#cw bond/age

[doomdoomofdoom]

fyi, Ukraine actually maintains a website with publicly available lists of their financial/material support and expenses.

anyone can also use it to donate to any specific part of Ukraine's war effort directly. in case any nations leaders recently humiliated their country globally, or something.

[mkarchin713]

Seconds after the portal closes it opens again and spits out more even more children.

Now Bruce has an 8 year old son (Danny), a 10 year old daughter (Jazz), a 12 year old son (Dante), and a 4 year old daughter (Ellie)

Bruce finally reads the sticky note on his new son Danny’s forehead

More will come when the time is right

-CW

…

Bruce- Alfred!

Alfred- yes master Bruce

Bruce- you remember when you told me where babies come from

Alfred-…. Yes?

Bruce- you forgot to mention the glowing green portal.

Prompt 44

You know who has been slept upon for DCxDP crossovers? Battinson, Batman 2022 Bruce. The B o i. 

Imagine, you are an anxious mess of a man, you are barely an adult, very stressed, very autistic, just wants to curl up with some MCR and hang out with your bat friends after you’ve finally managed to get over your phobia of bats. We all keep yelling to give Battinson a Robin, but can you imagine, being this man, and some sort of portal opens in the cave, in your super secret base. Your anxiety is through the roof, you’re going to either have a meltdown or grab a weapon or both. And then a child is yeeted through. And like, you’re not going to just let them fall onto the cave floor?? And by the time you look up the portal or whatever it is has closed and leaves you with a whole ass child blinking up at you with equal befuddlement and a green sticky note on their forehead. 

[ds-angel1]

Daddy´s least favorites

cw: SMUT(18+), incest, fingering, reader cries, ward is a bad parent like always, SO. MANY. NICKNAMES., DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT!!

wc: ~ 2,8k

a/n: hellooooooo! didn´t exactly (carefully) proof-read this one, sorry!!

You had always been sensitive—Rafe loved to call you a crybaby for it, teasing you relentlessly. But even as the sting of his words faded into affection over the years, you knew there was a painful truth beneath it. You felt things deeply, and that wasn’t always easy.

Growing up in the shadow of your family’s wealth might sound enviable to outsiders, but it didn’t shield you from the heartbreak of vying for your father Ward’s approval—or the devastating loss of your mother. Those experiences carved you into someone tender, someone raw, and someone Rafe couldn’t help but try to protect, even in his messy way.

Your older brother could be cruel with his jokes, sure, but when it truly mattered, Rafe was there for you. Always.

When you cried as a toddler because you’d lost your favorite stuffed animal, 8-year-old Rafe handed you a piece of candy and made silly faces until your giggles broke through your tears. When you were inconsolable over your father’s constant favoritism toward Sarah, Rafe sat beside you in quiet solidarity, gently murmuring, “I know, I know… it’s okay.” He did know. The two of you shared an unspoken understanding, a bond rooted in the same aching void your father’s love failed to fill.

Then there were the teenage years, full of heartbreaks and disappointments. On the eve of your 15th birthday, when the boy you liked stopped talking to you out of nowhere, you collapsed into Rafe’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably. He didn’t hesitate. Pulling you close, he kissed your forehead and promised, “Everything’s gonna be alright.” You were too wrapped up in your heartbreak to notice the smirk he hid behind your back.

Now, at 19, you’d just scraped through college with barely passing grades—another milestone your father dismissed with a half-hearted nod. You weren’t the smartest person, and you knew it, but Rafe had always found ways to make you feel like you were enough.

A bad grade? He’d distract you with stupid jokes or drag you out for ice cream until your mood lifted. Summer school? He rode the bus with you every single day, waiting patiently for the final bell so he could walk you home under the blistering sun—because your parents couldn’t be bothered to make time.

Sarah and Rafe may have been closer in age, but you and Rafe were something different, something deeper. The five-year gap between you didn’t matter when it came to the bond you shared. He wasn’t just your brother; he was your anchor in a house that often felt more like a storm.

That’s why, during your weekly FaceTime call, when he announced he’d be coming home for an entire week during autumn break, you couldn’t contain your excitement. You squealed, clapped, and practically counted down the days like it was Christmas.

The morning of his arrival, you woke up buzzing with energy. You hadn’t felt this happy in weeks, maybe months. Without really thinking about it, you found yourself putting on your cutest top and skirt, doing your makeup, and styling your hair with care. It was silly, you told yourself—he was just your brother. But something about seeing him again made you want to look your best.

“Rafe’s here!” your dad called from downstairs, his voice carrying through the house. Four minutes early. Your heart leaped at the sound, and before you knew it, you were sprinting down the stairs, nearly tripping over yourself in your excitement.

You skidded to a halt at the front door, and there he was, standing in the entryway with that familiar crooked grin. His duffel bag hung over one shoulder, and his eyes lit up the moment he saw you.

“Rafe!” you practically screamed, throwing yourself at him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, squeezing tight as you buried your face against his shoulder.

“Hi, sweet girl,” he chuckled, his voice warm as he hugged you back. One arm tightened around your waist while his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head. “Miss me?”

“So much,” you mumbled against him, your voice muffled but heartfelt. It had been months since you’d last seen him, and the comfort of his presence was overwhelming.

“You gonna let go anytime soon?” he teased, tilting his head back slightly to try and meet your gaze.

“Mm-mm, nope,” you replied, your grip only tightening. The faint smell of his cologne mixed with the crisp autumn air clinging to his jacket, and for the first time in a long time, you felt completely at ease.

—————————

The rest of the day, you stuck by him like a shadow, trailing him wherever he wandered in the house. It was as if you couldn’t bear to let him out of your sight, and truthfully, you couldn’t. Having him back after so long made you realize just how much you had missed him. The house felt whole again, and for the first time in months, so did you.

At dinner the whole family sat around the dinner table, conversations flowing and everyone eager to catch up with the 24-year-old who had been gone for several months.

“So,” Ward said, glancing at Rafe while cutting into his steak. “You seein’ anyone?” His tone was casual, but there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

Rafe paused for a moment, shifting in his seat. “Oh, uh… not really,” he replied, his voice light. “Been talking to this one girl, but it’s nothing serious.”

You froze. A mix of emotions churned within you—anger, sadness, jealousy. You hated the idea of him seeing someone. It wasn’t fair; he’d already been away for months, and now he might share what little time he had left with someone else.

As Ward launched into a nostalgic story about his heartbreaker days, your thoughts spiraled. Rafe, however, didn’t miss the way your lips had curled into a subtle pout. Leaning closer, he lowered his voice to speak only to you.

“You okay, pretty girl?” His words were soft, almost tender, and his piercing gaze sent your heart racing.

Caught off guard, you quickly smoothed out your frown and replaced it with a small smile. “Oh, uh—yeah. Of course, I am,” you replied, your voice not as convincing as you’d hoped.

Rafe studied you for a moment longer, clearly unconvinced, but decided not to press. He leaned back in his chair, ready to return to the conversation, when you blurted out in a hushed tone, “So… you’re talking to someone? Is she… nice?”

You’d meant to sound casual, but the words came out hesitant, laced with something you couldn’t quite hide. The moment you saw his eyebrows shoot up and that familiar smirk stretch across his face, you knew you hadn’t been as subtle as you thought.

“Aww, are you jealous?” he teased, his voice quiet but amused as he leaned in closer. The soft chuckle that followed made your cheeks burn.

“What? No—” you stammered, your protest weak and unconvincing.

Rafe only grinned wider, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “Yeah, yeah. Sure, kiddo.” He reached over and lightly tapped your hand resting on the table. “C’mon, you know you’ll always be my number one girl.”

His words sent a warmth through you that you couldn’t quite explain. You tried to hide the pleased smile tugging at your lips but failed miserably. Instead, you muttered a quiet, “Thanks…” and hoped he didn’t notice the blush creeping up your cheeks.

—————————

The glow of the fridge light spilled into the darkened kitchen, the quiet hum of its machinery the only sound cutting through the stillness of the evening. You stood there, staring blankly at its contents, your hand gripping the cool edge of the door. It was the first moment all night you’d been away from Rafe since he came home. He had asked you to grab him a bottle of water while he disappeared to the bathroom, and of course, you obliged. You always did.

As your fingers curled around the condensation-covered bottle, you heard the faint sound of footsteps behind you. Instinctively, you turned, your breath catching as your father’s figure emerged from the shadows. He stood by the kitchen counter, the sharp lines of his face illuminated by the faint glow. His posture was firm, his expression unreadable, save for the weight it carried—heavy, commanding.

“You’re happy to have Rafe back, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice even, though its edge cut through you. His fingers drummed slowly against the countertop, each tap sinking into the silence like a stone dropped into water. “Maybe it’s time you start thinking about your future too. College, maybe? Something worthwhile.”

“Dad, I—”

“I don’t want to hear any excuses,” he interrupted sharply, his words like a door slamming in your face.

“But Rafe and Sarah—”

“It doesn’t matter what they’ve done,” he barked, his voice rising impatiently. “What matters is you. You need to get your act together and stop wasting your life on things that don’t matter.”

The words stung. Each one a deliberate wound, striking deeper than the last. You opened your mouth to defend yourself, to explain, to plead for understanding, but every attempt was drowned out by his voice—louder, harsher, cutting you down before you could stand.

By the time the tears slipped from your eyes, hot and unbidden, you couldn’t stay any longer. Your chest tightened, your breath faltered, and without another word, you turned and fled. His voice followed you, sharp and biting, as you took the stairs two at a time and stumbled into your room. You shut the door hard behind you, muffling the world outside as sobs wracked your body.

“Pretty girl, what’s wrong?”

The voice was soft, familiar—steady as the tide. Through your blurred vision, you saw him: Rafe, sitting on the edge of your bed, his brows knit with concern. He looked at you like you were something fragile, something precious, and in that moment, the storm inside you softened just a little.

“D-Dad,” you choked out, your voice cracking as the words tangled with your tears. “H-he… he said—”

“Shh, angel,” Rafe murmured, already rising and closing the distance between you. His arms enveloped you, pulling you into his chest. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

His warmth surrounded you, his hands steadying your trembling frame as he held you close. You buried your face into the soft fabric of his shirt, your tears soaking into him as the safety of his presence began to untangle the knot in your chest.

“Ward said something to you?” he asked, his voice low but laced with barely contained anger. His hand moved to the back of your head, stroking your hair gently as you struggled to speak.

“H-he’s just so mean,” you finally whispered, your voice cracking like a splintered branch. “Why does he have to be like that? Why is he always so mean?”

Rafe sighed softly, his lips brushing against the top of your head. “I know, angel. I know,” he murmured, his voice filled with a tenderness that soothed even as your tears kept falling. His thumb wiped a stray tear from your cheek, his touch warm and deliberate. “He shouldn’t talk to you like that. You know that, right? He’s wrong.”

You nodded weakly, your exhaustion weighing heavier now, your sobs quieting into soft, uneven breaths.

“Let’s get you settled, yeah?” Rafe whispered, shifting slightly as he cupped your thighs to guide your legs onto the bed.

“But… I don’t have my PJs on,” you mumbled, your voice small and thick with the remnants of your tears.

“Don’t worry, princess, just relax. Let your big brother take care of you,” he said reassuringly, starting to pull the zipper of your plaid skirt down.

“Rafe, what—!”

“Shh… it’s okay,” his words cut you off, pressing kisses to your forehead and petting your hair — the affectionate gesture making your brain go fuzzy.

As his large hands tugged your skirt off, his lips trailed down to your neck, innocent affectionate kisses turning desire-filled and nasty—sweet to sloppy.

Your mouth stood agape, eyes fluttering shut as your head fell back to be cast upward. Rafe’s slender long fingers deftly hooked around the hem of your shirt, pulling it up your arms and torso, over your head, and onto the white rug next to your skirt.

Suddenly he pulled away, his lips disappearing from your now burning skin which caused you to straighten your head again and look at him — now with an embarrassingly noticeable flush coating your cheeks and chest.

It didn’t matter though, he wasn’t looking at your face; no, he was intently studying your body, only clad in a mismatching lace bra and underwear set, seated on the bed before him.

As you peered down at your attire along with him, taking in the revealing sight — a bra, baby pink and completed with small little flowers and intricate details on top. Your panties, are virgin white and accompanied by swirls and frills of lace at the top hem of the soft fabric.

You knew this was not how you should be dressed in the presence of your brother.

“C’mon, bedtime.” You knew sleeping in your bra wasn’t good concerning breast development but you didn’t say anything. Choosing to instead crawl into bed and cozy up in the warm scarlet sheets.

As you cuddled into your blanket and pillows you felt the mattress dip behind you, upon further inspection after you had turned your head, you saw Rafe climbing in next to you.

“You doin’ a bit better, princess?” The question made you remember the argument and the tears shed. You answered with just a small curt nod, turning back around to face the wall to hide the tears that started filling your eyes again.

Soon enough you felt Rafe’s hard chest pressed against your back and his comforting arms wrapped around you.

“I’m so sorry, pretty girl, you deserve so much better,” he whispered as he ran his fingertips over your arm.

“I’ll help you cheer up, okay? Just… just hold still for me, okay? Be a good little sister.”

With a confused face, you hesitantly agreed. Said confused expression soon turned to shock when Rafe’s hand tread scarily close to your thighs.

“You’ve grown so much.” His breath hit your ear tantalizingly as his hand gripped your thigh and pried it apart from the other.

"You’re a real woman now, huh? So proud of you. So so so proud of you, baby.” Your heart flourished and your mind melted, his praise overloading your body too much to even register that he had reached your panties and was tracing the edge of them.

A small kiss was placed on your shoulder, followed by a low, “I can give you what you deserve.”

His index finger snaked its way down into the fabric, making you gasp as he barely touched your most sensitive and private body part.

“I’m gonna provide for you one day.” His finger ran through your slit, teasing your puffy clit when he reached it. “I’ll take such good care of you.” He probed at your entrance, circling it like hyenas do their prey. He ignored your gasps and mewls and spoke further. “We’ll leave this place behind and we’ll be happy. Together. Forever.”

Two of his gnarled fingers plunged into your tight hole, pushing and stretching against the walls.

Your back arched and you let out a series of moans and blubbers — soon to be shut up by Rafe clasping his hand over your mouth.

He continued pumping his digits in and out of you, trailing kisses from the front column of your throat to the nape of the back of your neck.

You knew it was wrong, what you both were doing was so so incredibly wrong but it felt so great.

“You’re mine, yeah pretty girl? All mine,” he snarled as you reached your intense and overpowering high, your orgasm crashing onto you with a force of gravity itself.

Rafe slowly fucked you through your blissful haze, slipping his hand out of your now wet panties and licking his fingers coated in your essence clean.

“Rafe…” was the first word you spoke when he removed his hand from your face. Your voice was trial and shaky, your eyes wide and guilt-ridden as they looked at him.

“I know, I know. C’mere,” he inveigled your body to lay flat on his as he intoned validations and easements.

His hand glided up and down your bare back, repeating the same phrase under his breath — his version of a lullaby to get his baby sister to sleep.

“I got you, sweetheart, I got you now.”

[cavernsandcod]

a little continuation to this post of mine. | 0.8k

cw; dirty dog simon and husband!price, nsfw themes

───────────────

Price knows Simon by the sound of his footsteps.

An ego-driven, menacing gait that makes all the soldiers disunite like the red sea when he travels the corridor. All the small talk and banter comes to a halt when the big man is around, as if he's some sort of bad omen. It's not true, at least John doesn't think so, but that might be a Captain's privilege. He's in charge of the brute, not the other way around.

A dark shadow passes by the stained glass, a masked head held up high. He passes the crack of John's office door, likely intent on avoiding any unnecessary interaction—

—always yes sir, no sir, like a good boy.

"Riley. In here. Close the door." Price calls out, taking off the reading glasses hanging low on his nose, tossing them onto a stack of intel. The soldier stops in his tracks. Doesn't flinch at the serious tone of his superior. It's not the first time he's heard it, won't be the last.

Simon crosses the threshold, shutting the door. Crosses the room in two quick strides like a floating apparition. "Intel?"

"Thankfully, no." Price slowly rises and rounds the oak desk, which feels uncanny. His lips curve into some sort of uneasy smile, crow's feet and lines of age deepening. Makes the air feel calmer, more personable. The Lieutenant stiffens and crosses his arms, his face in a permanent scowl under the black balaclava. Nothing about this is normal.

"I need a favor, Simon." Simon. Not Ghost. "It's about the wife."

Simon turns his head to the shelf beside him, studying the row of framed photos, the majority encapsulating you. The dating stages, youthful and bright-eyed in pubs and restaurants with a thick, hairy arm wrapped around your waist. Then, months after he popped the question—the idyllic wedding in Madrid where you faced each other, hand in hand.

All he remembers of it is the itchy suit and open bar. If he weren't the shell of a man, he might feel bad.

And now, the photos are few and far between. No life to them, just fake smiles with friends and their kids. A hand around your shoulder and a nose in your hair, all while you fight an inner battle. No vacations, no fun. Just the pretty missus to an esteemed Captain.

He was certain you two wouldn't last.

The first time you visited him on base and tried to hide how out of element you felt. Didn't notice the man spectating from the corner, his identity concealed. Or pretended not to. Too sweet for your own good. Ignored for months on end. Mere roommates with the man you married on the off chance he is home. Probably doesn't have time to lay you down proper—

"Well? Simon?"

He shrugs, feigning indifference. "What about 'er?"

"I need you to keep an eye on her for me. Laswell has something for me in Istanbul, and it might be a few weeks." Price responds, fiddling with the band on his left hand.

"Been gone weeks before, Cap. Months, too. She knows how it is by now." Simon retorts, curtly. Their problems aren't his. He's not keen on becoming private security for a boring housewife, either. You live a boring life. Nobody knows where or who you are, except the circle.

"This is different." The captain's tone sours. "She's pulling away from me. Doesn't see things... clearly anymore. If I leave us where we are now, she might not come back. You're the only one I trust." His voice almost splits into something weak. Almost.

Trusting him took years of work and near-death experiences that had them make it home by the skin of their teeth. Some sort of war-bred trauma bond, his shrink said once. John only goes to his appointments out of necessity, not so much his own volition.

They see horrors the paper-pushers don't, and will never, truly digest.

He could talk about personal things, too. The questionable childhood, his marriage, the prospect of children—but doesn't. He's too guarded to hash any of that out.

"So," Ghost begins, head dipping low in thought. "You're asking me to shadow your bird. Follow her... Keep her sound?"

It's not really a question, but the polite thing to do is ask. Simon knows what he should do and what he actually will; always ten steps ahead.

Price nods, letting out a small hum. He pats the hard shoulder standing beside him, a firm pat of approval. "Do whatever you have to."

All it takes is five words. Five words and another lingering stare at the photos of you make his chest pound, fingers twitching in search of action.

In truth, Simon always thought you were captivating—an anthesis to everything he is.

He spent the years of your relationship on the outskirts, curled up on the front porch like a stray that isn't allowed inside, chained and confined to his place. Never broke the rules because he's a patient, headstrong bloke with a few fantasies.

All he needed was an invitation inside.

His cock twitches in the confines of his trousers, the forbidden switch finally flipped.

"Yes, Sir."

[rodolfoparras]

A Man Can Dream (or so he’s been told)

+18 MDNI +18

Synopsis:

In which he doesn’t mind the age gap

comments, not at all

Cw: top male reader, dom male reader, age gap, exhibition kink, someone thinks he’s your dad and he likes it, Valentine’s Day date!

Thinking about dating an old man who isn’t bothered about the age gap comments matter of fact he finds that he enjoys them, especially when he comes across someone who thinks you’re his son, and the two of you just happen to have a really close bond

“Raised him right” of course, taught you how to keep a cock in your mouth, brought you to your knees and stretched your throat just right til he was sure you carried an indent of his cock on your tongue.

“Like father like son,” the words echo in his mind as he watches you spit into the palm of your hand, eagerly stroking his tip, before spreading it to the rest of his dick, just like he had showed you when you first fucked him.

Those people probably think he’s a pervert , a disgusting old man taking advantage of someone so young and innocent, walking hand in hand with someone who could be his son or something

But they don’t know how’d you’d willingy bend him over in front of those very same people, spreading his legs so wide you’re sure to give a show to whoever’s behind, force his hand behind his back before driving up into him.

He’d beg and plead: for you to slow down your brutal pace, to spare him the embarrassment but you wouldn’t listen to him, only using him as a hole to sheath your cock in, all while grinning at the people watching.

He wonders if they’d realize then that you’re the perverted one here, that he’s tried to reject you multiple times, thought the very same thing as the onlookers are thinking now but you wouldn’t give up, practically cornered him riled him up til he was painfully hard in his pants and couldn’t do anything else but shove his cock into your mouth, letting someone who could practically be his son give him the best blowjob he’d ever gotten.

He’d continue to watch the onlookers and the flurry of emotions on their faces : the look of surprise that turns into disgust before something else bleeds into it, something he’d almost dare call desire. The sudden realization would make him tightening around your dick which in turn would fasten the brutal pace you have on him. Eventually he wouldn’t be able to ignore the heat coiling in his groin, and he’d realize belatedly he’s fucking himself back onto your cock, even though his body aches in protest and his thrusts are nothing but sloppily and sporadic.

Somehow you’d find it in yourself to show him mercy: slightly shifting your positions to give him a bit more leverage. In that very moment he’d be sure the sky had been cracked open, pearly gates of heaven practically welcoming him, stairs cascading right at his feet. But the sudden white light that flashes past his eyes would blind him, the pearly gates disappearing as something else is presented to him: his orgasm, washes over him in violent waves til he forgets all about god angels and heaven , cock spurting ropes of cum til he’d feel like he’s been wrung dry.

God, heaven and angels be damned.

“Love? Love?“

Suddenly a voice breaks through the daze. Mellow and sweet. Had an angel decided to wait around for him?

But when he blinks a couple of times, he sees your concerned face staring back at him, the aroma of coffee surrounding him, a half finished coffee cup clinging onto his fingers it’s almost hurting him

“Are you okay?”

Right.

Coffee shop. Date. You. Him.

“If it’s about the waiter from earlier..”

Right. Waiter. Curly hair. Warm eyes. Thought it was sweet that you were spending Valentine’s Day with your dad, like that very same man wasn’t palming your cock under the table, like he hadn’t sucked you off before you got to the coffee shop, like he wasn’t fantasizing about all the ways you could fuck him in front of these people.

Dad. Dad. Dad

Suddenly he springs up in his seat, mutters something about needing the restroom before scurrying away from where you’re sitting.

Jesus christ.

[sixeyesonathiel]

holy week’s about to start, but i can’t stop fantasizing about yandere!gojo with a servant!reader who’s been his shadow forever so take this filth ive written on a whim<3 (if you've seen this earlier with a different age difference, no you didn't. did my best to reword/change everything because i changed the age tho kek, also made this more filthy as promised😼)

cw: heavy dubcon, yandere themes, manipulation, gaslighting, 3 year age gap, power imbalance, explicit sexual content (fingering, pussy slapping, nipple play, edging), dacryphilia, degradation/humiliation, corruption/dumbification, forced commitment, pseudo-sibling complex (not incestuous, just deep emotional bonds from shared childhood), 18+ only, minors DNI.

you’re his servant, three years younger, bound to him since your mother’s milk fed you both—her role was his wet nurse, his caretaker, tucking you into the same nursery, her lullabies stitching you to satoru like thread. you were his shadow in the gojo estate’s cold sprawl—a scrawny kid trailing his steps, offering him sticky candies, giggling when he’d lift you to reach the high shelves. he was the six eyes heir, a lonely boy with hair like starlight, locked away from the world. you’d crawl into his bed during storms, whispering stories to chase his fears, not knowing you were his anchor. he’d pat your head, call you his lucky charm, and you’d beam, too young to see the hunger in his eyes. it was innocent then—your adoration, his protection, a bond like siblings but not, woven from shared nights and secrets.

now you’re grown, or trying to be, with dreams of kyoto—books, freedom, a life beyond bowing. you tell him you’re leaving, voice small but brave, thinking he’ll pat your head like old times. satoru’s not that boy anymore. he’s taller, sharper, a god in human skin, his blindfold hiding eyes that could burn worlds. he leans against a pillar, smirking like you’ve told a joke. he asks for three days to “give you a proper goodbye.” you think it’s sweet, a nod to your childhood. you’re so fucking naive. he’s not saying farewell—he’s raging against you daring to take what’s his. you. his everything.

the night before your train, the bathhouse is a fog of steam, your shift damp, clinging to your thighs like a second skin. you’re rinsing your hair, humming, when the air thickens—electric, heavy. satoru’s there, lounging against the cedar wall, blindfold gone, his eyes a crazed blue, pupils dilated but still searing, like twin oceans swallowing the light. his white shirt’s half-open, collarbone sharp, hair damp, sticking to his forehead like he’s been pacing, plotting. his lips curl, boyish but venomous, a predator playing soft.

“you’re really gonna ditch me?” his voice is low, almost pouty, but there’s a razor in it, slicing through the steam. he steps closer, barefoot, silent, and your heart stumbles. his scent hits—clean, like rain and sugar, dizzying.

you try to laugh, to keep it light, like when you’d steal his mochi. “satoru, it’s not like that. i just… i wanna study, see things. you get it, right?” your words falter under his stare, those eyes—blue fire, pupils twitching, crazed but not lost. they pin you, strip you, like you’re glass.

he tilts his head, a silver strand falling over one eye, and his smile tightens, lips thinning. “you don’t sound convinced, pretty thing.” his hand lifts, slow, deliberate, catching your wrist. his fingers burn, too hot, and your pulse races under his thumb, betraying you. “think you can just walk out? after all i’ve done for you?”

“done for me?” you echo, voice catching. the steam’s choking, your shift’s too thin, and he’s too close, towering, his shadow eating yours. you step back, but the wall’s there, cool and slick against your spine.

his grip slides to your elbow, firm, pulling you flush against him. his chest is hard, warm through his shirt, and his breath brushes your cheek—mint, heat, sin. “you were mine from the start,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear, sending shivers to your core. “all those nights, your stories, your sticky little hands. you think that was nothing?” his free hand slips under your shift, tracing your thigh, slow, teasing, until your breath hitches.

you should push him off. this is satoru—your satoru, who’d carry you when you fell, who’d sneak you sweets—but not like this, not with his fingers climbing, brushing the damp cotton between your legs. “satoru, stop,” you whisper, but it’s weak, trembling, and your thighs part, just a fraction, traitor to your will.

he laughs, soft, cruel, his eyes glinting as his pupils pulse, blue blazing like a storm. “stop? oh, sweetheart, look at you.” his finger presses against your core, light, testing, and you gasp, knees wobbling. “already wet through this flimsy thing. what kind of good girl dreams of leaving then soaks herself for me?”

“i’m not—” you start, but his finger slips past the fabric, grazing your slit, and your words choke into a whimper. he’s watching, always watching—jaw tight, lips parted, a flush creeping up his neck like he’s barely holding on. the boy you loved is there, but twisted, hungry, his beauty sharper, meaner.

“not what?” he taunts, sliding one finger inside you, slow, deliberate, curling just enough to make you clench. “not mine? not desperate?” he steps closer, pinning you with his hips, and his cock’s hard against your thigh, straining through his pants. “you’re a fucking mess already, and i’ve barely started.”

tears prick your eyes, hot, spilling fast, and he groans, low, animal, leaning in to lick a stripe up your cheek. “fuck, you’re gorgeous when you cry,” he breathes, voice fraying, like your tears are his drug. his finger moves, slow, deep, and you’re trembling, heat pooling where he’s stretching you. “makes me wanna break you, pretty thing. wanna see how many tears you’ve got left.”

“satoru, please,” you sob, clutching his shirt, damp cotton twisting under your nails. your body’s screaming—too much, not enough—and he’s everywhere, his breath hot, his touch burning. you’re barely even an adult, barely anything, and he’s unraveling you like it’s his right.

“please what?” his voice drops, mocking, and he pulls back, eyes blazing, pupils wide but still blue, crazed, endless. “please stop? please more?” his thumb finds your clit, circling, and your hips buck, chasing the ache despite the shame clawing your throat. “you’re humping my hand like a needy slut. think kyoto’s got this? think anyone else can make you this dumb already?”

“no,” you gasp, and it’s true, god help you—he’s carved himself into you, every soft moment now a blade. his finger curls deeper, joined by another, stretching you, and you bite your lip, tears streaming as the burn twists into need.

he coos, soft, sickening, his free hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your tears. “aw, poor thing, crying so pretty for me.” his voice is honey, but his fingers thrust harder, slick sounds loud in the steam. “you don’t need dreams, sweetheart. you need me, don’t you? always have.” his lips brush yours, a tease, then pull back, leaving you chasing air.

“i just… i wanted—” you try, chasing what’s remaining of your reason, but his thumb grinds your clit, ruthless, and your words fracture into a moan. his smile’s gone, replaced by something darker—jaw clenched, eyes wild, like you’ve hurt him.

“wanted what?” he snaps, yanking his fingers out, and you whine, empty, hips twitching. “wanted to leave? to forget me?” his hand slaps your pussy, sharp, sudden, and you cry out, the sting melting into heat that makes you clench around nothing. “look at this greedy cunt,” he sneers, slapping again, harder, watching you jolt. “making a fucking mess all over me. you disappointed me, you know that?”

“i’m sorry,” you sob, frantic, nails digging into his arms. your tears are rivers now, and he drinks them in, his tongue darting out to taste your cheek again, a low groan rumbling in his chest. his fingers plunge back in, three now, brutal, curling against that spot that makes you see stars.

“sorry’s not enough,” he growls, but his voice cracks, raw, like he’s the one breaking. “you did this to me, you know. all those years, following me, needing me—fuck, you think i wanted to crave you like this?” his thumb’s back on your clit, circling fast, and you’re trembling, so close it’s painful. “you’re mine, pretty thing. say it.”

“i’m yours,” you whimper, voice raw, and his eyes soften, just a flicker, before they harden again, pupils pulsing in that crazed blue sea. he kisses you then, hard, possessive, teeth clashing as he swallows your sobs, his tongue claiming every corner of your mouth like it’s his territory.

“good girl,” he purrs, pulling back, lips wet, swollen. “but you’re still a filthy little thing, aren’t you?” his fingers slow, teasing, keeping you dangling, and you whine, hips grinding against his hand. he slaps your pussy again, twice, three times, each one meaner, and you’re keening, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. “won’t you look at this?” he laughs, mocking, holding up his hand, glistening with you. “you’re soaking me, sweetheart. what a dirty fucking mess.”

“satoru, please,” you beg, voice breaking, and he coos again, sickeningly sweet, his free hand sliding to your chest, yanking your shift down to bare your breasts. his eyes darken, pupils twitching, and he leans in, latching onto your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing.

“fuck, these are perfect,” he mumbles against your skin, tongue flicking, and you arch, moaning, oversensitive. he pulls back, eyes locked on yours, and his voice drops, filthy, reverent. “your mom fed me, you know—gave me her milk. and now here i am, sucking on her daughter’s tits like a starving man.” he bites down, just enough to sting, and you scream, soft and broken, as he laves over the mark. “kinda poetic, huh? full fucking circle.”

you’re babbling now, incoherent—his name, please, more—lost in the heat, the pain, the way his fingers fuck you relentless, thumb grinding your clit until you’re teetering, body taut. “satoru, i can’t—i’m gonna—”

“not yet,” he snarls, yanking his hand free, and you wail, empty, aching, hips bucking into nothing. your knees give, but he catches you, pinning you to the wall with his body, cock hard and leaking through his pants, pressing against your belly. “you don’t come ‘til i say, you hear me?” his voice is low, fraying, and his eyes—still blue, but crazed, electric—bore into you, daring you to disobey.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” you sob, frantic, hands scrabbling at his chest, his shirt wet with your tears, your slick. his skin’s fever-hot, muscles tense, and his breath’s ragged, hitching like he’s fighting himself.

he leans in, forehead to yours, damp hair sticking to your skin. “you’re not sorry yet, pretty thing.” his voice is soft, dangerous, and his hand’s back, four fingers now, stretching you wide, palm slapping your clit with every thrust. “but you will be. gonna fuck you ‘til you’re too dumb to want anything but me.”

you’re gone, body seizing, babbling nonsense—satoru, please, need you, yours—and he’s murmuring filth, fractured, unhinged. “that’s it, fuck, look at you—gushing like a whore for me. think your silly books can do this? think anyone else can wreck you like this?” his fingers twist, relentless, and your cries echo, too loud, obscene in the cedar haze.

“no one,” you choke, and he rewards you with a kiss, softer this time, but still possessive, tongue tracing your teeth like he owns them. “only you, satoru, please—”

“damn right,” he growls, and his face shifts—jaw tight, eyes blazing, a flush painting his cheeks like he’s burning from the inside. “you’re mine—every fucking breath, every drop of you.” his fingers slow, dragging out the torment, and you’re begging, hips grinding, voice shot. he slaps your pussy one last time, so hard you scream, and you clench, leaking down his arm.

“come for me,” he finally rasps, voice raw, like it’s torn from his soul. “come all over my hand, show me you’re my good fucking girl.” and you do, shattering, gushing, body convulsing as you soak him, slick dripping to the floor. you’re babbling—satoru, yours, love you—words spilling without sense, and he fucks you through it, cooing how perfect you are, how you’re his, lips brushing your tears like they’re gold.

you’re limp, panting, but he’s not done. he kneels, yanking your shift higher, and licks a slow, greedy stripe up your thigh, tasting you. “fuck, you’re sweet,” he groans, eyes meeting yours—still blue, crazed, but softer, sated. “gonna eat you proper later, sweetheart. but not yet.” he stands, his tongue flicks your nipple again, teasing, and you whimper, oversensitive.

then he’s pulling you into his arms, strong, too strong, like he’s scared you’ll vanish. “you’re not leaving,” he says, quiet, final, his breath hot against your hair. “not tomorrow, not ever.”

you don’t fight. you can’t. a week later, a ring glints on your finger, his clan’s crest cold against your skin. he calls you his fiancée, voice dripping pride, and you smile, because he’s satoru—your satoru, who gives you silk, sweets, his endless obsession. you don’t need kyoto, or dreams. he’s burned them all to ash, and you let him, because he’s all you know.

[pupsec]

𐔌 、kakashi　ﾉ　you quietly play the role of a dutiful wife—until you uncover his secret stash of smut and realize your aloof husband might just be a filthy, pervert 𓈒　◟

cw: arranged marriageノdubcon undertones ノ obsession ノ explicit content ノdark themes ϑϱ

୨ৎ dead dove: do not eat！minors, blank & ageless blogs will be blocked ୨୧ pt. 2

You married him under sakura blossoms and a sky the color of secrets.

Kakashi Hatake never looked at you during the ceremony. His Sharingan was covered, his visible eye lowered, posture slack like this whole thing bored him. A political bond, they called it. A strategic arrangement. You were nothing but a name on a scroll, a signature in ink. You half expected him not to show up. Maybe a crow with a note tied to its leg instead—Sorry, too busy training. Best wishes.

But he came. He said "I do" with a shrug.

You moved into his quiet house tucked into a hill on the edge of the village, where the wind always carried the scent of pine and earth, and the porch creaked with age. He gave you the larger bedroom, disappeared into the smaller one down the hall. Never touched you. Barely spoke.

"Don’t trouble yourself," he murmured the first day, not even glancing up from his book. "I won’t get in your way."

So you didn’t. You dusted. Swept. Folded. You ironed his uniforms and laid them out with care. Cooked meals and left them covered with a little note—If you're hungry. Most went untouched.

You tiptoed around him like you were afraid to wake a sleeping wolf. A wife in name only. You kept your head down, told yourself it was fine. Maybe even peaceful.

Until one day you were cleaning.

It was raining. The sound of it tapping against the window made the silence heavier somehow. Kakashi wasn’t home. An early mission. You hummed as you dusted the shelf in his spare room—a room you weren’t supposed to touch, really, but something about it called to you today. Maybe it was the crooked frame. Maybe it was boredom. Or maybe it was the little pull of curiosity that always got girls like you in trouble.

You tugged the drawer open.

And froze.

Stacked. Neatly. Organized alphabetically, even. Rows of smutty novels. The kind with aggressively suggestive titles and lurid covers—The Icha Icha Chronicles: Lust in the Mist, Kunoichi Heat 3: Forbidden Jutsu. One was dog-eared right in the middle. You flipped it open before your brain could stop your hands, and—

The scene inside made your face go hot.

Someone tied up. Begging. Calling the man sensei. Pages sticky from too much use. You dropped it like it bit you and stumbled back.

Kakashi—stoic, unreadable Kakashi—was reading this filth?

You snapped the drawer shut and ran.

You didn’t bring it up. How could you?

You just scrubbed harder. Smiled tighter. Tried to push it out of your head. But then your panties started to vanish.

Not the plain ones. Not the folded cotton briefs. No—it was the delicate lace, the soft silk, the ones you only wore when you were feeling fragile and feminine. You thought maybe you misplaced them. Laundry mistake. Until it kept happening. Until you knew.

Then it was the scent. On the laundry. Faint, but there—something musky and warm and male. You started doing your laundry in secret.

And then one night, you caught him.

You woke for no reason. A soft creak. A breath. The door cracked open.

You pretended to stay asleep.

You kept your breaths slow, steady, heartbeat hammering in your ears as you felt his presence at the edge of the bed. So close. So quiet. Something shifted on the sheets.

You waited until he was gone to peek.

Your underwear drawer. Still open.

The next morning, Kakashi sipped his tea like nothing happened. Same bored look. Same lazy posture. The man who used your panties as a midnight addiction was smiling politely and asking if you wanted more sugar in your tea.

Your head spun.

How could he look at you like you were glass, when he was sneaking into your room just to press his face into your scent? How could he act so unaffected, when the flush on his throat betrayed something molten just under the skin?

You started watching him. Closer. The twitch of his fingers when you bent over. The way his eye followed the line of your throat when your robe slipped just a little. You tested it—dropped a towel "accidentally," bent slowly. Kakashi didn’t move.

But he stared.

When you turned to look at him, his nose was buried in that damned book again. As if he didn’t just imagine bending you over the table and fucking you till your knees gave out.

He was a ghost in the day and a deviant in the dark.

And you were the good little wife who smiled and served tea.

But you felt it now. The tension curling around both of you like smoke. The sharp awareness. The way his voice dipped low when he said thank you for breakfast, like it had a thousand meanings under it. The way your thighs clenched when he stood too close.

One night, you found a pair of your panties—worn, damp, and warm—folded under your pillow.

Your hands shook. You didn’t throw them out.

You tucked them away.

You weren’t sure who you were becoming.

But it made you wet just to think about it.

[castielthinkr]

THINK I NEED SOMEONE OLDER

older!dean x fem!reader cw age gap, nsfw below cut (mdni), size kink (+ implied choking kink?), bunker era (think s9-10, so dean is 34-36 ish and reader is early to mid 20s), a little angsty in one or two places

notes my final assignment of first year is due in 12 hours. i wrote this instead. also i don’t usually write smut so if it’s shit dhmu

older!dean was hesitant to do anything with you at first. there’s thirteen years between you, and he’d always said it was too much, that he was too old for you. eventually, after months of teasing and flirting and god knows how many repetitions of “i know what i want, dean,” he’d grabbed your face and kissed you hard.

older!dean treats you like glass that he could break at any second. he’s gentle — gentler than he ever was with any other girl. he kisses your forehead, always has a gentle hand on you, and generally takes care of you. he cooks for you, wraps blankets around you when you fall asleep researching, and acts like the definition of a gentleman (to sam’s utter delight — the new material he’s gained to tease his brother with is endless).

older!dean shares his music with you. you call him old for it, and he makes a suggestive comment about you benefitting from his experience. he makes you a tape of songs he loves and catches you playing it in your room on more than one occasion. the two of you bond massively over music, with him showing you the rock he grew up with and you showing him newer stuff, like paramore. he’ll never admit that he thinks hayley williams is awesome, but you know.

older!dean hates taking you out on hunts. you met through hunting, and you’re a damn good hunter yourself (his words), but that will never stop him worrying. he’s protective, almost overwhelmingly so, on hunts, and you’ve had more than one biting argument about how he needs to let up. he promises he will some day, but you still see his eyes on you constantly. he needs to make sure you’re there, to make sure you’re safe.

older!dean loves to tease you with pet names to see how flustered he can make you. there are some he uses that are nice, and make you feel nice and warm inside, like angel and sweetheart. (darlin’ with his texan twang, always gets you blushing.) he tries to call you baby, but you veto it, stating the age difference as a reason. he tries to tease you, occasionally calling you kid and kiddo until you stop calling him honey and start only referring to him as old man.

older!dean absolutely loses it when you get hurt. you go on a hunt with sam, despite your boyfriend’s protests at getting left behind, and when sam calls as a heads up that you’re injured, he’s an anxious mess until you reach the bunker. you walk through the door bruised and a little bloodied, and he’s all over you. he doesn’t leave you alone, even after you’ve been cleaned up and ordered to rest by sam. he’s constantly touching you, either holding your hand or rubbing comforting circles on your hip. even when you heal he’s hesitant to let you out of his sight again, stating in the middle of a dark night while he holds you close that he can’t lose you.

things with older!dean start out soft and pretty vanilla, as he doesn’t want to push you or hurt you. he’s so caring and gentle with you, making sure you enjoy yourself and holding you close and making sure you finish first.

when older!dean finds out you’re just as freaky as he is, it’s over for you. he’s relentless, testing new things with you almost every night. youre sure you’ve tried every position by now, but dean’s favourite is a tossup between missionary, where he can watch your face as he all but pounds into you, and cowgirl, where he can watch as you tire yourself out on top of him (being able to see your tits bounce is also a bonus).

older!dean loves it when you suck him off but let’s be honest: he’s a huge munch. he’s eaten you out in more places than you can count, including (probably) every surface in the bunker, the backseat and driver’s seat of the impala, countless motel rooms and even a few diner restrooms.

older!dean has trouble letting you take control sometimes. he feels a little strange, given the age gap between you, but when you do get chance? he loves it. being completely under your control, letting you do whatever you want? it’s like a dream come true for him. but, despite how many times you start on top, it always ends with him snapping his hips up into you or flipping you over and finishing what you started.

older!dean loves it when he gets to see just how much bigger he is than you. when he can hold your waist and his hand seems to just dwarf you, or when he has you in his lap and his hands cover your hips completely. he especially loves watching as he takes you, and when his large hand wraps around your throat with just enough pressure for you to feel it.

regardless of how vanilla or how insane the sex is, older!dean never misses a second of aftercare. he’s always right there, with either a warm bath or a damp cloth depending on how tired you are. he’ll massage your thighs after they’re spent from riding him or comb out the tangles he made in your hair, whispering sweet nothings to you and holding you like you’re fragile because, to him, you are. even when he’s let you take the reins, he holds you close as you drift off to sleep, pressing gentle kisses on your face and tracing his hand down your back.

[cynicalrosebud]

RHI - NSFW 1: Ache

NSFW Masterlist

Pairing(s): John Price x Rumor

Summary: Rumor hands the control over to Price completely.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, gay sex, BDSM elements (spreader bar, gagging), use of a vibrator, power dynamics, implied cnc themes, themes of restraint, orgasm control.

Notes: Rumor is a whooooooore, he likes to be used. Enjoy!

The dim light of the safehouse flickered as John Price leaned back in his chair, eyes dark and unwavering as they roamed over the sight before him. Rumor was laid out on the bed, restrained by the spreader bar attached to his ankles, his legs spread wide and completely at John’s mercy. His wrists were bound above his head, the rope tight but not cruel, keeping him anchored as his chest rose and fell in anticipation.

Rumor’s mouth was filled with a ball gag, the leather strap digging into the corners of his mouth, muffling the small, needy sounds he made. His eyes were wide, bright with arousal, and the occasional flicker of defiance—though that was fading, bit by bit, as John held control over every sensation.

In John’s hand, the small vibrator buzzed, its low hum filling the otherwise silent room. He hadn’t used it on Rumor yet—hadn’t even brought it near his flushed skin. Instead, he let the tension build, watching the way Rumor’s body strained against the restraints, desperate for the release he knew John could give him.

“Look at you,” John rumbled, his voice a low growl, sending a shiver down Rumor’s spine. “So fucking pretty like this. All spread out… completely helpless.”

A muffled whine came from Rumor’s throat, his hips twitching as he tugged at the spreader bar, unable to move, unable to close his legs and hide from John’s intense gaze. He wanted to answer, wanted to tease like he always did, but the gag turned his sharp words into nothing more than soft, incoherent sounds.

John’s lips quirked into a smirk at the sight, his eyes narrowing in satisfaction. “What was that? Trying to smart mouth me?” He leaned forward, pressing the vibrator against Rumor’s inner thigh, the vibration light but enough to make Rumor gasp around the gag, his back arching slightly.

“That’s what I thought,” John murmured, dragging the toy up, closer to where Rumor ached the most, but never giving him what he needed. “You always push, doll. But not tonight. Tonight, you’re going to take what I give you.”

Rumor let out a frustrated groan, his hips jerking up as if he could force John’s hand, but the restraints held him fast, the spreader bar keeping him wide open, on display. His cock twitched with every pass of the vibrator, hard and leaking, but still untouched, still denied.

John watched with keen interest, his hand steady as he traced the vibrator along the sensitive skin of Rumor’s thigh, just barely grazing his balls before pulling away again. Every time the smaller man’s breath hitched, every time his muscles tightened, John pulled back, keeping him right on the edge, letting the frustration build to a fever pitch.

“You look desperate, dolly,” John murmured, the teasing tone almost mocking, but there was something warmer beneath it. “You’re always so damn cocky. But when you’re like this? All gagged and spread out… you can’t hide anything from me.”

Another muffled sound escaped Rumor, his eyes pleading now, his body trembling under John’s touch. He wasn’t used to being this vulnerable, this open. And fuck, he loved it. Loved how John controlled every bit of his pleasure, how he could take him apart with just a few well-placed vibrations and a commanding look.

John finally brought the vibrator closer, letting it buzz against Rumor’s cock, slow and deliberate. The reaction was immediate—Rumor’s whole body tensed, his hips lifting off the bed as much as the restraints would allow, a choked moan slipping past the gag. His toes curled, his muscles tight, every inch of him focused on the relentless, teasing vibration.

“That’s it,” John said, his voice a quiet command. “Feel it. You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

Rumor nodded desperately, his eyes squeezing shut as the vibrator worked against him, the intensity just enough to drive him mad, but not enough to push him over the edge. He could feel the pressure building, the tension coiling in his belly, but every time he got close, John would ease up, pulling the toy away and leaving him panting, trembling, and straining for more.

“Not yet,” John muttered, his tone dark and firm. “You’ll come when I say.”

A frustrated whine tore from Rumor’s throat, his teeth sinking into the gag as he tried to control himself, tried to hold back the overwhelming need. But John was relentless, bringing the vibrator back to his cock, circling the head before dragging it down the length, making Rumor’s whole body shake with the effort of not coming too soon.

“You’re close,” John observed, his eyes sharp as they locked onto Rumor’s face, watching the way he fought to keep control, the way his breath came in short, frantic bursts. “I can see it.”

With that, John turned the vibrator up a notch, the higher setting sending a jolt of pleasure through Rumor that almost sent him spiraling. His muffled moans grew louder, his hips bucking involuntarily, his cock aching with the need for release. But still, John didn’t let him have it.

“Hold it,” John growled, his hand pressing down firmly on Rumor’s thigh, keeping him grounded, keeping him from falling apart too soon. “Not until I say.”

Rumor’s whole body trembled, his eyes fluttering shut as he fought to obey, his muscles tight and straining against the restraints. It was torture—pure, blissful torture—and John knew exactly how far to push him, how much he could take before it became too much.

Finally, when Rumor was on the verge of losing it completely, John leaned in, his lips brushing against Rumor’s ear as he whispered, “Now.”

With that single word, Rumor shattered. The vibrator pressed firmly against his cock, sending waves of intense pleasure crashing through him, his whole body jerking as he came hard, his muffled cries filling the room. His muscles tensed, his back arching as the orgasm tore through him, relentless and overwhelming.

John kept the vibrator in place, riding out every twitch, every spasm, until Rumor was left trembling and spent, his body sagging against the restraints, utterly exhausted. Only then did John finally turn off the toy, pulling it away and setting it aside.

He reached up, unbuckling the gag and gently easing it out of Rumor’s mouth, wiping away the drool that had gathered at the corners of his lips. Rumor panted heavily, his eyes half-lidded and glazed with satisfaction, his whole body still thrumming with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

John leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, his hand cupping Rumor’s cheek. “Good lad,” he murmured, his voice soft now, full of warmth. “You did well.”

Rumor managed a weak, breathless smile, his voice hoarse as he whispered, “Knew you’d take care of me, Daddy.”

John smirked, his thumb brushing over Rumor’s bottom lip before pressing another kiss to his temple. “Always.”

[bumblesimagines]

Burning Love

Request: Yes or No

Summary: As the eldest son and heir to the Iron Throne, Prince (Y/N) Targaryen has many responsibilities; most of which his darling sister hopes to share with him one day.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

TW/CW: Targcest/Incest (Full-blooded Brother-Sister), Aemma lives!! and Alicent is not a childbride, mentions of stillbirths and miscarriages (Aemma's pregnancies)

Collecting HOTD oneshots like pokemon cards at this point

~~~

It was known that Targaryens had... questionable traditions. Traditions those with outsider perspective could only force themself to understand.

There was the act of putting a dragon egg in the cradle of a babe and hoping the egg would hatch sometime soon after to ensure the babe was bonded to a loyal protector they'd grow up alongside of; a tradition started by Rhaena Targaryen, eldest daughter of King Aenys I and Queen Alyssa Velaryon. Targaryens were Dragonriders, bonded with the very beasts they used to conquer the lands and pull them all into one kingdom (with the exception of Dorne, of course). They cremated their dead, a custom from Old Valyria, often with the help of a dragon belonging to their closest kin. 

And of course, the most infamous and often looked down upon custom, wedding kin to kin. Another custom from Old Valyria that many followers of the Seven turned their cheek upon, for they found the act of wedding siblings to siblings and so forth (apart from cousin to cousin) a sin. Faithful followers could voice their complaints as much as they wished, but Targaryens were kings, queens, princes, and princesses. Nobody could or would stop them from keeping their bloodline pure if they so wished. 

Descending from a long, historic, and proud family, Rhaenyra grew up listening and learning the tales of those who'd come before her. Aegon the Conquer and his faithful sister-wives, Rhaenys and Visenya; the many rebellions and fighting brought on during the lives of King Aenys I and King Maegor the Cruel; The Old King Jaehaerys who'd chosen her father, Viserys, as heir over his own late heir's daughter, Rhaenys; and of course, the histories written during the early stages of her father's reign. 

Her beloved older brother had been two when King Jaehaerys named their father heir and three when their father ascended the throne whilst their beautiful mother, Aemma Arryn, carried her in the womb. The fourth person to ever hold little Rhaenyra in their arms had been her brother, closely supervised by their parents and the maester attending the birth, of course. With a healthy son and daughter, Viserys and Aemma hardly needed for more children, but they tried anyway. Their attempts never carried to term, however, and any little ones that did were either stillborn or died mere hours or days after birth. 

Still, Rhaenyra never needed for any more siblings. Her brother was enough, in her humble opinion. He cared for her diligently, especially during their younger years when he eagerly wished to play with her, even if it meant the two of them being gently scolded at the end of the day for dirting Rhaenyra's dresses with mud and dirt. (Y/N) treated her as his equal, even showing her how to use a wooden sword when he began his training and helping prepare her for dragon-riding on Syrax. His own mount hardly needed much training in the Dragonpit, for the mighty Vermithor's first rider had been the Old King.

As time passed, the siblings were forced apart more often than Rhaenyra enjoyed. She'd made up her mind long ago that she and (Y/N) would one day be wed, and she'd be his formidable sister-wife. Their parents merely chuckled about it when she'd first told them at the age of seven, her squeaky voice and flushed cheeks only drawing cooing from Aemma and sweet smiles from Viserys. The absence of her brother had been stark, his time taken up by training, studying, and spending time with the Small Council, but Alicent Hightower had quickly taken his spot as Rhaenyra's companion. 

However, in due time, (Y/N) became man-grown, and while Rhaenyra quickly followed with her flowering, as heir and prince, (Y/N) became the most eligible bachelor in all of Westeros. It took time for it to become apparent to Rhaenyra but her eyes and ears opened when she heard their parents speaking of it. Many families, highborn and lowborn, offered their daughters through letters or visits to Kings Landing. Lannisters, Baratheons, Starks, Brackens, Blackwoods, Tullys, and plenty more came forth. Even Otto Hightower made a passing comment about wedding Alicent to him. It was infuriating.

"In truth, I do not understand your irritation, Rhaenyra," Alicent spoke gently, her slender fingers working on embroidery. A flower she'd seen in the gardens, or something along those lines. Rhaenyra hadn't truly been paying attention to her dear friend. She'd been too focused on silently fuming at the sight of her brother showing one of the highborn ladies around the Red Keep. Every giggle, every blush, every bat of her eyelashes made Rhaenyra tick. "It's wonderful to watch one's brother fall in love."

"You wouldn't understand, Alicent." Rhaenyra sighed. "It is like the love King Jaeherys and the Good Queen Alysanne had."

Alicent faltered at her words, her head lifting to eye her friend with a small grimace. "You do remember our lessons, correct? King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne had to wed in secret, for they knew that not even their mother approved in fear of another uprising from the Faith. Nobody has made a fuss over your parents since they are cousins, but who knows what may happen if you wed (Y/N)."

"(Y/N) is everything King Jaehaerys was, Alicent. He is beloved by the Realm." Rhaenyra reminded her friend with a small smile, pushing herself off the cushioned seats and smoothing her hands over the front of her dress. Her earrings swung slightly when she tilted her head slightly to the side, the ends of them brushing against her shoulders. Her eyes tracked (Y/N) as he lifted the lady's hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles before departing. "He will be a good king, and if I could prove it, I would be a good queen. His queen." Her feet began moving automatically. 

"Rhaenyra," The name tumbled out of Alicent's mouth, her hands fumbling with the items in hand. "Where are you going?"

Bunching up the skirt of her dress in her hands, Rhaenyra grinned over her shoulder and chuckled at the concerned look on Alicent's features that only grew at the sight of her mischievous glint. "To speak with my brother!" 

With a goal in mind, Rhaenyra entered the castle and followed the distant figure of her brother as he cut down hallways with long strides until he reached his bedchambers. Rhaenyra took a moment to herself to catch her breath and rake her fingers through her long silver locks before she approached the doors and nodded for the guards to open them. She stepped inside, a smile appearing across her lips when (Y/N) turned to look at her. 

"My favorite sister," (Y/N) cooed, taking a seat at his desk and unrolling a letter. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes in return, clasping her hands together behind her back and taking small steps toward him. He skimmed the contents of the letter, his face giving away nothing of what it spoke of. "Is there something you require, Nyra, or are you suffering from boredom? I have plenty of lords and ladies who'd be happy to keep you busy." 

Rhaenyra scoffed quietly and (Y/N) gave a small grin. "I hear Father is urging you to find a wife."

"The Small Council is urging him to urge me, more like. They believe it is time to begin having children. Seeing as Father and Mother had great difficulty, they wish for me to have an heir by the time I ascend the throne to ensure there won't be issues later on." (Y/N) explained, coiling the letter back up and pulling out a blank paper. He dipped his quill in ink and began writing. "Otto has been... more friendly as of recently. He speaks incredibly highly of Lady Alicent." 

"You'd tell me if you were interested in someone, wouldn't you?" Rhaenyra reached over the desk to pluck the quill from his fingers, setting it aside and raising her brows at him. (Y/N) slumped back in his seat and laced his fingers over his midsection, a hint of amusement twinkling in his eyes. Rhaenyra rounded the table and without thinking twice, she plopped down on his thigh. 

"Nyra,"

"You know as well as I do who you should wed, (Y/N). I know what a good queen should be, and I do not care about status or riches like the families of those ladies do. We have the blood of the dragon in our veins. Nobody would truly understand us." Rhaenyra spoke softly, her bottom lip slightly jutting out as she placed her palm over his cheek. His own hands unlaced, one moving to press against her back. 

"The Small Council-"

"Fuck the Small Council." Rhaenyra huffed, earning a quiet chuckle from her brother. "You are the prince, the heir. Whatever it is you choose, they must deal with it. It is their job to counsel, to offer their advice and opinions, not to dictate what you do. We could mount Syrax and Vermithor and fly elsewhere to wed in the customs of Old Valyria." 

A gentle sigh escaped (Y/N), and he leaned forward to press a delicate kiss to Rhaenyra's shoulder. The princess relaxed at the action, her hand moving past his cheek to the back of his head. (Y/N)'s lips curled up. "You are insufferable." He told her with a gentle laugh before leaning in to press their mouths together. He drew back too quickly for Rhaenyra's liking. "But a good ruler is a patient one, Nyra. If you wish for us to wed, or to lay together-" He brushed their lips together teasingly. "-you must wait. Father and Mother will be easy to convince." 

"Does it matter if we wait?" Rhaenyra tilted her head and batted her lashes coyly, the feigned innocence prompting (Y/N) to roll his eyes. She rose from his lap and dropped her hands to his, tugging on them until he stood up from the chair. She smiled widely, devilishly even, and slung her arms around his shoulders. "We will be wed, regardless. It will not matter." 

"I have things I must do, Nyra." (Y/N) gave a heavy sigh and shrugged his shoulders, his hands coming to rest on her waist. "As I said, you must be patient. If you wish to speed things along, you should speak with Mother. She'll always be the key to winning Father over." He told her and planted a kiss on her temple before settling back down on the chair. 

"Will we be like that someday?" Rhaenyra asked softly, stepping out of the way so he could resume his letter. She toyed with the rings along her fingers, the thought of becoming one of those couples who genuinely cared for each other bringing a smile to herself. It was a desire all ladies had. While sons could marry whichever woman of age they desired, ladies had to hope the husbands their fathers or elder brothers chose were good men. She'd seen far too many times the faces of girls her age married and chained to men old enough to be their grandfathers. 

(Y/N) paused his writing and lifted his head to look at her, offering a reassuring smile. "Someday." He nodded. 

"I look forward to it, then."

[ollyissleepy]

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐫

pairings: platonic yandere!batfam x uninterested!male!reader summary: After being caught red handed stealing, (name) finds himself in the Wayne Manor, surrounded by his new family. (Name)'s disinterested in bonding is met with equally not caring siblings and father. As he spends his days alone, (name) realises his new family might care much more than he originally thought the did. cw: stealing, swearing, underage smoking, mentions of gambling and death a/n: idk why but Alfred makes me think of my grandad (which is ironic since I only know him from stories told by my family and I've never even met him) anyway let me know if you're interested in the first idea regarding the scene with (name) and Alfred that I scrapped worried it would be 'too graphic' based on this idea I had

m.list • part: one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight

When (name) wakes up, the sun hasn't even risen. He's not sure about the exact time, as there's no clock in the room he was made to stay in, his phone still at his house, hidden away in fear of situations like this. The boy turns onto his back, his eyes wide open, not daring to fall back asleep. He tries to think of his next course of action. (Name) was hoping to run off during his trip to grab his clothes, but with the butler accompanying him, that won't be possible. And not really due to the age of the man, but simply because the boy doesn't want Alfred to get in trouble. He decides to come up with a different idea another time, hopefully with one that wouldn't get, what seems to be, the only worker in the manor.

Once (name) notices the first rays of light coming into the room, he decides it's probably time to move out of bed. Only then does he notice the grumbling of his stomach. (Name) sighs, walking into the bathroom; he'll have to look for a kitchen later.

The teenager checks the corridor twice, making sure he won't bump into someone as he's trying to find the kitchen. (Name) steps out of the room, doing his best to not make any unnecessary noises. He walks down the same set of stairs that he did the previous day, walking from one room to another until he finds the one he was looking for. Once in the kitchen, he opens the fridge, grabbing a few things that could make a decent breakfast. The boy doesn't take anything that he deems as 'too fancy' for his tastes, opting for simple vegetables and other produce. Stuff he figures nobody will really notice the absence of. The teenager is so focused on filling his stomach that he doesn't notice another person entering the room.

"Mast—, (name), if you were hungry, you could've come to find me. I would be happy to make you something." Butler speaking up causes the boy to jump up. He turns around; the food he made for himself is in his hands.

"It's alright, Alfred," (name) reassures, looking away, like a child caught doing something they shouldn't. "I don't mind making my own food."

"I know you don't, but next time, please don't be afraid to ask me. That's what I'm here for." Alfred smiles, deciding against pressing on the matter.

Alfred begins to smoothly move around the kitchen, grabbing ingredients and other things he needs to cook a meal. (Name) watches the man working as he eats the food he prepared. He debated going into a dining room but decided against it, worried that since the butler starts making breakfast, the rest of the family will get down to eating there. The boy isn't interested in meeting any of them.

"I don't have any work until lunch," Alfred announces, making (name) tilt his head in confusion. "I was thinking we could grab your clothes. That way I could wash the ones you are wearing in the afternoon," he adds, pointing at the boy's outfit with a butter knife.

"Works for me, I guess." (Name) shrugs, finishing up his food. Alfred notices the boy hesitating on what to do with the dish, so he decides to speak up.

"Just leave them in the sink; I'll put them in the dishwasher later." He points toward the appliance.

(Name) carefully puts the dishes into the sink, looking back at the butler for approval. Once Alfred smiles at him, telling him he should go and get ready so they can leave after the rest of the family eats their breakfast. The teenager takes one last look at the butler before leaving the kitchen. He makes his way back, the journey much easier now that he had done that once. He finds the staircase, slowly making his way up. When (name) is almost at the top, he notices something on the wall, close to the ceiling. As he walks up higher, he recognises the object. It appeared to be a surveillance camera. (Name) doesn't stop to give it a closer look, not wanting anyone who watches through them to notice his interest in the object. The presence of the camera changes the boy's plans as he decides to spend the next few days checking where the rest of them are. He'll also need a plan on avoiding some of them to make himself harder to find. 

As he enters 'his' room, the first thing (name) does is grab his hoodie. The one he hid under the pillow the previous night, just in case. As he puts it on, he realises he should clean up a bit or at least fix the bed , not wanting anyone else to touch the place he's sleeping on. The boy makes sure to make it in a different way to make it easier for him to tell if somebody was messing with it. With some more time to spare, (name) looks out the window, looking at the garden. He also looks over the fence further into the property, wondering if it has any loose spots, making his escape easier.

(Name) doesn't move from his spot next to the window when somebody knocks on his door. He tells them to come in, his eyes moving to the door. Alfred comes inside the room, noticing that the boy seemed to have made the bed. He also notices that it was made differently from how the beds are usually done in the manor, but he decides not to dwell on it too much. The butler figures that it must be the only way the teenager was taught how to fix it.

Alfred let the boy know that he's ready to leave whenever the teenager is. (Name) puts his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, nodding that he's ready. Both of them returned downstairs, this time moving opposite to where the kitchen was. To the boy's disappointment, Alfred leads him outside and not to the garage, where he could judge 'his father's' taste in cars; the boy frowns at the missed opportunity.

There's a car parked in the driveway; it looks slightly different than the one he was brought in. Alfred opened the door, his hand gesturing for the boy to get inside. (Name) sits onto the backseat of the car, the butler closing the door behind him. The boy plays with the hem of his hoodie, waiting for Alfred to walk around the car to start driving.

The car ride is mostly silent, save for (name) giving out directions to the butler. The boy enjoys the lack of words leaving Alfred's mouth, making him think that the whole journey might not be such a pain after all. (Name) lets the man know that his apartment building is on the left, ending the ride. Alfred finds a spot to park the car, hoping nobody will damage or, worse, steal it. After he makes sure the car is securely locked, he turns towards the building the boy is already at the entrance of. He tries not to show it, but the state of the building fills him with worry. Is it really where the boy was living? The paint chipping off the outside walls, exposing the brick, and the cracks surrounding the windows. The building was most definitely not up to any code and probably shouldn't even be lived in.

Even though worries of the building collapsing filled Alfred's head, he still followed the boy inside. As they were making their way up the stairs, an older woman came out of the flat on the bottom floor, probably hearing their steps. 

"Ah, (name), good to finally see you. You're a few days late to rent," she informs, glancing at the boy, then looking at Alfred from head to toe, the man getting uncomfortable under her judgemental stare. "I tried knocking, hoping your mom would pay, but it seemed that nobody was home."

"Sorry, Mrs Smith. Mom is busy with work, you know how she gets," (name) explains, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. "I'll bring it to you in a bit," he promises with a shy smile.

The woman nods, taking another look at Alfred, before walking back inside her flat. He doesn't ask the boy about the lie he told Mrs Smith, knowing it's probably for the best that she wasn't aware that only the boy lives in the apartment. They resume their walk up the stairs until (name) stops at one of the floors, walking down the hallway. The butler watches him stop at one of the cracks in the wall and take out a key from it. The boy then stops in front of a door further down the hall, opening it with a key.

(Name) doesn't look back to see if Alfred is following behind him. He doesn't want to see the look of disgust the butler must have upon seeing the condition of the place the boy calls home. What the teenager isn't aware of is that Alfred doesn't look at it all with disgust but rather concern.

The flat is in much better shape than Alfred anticipated. It was mostly clean, other than the empty instant noodle packets and some other everyday litter. There was a blanket thrown over an old couch that looked like it had seen better days. As (name) disappears in what the butler believes to be a bedroom, Alfred is left to look around the main room of the apartment. He checks the kitchen, his worry deepening after noticing the state of it on top of the oven that looks like a fire hazard.

(Name) double-checks the stuff he throws inside the bag. He puts inside whatever he decides he might need, even if it would just be used as a fire starter. The boy doesn't own many clothes, so putting them all randomly inside the bag wasn't hard. It took him minutes to grab all of his belongings. There weren't many things that belonged to his mother that (name) kept. Most of them he was forced to sell a long time ago, so he won't go hungry or have to pay rent. A few things that the boy kept, he also stuffed inside the bag, even if that meant leaving behind a few shirts so he could close it. The boy takes an envelope from under the mattress, checking if there's enough inside to cover this month's rent. 

Walking back to the main area of the flat, (name) finds Alfred staring at something. As the boy walks closer to the man, he notices that Alfred is looking at the only picture the boy has of himself and his mother. (Name) doesn't know why the butler is staring at that picture so much, but he also doesn't care, snatching the picture away from Alfred's prying eyes. The man watches the boy put the photograph into a bag, carefully arranging it in between some shirts.

"I see that you packed your bag. Do you have everything?" Alfred asks, wanting to make sure neither of them would have to come back to this place.

"Not yet." (Name) puts his bag on the couch and walks towards the opposite side of the room, crouching next to a lamp.

Alfred sees the boy take out a flip phone, which doesn't surprise him after seeing the state of the flat. He figures it's the only phone he and his mother could afford. The butler uses the fact that (name) let go of his bag to grab it for the boy.

"Oh, it's fine. I can carry it myself," (name) says, putting the phone in his pocket. He steps closer to Alfred, trying to take the bag out of the butler's hands.

"Don't worry, (name), I'll make sure nothing happens to it." Alfred reassures the teenager, keeping a firm hold on the bag. "You just focus on locking up the place properly."

Both of them walk out of the flat. Alfred watches as the boy locks it and then puts the key into his pocket. (Name) wonders if he should give the key back to Mrs Smith, knowing that even if he could, it wouldn't be safe for him to return there. He walks down the stairs with Alfred following behind, stopping at Mrs Smith's apartment to give her the envelope. The boy returns the key as well, mentioning that he and his mother were moving out. The woman didn't ask any questions, figuring it's not her business. Both of them walk out of the apartment building, and Alfred lets out a sigh of relief. He didn't show it, but staying in a building that was in such a state was filling him with anxiety. The butler walks with (name) back to the car, putting the boy's bag into the trunk.

"Alfred, do you think we could visit her grave?" (Name) asked, his eyes focused on the ground before him. "I don't know when I'll be able to visit, and I'd hate to leave without saying goodbye."

"Of course, (name)." Alfred agrees with a soft smile. "I'd be happy to take you." The man closes the trunk, moving to open one of the back doors.

"Let's walk; it's not far," (name) suggests, not seeing a point in turning on a car to drive such a short distance.

"Lead the way." Alfred closes the door, still smiling.

(Name) was right about the cemetery not being far, as the journey takes less than ten minutes. From the moment they entered the cemetery, (name) was only looking at the ground as if afraid to look at any of the graves. Alfred, on the other hand, takes a moment to read some of the names written on the graves. He's so distracted that he almost misses (name) stopping in front of one of them. Alfred stands next to the boy, whose expression he couldn't read. The man then looks at the grave, reading the words on the gravestone. 

(Mother's name) (Last Name) beloved mother Born xx-xx-xxxx Died xx-xx-xxxx

"It's been…" Alfred begins to speak, but the words are caught in his throat.

"Seven years, yeah," (name) finishes, his eyes never leaving his mother's gravestone.

"You were only ten." Alfred's cracks, trying so hard not to imagine a little boy burying his mother all by himself. "How did nobody find out?"

"If you know where to go, they won't ask you questions." (Name) shrugs, finally looking up at Alfred. "Mrs Smith's late husband helped me bury her, only wanting some money so he could gamble behind his wife's back. Honestly, I'm kind of surprised he never mentioned my mother's death to her."

Neither of them moved for a while after that. Alfred is still trying to understand how this boy managed to survive on his own for so long. He pitied the boy, wishing Bruce had found out sooner about him. Maybe then, (name)'s life would be a little easier.

The drive back to the manor is quiet, with Alfred checking on the boy's wellbeing in the rearview mirror. The butler wants to say something, anything that could bring comfort to (name). No words seemed good enough; after all, what could you say to a teenager who lost his mother almost a decade ago?

Back in the manor, (name) uses the need to unpack his bag as an excuse to get away from the butler. The boy makes his way back to 'his' room, closing the door shut behind himself. He doesn't take out much from his bag, only a fresh set of clothes, some underwear and the picture of his mother. He changes into the clothes, wondering if he should throw the old ones to the humper or ask Alfred if he can wash them himself. The teenager ends up putting them in the hamper, knowing that the butler would find a reason for the boy to not wash them himself.

(Name) makes sure his bag is hidden under his bed before heading out of his room to look for more cameras. The boy roams the hallways of the manor, hoping that he looks like a clueless child exploring his new home. He tries to remember as many locations of the devices as possible. He hopes to ask Alfred for some paper and pens to write them down later, but in the meantime his memory has to be enough. (Name) turns around after hitting a dead end, deciding to look for the butler for his request, when he bumps into someone. The man had broad shoulders, partially hidden behind the grey hoodie, his hair messy, like he’d just run a hand through it — dark, tousled. Man's vibrant blue eyes, running over (name)'s younger frame.

"Hey, you're new here, right?" The man asks with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He only earns a shrug from (name), making the man let out an awkward cough. "Anyway, have you seen Tim? He's not in his room."

(Name) shakes his head, his brows furrowed slightly. The man already established that he's new here; how could he know where Tim is? The man with blue eyes leaves, understanding that he won't get the answer from the boy. The teenager finds that the more he learns about 'his' father's family, the less interested he becomes in interacting with any of them.

(Name) decides that it's enough of being outside of his room for the day, returning to the only space in the manor he feels somewhat safe in. The boy spends the next hour or so recalling the locations of the cameras he saw like a mantra. 

The boy is so wrapped up in remembering the cameras that he doesn't notice the sun beginning to set on the horizon. The knock on the door made (name) jump slightly, not expecting anyone to bother him in 'his' room. He lets the person behind the door know that they're welcome to come inside. The door opens, Alfred coming inside with a smile.

"(Name), I was wondering if you'd like to join the rest of the family for dinner tonight?" Alfred asks, the smile not leaving his face. The boy is about to decline when Alfred speaks up: "It would not only mean a lot to your father to see you getting along with the rest of the kids but to me as well."

Alfred watches the boy hesitate, possibly laying out the options, before agreeing. (Name) decides that meeting the rest of the family wouldn't hurt. Knowing who to avoid could be useful for him in the long run.

"Alfred? Do you think I could get some paper and a pen?" (name) asos, following behind the butler.

"Of course," Alfred smiles, his voice soft. "I'll make sure to put a notebook and some pens in your room after dinner."

You thank the man, taking a deep breath as you enter the dining room. You take a look around the table, not failing to notice all of the seats being taken. Alfred wonders why you don't sit down, so he also checks the table, noticing as well the lack of space for the boy.

"I invited Connor over," said the one in the hoodie, barely looking up from his plate. "Figured it wouldn’t hurt."

"It’s not like he ate with us yesterday," the youngest muttered, arms crossed and tone sharp, not missing a beat.

"Still, I believe you—" the butler began to speak, hoping to resolve the issue and still have (name) join the table.

"It's alright, Alfred." The boy interrupts the man's sentence, not seeing a point in staying in the room. "I would rather eat in my room anyway," (name) assures, hoping to just leave.

The butler sighs, fixing up a plate for the boy. (Name) hangs around the man, trying to ignore the stares at everyone sitting at the table. He grabs the plate from Alfred, thanking him. He can't help but overhear a conversation that started the moment they noticed him leaving.

"He's so weird," a voice that sounded like it belonged to the youngest spoke. "His mother should've raised him better." After hearing that (name) was close to returning to the room, giving the child a piece of his mind, but another voice stopped him from doing so.

"You shouldn't say that he's still your sibling." (Name) wasn't quite sure whose voice belonged to, but he was glad somebody was telling the child off.

"You don't know shit, Conner," the youngest spoke again. (Name) suddenly wishes he took a better look at the people at the table so he could know how the boy looked. 

Back in his room, (name) eats his dinner in peace, trying not to dwell on what the youngest Wayne said. Around the time the boy finishes his meal, Alfred comes around, as promised, carrying a notebook and a few pens. He puts them down on the desk with an apologetic smile. The boy uses the moment to ask the butler if he needs any help around the manor, mentioning that helping the man clean up would make it a great way to explore the place. The butler assures him that he's more than capable of taking care of the manor and that the teenager doesn't have to worry about others looking at him weirdly, most of them being used to kids roaming the place. It's almost a weekly occurrence that somebody walks the halls of the manor trying to learn its layout for the first time.

The next day (name) decides to take Alfred's words to heart and continue roaming the manor. The boy eats his breakfast in the butler's company, who still insists that he could make something for (name). The teenager moves to a different wing of the manor, hoping that, by expanding the knowledge about the layout, he could leave the place without ever being noticed.

As (name) walks deeper into the new wing of the manor, he finds himself growing anxious, the true size of the place finally hitting him like a truck. The boy feels trapped in the maze of the hallways. He doesn't pay proper attention to his surroundings anymore, no longer looking around for cameras, his mind fixated on returning to more familiar parts of the manor. (Name) rounded a corner too fast and collided straight into someone.

"Sorry," he blurted out, stumbling a step back. "I got kind of lost."

The guy he bumped into barely flinched. Tall, athletic build, warm brown skin, tight curls cropped close. Dressed casually but sharp: sneakers, dark jeans, and a long-sleeved shirt rolled at the elbows like he was always ready for something. (Name) recognises the boy from the family dinner fiasco.

"Nah, you’re good; don’t worry about it," the guy said with a relaxed grin. "You’re new here, right?"

"Oh, yeah," (name) nodded, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.

"Wow, didn’t know Bruce adopted another one." He extended a hand. "I’m Duke. Nice to meet you."

"(Name)," the boy replied, accepting Duke's hand and shaking it.

"I could show you around if you want." Duke offers a wide smile on his face.

"I’d rather explore blind; it helps with feeling the vibes of the space." (name) shook his head. Duke laughed a little at that, and it wasn’t mocking, no, it sounded like he got it.

"Maybe I could join you?" Duke asks, eager to get to know the new addition to the family. It was his first time meeting 'new meat', after all.

"Sorry," (name) said, not unkindly, just honestly. "I’d rather do that by myself."

"That’s fine," Duke replied, a smile never leaving his face. "If you ever need company, my room’s around the corner, third door on the left. I’ll be happy to hang out with you."

And with that, the other boy is gone, leaving (name) alone with his thoughts. He's not sure what to think of the teenager that he just met. 

(Name) resumes his journey, this time much less anxious as his mind focuses on playing the meeting with Duke over and over again. With him being all in his head, it was only a matter of time before (name) bumped into somebody again. Luckily for the teenager, this time it was Alfred who offered to help him find his way back to his room.

The boy spends the rest of the day cooped up in his room, only leaving for lunch that's accompanied by the butler. The rest of the time, (name) focuses on writing down the plans of the manor. He excludes the part he explored today, labelling it as being too far and too complicated to navigate for him to use it as his escape route. After dinner, which is also eaten with the butler, (name) asks Alfred if he could check out the garden.

"Of course, (name)," the butler smiles, happy that the boy decides against spending the evening in his room. "Just put on a hoodie; it's getting colder."

(Name) nods as if he wasn't already planning on grabbing one. He retreats to his room, putting on a hoodie and hiding a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in his pocket. On his way out to the gardens, he doesn't meet anyone, the manor feeling colder than the outside.

The boy finds a secluded area in the back of the garden, next to an overgrown pond. He takes out a cigarette, lighting it. (Name) inhales the smoke, filling his lungs with it. His body relaxes in the places he wasn't aware he was tense in. As the teenager smokes down half of the cigarette, it's taken out of his hands.

"I don't think it's good for you, kid," a man said, voice low and rough, like gravel under boots, with just the slightest edge of concern buried beneath all that worn-out indifference.

He blinked, startled, watching as the man stepped back and crushed the cigarette under his boot without ceremony. Older—by a few years, maybe—leaning against the crooked base of a crumbling angel statue. Leather jacket, boots that had seen better fights, and eyes that looked like they didn’t sleep much unless knocked out cold. He didn’t smile. Didn’t really look at him, either. Just knew exactly what he was doing.

"Isn’t it, like, the whole point of them?" he said, irritation bleeding through.

"Don’t play smart with me," the guy shot back. "I don’t care if your mother died; you shouldn’t go around smoking. It’s bad for the image."

"You don’t look like someone who gives a fuck about the image of this family," (name) laughed, short and sharp.

"Because I don’t." A small, crooked smirk. "But I don't want to listen to everybody's whines." The guy kicked a stone into the pond.

"Who are you anyway?" The guy looked at (name) sideways, like deciding whether or not to answer.

"None of your business." And with that, the guy turns around, walking down the path to the manor, not looking back to see if (name) takes out another cigarette.

Later that night, after a shower, (name) takes out the notebook. He carefully crafts a plan, hoping to leave the manor forever by the end of the week. The boy makes sure to plan out every possible outcome in case somebody notices him as (name) leaves. The boy also plans out an idea if somebody from the family were to find him.

The next few days, (name) makes sure to act as unalarming as possible. He's hoping to not attract attention from any of the residents of Wayne Manor. The boy continued eating his meals with the butler, the man being the only person in the family he was interacting with. The nights were spent polishing up the plan.

The boy started to believe he was getting away with the plans until one of the lunches with Alfred, the one less than two days before leaving the manor. Both of them were eating their food in silence, as they usually did. The butler's brows were furrowed, him trying to think of a way to approach something that he worried might be a sensitive topic.

"(Name), I couldn't help but notice that you haven't unpacked your bag yet," the man begins, his voice calm in order not to scare the boy. "Any particular reason as to why?"

"It's just… hard." (name) only partially lies, knowing that even if he wasn't planning on escaping, he would probably be too scared to unpack. "Feels like I'm letting go of my life. Of my mother?" The butler nods, understanding where the boy is coming from.

Over the course of the next few days, (name) starts preparing to leave the manor. He collects snacks with long expiration dates in his room, forcing them between the clothes in his bag. Every night, before falling asleep, the boy goes over the plan, looking for any loopholes. 

The day of the escape comes faster than the boy expected. That night, (name) stays awake until late at night; the clock struck three in the morning. He stands up from the bed he was sitting on, pulling a hoodie over his head. The teenager grabs his bag before taking another look over his room to make sure he doesn't leave anything behind. The manor is quiet, almost as if he were the only one in there.

(Name) already knows where to go; the window he picked up was found with ease, no light needed. As he reaches it, he hopes he's not wrong about the wines next to the window being strong enough to hold his weight. (Name) swings his legs over the window, taking one last look down the corridor, making sure nobody is watching. He throws the bag onto the ground before grabbing the wines. The boy places his steps carefully, slowly making his way down. Once he feels like he's low enough, he lets go of the vines, landing on the ground. From there the journey is easy, a few metres to the fence. Getting over it wasn't a problem with (name) having experience in jumping fences from his nightly stealing escapades.

The second the boy is on the other side of the fence, he starts running down the street, not looking back at the manor. He felt like a little kid, worried to spot 'his' father, or worse, Alfred, right behind him. (Name) only slows down when he reaches further into the city.

The teenager finds an abandoned building as far away from the manor as possible. In there he spends a few days, living mostly off the snacks he sneaked out and some questioning-looking water he found. He doesn't leave the building, not wanting anyone to spot him and alarm 'his' father.

Even after the snacks run out, the boy waits a whole other day before leaving the safety of the building. A bag hanging from his shoulder as he finds the right shop to 'borrow' things from. (Name) hangs around, mostly hidden in the shadows, waiting for the shop to close for the night.

With the precision of a surgeon, the boy picked the lock on the backdoor, allowing him to enter. He places some food and a few water bottles inside his bag, getting ready to leave. He stops in front of the cash register, wondering if there's any money in there. The boy decides to take his chance, forcing the register open. Luckily for him, there were a few bills that he grabbed. Maybe thanks to them, his next trip to a shop would be without breaking in. On his way out, (name) makes sure to grab a few packs of cigarettes, figuring it wouldn't hurt.

After leaving, the boy makes sure to make the lock look like it wasn't picked. He felt a little bad stealing from the owner and didn't want someone else to use the opening in the shop's security to steal even more things. (Name) lets out a sigh of relief, knowing the hardest part of the night is over and the only thing left to do is find another spot to camp in.

"Pretty sure your father wouldn't be happy about this," a low voice spoke behind (name), making him jump, scared.

The boy turned around to see who spotted him. (Name) sees a man dressed in black, a cape moving with the wind. The teenager recognises the man, knowing there's only one person in Gotham that's dressed like that. It's Batman.

"I'm pretty sure he hasn't noticed my absence." (name) feels confident, knowing the worst Batman could do is put him in timeout or something. No kill rule and all. "He'll live."

(name) is ready to leave, then the man grabs him by the collar. Batman starts dragging the boy somewhere, ignoring the yells and thrashing around them from the teenager. (Name) is so focused on trying to get the man to let go that he doesn't notice the two of them entering a building.

"Don't worry, Batman, we'll take it from here." A voice that belonged to Commissioner Gordon snapped the teenager out of the daze he was in. His head shot towards the Commissioner.

Batman lets go of the boy, who's instantly grabbed by two police officers. Same ones who brought him in all those days ago. The officers lead him towards the back of the station, putting him in the same cell he was sitting in the first time they caught him. The workers leave, grabbing the boy's bag, ignoring his protests. (Name) isn't left alone in the cell for long, Commissioner Gordon joining him soon enough.

"Don't worry; you'll get your bag back when your father comes and picks you up in the morning," the man assures, a tired look on his face.

The commissioner was hoping to never see the boy in such a space, remembering how much trouble he went through with finding the (name)'s biological father. As neither of them are in the mood to talk, Gordon doesn't stay long in the cell. He sees that the boy was away from the manor for at least a few days, judging by the dirt on the boy's clothes.

Gordon tells the boy to get some sleep, reminding him that his father will be notified in the morning about what he's done. With that, the commissioner leaves. (Name) looks around, a sense of déjà vu hitting him. It wasn't a long time since he left the cell.

(Name) lies down, wondering what he'll tell the person that would pick him up. He's not sure who he should hope for. ' His' father? Maybe it's not like he cares what the man thinks. Alfred? The boy knows that he's more likely to be picked up by the man, which scares him. (Name) isn't sure he'll be able to look into the butler's eyes after a stunt like that.

taglist: @amber-content @bellethesleepypotato @leeiasure @sleepdeprivedcrappywriter

comment to be added!

m.list • part: one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight

[gh0stsp1d3r]

I’m your god

cw: religious imagery, questioning of God, sex in church bathroom, p in v, you call church bullshit, a lot of cussing…

a/n: my kickstart to angel!reader !

You didn’t believe in God.

Not really, anyway. It was merely a facade you crafted for your parents, a delicate mask worn to maintain their “precious reputation.” This was the belief system was instilled and drilled into your head from a young age, a doctrine you were taught to never question. At the age of eight, a flicker of doubt ignited within you, yet you chose to play the part of your parents’ “darling little girl”, continuing the charade.

Inside your twisted little head, Rafe was your God. And you were his little angel. His servant. His devotee. His. Only his.

As you stepped into the church, the scent of polished wood and old hymnals enveloped you. You plastered on a wide, false smile while you held the oak door open with an exaggerated flourish for the congregation streaming in.

The warm chatter of familiar faces filled the air. The pastor, had asked you personally, recognizing your family's long-standing bond with the church, to do this job. Hold open the doors and greet the people coming in, hand them flyers, it was easy enough.

Your parents, with their insistent nudges and pointed looks, had driven you to take on this role, leaving you feeling like a puppet on a string. So, you resigned yourself to the expectation, reminding yourself to embody the good girl everyone admired—even if the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Your smile faltered when you caught notice of him. The last person you expected Rafe Cameron was in a church. He smiled at you, you smiling back.

“Hey, sweetie!” Ward greeted you, stepping aside to wrap his arms around you. Rafe also stepped aside, his hands in his pockets as he watched you hug his father.

“Hey, Mr. Cameron!” You spoke, offering a smile to your boyfriend who was behind Ward. He pulled away, you giving Rafe a hug next, before giving him a small, seemingly innocent and cute kiss on his cheek.

You and Rafe locked eyes for a moment, before Ward interrupted.

“Why don’t you go on ahead, Rafe?” Ward spoke, waving his hand. Rafe’s smile fell, nodding along, before walking away to the rest of his family.

“You know, I really feel the need to express my gratitude to you,” he said. “I think you’re truly making a difference in his life. He actually asked to join us for church this morning,” he chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “I mean, can you believe it? That hasn’t happened in years!” A broad smile spread across his face as he glanced at you, you nodding in agreement.

“God will do that to you.” You replied, and god, You were too good at this. He so fucking believed that. “I’m so glad, Mr. Cameron.” You smiled at him sweetly, him patting your shoulder before walking to the rest of his family.

As the service started, the air felt heavy with incense and the rhythmic cadence of the pastor’s voice drifted over the congregation.

Your gaze flickered to the side, where Rafe loomed in your vision. He stood in the shadows, his eyes locked onto you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

It was as if you were a fragile deer caught in the predatory gaze of a wolf. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, while the rest of his family sat beside him, oblivious to the charged tension that crackled between the both of you.

Your gaze kept drifting back to him, that undeniable pull drawing your attention. Suddenly, a vibration from your phone in your lap broke your attention. You quickly shifted the device to your side, careful to shield it from your parents, and stole a glance at the screen. You looked at the message, excitement flowing through you at the words.

rafe ! 🫶

bathroom.

You cast one final glance at him, feeling a flutter of anticipation in your chest. As you rose from your chair, you gently smoothed the fabric of your dress, ensuring every wrinkle was gone before you stepped away. Leaning toward your parents, you whispered you were going to the bathroom. They merely waved you off, their expressions full of indifference.

You swung open the doors that led into the narrow hallway where the bathroom door was slightly ajar. You leaned against the cool wall, your heart racing as you waited for him. When you heard the door open, your eyes went to him, noting the way he darted his gaze around, taking in his surroundings and making sure no one else was around. Finally, he made his way toward you, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans.

You got on the tips of your toes to plant a kiss on his lips, his mouth moving against yours. He let out a quiet groan when you put your tongue into his mouth, his hands traveling your body. He put his hands on yours ass, gently patting it. You jumped up, him holding you as he walked backwards intro the bathroom, locking it behind him.

“Oh, fuck.” You breathed out, your back hitting the cold tile wall. His hands fiddled with his belt buckle, pulling it down and his pants pooled to the floor. He bunched your little white dress up, pulling your panties to the side.

“We gotta be quick, baby. My parents-“ you started, before he cut you off with a kiss.

“Your parents can suck my dick.” He retorted, “I don’t give a fuck.” He panted out, his lips ghosting yours as he pulled his hard cock out, putting it to your entrance. The both of you panted, your breath mingling together

“Oh shit,” you cried out when he slowly slid in, his mouth moving to your neck, letting out a low chuckle, his hot breath on your neck. He left open mouth kisses on your neck, gliding his tongue and his teeth over your soft skin.

“Rafe.” You cried out when he continued to slide into your warm, velvety walls. He was so deep, yet half of him wasn’t even inside of you.

“I’m barely even in, angel.” He spoke mockingly, you could feel the grin he had on his face. He looked up, moving away from your neck.

“And you know you have to be quiet. Wouldn’t want your precious little parents to find you here, watching you get fucked by your ‘sweet, cute, little boyfriend.’”

You nodded, hiding your own face in his shoulder, wrapping your arms tighter around him. You looked almost like a koala hugging a tree branch.

He breathed out as he pulled out of you, before his hips bucked back into your warmth. You let out a cry, your hands bunching up the shirt he had on, tears falling onto it.

You could already hear your pastors voice ringing in your head. Don’t fall a victim to lust, but you couldn’t find yourself to care when Rafes hands were sliding down your thighs and his slender fingers moved to your clit, rubbing it in circles.

“Oh god, oh my god.” you cried out.

“I’m your god, baby. Say it. Say I’m your god.” He spoke breathily.

“You’re-“ you were cut off by a particularly hard thrust.

“Say it.” He repeated.

“You’re my god!” You spoke while you came, hiding your face into his neck.

He grinned once again, his hips slowing for a moment, before he shot his seed into you, painting your walls. He groaned out, the both of you relishing in the after. You moved your legs from his waist, and stood up on wobbly legs.

He smoothed out your dress, pulling your panties to the side for you, collecting the mixes of both of you on his finger, before shoving his finger into your mouth.

You grabbed his wrist, letting out a moan on his digit as you swirled your tongue around it. He removed his finger from your mouth with a ‘pop’, and a sick smirk made its way onto his face.

“How’d you even keep me up for that long?” You asked with a giggle, wiping the remnants of the liquid from your lips.

He flexed his muscles with a smirk, you rolling your eyes and giggling at him. “It’s what I work out for.”

Your smile fell when you looked down at the Apple Watch on your wrist, grimacing now.

“What?”

“We’ve been gone for like 10 minutes, ray!”

He shrugged nonchalantly, “Who cares? Just say you got your period or some shit.”

“What about you?” You asked him with a pout, leaning closer into the mirror, fixing your makeup and hair, looking at him through the reflection.

“I’ll say I couldn’t help myself and was having sex with my super sexy girlfriend.” He replied, leaning against the wall, staring at you from the mirror.

“Rafe!” Your cheeks warmed up at his dirty words, him smiling.

He laughed, “Nah, nah, I’ll just say I ran into some old lady and helped her or something. I don’t know.”

You let out a soft sigh, amusement dancing across your features as you turned to face him. Your lips formed a small, sad pout as you gazed up into his eyes.

“I don’t wanna go back,” you admitted, your voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. As if sensing your reluctance, his hands found their way to your waist, drawing you in closer, enveloping you in his warmth. “Everything they say is bullshit, anyways,” you continued.

“Then don’t.” He replied, as if it was that easy.

“I have to.” You let out a weary sigh. You leaned in closer to the boy, pressing your lips softly against his in a gentle kiss that. As you pulled away, your fingers brushed the warmth of his skin before dropping to the cool metal of the doorknob.

“Well, I’m gonna go Toppers' party later, if you want to come.” he said casually. You turned to look at him, your expression curious as you met his gaze over your shoulder. "How about I swing by and pick you up?”

“Sounds good.” You beamed, him moving to your side to kiss you one more time.

“Love you, sweetheart.” He told you, patting your ass once more when you opened the door. You giggling and rolling your eyes at him.

“Love you too, ray. See you.” You blew him a kiss over your shoulder as you left, him smirking to himself, running a hand through his now messy hair, and looking at his reflection in the mirror.

“Damn.” He mumbled, pulling his collar down to look at the marks your lipstick had left from when you kissed his neck, smiling and shaking his head to himself as he pulled it up higher.

With every sinful act you committed, you dug a hole deeper and deeper into hell. You couldn’t find yourself to care, because Rafe was there right next to you, shovel in hand.

[myladysapphire]

Forbidden

With a feud older than history, the Blackwoods and Brackens have long been enemies, but now, you, a daughter of lord Bracken, finds yourself in the arms of Benjicot Blackwood, and he will do everyhting it takes to make you his.

based of this request

word count: 3,893

cw: MDI, 18+, smut, dry humping, loss of virginity, p in v, fingering, making out, masturbation, violence, slight breeding kink, pregancy, not proofread!

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!fem!reader

dividers by @zaldritzosrose

Authors notes: a lot of ocs, alot of canon diveregence and based before the dance.

sorry this took so long to come out and so long for me to update in general! i wrote half of this and then decided to re do the whole thing entirely differently and then I got stuck and started writing two other things but here it is, enjoy!

“You will not marry him” your fathers voice bellowed.

You had begged and pleaded and yet there was no resolve, your father was adamant in a match with the lord Jorah Mallister a man near twice your age. And not a match with the man you held dear to your heart.

Benjicot Blackwood.

You had met him near six summers ago. For six years you had been courting him in private, away from all eyes but each other’s.

It had been easy to fall in love with him, with someone as kind and well mannered as he. But that wasn’t what had drawn you to him.

At the time neither of you knew which house the other belonged too, nor cared. There seemed to be something unexplainable that drew you to one another.

You were like twin flames, so similar and yet you were your own unique force but together you burned brighter.

But this wasn’t something your lord father could understand.

The feud between Blackwood and Bracken had spanned through time and was a never-ending factor. They would always despise one another, the true reason why lost to time and only fuel was added to the fire with each generation.

If the Blackwood’s stood on one side, you can guarantee the Brackens stood on the other.

The sides of their conflict varied, no one knowing the truth, neither history book nor legend.

With both houses being old and ancient, with blood of the first men running though their veins. Both claimed to be kings, the Blackwood’s claiming to have been kings of the wolfs wood before being driven south. And the Brackens had been kings of the Riverlands.

There it is said the Blackwood’s usurped the Bracken lands, where the Blackwood’s claimed the Brackens were petty lords and sells words hired to usurp them.

And though there had been a hundred peace’s between the families over the millennia, with every blackwood comes Bracken blood, and ever bracken comes blackwood blood. But no peace lasted long enough, and each peace ended with a larger wound than before.

When it comes between the two it is often a case of, he said or she said, no one wishes to get involved and no one knows the truth, and no matter the efforts of their overlord of kings, no truce lasted.

And all because of this, a feud neither of you wished to take part in, you were torn apart.

A marriage set between you and an old lord, and the turning of a key locking you in your rooms, separating you from him.

Your father thought it was some infatuation, when in fact it was everything.

You had met as children, playing on the border between your lands. He had tripped and fell over the border stones and you, with your friends having long run off at the sight of a blackwood came to aid him.

Tending to the small cut on his head, you teased him mercilessly, claiming he must be the best knight the Blackwood’s had if he would so easily cross the border as he did.

Andin truth that was how it all started, childish teasing, and the small gesture of caring for his small cut.

With days spent meeting at the border, playing as children did, you forged a bond. A bond that only strengthen as you were sent to ward with your mother’s family over.

With two summers spent together, the third apart it was clear much had changed when you went to meet at the border once more.

You had become a woman and he a man, and suddenly the childish games got lost and suddenly bashful smiles were exchanged in the place of teasing.

“How are you?” he has asked, having spent he summer with no word, unable to send each other letters, with fear of being caught and your friendship ending.

It was clear much had changed, your faces had lost the baby fat, he was now a head taller than you, whereas before you had towered over him. Your clothes had become that of a lady, no longer where your dressed hemmed to your ankles, your tunics and trousers thrown out in favour of gowns and jewels.

Your hair had grown long, and now adorned with jewels and accessories alike.

You looked everything of the lady you were expected to be and more. You had grown into your features, and he was struck by you.

It was almost like you were strangers again, with you blushing as you towards him and he unsure of how to act towards you know.

Stuttering your words, as you recounted your year, blushing as you told him of your kiss with one of the stable hands. How you had helped your aunt give birth, and how you had felt lonely without him, even though you only got to see him for a few hours every few days.

He had recounted his summer, how he had become a squire and his father had started giving him duties, fit for the future lord of Raventree.

The awkwardness left you both as the day passed and the sun set, you both left with a new view of the other. A year apart changing you from childhood friends to newfound crushes.

Neither of you cared that you were from rivalling families, the skirmishes between your cousins and his cousins and even him, never affecting you bar a small argument here and there.

As time passed and you both grew older you found most of your days spent with the other, and soon the friendly hand holding was exchanged for soft kisses and wandering hands.

If you were from any other house a marriage would have been easy, but neither of your fathers accepted the other, and as tensions grew and grew you lost any hope for a future with Ben.

You had kept your friendship, your companionship a secret, a well-kept secret no one not even your closest friends knew off.

Until two days ago.

The news of a betrothal had spurred you; you had run to the border to find Ben and beg him to run away.

But instead of Ben you found your oldest brother Amos, and a man you briefly recognised to be Bryden blackwood, a cousin to Ben. They seemed to be in some argument, over the boundary stones. Luckily no swords had been drawn yet.

You approached your brother cautiously.

“Amos” you started, nodding to the bracken men that stood with him.

“Sister…what are you doing her?” he asked, moving away from Bryden’s glare.

“I could ask you the same, aren’t you meant to patrol the border not step over it?” “I knew you changed the boarder stones!”

“I did not, my sister does not know what she speaks, she rarely comes here!”

“Rarely swear I’ve seen you before” he stepped closer to you, your brother slowly stood to stand in front of you. “Yes…I know you, you’re that girl my cousins spends his days with! hah a Bracken bitch”.

“What does he speak of!” your brother demanded.

“Nothing, I don’t know- “

Ben walked over, a laugh set on his face and hand on his sword, ready to fight if needed. “What is going on here?” he said, facing falling as he saw you.

Bryden turned to face him, “We were simply observing the border stones before your bitch came along”.

“What did you call her?” both Ben and Amos questioned, tone stern and glares set on Bryden.

“a Bracken Bitch” he punctuated each word, stepping closer to Amos, only to be dragged away by Ben and a punch landing swiftly on his face.

Ben’s fists pounded Bryden’s face, blood spattering as groans left Bryden’s lips, ben only stopped as his uncle, Wilheim came running up and pulled him away.

“What is going on here!”

“Your nephew insulted my sister” Amos spoke, his hand reaching for his sword.

“And why is Benjicot bloody blackwood taking it out on him?” he near screamed.

You looked tot eh floor, to scared to speak.

“He called her my Bracken…my Bracken bitch” Ben spoke, his eyes glued to your form as you nervously kicked at the border stones.

Wilheim gave Ben and exasperate look, “is its true boy?”

You looked up, feeling all eyes on yours.

“yes” he said, his face downcast in shame. Not shame for being with you, for the moments you shared or the love he felt but for the way it was revealed, for how you had been spoken off and the laughs that irrupted at the news.

Wilheim pulled him closer, “is she still?” everyone knew what he was asking, no matter how discrete he tried to be.

You knew the answer, and you knew no matter what came out of Bens mouth your brother would be forced to tell your father and your father would demand the maester check your maidenhead, something he wouldn’t find.

As you waited for Ben to answer your mind went back to six moons ago.

Your mind went back to six moons ago.

It was your nameday, you had escaped the celebrations and made your way to the border, where ben awaited gift in hand.

“Happy name day” he greeted, pulling you in for a hug, his face buried in your neck.

“Thank you” you breathed, your touches lingering as you pulled apart, his face close too yours.

Your eyes were locked to his, as you hesitated to step away.

“My gift?” you asked, as you stepped back ever so slightly, noticing the lingering gaze on your lips.

He smiled shyly, before presenting you the gift.

The gift, a book you had long desired. You had been unable to find it anywhere and yet, Ben had found it just for you.

“Ben” you breathed, at a loss for words as you started up at him, a shy smile on his face. “Thank you”, you said taking a step towards him once more, your body’s now impossible close.

“It was no problem” he breathed, your faces breaths apart.

A blush filled your cheeks as you leant forward your lips catching his in a soft slow kiss.

Your mouths moved in tandem, slow and soft as his hands came up to grip your waist, pulling you into him as your kiss became sloppier, his tongue teasing its way into your mouth as your hands came up to grip his hair, your lips never breaking.

Had you not been where anyone could find you, you where sure the kiss would never end, but the fear of being caught, your reputation ruined spurned you to push yourself away from him.

“we should go somewhere more private” you breathed, “out of prying eyes” “won’t they notice if your gone much longer?” “I doubt it, I said the wine had gone to my head and my maid, Farrah was more than happy to vouch the same, and that I wish to be left alone after I gave her 10 silver dragons.”

He laughed, “there is an inn nearby, perhaps we could go there?”

“An inn?” you asked a small smile on your face.

He nodded, “I know you may not wish to spend your nameday in an inn- “ “I wish to spend it with you” you interrupted, “I do not care where”.

And so, you had gone to the inn, it was barren when you got in, not many traveling to kings’ road so near winter, a room was easy to find and for the first time you were truly away from prying eyes.

The room was quaint, at least compared to what you were used too, with a double bed in the centre of the room, a small tub and chamber pot on one side and a dresser and table on the other.

“Will anyone question if you are gone long?” you asked, taking off your cloak.

You knew he most likely wouldn’t, having more freedom than you as a man and heir.

“Perhaps, but as long as I ma back by dawn I doubt I will get in any trouble.”

You nodded, “you leave often in the night then?” you teased, a smirk playing on your lips.

He coughed awkwardly, “my uncle and my cousins, Bryden, Davos and Bennifer took me to a brothel for my nameday”.

“a Brothel?” you asked in surprise, though there was a hint in jealousy in your voice, “and did you?

“No!” he said quickly, “no I wouldn’t do that” to you, he wanted to say, but up until today you hadn’t done anything, bar hold hands and lingering touches here and there.

You smiled, standing up and walking up to him, he seemed frozen, unsure of what to do or what his intentions were of even bringing you here.

You moved cautiously, your hand reaching for his as you moved yourself into his embrace.

Your fingers interlocking with his, “ben” you whispered.

And he whispered your name back, smiling as he did.

“I love you” you spoke, no hesitation in your voice.

“I love you” he breathed back, his face full of uninhibited joy.

Your lips captured his once more, this time it was full of passion, your lips moving together in tandem, his hands moving to your waist and pulling you effortlessly closer to him.

With one hand still interlocked with his, the other reached up and gripped his hair pulling him even closer to you.

Your mouths never broke apart, even as a soft moan left your lips as his tongue moved with yours.

 You started to step back slowly, dragging him with you until your back hit the bed, Bens body covering yours, his hips slowly began to grind against yours, feeling his clothed cock through his breeches as he grinded against your heat.

You moaned softly into his mouth as your body’s moved together.

“Ben” you groaned, as his lips separated from yours and moved to your neck, pressing quick sloppy kisses before leaning over you his eyes staring into yours.

He whispered your name, “do you want to keep going?”

You nodded, leaning up to reach for the laces of your gown, you never broke eye contact as you untied your dress, allowing it to fall slightly and reveal our thin chemise.

He blushed at the sight, leaning back and allowing you to fully remove your dress, before you reached for him and started to undo the ties of his tunic and breaches.

You moved slowly, taking him in as you undid his clothes, your touches lingering as you finally revealed his naked chest.

Now only in your small clothes, he reached over you once more, his body covering yours and his lips once again capturing yours.

Your bodies continued to move against each other the friction casing moans and groans to fall from his lips and yours.

Your chemise bunching up at your waist, revealing your wet cunt to Ben.

“gods” he said, feeling your bare cunt rub against his length, “his hands moved from where he had placed them at your waist to move along your thighs.

He swallowed slightly as your legs began to part, baring yourself to him.

“Do you ever touch yourself?” he asked, his fingers moved closer to your heat.

“yes” you breathed as he lightly teased your folds.

“Show me”

You breathe grew heavy, as you nervously moved your fingers down the length of your body.

Ben moved back from you as your finger dipped into your folds, gathering up your silk.

Circling your clit is slow motions, you never broke eye contact, soft moans leaving your mouth.

With one fingering circling your clit you began to dip another into your folds, circling and teasing yourself before finally plunging a finger into your hole.

You let out a moan as you did, slowly pumping your finger in and out of you.

“Gods, your beautiful,” Ben said, his hand coming to meet yours as he swiftly replaced your fingers, plunging two fingers into your hole.

You let out a high-pitched moan. The feel of his fingers was nothing compared to yours, the pleasure entirely different, even more so when his thumb came to circle your clit.

“Like this?” he asked, his movements unsure as he watched you and took in every moan or whimper you made.

“Yes! Gods yes” you said, feeling your peak wash over you as his fingers moved faster in and out of you.

You breathed heavily, sinking into the mattress as you rode out your peak.

“Good?” he asked, reaching forward to press a soft kiss to your mouth.

“yes” you said, before sitting up and reaching for the bottom of your chemise.

“Are you sure?” he asked, as you began to take of the last layer of clothing.

You smiled, nodding your head, and revealing yourself to him.

He moaned at the sight of you, getting impossible hard as he took you in.

He stood of the bed slowly, moving to take of his final layer and bare himself to you.

You groaned at the sight, “come here” you breathed.

He slowly crawled back onto the bed, his body covering yours once more as he took your lips in a passionate and heated kiss, his legs slowly parted yours as he positioned himself at your entrance.

“Are you sure?” he asked softly, moving to caress your face.

Nodding, you reached up to kiss him, “yes”.

And with that he slowly entered you.

Groaning at the stretch, you felt a slight sting as he slowly entered you, your face contorted in quick discomfort that quickly faded as he settled himself fully inside you, allowing you time to adjust.

He seemed lost tin pleasure at the feeling of your heat wrapped around his length, his face buried in the nape of your neck as he held back from moving.

“You can move” you breathed after a minute, hands wrapping around his neck as you moved your hips to urge him.

He moved slowly, pumping in and out of you, learning every move that made you moan or whimper.

He kissed slowly at your neck as his hips pumped in and out of you, his groans muffled by your neck as he began to pump faster and harder.

Your moans grew more frequent, your hand reaching down to rub at your clit as you felt the familiar feel of your peak hitting you once more, it was fast but no less pleasurable as you and he reached your peak simultaneously.

He swiftly removed himself and finished on your stomach, as your fingers continued to circle your clit, as you rode out your peak.

“gods” you laughed, after a few minutes, ben having gone to get a cloth to clean you up. “I hadn’t expected this for my nameday” you said reaching for him and pulling him into for a kiss once more.

You spent the night wrapped in his embrace, dawn coming faster than you had hoped and you were soon sneaking back into your rooms.

As the moons passed your meetings became ones of lovers, with romantic rendezvous with disguises as you went to Fairmarket parading as smallfolk away from prying eyes.

Your nights spent in each other’s embrace, whether it was in the inn or under the stary sky.

Now six moons later, you did not regret that night or the nights that followed, but the look of disappointment your brother gave you made you wish a part of you desired to take it back.  

“no” Benji spoke, answering his uncle’s question of your maidenhead.

“You will marry” he spoke, your father will approve it and I’m sure we could do with peace with our too sides, with the talk of war and all”.

But your father had instantly refused, saying he would rather a whore for a daughter than a blackwood.

You had been locked in your room for three moons, wedding arrangements made for you a lord Mallister.

You had been unable to escape to leave and see Ben, your every move watched and monitored. Though you had heard he had demanded to see you, begging for your hand and even challenging lord Mallister to a duel.

All had been refused and you were starting to lose all hope of ever seeing him again.

Then there was a tap at your window.

“Ben!” you whisper shouted, seeing him hanging onto the wall for dear life as you opened the window to let him in.

“How did you- “you began to ask only to be cut of with a demanding kiss as Bens lips attacked yours.

“I have missed you” he breathed as you pushed you down onto the bed and began to untie his breeches. “My father agrees we should wed.” he started, kissing you again, as he began to bunch up your skirts, revealing your heat to him. “He says the only way your father would accept us to marry his if you were pregnant” he breathed, his breaches now around his ancles as his finger began to tease your hole.

“Pregnant?” you questioned, “he said he’d rather me a whore than a blackwood” you said, moaning as he began to pump in fingers in and out of your entrance.

“Your father is also a devout man of the faith, is he not” he said, fingers pumping in and out of you.

“yes” you moaned, “and you and your family are followers of the old gods…he would never- “you cut yourself off with a moan as his cock replaced his fingers, plunging in and out of you at fast pace.

“And yet he said to my father that if a babe came, he would allow it…and yet he kept you from me, from any chance of us” he groaned, leaning down to kiss you as he felt your walls clench around his cock as you came.

“I am going to fuck a baby into you, going to fill you up with my seed” he groaned, “I will come, climb the walls of your castle every night until you a bred and then we shall get married and you will me mine, not that cunt Mallister!” his tone was harsh, but as his eyes bore into yours you saw the longing, the love and sense of purpose as he fucked you like he had never fucked you before.

It was primal, pure animalistic as he fucked his seed into you.

He lay on top of you, his cock still in you as you both caught your breath.

That night he took you in more ways than you could count, and in the breath moments his cock wasn’t filling you he recounted his days apart from you.

But as dawn broke, he was forced to leave, just like every other night you shred in each other’s arms.

But he fulfilled his promise visiting you every night until your moons blood stopped, and a pregnancy was confirmed.

Your father was furious, hated how you had defied him, found away to see Ben once more, and now he was forced to marry you.

With a slight swollen belly, it was no secret of why the Brackens and Blackwood’s once again decided to try at peace, even more so when Ben could hardly wait for the bedding ceremony to take you as his wife.

Taglist

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[melanchoire]

Request: Your parents set up your brother and Yujin together and they’ve been dating for a little while. (But, she ended taking a liking to you instead)…So, he decided to invite you all over to his house to have dinner together so he could introduce her to them. During dinner she teases you under the table but before she could take it too far you excuse yourself to the bathroom and she comes up with an excuse to excuse herself too…

cw: age gap (legal), bathroom + mirror sex, fingering, mommy kink.

sooo yujin is your older brother’s soon to be girlfriend. they met through their parents since they knew each other through work stuff but they had a good bond, and well, during a friendly dinner but also to discuss business matters, both brought up the subject that they had children and it just so happened that they were both the same age. after each parent told their respective child about this, yujin and your brother decided to give it a try and they clicked instantly!!

your brother used to talk about you a lot and yujin was fascinated by the things he said. she didn’t know you personally, only through the things your brother told her or what your parents told theirs during their get–togethers

once your brother and yujin started dating but not yet with a totally official title, he proposed that yujin properly meet his parents. she thought it was a little hasty because they didn’t even have an official title yet, but she let it go because it wasn’t something that really bothered her

yujin leaving the office early so she can go to the toy store and buy a nice present for her boyfriend’s little sister 🥰 she is so sweet... yujin doesn’t care about the price and doesn’t even have a problem spending a high amount of money on a doll because she’s doing it from the heart

upon arriving at her boyfriend’s parents’ house, yujin waits at the door, being greeted by her soon to be mother–in–law and her soon to be father–in–law and boyfriend on the couch

your mother tells her that dinner is almost ready, then when she calls your name because you were in your room, and yujin is more than smiling as she holds the gift bag in her hands 🥹 but the smile slowly fades from her face when she sees a girl who is clearly not a kid coming down the stairs wearing a tight tank top and the sluttiest short shorts…

yujin is thankful that she was taller than you because from another person’s perspective she was just looking down on you because of her height, but in reality she wasn’t so sneakily catching a glimpse of your tits through the collar of your pajama top ☺️ she’s so charismatic and charming, smiling at you as you two exchange words for the first time, using a friendly facade when the dirtiest and most depraved thoughts are running through her mind…

and of course she feels frustrated after meeting you! she can’t believe that your parents and hers introduced her to your brother, and not you, someone so much better than him in every field! yujin heard you talk for the first time at dinner, and even though it was the first time you two had met, she felt much more attracted to you at first sight than she did to your brother after so many cheesy dates

so when your brother invited his parents to dinner at his apartment to tell them that they finally made their relationship official, she thought it would be a good idea to be able to connect with you too 😉

yujin being the one to open the door when you finally arrive at the apartment and being greeted with the image of you having your hair styled in the prettiest way and wearing the shortest and tightest dress possible 🫠 she doesn’t even try to hide it, devouring you with her gaze and giving you a grin followed by a low whistle

“looking good, hun. you’re getting prettier every day.” and you think it’s just a compliment because it comes from your brother’s lovely girlfriend, not knowing that every day that passes she hopes it’s one day less so she can fuck you

during dinner yujin talks about her studies after your parents asked her, she comments that she finished her degree recently and finally works in what she always dreamed of ❤️ but noticing that you’re very quiet she turns to look at you and asks if you’re studying or something, and when you tell her that you’re only in your first year of college, the little sanity that was left inside her completely breaks

“awww, you’re still a baby…” and her hand slides up your thigh and gives it a squeeze while smiling sweetly at you

yujin teasing you under the table, sneaking her hand under your dress and touching you through your panties, slowly and torturously massaging your clit through the soaked fabric of your ruined underwear

and you wonder how she is doing this and absolutely no one at the table seems to notice 💀 she’s having a conversation with your parents and brother while shamelessly playing with you…

until you can’t stand it anymore and you practically run away to the bathroom after apologizing to your parents, who, well, sent yujin after you to check if you were okay because they were worried when they saw that you looked agitated and nervous

when you look up from the sink because you were wetting your face to try to calm down, you meet her gaze through the mirror 😳 you don’t remember hearing the door open or anything that would let you know she was there with you

you would have tried to turn to look at her if it weren't for the fact that she is faster than you and rushes to get behind you, pressing her chest against your back while her hands rest on the sink on either side of your sides

“you look so gorgeous tonight… did you get this pretty just for me?”

and she doesn’t let you answer either because suddenly her hands grab your tits from behind and she pushes you against her body while she whispers in your ear

“just be a good girl for me, will you? make mommy proud.”

yujin fingering you in front of the mirror and making you look 🥴 three long fingers pumping intensely in and out of you, your legs weren’t able to keep you standing and you would have fallen to the floor if it weren’t for her body pressing you against the sink, one arm around your waist and her hand working between your legs while the other is holding your face so you can see your own reflection

i also see her as the type who will let go of your face for a moment and gently pat your face when your head is falling or you just can't keep your eyes on the mirror in front of you “c’mon darling. don’t act bad now, you’re doing great. eyes on me, okay?”

but the moment she notices that you’re trying too hard she decides to close her hand over her mouth, saying “go ahead baby, make all the noise you want. mommy will take care of this.” as if it weren’t that she’s fucking you so roughly with her fingers that there’s an obscene splash that fills the silent bathroom and you’re pretty sure it’t audible through the door

and she enjoys it more than anything when you finally cum on her fingers, juices running down your thighs and wetting yujin’s entire hand up to her wrist ☺️ she will even make you watch through the mirror as she sucks on her fingers, cleaning your juices off her digits while humming softly and staring at you

and your parents and brother look happy when the loving girlfriend and her boyfriend’s younger sister start having girls’ nights ❤️ they think that it is a healthy relationship between the girlfriend and her sister–in–law where there is no rivalry or falsehood

but of course, they don’t know that after those expensive outings and luxurious dinners where yujin takes you, she drags you to her apartment to fuck you all night long: eating you out until she is satisfied, fingering you until she feels like you’ve come too much on her fingers and the sheets are soaked beneath your hips, and fucking you silly with her strap on until you cream on it and your body falls limp on her bed, although yujin will surely make you clean her cock with your mouth and shower you with praise because because she knows you’re having a hard time trying to get the whole thick strap into your mouth

[peachdues]

FREE USE UNIVERSITY!

Tengen x Sanemi x Kyojuro x Reader Roomate Free Use AU • NSFW

A/N: a new mini-series. this is meant to be a headcanon post that I can add to whenever horny. I have no excuse for this. It’s straight smut.

CW: MDNI • explicit sexual content below • free use • threesomes • voyuerisum • somnophilia • oral sex • references to anal sex • just straight filth tbh • creampies

Some roommates do group movies or grocery trips to bond; your roommates, however, have adopted a different approach. 

Tengen is the first to initiate this little exchange, and at the beginning, it really isn’t an exchange at all. Instead, it starts out as a simple request: stress relief. He’d come home angry and pissed after a lab went horribly wrong, and there you’d been, too irresistible to be hanging around the apartment in those too-short shorts. He’d taken one look at you, lounging on the couch in the living room, idly flipping through a textbook, and his frustration had made him bold enough to ask.

Maybe it had been the look in his eyes — fiery and sultry, an unusual contrast to his normal, loping swagger, that made you clench your thighs together. Or, perhaps it was simply because he was hot and it had been ages since you last got laid. Either way, Tengen ended up fucking you clear in the open, right on the couch. Every bit of it was hotter than you’d ever imagined — toe-curling and mind-numbingly good, the orgasm he fucked out of you strong enough to make you tear the glossy page of your text right from its binding as your fingers spasmed beyond your control. 

Maybe it would have been a one-time only sort of thing, or perhaps even the start of a secret, roommates-with-benefits arrangement. But then, Sanemi came home right as Tengen was in the middle of pumping a second load of cum into you, and your secret was out before you’d ever fully had the chance to keep it. You hadn’t seen Sanemi’s face, as yours was pressed into the sofa beneath the mass of Tengen’s palm, but you did hear Tengen’s snarky little what, you want some, too? 

Instead of answering, Sanemi had simply crossed the living room, drawing to a stop right in front of your head, and gently coaxed your face up from its place between the cushions. 

Sanemi’s fingers lingered under your chin, the pad of his thumb thick with calluses. “Well?” 

Call it orgasmic delusion or simple wantoness on your part, but your consent came with a dip of your head, and your lips parting around his thumb. The momoent you flicked your tongue out over his skin, Sanemi snapped, and his cock was down your throat faster than you could blink. 

Kyojuro was the last to join your little arrangement, quite literally stumbling across the sight of you, standing at the stove as you waited for your dinner to heat while Sanemi was on his knees behind you, his face buried in your ass. The sound of Kyojuro’s books hitting the floor as he stared was met only with a casual glance over your shoulder and a smile of greeting, before Sanemi did something downright sinister with his tongue and made your eyes roll into your head. 

Poor, sweet Kyojuro, still couldn’t bring himself to join in, no matter how many times he came across — or outright stared — at the way his two best friends used you so easily. You were kind and sweet, and a good roommate, so he couldn’t imagine debasing you that way, even if that quickly became the only thing he could think about. 

He tried, oh, he tried, to resist. But your dealings with Tengen and Sanemi meant that you wore less and less while at home until you were lounging about in only the thinnest underwear or the shortest little tops — all of which could easily be moved out of the way when the moment called for it. Soon, Kyojuro found himself standing behind you while you did the dishes, his cock in hand as he furiously pumped himself against the curve of your ass. You always stayed in place when you felt his warmth bearing into you from behind, even going so far as to grind against him to help him along. He almost could have been satisfied with just this, until you began moaning for his cum, pushing your hips back almost in demand as you waited to feel him spurt across your skin. That’s when he broke. 

Now, when Kyojuro is stressed — which is more often that you’d thought, to your surprise — you can almost guarantee he’s going to sit you down on the nearest surface and spread you wide.

Of course, it became obvious that all three of the boys were involved with you, and so, a roommate meeting is called. Details need to be hammered out, understandings need to be reached that everything was platonic and no one was at risk of developing any other feelings. Once that’s done, Tengen, always the instigator, is the one to suggest you as the group bonding activity. After all, you have three holes and two hands, he reminds you, slyly. 

They’re fair, of course, so a deal is struck: you in exchange for your share of the rent. An exchange of goods for services, as Tengen had put it. They lived in this apartment on their own before you moved in, so cost isn’t prohibitive. The only bills you have are your own groceries and your personal shit, so really, what do you have to lose? Besides, they’re all hot as hell, and you’re young. Might as well enjoy the ride. 

Sometimes they wait for the first one to finish with you, the other two wait in their rooms, pumping their stiffened cocks to the sounds of your whines and the other’s grunts or moans. Other times, though, one or both will join in, and you find yourself the object of three equally ravenous appetites. 

And, free use really means free use. Scrolling through social media? Fun! But if Tengen sidles up to where you lounge on the couch, his cock hard and balls full, you know to open your mouth. And you’re more than free to keep browsing the web as long as your throat is available. Talking to your mom? No problem; Kyojuro is still lifting up your shirt and taking one of your pretty tits in his mouth. He’ll do his best not to groan and suck at your nipple too loudly, but he only has so much self control. Besides, his hot mouth and devilish tongue are guaranteed to have you desperate to get off the phone before you get off while still on it — especially if his fingers start playing between your thighs. Trying to shave your legs in the shower? Might want to put the razor down, because Sanemi caught one glimpse of your ass in the foggy bathroom mirror and decided it would look better with his cum leaking out of it. Your pussy too, for that matter.

To keep everything within the bounds of fair play, the boys did agree to one rule: once someone comes, they move to sometbing different. That way, no one monopolizes any part of you, and everyone gets a fair shot at cumming where they want. Though, as time goes on, you do learn that they have their preferences. Tengen loves filling up your greedy little cunt with as much as it will take, while Sanemi loves cumming all over your tits or face. Kyojuro had been a bit of a surprise, preferring not your mouth, but your ass to pump his frustrations into.

It helps that the only bottoms you wear when lounging around the apartment is your underwear. That means whoever happens to walk by can simply reach over and tug your panties to the side and sate their need without the fuss of buttons or belts.

That sort of convenience is also the reason you’ve learned to sleep naked. It’s far easier to come out of sleep with their tongue or fingers or cock already inside you than it is to be startled awake by wandering hands trying to find you beneath unnecessary layers in the dark. 

Oh, don’t think being asleep matters, either. Your bedroom is public, as far as anyone is concerned. Besides, you don’t need to be awake to give your boys what they need, and that’s what this is all about, right?

Kyojuro was the first to pierce that veil, pushing into your room well after midnight one night, desperate and aching. Your body was far too pliant in his hands as he pushed your legs out of his way, his cock drawn to your center in the dark like a magnet. You’d woken up just as he fully sheathed himself inside you and widened your thighs to make room for him. 

Of course, Kyojuro didn’t know how to be quiet, which meant the rest of the apartment quickly became privy to his late night activities. Even half-asleep, you’d sensed Tengen and Sanemi watching from your doorway, admiring.

“Atta boy, Kyo,” Tengen claps Kyojuro on his shoulder the moment he finishes moaning out his ecstasy, his limbs shaky and covered in a thin sheen of sweat. “Got her nice and ready for us.” 

“Us?” You shoot back, your thighs rubbing lazily together as you savor the feeling of Kyojuro’s hot seed leaking out of you.

A hand — Sanemi’s judging by the roughness of skin — hooks around your ankle, tugging you to the edge of your bed before flipping you to your stomach. “You two woke up the whole damn apartment, so you’ve gotta help us get back to sleep.” 

You smother your grin against your blankets. “That was Kyojuro, not me.” 

Across the room, Kyojuro huffs out a half-hearted apology, still panting and breathless. In the dark, you can almost see the sweaty flush that always spreads across his chest after he comes; the glassiness that settles into his eyes once he’s successfully fucked every thought right out of his head and directly into you.

“Not punishment,” Tengen corrects, tapping the bulbous head of his cock against the seam of your lips. “Just a little late-night treat.” 

Humming contentedly, you drag your tongue right across Tengen’s tip, savoring the hitch in his breath. Just as you part your lips to take his shaft into your mouth, you feel your mattress dip as Sanemi’s weight settles in behind you. 

“Fuck you came a lot,” Sanemi groans at Kyojuro, dragging the tip of his length up and down your swollen cente to coat himself. “She likes that, though. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

Your moan is drowned out by Tengen’s raspy swear, the vibrations of your mouth around his cock forcing his hips to buck, pushing him further down your throat. 

Sanemi chuckles and reaches under you, his fingers circling smoothly over your clit. “She’s good at holdin’ it, too.” He shuffles forward on his knees, his tip aligned at your entrance. “I’ll give you more, sweetness, don’t worry. Let’s see if I can get all of us off together again.” 

Last week, Sanemi had come home to the sight of you on all fours with Tengen halfway down your throat. He hasn’t wasted any time in throwing his books to the side, unbuckling his pants, and wedging himself between your spread thighs, his own cock heavy and hard in his hand. Tengen must’ve warmed you up already, because Sanemi slammed his hips forward with no resistance until he was groin to ass with you. 

You’d been the first to tap out, coming hard on him with a half-moan, half scream muffled by Tengen’s girth. The vibrations had proven to be too much for him, for not half a second later had his eyes rolled back, a strangled whine slicing through ragged pants and the sound of Sanemi’s skin clapping against yours. Tengen final thrust choked off the last of your air supply but before you could pull off him, he’d planted one massive hand right at the back of your skull and held you in place. Of course, the sight of Tengen fucking his cum down your throat and the way you creamed around his dick had Sanemi spilling into you hard and fast not a moment later, nearly going cross eyed in the process.

Now, with a single forward-pitch of his hips, Sanemi sheathes himself inside you with a loud swear. There’s no time for you to adjust; you didn’t need it, not when Kyojuro’s cum is steadily squelching out of you with every sticky thrust. Before long, your toes are curling against your sheets, the blankets fisted in your hands soaked with drool that spilled down your chin while Tengen languidly fucks your mouth, his fingers twisted hard in your hair. 

True to his word, Sanemi gets all three of you off together, though it’s his orgasm that sets off the train of euphoria. He comes with a firm twist of his hips, his fingers digging possessively into the meat on your hips as he holds you flush against his groin. The feeling of his balls pulsing right against your swollen center sets you off next, your thighs trembling almost violently in their effort to keep you from collapsing into your bed. Yet, for all your struggling, Sanemi only cants his hips forward to prolong the length of his release. The force of his movements sends you jolting forward until your nose is buried in the coarse smattering of silver-white hair that covers Tengen’s groin. Predictably, that’s all it takes to send him over the edge, and Tengen spilled down your throat with a cracked Fuck! 

All in all, no place — or surface �� in the apartment is off-limits. The kitchen counter, the sofa, the shower, any of their rooms (including yours), the balcony, all of it is fair game when the mood strikes. No matter what you’re doing, no matter what time it is, if someone is hard, they’re coming to you to fix it. 

For instance, there are only two bathrooms in the apartment, and though the boys were considerate in letting you take the bedroom with the private, attached bath, that doesn’t mean your shower isn’t as fair game as the rest of your room. In fact, of the two apartment showers, Sanemi prefers your standing enclosure to the boys’ shared tub.

He’s especially fond of your glass doors, which fogs up easily because that means he could press your body right against it and fuck you senseless, guaranteeing the imprint of your perfect body will be left behind on the shower door even even after his cum runs down your legs and the drain.

By the end of the month, there isn’t a single place in the apartment where you haven’t been thoroughly fucked. That is, at least, until the swing arrives. 

I’m sure I’ll add onto this debauchery. I’ve no shortage of ideas, unfortunately for you all.

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS APPRECIATED!

[comatosebunny09]

merry christmas, mr. sylus [ fin ]

— summary: the one where you nearly tear your hair out, trying to find the perfect christmas gift for your office crush. — cw: fluff, romance, jealousy, feelings of inadequacy, reader is not mc, ceo verse, modern au, aged-up characters, mutual pining, misunderstanding trope, mild language, silliness, angst — notes: the finale for this. edit: i lied. this is the finale for this series. thank you for reading! — now playing: swan serenade - piano house

You spend the remainder of the party avoiding your boss like the plague. But running into him is inevitable. You work directly for the man, after all.

As the staff trickles out, taking with them their drunken merriment, you’re left to pick up the pieces of your wounded heart and the party’s aftermath. 

You shove Solo cups and decorative paper plates into a trash bin. Snatch off tablecloths and roll the karaoke machine into the broom closet. Wipe off tables, tear down garland. You do everything you can to stay busy, your self-loathing an ever-present rain cloud hanging overhead.

What were you expecting? For Mr. Sylus to fall to his knees for you? For him to sever whatever bond he has with Ms. Hunter for you? You snort at yourself as a wet film of heat slides over your eyes, impairing your vision. You feel ridiculous. Sick to your stomach. 

The trash bin slips from your fingers, thudding dully on the carpeted floor. In an attempt to collect yourself, you prop your hands on the edge of a table, releasing a shaky sigh. You blink away the new commination of tears. You’d been doing good so far, having given yourself a lengthy pep-talk in the bathroom earlier. Something to get you through what remained of the night without wearing your anguish on your sleeves.

So what if he doesn’t view you in the same light as you view him? This isn’t the first time you’ve faced rejection, and it most certainly won’t be the last. It doesn’t make this iteration hurt any less. You’re his secretary, for God’s sake. Not a friend nor a potential love interest. The quips and laughter you exchange daily are nothing more than him being polite. The model gentleman, maintaining the peace between himself and the person responsible for organizing his life. 

You are so swept up in the turmoil of your mind that you hardly register your name being called. Someone beckons to you again, this time more assertive, though not scolding. You whip your head around to the source of the sound, homing in on a familiar shock of white. 

Tamping down the emotions swelling in your chest, you straighten, fixing your sweater, and a superficial smile takes up residence on your face.

“Yes, sir?”

He studies you for a beat from the slab of space permitted by his half-opened door, long fingers wrapped around the oakwood like spindly spider limbs. He gives you a once over, his brows slightly wrinkled. His lips quiver, gaze pensive like he wants to say something. Something other than what next comes out. 

“Would you mind assisting me with something?” he asks, his tone deceptively impassive. 

Your stomach lurches, the feeling akin to cresting over the slope of a roller coaster. You swallow, pushing your disappointment to the back burner. What did you expect him to say? Sorry? Like he even knows you’re upset. Like he knows why you’re upset. 

Like he cares. 

You nod curtly, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. “Of course, sir.”

You move to your desk, your nerves exploding like solar flares beneath your skin while Sylus slinks back into his office. He promptly reappears, thrusting a thick stack of envelopes of varying sizes and colors towards you. Your vision blurs and adjusts as you glance between him and the envelopes.

“Christmas cards,” he answers flatly with a shrug. “I could use some help opening and drafting up responses to them all.” 

“Oh.” Try to sound more disappointed, why don’t you? 

Your fingers graze the clutch of his hand when you reach for the cards. And the worn, warm glide of his skin beneath your fingertips makes you stiffen. You wonder what it would feel like to purposely hold his hand. To commit the feel of his palm to memory. But you banish such thoughts, bowing your head and ducking away.

“Sorry,” you pinch out, moving to the chaise sofa against the wall by his office door. 

He’s wordless as he plops down beside you, releasing a weighted sigh. He drapes his arm along the back of the seat. You try vainly to ignore his slender fingers near your shoulder, drumming against the polished leather. 

You lapse into a rigid silence, your shoulders and jaw set. You find your resolve trickling away, the warmth he exudes beside you making you feel dizzy and shameless. He even has the audacity to smell good, that unmistakable mixture of birch wood, pressed clothing, and his natural musk, conspiring together to overhaul your senses. 

You wonder if he would be offended if you just… leaned a little this way and—forget it. The bubbly’s getting to you. You’re not testing your luck tonight. You worked your ass off to secure this job, enduring tireless screenings and background checks. Worked even harder to gain his trust. No sense in allowing your feelings to compromise your position. 

Besides, you know where you stand with him. Or don’t stand. The spectacle before with the darling Ms. Hunter was all the confirmation you needed. The words you never stood a chance resound in your head like a struck gong. You scoff, tearing into a crimson envelope, dispelling the cacophony in your head. 

“This one is from Mrs. Carter over in HR,” you say, waving the card around. You don your usual playful mask, praying your hurt doesn’t show through the fissures. He acknowledges you with a gruff sound, immersed in a card of his own. You take that as your cue to continue.

Feigning nonchalance, you flip the card open. You clear your throat, repositioning yourself on the sticky, squeaky sofa, crossing your legs, and leaning towards the opposite chair arm. You rattle off the card’s contents aloud. A generic greeting, hollow praise, a bidding for a successful new year. 

“Send her a gift card,” he answers dismissively. You scoff, tucking the card between your thigh and the chair’s arm. Is it just you, or is he being unbearably cold? You’re the one with the wounded pride here.

You occupy yourself with another letter, trying to quell the new swell of emotions burbling in your chest. You’ve reread the same line repeatedly, the cursive scrawl embedded into the cardstock blurring and bending. It’s exceedingly difficult to focus with him so close. And you find yourself stealing little glimpses of him in your peripheral.

He looks even better beneath the incandescent lights like this, like a Roman sculpture bred from patient hands. His cheeks are mottled red, probably from throwing back one too many glasses of champagne. Delicate, alabaster strands fall from their usual coiffure, sweeping over set brows and hollow cheeks. Dark lashes dust over warm ivory skin, scarlet irises dancing beneath as he reads over another Christmas card. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows. Find yourself, too, swallowing against the dry, scratchy feeling in your throat.

You tug in the neckline of your sweater. It’s itchy and thick, and the heater’s turned up in the building to combat the cold outside. You’re uncomfortable because of the temperature and not because your boss is so unbearably close.

With a sigh, you peel yourself from the lounge. You venture to your desk in search of a letter opener. If you’re going to spend the rest of your night working, you might as well make the task a little less daunting. Rifling through your drawers, you happen upon the biggest one. And your breath catches, grip white-knuckled on the brass knob when you catch sight of it. Inside lies your present—his present—the intricate foil wrapping gleaming condescendingly.

Something pulls in your chest. Your hand shakes. Your lips pull into a taut line, embarrassment spuming like a hot geyser into your face. You’re about to slam the drawer shut, but a streak of warm skin stains your peripheral vision. And as horror descends onto your features, he snatches up the contents of your drawer faster than you can process things. 

“What’s this now?” your boss asks, intrigue mixed with amusement hanging in the boughs of his voice. 

Wide-eyed and mortified, you look at him. Your flight or fight instincts kick in, pushing you towards the latter. He dons a wolfish grin as you swipe at the box in his hand, and he holds it just out of reach. Damn him for being so absurdly tall!

“Sir!” you clip, swiping at the gift like an enraged feline. He doesn’t relent, instead spurred by your reaction, and the contents of the box shift about as he continues his childish game of keep away. Your chest slides against him each time you strain on tippy-toe. And you try to ignore how pleasant he feels, warm and hard-bodied against you.

Spinning out of reach, your boss chuckles at your expense. He seems to enjoy this, watching you hop after him like a field mouse, trying vainly to swipe the object from his hand. 

“You think I didn’t notice you fretting over this all night?” he teases once you’ve stopped—at least for now—your cheeks puffing out, nostrils flaring. 

“Mr. Sylus, I—”

“And you weren’t even going to give it to me.” He clicks his tongue, feigning hurt. “What have I done to warrant such cruelty?”

Reality slowly seeps in. He’s one step closer to opening your gift and discovering how much of a useless spazz you are. Switching tactics, you hold out a placating hand, stepping towards him like he’s holding a charged explosive.

“Sir, I need that back!”

His mouth forms a pensive line as his gaze shifts between you and the box clutched in his fingers. “Why? It’s mine, isn’t it? It has my name on it.” He squints at the meticulous scrawl of your penmanship, and when you make a surprise lunge toward the box when you think he’s distracted, he swings his arm out of reach, baiting you like a bull.

He laughs low, a mirthful crease to his eyes. You’d take time to appreciate it if you weren’t fighting for your life. 

“What’s got you so worked up? What could possibly be in here that you’re willing to bite my head off to get it back?”

You swallow thickly, chest heaving as you watch Sylus drop onto your leather rolling chair, cross-legged and smiling like the cat who caught the canary. He shakes the box near his ear, its contents rattling about. 

“Sir, don’t.” But it’s too late. The sound of paper ripping is jarring in the stillness of your office space. 

You’re stiff as stone, mouth hinged open, terror screwing up your features. Eventually, you concede to your fate, hands falling listlessly at your sides whilst your boss uncovers what lurks beneath the pretty foil paper you’d spent so much time wrapping his present in. You pour yourself onto the chaise lounge, your shoulders touching your ears, feeling like a child waiting with their parents at the principal’s office. You sneak little glances at his hands, each tear making you wince like a scrape against your heart.

Sylus quirks a quizzical brow at you, looking between the matte grey box he uncovered in his hand and you. You don’t contest him, too busy trying to remember how to breathe. He takes your cue, slowly peeling the lid off the box. He reaches inside to procure yet another box, slightly smaller than the one it’s nested in, neatly wrapped in paper similar to what he just tore off. 

Giving you a perturbed look, Sylus repeats the previous process. And again, he’s faced with matte gray. He carries on like this, peeling back a lid, finding another box nested inside, and tearing through wrapping paper for another three iterations.

“How long does this go on?” he prods, faced with another box. “And how many trees did you kill to pull this off?”

You press the tips of your index fingers together, pursing your lips as you look elsewhere. “You’re almost there.” You’re half-grateful he decided to be shit about it. You don’t feel as bad for nesting his gift away like matryoshka dolls. He deserves to feel the same distress he subjected you to mere minutes ago.

Vexation rolls off him in waves when he reaches yet another box, and he fixes you with a look that bodes danger. There aren’t too many times you’ve witnessed him this annoyed. He’s normally like this when his afternoon nap is interrupted by anyone but you or he’s dealing with a particularly ornery client. 

You stand from the couch with a nervous titter in your throat, snatching up the discarded red bow and ribbons you adorned his gift with and tacking it onto the crown of your head. You do a little jig, something to dispel the tension, wordlessly cheering him on. 

Sylus rolls his eyes with a resigned sigh. A ghostly smile rounds his lips thereafter, and you could swear you see something like fondness shining in his eyes at your antics. It disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by a determined pinch between his brows. 

You continue swaying your hips from side to side and pumping your fists in the air, the bow's ribbons falling comically over your eyes and water-falling off your shoulders. 

Finally, finally, Sylus exposes a matte, black box that’s the size of his palm. Wrapping paper lies like carnage at his feet, bent-up cardboard boxes piled atop your desk. You sigh in relief, though it’s short-lived, as he opens the final barrier between him and his gift.

He studies the contents of this new box, eerily quiet. You swallow as he reaches inside, producing something garish and pink from within. “What the hell is this?” he queries, waving the plastic novelty revolver around.  

You snort, the flatness of his tone catching you off guard. “A gun,” you answer as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Sylus scoffs. “Clearly. But what is it for?”

Flourishing your arms, you plaster on a grin. “For you to put me down in case you no longer find any use for me!”

Looking between the pink revolver and you, he crooks his finger around the trigger, huffing a disbelieving laugh. “You want me to ‘Old Yeller’ you?”   

“If that’s what it comes down to.” And what comedic timing he has, pulling the trigger, a banner with Bang printed in bright Comic Sans popping out, complimented by a flurry of rainbow paper confetti.

Silence lapses between you as the confetti flutters to the floor. You caution a look at your boss, and he shakes his head, his lips crooked into a smirk, though the knit of his brows reveals his disappointment. 

“You can also use it during your meetings when someone pisses you off,” you warily add, shifting your weight between your feet. He doesn’t honor you with a response, instead setting the revolver on your desk with a definitive clack. He studies something in the distance, seemingly ignoring you.

If you weren’t already feeling silly before, you most certainly do now. You figured something unconventional would suit your boss. Something to define your work relationship, the pair of you often trading morbid and esoteric jokes to make the day's hustle a little less daunting. It seemed like a good idea when it caught your eye in the mall. In retrospect, maybe it wasn’t a good buy after all. Especially when compared to Ms. Hunter's gift, and the recollection makes something cold wash over your innards.

You press the tips of your index fingers together, gaze cast on the floor. You’ve screwed up, and you’ll probably lose your job over this. Either that or your working relationship will turn to shit. You’d honestly rather be relieved of your position when considering the latter option. Turning to leave, to pick up the jagged shards of your pride and finish tidying up, you gasp when you feel a warm presence behind you, the fine hairs littering your body standing at attention. 

You turn to acknowledge him, wincing away, expecting to be struck. Mr. Sylus has never raised a hand at you before, only lightly flicking your forehead or tapping your nose when he felt playful that day. You realize how ridiculous you must look and sound, but you steel yourself against the worst possible outcome regardless.

A hit never comes. You’re instead greeted with the hard press of a body against yours. With arms loosely winding about your middle and a chin finding the crook of your shoulder. His scent is overwhelming. The heat he exudes is dizzying, wit-pilfering. 

Wide-eyed, with your hands opening and closing awkwardly at your sides, you stiffen as you grapple with the notion that your boss is hugging you. Mr. Sylus. Hugging you. No matter how many times you turn the words over in your mind, you can’t process them. You didn’t even know he was capable of such an act.

“Thank you,” he intones, his voice a pleasant vibration in your body. He rubs over the notches of your spine, nuzzling into you further like you’re his security blanket. Once your common sense returns, an affectionate smile touches your lips. 

You clumsily return his hug, unsure of the proper conduct in this situation. But you throw caution to the wind, full-on embracing him, your eyes twinkling with tears. “Of course, sir,” you murmur, swallowing against the swell of emotions in your throat.

The hug ends much too soon for your liking. Sylus peels away, his hands clasping your arms. You tilt your head quizzically as he studies you, the bow's ribbons brushing off your shoulder. You must be quite the doe-eyed sight. His eyes darken as his gaze falls to your lips, his own mouth slightly parting. He looks as if he’s wrestling with something in his mind. Turning it over, at war with himself. He seems to win whatever battle is taking place behind his eyes, for he slowly pans in, his lashes bowing.

And maybe you’re swept up in the moment, too, his hug having buried your defenses in the sand. You don’t fight him, only awkwardly shifting when your lips meet before relaxing beneath the slight chap of his lips. 

Beneath the ethereal twinkle of the fairy lights you hadn’t yet snatched down, through the stillness of the investment firm’s tenth floor, and with your pulse thundering in your throat, Mr. Sylus kisses you. A full press of lips, his grip on your arms tightening the barest as if to keep you rooted to the spot. Not that you would run, feeling weightless, like navigating a dream. 

As quickly as reality floats onto your shoulders like a wispy shawl, he pulls back, wild-eyed and panting. And it’s as if you’re the greatest sin he was never meant to indulge in. He releases you before tearing a shaky hand through his tresses, pushing out a weighted exhale. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping away from you before you can think, each hurried thump of his loafers across the floor like a strike to your racing heart.

You strain your ears for every bit of sound until the elevator around the corner pings, and you hear him step inside, the doors swishing shut. And you’re left to the swell of static and impenetrable silence, staring after the faint afterimage left by his tall visage. 

You turn towards the ceiling high-window, dazed. Touch your lips with shaky fingers, the sensitive skin still tingling with the remnants of your kiss. Flecks of white streak the violet canvas beyond the window, the first snowfall fluttering in gossamer patterns towards the ground. 

You got what you wanted. What you’d maybe consider the greatest Christmas gift you've ever received. But as a bitter smile tugs at your lips, your eyesight glossing over with a warm film, and you clutch your chest, your thoughts seep in.

Why does it feel like it’s not what he wanted?