residence but you never seem to leave anymore.

In the beginning, Muzan would always come to your place for his titty sucking stress relief sessions, but if there's one thing the Demon King truly despises it's minor inconvenience.

So, you're lying on a plush pillow, reading one of his botany books in a cozy room of the castle when the sliding door flies open with so much force it smashes against the wall. Splinters of wood rain down onto the floor.

You don't even flinch. You're used to his tempers by now.

He's back from his trip to Asakusa and grumbling about hanafuda earrings and sun breathers

"Tits. Now."

You pull open your kimono with one hand, not even looking up from your book.

(If you wore bras before you've given up by now; Muzan just shreds them to bits anyway and those bitches are expensive.)

He moves with supernatural speed, and before you can even blink he's taken your place on the pillow and you're sat straddling him.

Then he pulls your upper half down on top of him, completely smothering him with your chest.

You're still engrossed in the book as he slowly licks around your areola, following the path of ridges and bumps before tickling your nipple with the tip of his tongue.

A shiver runs through your body but you keep reading, because you just got up to the chapter about the strange blue flowers which you used to weave into crowns at your grandmother's house when you were little and-

He snatches the book from your hands and tosses it across the room and into the fireplace, emerging from between your breasts to glare at you.

Muzan is just as shocked as you are by his apparent annoyance at your lack of attention. Why should he care if you're enjoying it or not? This is for his satisfaction, not yours... and yet...

He makes it his mission then to make sure you cannot ignore him.

He sucks your tits with such ferocity you feel tingles all the way down your spine and throbbing at your core.

Grips your wrists and pins your hands to the pillow above his head so your tits are hanging in his face; soft and defenceless against his wicked tongue.

He groans as he bends a knee to wedge his thigh between yours, applying such delicious pressure.

Kneads your tits with his slender fingers, trailing his pointed fingernails lightly around the undersides, making goosebumps raise over your skin and eliciting the first whimper.

Yess... he wants more of that.

He chuckles cruelly as he feels you grind against his thigh, his tongue unrelenting as he laps at your aching buds.

While his mouth is occupied, tugging one of your nipples between his lips and making them swell and harden, his fingers work the other; massaging, teasing, tugging until they're so puffy and dark, glistening with his saliva.

On and on it goes, until you're gasping his name amongst curses. Your grinding becomes frantic and arrhythmic, and the sweltering heat of your sex presses through the fabric of his trousers.

You're close... so... damn... close...

Then he lowers his knee, taking away the friction

(this asshole- istg)

He continues licking your nipples as you whine, taking sick satisfaction from the way you so desperately try to hump his hips, craving release.

"Beg me."

Even if you do, he'll keep up this give-and-take until you're a bleating mess.

He doesn't want your breathy "please Muzan, let me cum," he wants you sobbing.

And only when your tears come does he roll you onto your back, wedge his thigh back between yours and permit you to bring yourself release.

"Such a pathetic harlot," he whispers, his voice laced with darkness and desire as he watches you cum. "My pathetic harlot."

Strums his thumbs over your swollen nipples to make your body jolt as you come down from your high.

You lay there, whimpering and exhausted as he lowers his head, nuzzling your chest.

Is he... snuggling?!?

"What the hell happened in Asakusa?" you ask.

He simply closes his eyes and "sleeps" with one hand cupped over your breast, finally a little calmer.

[bigintorobotsrightnow]

Just Ted and AM enjoying the flowers, I wrote a little fic to go along with this art piece as well if anyone wants to read it— A gentle breeze cascaded across open fields of wildflowers, where AM laid peacefully amongst petals and blades of grass. His head rested upon his arms, dozing off to Ted’s delicate touch as he strung flowers into his circuits. So meticulous with the colors and arrangement. AM couldn’t help but watch from the corner of his eye with interest. 

“And what purpose does it serve for you to kill the flowers and put them in my wires,” AM pointedly asked with a chuckle in return from Ted. He plucked yet another flower, this time a black eyed susan that he perched atop AM’s beak. His fingers traced along the sharp, metal ridge and AM raised his head from his arms to glance back at himself and observe Ted’s handy work. 

“Don’t put it that way— I mean, you’re not wrong I just I thought you’d look, well… pretty,” Ted whispered the last part, a bashful shift of his eyes. 

“And?” AM inquired then stood and craned his neck to put the arrangement of flowers on full display under the sun. They shone bright against the dark chorded circuits, a bloom of color against a dreary mechanical form. And Ted awed at his vibrance against a blue sky. A warmth quick to dance across his cheeks. 

“And…I was right,” Ted uttered so breathlessly and AM could only scoff to himself at such a ridiculous notion. Pretty, only Ted would think to call a machine, pretty. 

“You’re a moron,” AM quipped back and scoured the field of flowers for the perfect one to embellish Ted with in exchange. He found himself drawn to a cluster of bright yellow coreopsis, in which his long, jagged talons reached to pluck the flowers from the earth. Only for them to crumple and tear under their razor sharp edge. He hissed through his speakers as petals fell from his claws.

“It’s alright, you just have to be gentle. Here let me help,” Ted chortled then scooted forward to take AM’s hand with his own. The computer recoiled initially then eased into Ted’s grasp. He allowed him to carefully bring his talons back underneath a nearby blossom. He eased them closed to snip them from the stem, then followed through to bring AM’s hand back to his hair where he neatly placed the flower for him.

His hold on AM’s hand sank back to his wrist and he smiled. While AM stared at the bright yellow flower that stood in stark contrast to Ted’s dark locks.. Pretty, the word echoed within his processors and he craned his neck around to find another cluster of flowers. Pristine ones that he plucked just the way Ted had shown him. He arranged them neatly into Ted’s hair, and Ted began to laugh again as they fell out shortly after he’d placed them.

“Hold on, they won't stay like that,” Ted uttered and collected the flowers back from the grass, “God I haven’t done this in… well over a hundred years at least.” 

He pulled both of AM’s hands into his lap and AM followed closely as Ted began to weave the flowers together one by one. “There, just like that, then you can make a crown,” Ted explained then left the rest to AM. He struggled at first, as his big, clunky talons lacked the tact for something so small and delicate. But AM was determined to get it right, and Ted was there to nudge him in the right direction. 

The finished product was by no means glamorous, but when AM lifted it to place on top of Ted’s head, it was…perfect. AM admired his work in silence a moment, gazing down at Ted with a warmth he wasn’t even aware of himself. But Ted’s face darkened and he turned away from him. 

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s creepy,” Ted teased and AM blew a raspberry at him. 

“What, I just thought you looked, pretty,” he echoed Ted’s words and butt him with his head before he nuzzled his beak to the side of his face.

“Oh shut up,” Ted laughed and pressed his cheek back against his.

—

[clwhowrites]

Beautiful Orange Wings

Taken at Crown Hill Park in Wheat Ridge Colorado. Like this? Then please support my work on Kofi. Those who support my work at Kofi get access to high rez versions of my photography and art.

Posted using PostyBirb

[grymghoul]

It didn't take long for you to find out that teasing ARTHUR MORGAN was fun. Batting your lashes at him is one thing.. you take it to a whole other level. The moment there's no eyes on you two, your palm is pressed to the front of his pants. You can trace the outline of his cock and you won't stop until you can feel every vein and ridge. Until his head is neatly outlined against the inside of his right thigh. Then you scoot off to do something else, smiling in self satisfaction. Sometimes, when he's journaling or otherwise distracted, you'll sneak between his thighs. Not really sneak, he's all too aware of your presence and the almost nuisance like quality you contain. Hell, his hand even rests on the crown of your head, a subconscious tic. However, it always jolts him when he feels your hot mouth on him from outside his pants. He'll shift his hips, as if asking nicely for you to not tease him this time. It's like you're trying to suck on him from outside of his jeans. He can be a proud man, but he's not too proud to admit he's almost cum from that alone. You can be absolutely torturous to the poor man. He'll bite his bottom lip, try to go back to journaling or reading, he'll tug at your hair. None of it deters you. Especially the hair tugging, seeing him squirm and be too much of a gentleman to tell you to stop unless you plan to choke on his cock. Some of the things he can be teased with are so simple, it's nearly laughable. When you tug him by his belt, the bandana around his neck, even tugging on a singular button of his shirt gets him going. Just enough for his dick to twitch. The worst part? You always choose times where he can't just have you. He can't just pull you into bed and fuck the teasing right out of your silly brain. He can't just shove you face first into the mattress and egg you on for as long as he wants, ignoring your whimpers and sobs. Partially because he's not entirely a degenerate, the other part is that canvas tents aren't really sound proof. He makes a whole elaborate show of getting you back. A nice (as nice as it can get) dinner, something fun like dancing, and a room for the night. Complete with a bath. He's sure to space it out between your teases and his nights out with you that you remain unsuspecting. But the second he's got you well fed and pampered and entertained (so you can't cause him anymore grief), he's on you. Deep kisses and wandering hands, slowly your clothes fall off. Before you realize it, he's got you crying out into your pillow, make up all ruined (he insisted you dress nice for this outing, he really just wanted your face to stain even more hotel pillows). He thought he was so clever. That you'd never catch on. That you'd always be in the dark. He never stopped to wonder why you insisted on teasing him so much.

[helaelaemond]

To Watch - Aemond x reader

Pairing:  Aemond x reader

Word count: 2.3k

Summary: Aemond reads an old story from the Reach to you in bed. You like to see how long he can read aloud before he stutters.

Content warning(s): none

INCLUDES: handjob (m receiving)

Taglist: @babyblue711 / @myfandomprompts / @sylasthegrim / @arcielee

“And so it was on that first fateful morning that Ser Emmon saw the sweet Queen Delena, and knew he loved her.” 

You smile as Aemond reads aloud to you, no louder than a whisper. “I missed you today.” 

He turns the page of the book in his hand. “Hmm?” 

“You didn’t join us for dinner. It was just Aegon and I.” 

“Well, that’s not so bad.” He runs slow circles over your waist with his thumb where you lie in his bed, propped up by soft feather pillows.

“That’s why you should have been there.” On the new page of the book in his hand, there is a gilded painting of a knight in silver armour, and the queen in her crown of flowers. “Just us.” 

“I just needed some time alone after today.” 

You inch closer to him and turn slightly to press your chest against him. He is so close that you can see every eyelash, every ghost of the freckles that used to splash across his nose. “I saw you in the yard for hours.” 

“Were you watching me?” The corners of his mouth quirk up slightly. 

“No,” you lie. 

He glances at you, close enough to kiss, and you grin in delight at him. “What did you think?” 

“Nothing. I wasn’t watching.” 

Aemond leans across the small distance between you and tilts his head. Your noses touch, and the slightest movement closer would let your lips meet. “Do you know what I think?” 

While his one eye closes, yours remain open. He is blurry this close, but in the dim light of the room, his sapphire sparkles. “Sometimes.”

“Do you know what I am thinking at this very moment?” 

It’s difficult to bite back laughter. He makes you so very happy. “No.” 

“I think you like to watch.” 

Too thick is the air between you for you to stand anymore, and you try to kiss him, your mouth aching for the touch of his lips. He pulls back slightly, denying you.

“Aemond,” you protest in a soft whisper. 

“Well?” he asks, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. “Do you?” 

Smiling widely, you rest your head on his shoulder and touch the page in front of them. “Keep reading.” 

“Alright.” He sighs in contentment, and starts at the top of the page. “But it was to her husband the King Gwayne that he had sworn his sword and shield, and his life. No wife would he take, no children would he father, yet to the queen he felt his heart go.” 

You listen as Aemond reads from the book. It is just old stories from a time when legend and history mingled into one, a book as well suited to children as it is maesters. But still; between the pages some truth can be found, and flesh and blood and bone can be seen through the myths. And it all sounds so pretty when Aemond reads it. 

Being so close to him does things to you. As if you are doing nothing more than getting more comfortable, you wriggle under the covers and slip your knee between his thighs. He wears only a soft green tunic to bed, one that rides up easily. His voice catches on the words when you shift against his leg,your hand on his chest. “Keep going,” you whisper. 

He clears his throat and does as you ask.

He’s right, of course. You do like to watch. A long time ago he had shown you how he liked to be touched and you had learned quickly. Now, there is little left that you do not know, but you like to see all the same. Not tonight, though. After the display he put on in the yard for much of the afternoon, you want nothing more than to touch, to feel. 

As he weaves the story of knights and queens and longing loves about their silver heads, your touches dip lower. At first, it is just his stomach you run your palm over. Linen is still between your skin, but his muscles tense at the pressure, and you can feel the dips and ridges along them. Each time his voice falters, you stop. It is encouragement enough, then, to keep going. 

“And it was in the gardens of Ser Emmon’s humble country house that Queen Delena gave herself to him. He gave her a rose as a symbol of their love, and pressed it into her hand. The thorns cut her skin, but he kissed the wounds and at his touch, they healed. Then he took her face into his grasp and kissed her cheeks and her lips, and they swore their love to one another.” 

You run the heel of your palm lower on his stomach and press it against the hard pubic bone. He stutters and his eye closes. He grunts your name.

“Yes?” you ask innocently. Your fingers point down, and just a slight twitch of them allows you to stroke the hair there, to trace the base of his cock. It rests against his thigh, half hard. 

“Do you want to hear the rest of the story?” 

“Yes. Why do you ask?” 

Aemond laughs breathlessly. “Then you’d better stop whilst I can still read.” 

Your fingers form a ‘v’ over the base of his cock and crook slightly to slide along the sides of his balls. “If you stop reading, then I’ll have to stop doing this.” You turn your hand palm-up and glide his cock through your spread fingers. 

A half-laugh comes through his nose. “Alright.” He shifts slightly and the pages rustle on his lap. “It was in that very garden that the queen gave herself entirely to the knight, and in her, he put his bastard child who would one day be called Flowers.” 

You settle comfortably against him again and your forehead rests against his long neck. His thighs spread wider in a silent beg for more, and you smile slightly. There is heat rising in his throat and cheeks and you can feel it against your face. 

How pretty Aemond’s body is. You love how long and lean he is, how easily bruises blossom under his fair skin, how you can see the lines of his veins and tendons in his arms and hands. Such pretty hands. With your forehead against him, you can feel the soft rumble of his voice in your very bones. It makes you shiver, makes your nipples hard. 

When he stumbles over a word, it is satisfying knowing that you made that happen. It’s your gentle hold around his cock that makes him lose focus, your skin against his that makes his stomach tense. Only for a moment do you let him go and although he whines softly through his words, he makes no other protest. You holds your hand up to his mouth and he bites his lip, before licking your palm, your fingers. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, before pushing your hand back under the covers and wrapping it around him again. 

“But the king’s closest companions had already informed him of their suspicions, and Ser Emmon was summoned to the Great Table.” 

A fire burns between your legs. He is hot and heavy in your hand, hard and wide and in his cock, you can feel his heartbeat pulse. His thighs twitch, and you run your foot up and down his calf soothingly. It does not soothe you, though. Every touch makes you want to make him whimper more. Even his voice intoxicates you. 

The pace you set is steady and reliable, and you only pause your ministrations now and again to caress your thumb over his tip. The silver drops that gather there make it smoother to stroke him as you glide it over his length. At your waist, his fingers begin to dig in. 

“And the k-” He bites his lip and sighs hard through his nose. You press your fingers around the base of his cock and move to carefully squeeze his balls. His eye closes, but there is strength in him yet, and after a brief pause, he continues. “And the king at last drew his sword in challenge against his knight, his friend, and demanded honour.” 

You look at the painting on the page in front of them but you don’t really see. It’s impossible to see anything in front of you when Aemond is all around you, his body heaving beneath you, his leg pressing between yours, his hair tickling your face. Utterly consuming is the need to please him, to delight him. You stroke his cock faster now. How lovely he is. How pretty he sounds. Oh, I do so adore him. Every stutter and every stumble is for you. 

“They crossed swords over the Table and- fuck.” 

He turns his head and kisses your forehead, hard. You shiver, and under the blankets you tighten your grip. “They crossed swords over the Table and they fucked?” you ask breathlessly. 

Aemond’s quiet laugh turns into a moan. “No, not that. They, ah- gods!” He forces his eye open but his brow is furrowed in concentration. “And they fought. The king fought for his honour, and the knight f-” he stumbles, breath catching in his throat. “Fou- ah, yes!” 

You bring your knee up between his legs and press it up to where his legs meet. Aemond grinds his hips up and down, his heavy balls sliding against your soft thigh. He turns his head slightly to press his cheek against your forehead. It’s like he can’t get close enough to you, even when you’re lazy like this. 

“They fought?” you encourage.

“Mmph. Yes. They fought. Fuck.” 

“Keep going, and so shall I.” 

“Yes,” he moans. You know he has more self control than this. But there is nothing that makes your soul soar like knowing he can set it aside with you. “The knight fought for his love.” The words are punctuated with heavy gasps that grow more frequent as his breath grows shorter. “The king forbade… he forbade his other knights from in…” He bites his lip at a particularly delicious twist of your wrist. “From interfering. After a long fight, the king disarmed Ser Emmon and his b… his blade… ah, yes. Just like that. His blade was knocked from his hands.” 

“Are you nearly finished?” you ask, making sure your lips are so close to his ear that he will not hear anything else. 

His brow creases again but this time it is in a laugh. “Am I? Or the story?” 

“You,” you breathe, and the word is stretched out. You dart out your tongue to catch along the shell of his ear and when he moans, strained and high, you feel like a queen yourself. 

“So close,” he assures you. 

“Keep going.” 

Nodding frantically, he musters his strength to return to the words. “Ser Emmon fell in front of the king, who… mmph, sweetling. Who demanded that he tell him where the treasonous queen was.” 

She can feel deep within her that he is close. There is something in the way that his whole body tenses, how little beads of sweat gather along his hairline, the twist of bliss in his face, that is so familiar, so exciting. You sit up slightly to get a better view of his face. Yes, that’s better. It’s much easier now to see the little line along his throat that appears when he is tense. There is a thick vein protruding from his forehead now, and it makes you smile. You so love to watch. 

Your hand moves faster, and it is slick with spend and sweat and spit. 

“The knight refused, for he loved the queen more d-dearly than his… his own life. Oh, fuck!” 

His eye closes and it leaves only the sapphire in its socket to wink at you. Fire rages through you at the sight, excitement and adrenaline and love mingled into a potent poison. Let it ruin you, if it means you can have him. 

“Yes, love, don’t stop, I’m-!” 

His face is flecked with starlight when pleasure rips through him. His hands ball into fists and his hips lift off the bed, and he cries out, guttural and low, his voice cracking. You watch, enchanted, and stroke him through it, catching his seed across your hand. Some will have gone on the blanket. Such a waste. 

“Kiss me,” he pleads quietly as he sinks back in the pillows. Below the blanket, his hand finds yours and your fingers weave together and it feels like the centre of the world. 

You smile and keep your eyes open as you kiss him. It is tender now, your lips soft together. Whilst there is still a fire between your legs, it has been tempered for a time. Simply by seeing his release, some part of you has been satisfied. 

Aemond breaks the kiss after a long moment. His eye opens slowly, and he is greeted by your smile. “Thank you.” 

“You don’t need to thank me.” 

“I do,” he whispers, squeezing your hand against his stomach. “I do.” 

Tenderly, you kiss his forehead and stroke his hair back. “You don’t.” 

It is a reflex to lean closer when you kiss him, and within a moment he has leaned so close that you are rolled onto your back with him between your legs now, the book discarded. He pulls at the hem of your yellow sleeping shift, but you stop him. “Wait.” 

His orgasm is still sending waves of bliss through him, and he cocks his head to the side in a silent question. You grin. “The looking glass,” you say in a hushed tone. Close to the door stands a great reflective glass, large enough to see one’s full frame. 

Aemond understands immediately, and scrambles to his feet. Your hands are still clasped and so he pulls you up with him. “Of course. You do so love to watch.”

[emjiroki]

☆Part 2☆

Original Post Part 1

Warnings: biting/marking, breeding mentions, CNC, yuuji fluff at the end

"I- Y-Yuuji" you stammered, shivering against the hard body behind you as he dragged his pointed nails along your side, moving up to grope your breast over your shirt.

"No no no little bunny, you're in my hands now," he purred, gathering your hands behind your back, "address me correctly".

"S-Sukuna" you whimpered, a tremor running up your spine as he sucked up a dark bruise against your throat.

"That's right" he said with a chuckle, "and it's the only name you'll know once I'm done with you".

You gasped as he turned you to press face first into the couch, your cheek against the cushion as he mounted up behind you, sliding his thickness in deep with a fluid thrust of his hips. You squealed as he bottomed out, the crown of his cock kissing your cervix. The couch creaked and groaned with every savage movement, your moans muffled into the cushions.

"This couch is too fucking small" Sukuna growled, swiftly pulling out and gathering you up in his arms to carry you to your bedroom, throwing you down onto the mattress before shouldering between your legs.

Your face burned as his deep wine colored eyes gazed between your thighs, his face lowering to bump his nose against your clit and drag his tongue along your slit, a quiet groan rumbling in his chest.

"Now I see why you're in this kids every thought" he said with a wicked grin, "this fat pussy is too sweet not to think about".

Your face burned deeper at his roundabout compliment, a soft gasping whine breaking from your lips as he suckled around your clit for only a moment before he grasped your thighs and lifted until your ankles were by your ears.

The hunger in his eyes had your heart pounding, looking more like he was going to devour you whole. He tapped his cock down against your clit, his mouth moving down to your calf and sinking in his teeth. When he didn't get the reaction, he wanted he slapped his hand against your ass, leaving a red mark in his wake.

"Please," you cried out, your pleading tone seemingly pleasing him.

"That's right, beg for me,Feed me your desire," he growled, "I want to relish in every sound you make, every squeal and every moan."

Without another word, he was sinking in deep, your breath catching as he pummeled in past the soft spot Yuuji usually hits. You watched him bite back a deep sound, his fangs tugging at his bottom lip as your walls convulsed around him. You could feel every ridge and vein along his shaft as fucked into you slow, seeming to savor the pleasure scorching through him. Your brain felt fuzzy at the sloppy sounds of your cunt sucking him in, mewls and moans spilling from your drooling lips nearly overshadowing the creaking of the headboard as Sukuna wrapped a strong hand around it.

The splintering of the wood had your eyes snapping open, Sukuna's hips never stilling as he threw the piece of the headboard he had torn off onto the floor with a growl.

"Cheap mortal crap, my bed was made from stone and furs" he said, replacing his hands on your thighs to keep you spread, "a much better place to breed you full of my spawn, but I suppose this will make do".

"Sukuna fuck" you whined, right on the edge of orgasm as your legs clamped down against his shoulders.

"If you're going to cum, to do it, I won't give permission twice".

Your eyes rolled back as your walls squeezed him, a debauched high-pitched moan flooding the room as you creamed around him. A shiver ran up your spine as you felt his warmness fill your belly, a savage bite to the plush of your thighs and a stifled groan being the only indicator that he reached his peak. You breathed a soft sigh, relief rushing through you at the thought of Yuuji coming back.

"Oh, missing your boy toy already?" Sukuna crooned, condescension dripping from his dark tone as he let your legs down only to flip you over onto your stomach, caging you in with his muscular thighs as he rutted his still throbbing cock against your ass, "the first pussy I've had in a thousand years isn't getting away so easily little bunny".

He threaded his fingers through your hair and tugged as he leaned in close, "we're done when I say we're done".

Exhaustion was over taking you, your eyelids have as your pussy throbbed and your legs cramped, Sukuna's cum leaking out onto the sheets between your legs when you suddenly felt Yuuji's warm hands touching you.

"You okay?" He asked quietly as he pressed soft kisses against your shoulder.

"Yeah" you croaked, your voice hoarse.

"Want me to start the shower?" He asked, tracing the bite mark on your shoulder. You nodded, giving him a kiss before he left the bed.

The warm spray of the shower seemed to bring you back to life, along with Yuuji kissing and sucking against your skin tenderly.

"I really don't know what happened, I guess I just lost control of him for a minute" Yuuji said, his eyes wracked with guilt.

"Really love, it's fine," you promised for the tenth time, even though you flinched when he touched the bruises. It had been seven pm when the switch happened and now it was four am, to say you were tired was an understatement.

"The way she was screaming for me I think she enjoyed herself" Sukuna's voice spoke from Yuuji's hand, "get used to it, this won't be the last time".

Yuuji leaned over and pumped a squirt of body wash into the curses open mouth, Sukuna splattering for a moment until he disappeared.

"Pain in my ass" Yuuji muttered, helping you wash your hair. You laugh together for a moment, until an uneasy feeling settles in your stomach. You really hoped you wouldn't have to give Yuuji a positive pregnancy test in a few months.

[ion-mailbox]

The Golden Ossification of the Blade

Wanted to do a thing I saw on Twitter but Wyll (inspired by his his scars and some of his ridges). Ngl flowers are tiring.

Flower language:

Pink Lily: Affection for loved ones; majesty; Love, femininity and admiration

Sticky catchfly: invitation to dance

Dandelion: Overcoming hardship; faithfulness, happiness, love's oracle; rustic oracle; youthful recollections; coquetry

Purple daisy: Thoughtfulness; loyal love, gentleness, innocence; purity, fidelity, and patient endurance

Yellow Jasmine: Unconditional and eternal love, monetary wealth; Grace and elegance

Gladiolus: Strength of character, honor, conviction, generosity; ready armed

Edelweiss: Chivalrous devotion, high courage; daring, noble purity

Crown Imperial: Power and majesty, pride of birth

Rue: Regret, sorrow, repentance; grace, clear vision; disdain