#gold nesting tables

[queercecil]

Living Room in Los Angeles

[starmonsterrr]

Hi! Is there anything about dragon ink that makes him different from other inks? The reason I ask is because I was wondering if he has a special past or personality. I really like your drawings!! have a great day!

[ * dear stars now i want to make draconink lore ]

[ * umm. There is a silly lil fun fact i hope i haven't mentioned before!!!!!!! ]

[ * They like to collect rocks and sometimes eat them as a replacement to his vials when running out of paint. They're not as effective, but it helps to function well and long enough to be able to refill the vials!! he keeps them in a bag which.... yeah i forgot to add to the ref. so ig it's an optional design detail lol ]

[on-leatheredwings]

False Pretenses (18+)

Yandere ! Damian Wayne x (Fem) Reader

romantic, 18+ > summary: Damian needs an heir someday, and he knows your body can provide that. > tw/cw: stealthing/baby trapping. there is consensual sex under false pretenses, so this could (and should) make this fall under dub- or non-con! there is also a brief mention of somnophilia. Plus, some breeding kink, praise kink. Also some weird thoughts about (cis) women who are fertile being ‘ideal’ and a preference for biological children. Just a warning. > word count: 5088. jesus christ. > [a/n: (smokes a blunt). ] > again 18+ only, damian wayne is 21

So, Damian has a breeding kink.  

You sit in bed (his bed), knees to your chest, trying not to smile.

The covers are wrapped around your bare body as you recall the night prior’s events. 

Last night was the farthest you two have gone physically. You’ve made out, of course. That was in short order after officially becoming a couple, the both of you starved for the other. You’ve groped each other, both over and under your clothes… You’ve given him a handjob… (To his utter dismay that you’ve brought him to orgasm first rather than the reverse.) And last week, you took him in your mouth for the first time. But yesterday night was the first time you had been on the receiving end. 

Now, you are no virgin, but the memory does make you clutch your metaphorical pearls. You didn’t know simple fingering could be so… perverse.

Damian’s two middle fingers are thrusting back and forth into your trembling cunt. Your ears are steaming at the resulting noises filling the air. They’re lewd, and entirely involuntary on your part. Sweat on your temple drips, your torso heaves with shaken breath. Your damp back lies flush against his hard chest, two perfect puzzle pieces. Damien’s chin rests on your shoulder, allowing him to have a beautiful view of the mess you’re making on his slender digits. Viridian eyes have their entire focus on you, utterly fascinated. 

The look in them is enough to make you blush, even if two of his fingers weren’t in you right now.

Sinful, reverent whispers into the shell of your ear marvel about how well you’re doing, how prepared you’ll be to take him afterwards. Damian’s free hand rests on your abdomen, pointedly over your womb.

He’ll fill you. Breed you. After all, you can handle that. You were basically made for it. He knows you’d be perfect at it.

Chin resting on the palm of your hand, you come back to the present. 

Yeah, that was really turning him on, you mull, with almost academic interest. Your lips curl into a catlike grin. How curious!

Hey, you aren’t judging! You can see the appeal. After all, you hadn’t exactly been complaining last night… just caught off guard. 

You sit with your thoughts as Damian washes up in his restroom. 

It is in his bedroom you currently lounge, absentmindedly fiddling with satin sheets. His bed is large enough to drown in. His room is a wash of dark emerald greens and deep blues, with golden accents. On a table sits a sheathed sword, its grip a beautiful gold.

Both of you are college students finishing up your last semester. During the school season, Damian stays in his penthouse. Yes, his penthouse. Why he couldn’t just stay at his billionaire father’s mansion, you don’t know. Bird has to leave the nest sometime, you suppose. 

Slowly lowering your knees and letting your back hit cool sheets, you lie down. You get lost in the ceiling – a beautiful Arabesque pattern is subtly molded across its expanse. Damian’s culture is so cool. Such was a sentiment you had communicated in such words, and he simply kissed your knuckles with a proud curve of his lips, and thanked you for the compliment. You blush.

Ugh. Damian is so cool. 

You start pulling up every uncool thing about him in your mental reservoir. You can’t have him getting a big head, after all. Or rather, can’t have his head getting any bigger.

Hmm… breeding kinkster, breeding kinkster, thy name is Damian Wayne.

You blink dumbly.

Breeding... breeding…

Pregnancy.

Your body stiffens. 

Wait. Does this… does that mean something? Is that like. A thing? What people call foreshadowing? You sit up, disturbed.

At that exact moment, Damian saunters out of the washroom. His eyes catch yours immediately, as if drawn by magnetism. He is still shirtless, navy blue sweatpants looking entirely artful on his tall, bronze body. His usual shrewd expression relaxes at the sight of you.

At the sight of him, your heart skips a beat, and not out of admiration for his looks. It was like you had been caught red-handed, speculating things. Sometimes you swear he knows what you’re thinking.

He stalks toward you, eyes loving. He places a kiss on your lips, punctuating it with “Good morning, my love.” 

���G-good morning,” you return, painfully aware of your nakedness under his sheets. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He places kisses on your bare shoulder, trailing down until he’s kissing your hand. While normally you’d be melting, you remain stiff.

Damian pecks one last kiss when you blurt, “Do you want kids?”

You inwardly smack your forehead. Well, you weren’t one to shy away from a tough conversation. For better or worse.

Damian stirs, blinking at you.

You continue, trying not to wilt, “Do… Do you want kids? I-is that something you want? Like, someday?”

How the hell did this not come up sooner, you don’t know.

… Well. 

Perhaps it hadn’t come up because your relationship was fairly new. You’ve known Damian for five years now. And for the last two, your relationship had been under a taxing, soul-sucking ‘will-they-won’t-they-it’s-complicated’ vague denomination for quite a while. Both of you knew each of you had feelings for the other. But Damian confessing his vigilante secret and his assassin past was quite the double whammy. 

Damian was resolute in keeping you and himself safe and alive, but you had to think critically about a future with him. Eventually you said fuck it, throwing caution to the wind because you loved him, and you wanted him. And he, you.

Officially, it’s only been three months of dating – and you both are young. You both are in your last year of college. Talking about kids felt … fast.

Damian remains silent, face tentative. Having been leaning over you, he now sits on his bed, looking thoughtful. 

“... Is that something you want?”

You sigh. Of course he’d turn it on you.

“I…” Your throat feels tight. God, why can’t we just enjoy a damn honeymoon phase… “I mean…? I’m… open to it. But yeah, it seems kinda… Like. I don’t know. That’s a lot right now.” Your voice is uncharacteristically small and meek. 

You should stop there. Keep it vague. Keep things light. But you know which side of the fence you’re leaning on, and so should he.

“A-and you know– like, you know I didn’t have a good relationship with my mother– I just. Don’t know. If ever. I guess?” 

You sit in awkward silence with him. You pray God just decides to smite you where you sit, because Christ. That was horrible.

Things like this could break a relationship, you know. And your chest clenches painfully at the thought of separating from Damian.

Damian takes in your words, nodding. He’s usually so easy to read – you’re well-versed in Wayne-nese by now, having spent a lot of time with him and the rest of his family. But he seems to be withholding his inner thoughts intentionally from you. Your heart sinks. 

You nudge him with your feet.

“Damiii. Do you?”

Damian’s eyes glimmer with characteristic haughtiness, instantly making you warm. He crawls forward, hands sinking into the bed by your hips. He nips at your nose before locking lips. It’s a sweet, sweet kiss that’s like candy, until you feel the stroke of his hot tongue. You moan freely, not caring that he’ll likely tease you later for being so easy.

He retreats, licks his lips. 

“You fiend,” you blurt. The insult rolls off him.

“What I want is to be with you.” You swallow dryly, heart thumping like a chorus line. You wouldn’t be surprised if Damian could see literal hearts in your eyes. 

He puts a hand on your knee, stroking softly. You feel mollified at the action. Damian only did that when everything was alright. 

“We’ve got class. If you get dressed fast enough, I’ll buy you that confectionary you’re always wanting.”

You stick out your tongue. “It’s a frappe,” you say, adding before he could say otherwise, “and yes, it is real coffee.”

Back from class, you decided to read on his living room recliner while he drew in his study. Damian indeed sketched, as he did everyday. Unsurprisingly, you were the subject, along with your favorite flowers. But Damian chose his study, rather than drawing you from life, because he also wanted to check if today was the day he thought it was. He opens the drawer of his wooden desk, papers neatly filed. He picks up a sleek black folder that spends most of its time laid in hiding underneath.

… 

So, for the record, Damian did not lie. 

He merely obfuscated an answer with a truth. 

He does want to be with you above anything, and if children were out of the question due to natural causes… sure, he would learn to get over it. His brothers are all adopted and are as legitimate heirs to his father as he. But as it stands, Damian needs an heir someday and he knows your body can provide that. 

… A not-insignificant part of him quietly admits that he simply wants his children to be blood-related. He’d never express this to anyone. His brothers are adopted, so how could he? But instilled from infancy into Damian was that he was the result of two genetically perfect individuals. 

So why shouldn’t his child be the genetic amalgamation of you and him, both of whom are also two perfect beings? The thought of impregnating you sounds… good. Ideal. Natural, even. Call him a romantic.

When opened, inside the folder is a calendar for the year, with no notes or writing. Some days are blank. Some are highlighted in either red or green.

His eyes skirt down to the current day of the calendar, and Damian's pleased to see it is indeed among a week that's painted in green. Today is within the ideal window leading up to your ovulation.

You've said in passing that your cycle is pleasantly regular and Damian's past investigations have proved this to be true. Not that he asks anymore. He snorts, remembering how last time you looked at him incredulously and asked if he was a Republican, since he was “all up in your womb.” 

However, you do keep menstrual products in your bag when he’s predicted it. You also spend quite some time at his place, so he does note when there’s pad wrappers in his bathroom trash bin.

Last year, the day he knew you were the one – his One – he brewed you a tea before bed. Its sedative contents ensured you wouldn't wake, and you were out like a light within minutes. So, Damian pulled off your pants, and collected a specimen from you as you slept. Of course, he did so with sterile, sexless precision –  Damian wasn’t a pervert or deviant. He sniffs. He’s better than that. Even if his hands did linger.

Test results proved you were healthy and fertile. He recalls this with pride. As expected, you were perfect in all things. Damian closes the folder and ruminates in his seat. 

Damian had assumed so, but now you’ve confirmed with him that you’re unsure about raising children based on your history with your own family. He hears you. As if he doesn’t have his own slew of mommy problems. If you bring it up again, he’ll wave you off. You’ll be an amazing mother. You just need a push, and you’ll be confident soon enough.

His fingers steeple. Hm… There’s the issue of having children before marriage… He doesn’t know how you feel about children outside of wedlock, but it’s not as though you’re very traditional. You don’t seem to have a problem with the fact that’s how he was conceived. It’s not a big concern regardless, because Damian is going to marry you anyway. If it’s an issue, you both could marry in as soon as a month. 

It all works out. 

It’s perfect, he thinks.

Damian puts up his sketchbook and folder alike, heading to his bedroom to change. It was about time he put his plans into action, and he knows just how to usher it into fruition.

“That doesn’t look like a very satisfying read,” Damian says, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. 

You don’t look up from your book, your cringing face only deepening. 

“Well, that’s because it isn’t. I was lied to! By my favorite Youtuber! By BookTok! And fuck it, by the government–”

"My love."

“You ask for one slow burn rivals-to-lovers and instead you get him fawning over her within three chapters–”

“My love,” he repeats, though amused.

“And let’s not even start about how this prose is abysmal–”

“My love.”

Since it was said oh-so-sweetly, you look up from your book. 

Damian is... oh. He's in that outfit he knows you like. The League of Assassins one that's sleeveless, dark, and form fitting with gorgeous gold trim. It turns his body into a marvelous painting of black and gold on the tanned backdrop that is his skin. And you’ve told him so… Except his eyes. His beautiful, intense green eyes. He straightens from how he leans against the wall, stepping closer.

You toss your book, not even watching its trajectory. It takes out a vase on the way down and you still don’t spare it a glance.

"Damian Wayyyyyne," you sing, hopping up to stalk toward your prey. Your hands land on his chest. Hello, tig ol' biddies, you cheer internally. It takes considerable restraint to keep from saying it aloud – you know Damian gets all flustered with his delicate sensibilities. “Why, are you trying to seduce me?”

An elegant, thick brow rises in amusement. Well, that was exceedingly easier than expected.

“That depends entirely on whether it’s working.”

“Oh, it’s working,” you say, running your hands down to his abdomen. His hands rise to capture yours. 

“Tt.” 

Damian takes steps backward, leading you by the hands into his bedroom. Your leer grows even bigger. Oh, yes. You two lock eyes the whole while until you reach the foot of his bed, merriment and attraction dancing in both pairs.

You push him onto the bed, on all fours above him. You dive down for a deep kiss, tongue eager for a dance. Eventually it’s you who separates to breathe, panting lightly. The sight below you is one for sore eyes, Damian Wayne lying with eyes glazed with lust. He’s acting awfully agreeable, and you can’t say you don’t like it.

“Habibti, I want you.” Damian slides his hand to cup your crotch. You shiver, at his touch and his words.

“And you have me,” you say, voice warm. “Habibti.”

He smirks, probably thinking your accent could use some work. 

“It’s Habibi, coming from you.” 

You nod shyly, but you can have a lesson later. You’re about to slip off your pants when he brings your hand in between your bodies, placing it on his crotch. You sharply inhale. He’s hard, and straining against sinful, elastic tights. 

“... And I mean, I want all of you.”

Your brows rise. So, he wanted to go all the way today? You feel your cheeks and crotch flood with heat. You find it easier to nod your head rapidly, lest you start barking. At your agreement, Damian’s face washes over with anticipation. You’re glad it’s not just you over the moon at the prospect.

You both rip your clothes off manically, laughing and elbows butting into each other’s sides. Damian expertly flips positions, boxing you in with his knees. You exclaim in surprise, a sound that drifts into shaky breaths and mewls of pleasure as he runs his fingers over your breasts, your stomach… He wets his fingers with his mouth before his digits start circling your clitoris.

You inhale sharply, mesmerized by the cyclical motion. Never until Damian has sex felt so flustering. Just watching his administrations was overwhelming, let alone the feeling– Your head reels back from an electric shock of pleasure. You gasp into the air.

"W-wait... wait, you have a condom, right…?" you whisper, though you have half a mind to just go without. You need him.

Damian tensed. 

"I... I don't like how it feels." You raise a brow. You've heard condoms can feel like a second skin, especially nowadays. Then again, men were always complaining about them. It's not like you had the necessary equipment to confirm, so hell if you knew how it felt.

You place your hands on his cheeks, and his hands ghost over your wrists. You bite your lip.

"Well… Just this once? And if... it's that important to you, maybe I'll get on birth control–" 

His head jerks as if struck, his brows furrowed.

“No.”

You stare, agape. There’s a small pause, both of you staring at the other. Damian’s face looks as though he’s betrayed himself. Your boyfriend didn’t strike you as so… traditionalist, to say the least. Lord knows you wouldn’t be with him if he was… so you will hear him out before nurturing any suspicion. 

Sitting up on your forearms, you ask, “... What do you mean ‘no’?” 

"I mean… I…” Damian sighs, looking utterly frustrated with himself. “I mean, you don’t need to.” 

You blink and raise a brow, unimpressed. 

“... Because?”

Damian’s jaw hardens. He grits out, “Because, I'm… sterile." 

You flinch, purely from surprise. Damian merely stares, eyes narrowed in what you presume is annoyance at himself. 

Uh. Okay, hello brand new information? Why hadn't this come up before? Well, it is pretty sensitive information. And since you hadn’t had penetrative sex yet, why would he have brought it up? And today was the first day you had even thought about kids. It… makes sense. 

"Y-you are...?" You settle down, much like a cat whose hair is lowering from standing on end. "Okay… okay...” Damian remains stony, but he cringes at your clear relief. 

Mistaking it as embarrassment, you quickly stroke his cheek. “No, baby, I'm sorry about that." You could assume it's quite emasculating. Men and their complexes about performing and wow, suddenly the breeding kink makes sense.

“So, you can’t…” you trail off. Knock me up? remains gracefully unsaid.

Damian nods stiffly. He really does hate lying to you like this. "I've been told it's very... unlikely." In reality, Damian knows his sperm count, and he's verified there should be no issues with reproduction. You both are in peak condition.

Despite the heat raging in your pants and your body begging can we just fuck already, you furrow your brows. All of this sounded fine, but it was still just… you needed specifics. To be safe. After all, there’s no rush, is there? Even if your pulsating cunt would beg to differ, painfully aware that two naked people were in a bed not doing naked-people-things.

"When did you get tested? And w-why? I mean, you're only twenty-one." 

He waves his hand, snorting with his typical condescension. "I'm an heir to a dynasty – as soon as I was of age, it behooved us to know." 

Us. That’s not a you-and-me “us”. You cringe, thinking about Talia and Ra's Al Ghul making it their business to know Damian's fertility. What an invasion of privacy for him… And no wonder he thought nothing of being in your body’s business as well.

"Well, unlikely is still possible, right?” You fear any surprises. Lord knows it would be just your luck to get fertilized by the un-fertilizable. You point at him. “And we should be using condoms anyway! It's not just pregnancy we should be afraid of."

Damian wants to assure you how insanely low the chances are of an infertile male getting anybody pregnant, and is about to do so, when his eyes narrow. 

"Is there a reason we would need to protect against venereal diseases? There are none between the two of us." You flinch at his tone, colored with the acidity of jealousy. Suspicion.

The implication (accusation?) causes you to glare at him. 

“...Yeahhh, okay,” you reply coldly. “Moment's ruined.” 

You push him off you, but in a panic, he hisses your name. You flinch. At your wary expression, the color drains from his face.

“I… I’m sorry,” he says, brows furrowed and looking utterly ashamed. “I… I’m sorry.” You don’t meet his eyes, simply nodding. He places kisses on your wrist, shoulder, nose. Damian sometimes had his moods, although he was truly confusing you today.

“It’s fine, really,” you reassure. And it’s true, it was mainly the heat of the moment. You were sure Damian could never really scare you.

Your words don’t persuade the shame and fear out of his eyes or lighten the heaviness of his brow. You smile, huffing. Taking his face into your heads, you kiss him chastely on the forehead, nose tip, both cheeks. Until you punctuate the action with a kiss to his lips.

“Damian, really.”

Damian nods stiffly. He’ll never truly forgive himself, but he’s probably okay enough for now.

You shift on the bed, and there’s the telltale sensitivity between your thighs. Damn it. You still want him. You two stare at each other, still very naked and aroused. You turn the idea in your head … He’s sterile, right? And pregnancy is your only reservation. 

As if hearing your thoughts, Damian’s face fills with determination. 

“... I-it’s–” okay, let’s have sex anyway, you are going to finish. 

“I’ll do it,” he interrupts. You blink. He leans toward you, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes. You’re sure he’s about to kiss you, when he suddenly withdraws. 

Your eyes catch the glimmer of some metallic object. He holds a silver square wrapper in between his fingers, likely plucked from beneath his pillow.

You look at him, and he says frankly, “I’ll do anything for you.” 

You melt… before grinning, catlike. “My, my. So it seems Mr. I-Don’t-Like-Condoms still prepares a contingency plan. Very Son of Batman of you–”

“Shut it,” he groans, dotting kisses along your neck to make you do just that.

You feel relief flood your bloodstream. Then it is quickly replaced with raging desire. Oh, finally. 

“Lay back,” he says, too soft to be an order. You do so without fanfare, a little curious as to why he’s not following you. Then you see him scoot back, feel him hike up your lower half, and you feel a thrill of excitement. 

You squeak, feeling your ass leaving the bed entirely. A pillow is quickly placed underneath, and you are feeling quite pampered.

There’s curious licks along your labia, to which you twitch.

Damian finds his way to your clitoris, suckling and stroking heavily with his tongue.

“Hhnngh,” you speak. Keep going. Right there. 

“Truly, a poet,” Damian’s voice says, muffled. You bite your lip, unable to retort because it feels too good. Damian is curious, experimenting. You know he’s gamifying this, responding and changing his strategies entirely on what draws the most unintelligible noise out of you. He slips his tongue in, and you grasp at his hair. He responds by pumping it back and forth.

Eventually, you do fear he’ll bring you to orgasm with this alone, when you both have more plans for the evening. 

You wipe a layer of sweat from your temple, panting. “I’m ready. I’m ready,” you say, tugging meekly at short black locks.

Damian hums, and the vibration hits you straight in the clit. He sits up on his forearms, lips delightfully messy. His cheeks are ruddy and his brows are pinched with effort, chest heaving for breath. He looks very good like this. 

“I’m ready,” you say again. Damian doesn’t need to be told twice. Your head hits the back of the pillow, and you close your eyes as you catch your breath. You hear the rustling and discarding of a condom wrapper. Damian positions himself accordingly, hands sunk into the bed on either side of your waist.

“Ready?” he asks. His eyes hold… shyness, if you can believe it. You stroke his cheek, grinning. 

“Always ready for you,” you respond. You make sure to sit up. You want to see.

You watch, fascinated, as the head of Damian’s cock slowly disappears into your body. The consonance between seeing it and feeling it only stokes the fire of your arousal. 

You moan openly, the sound making your ears heat. Damian dares to chuckle, and you claw his back in retaliation. 

“Oh, shut up, and go deeper,” you breathe, eyes fluttering with pleasure. You didn’t realize how much you missed this. The feeling of being filled, of being full. You didn’t realize you could miss something you never had as well – Damian felt like he belonged in you. You feel every inch of you work to accommodate his sudden presence.

“And how can I deny such a request?” he gasps aloud, voice strained. 

You feel more than a little pride that you were among the few who could make Damian bend to your whims with this (or any) level of subservience. The proud, proud Damian Wayne. The same Damian that sinks into you further, into your tight, hot wetness. He finally bottoms out and you exhale.

“You’re… a perfect… fit,” you say, dazed and in between pants.

Little do you know the resulting pang that shoots into his groin at that statement. He grasps you harder, maybe even enough to bruise. He needs you badly. He needs to fill you badly.

Damian leans even more forward, and you squeal. You’re just along for the ride at this point. He does all the necessary machinations to fold you in half, thighs bending back.

"W-wait," you stutter, but it falls on deaf ears. 

He’s really stretching the limits of your flexibility here. Before you know it, you’re in a mating press. 

“Damian,” you moan, because you’re too overstimulated to say much else.

“You’re perfect,” he says into the shell of your ear. “You can take this. You were made for this.” You nod, slack-jawed. He rocks into you, skin slapping against skin as your pelvises meet. Your eyes flutter and roll back.

“I could spend forever filling you up. I could spend forever watching it spill out of you.” 

You close your eyes, cheeks aflame, much too embarrassed by his perverse whispers. You feel … almost ashamed at how much it arouses you. Almost. Majorly, it’s fulfilling a dark fantasy you didn’t know you liked.

“... Come inside me,” you breathe, unable to say anything more. You were embarrassed enough. He was using a condom, it was assumed he would be. But hopefully he’d see you were participating in his little fantasy, that you liked it too…

His thrusts are unyielding, and they only get harder, faster, more desperate as the time passes. Damian finishes with a groan, his abs clenching and flexing with effort.

You welcome it, taking it all because he’s right, you were made for this. In this moment, it’s like you were entirely made for this.

To your surprise, there’s sudden stroking on your throbbing clit, and that brings you to the finish line as well.

Your head jerks back violently, body snapping to attention as you ride the wave of an orgasm. A gasp by your ear. You’re clenching around Damian’s length, wringing him dry.

He collapses, narrowly keeping himself from squashing you flat. The two of you are a tangle of sweaty limbs, chests heaving.

“You’ve got to get out of me sometime,” you tease.

You’ve both been lying like this, too taxed to move for maybe ten minutes now. 

“Is that so? Honestly, I could die here without complaint,” Damian says, and you get the feeling he’s dead serious. Nevertheless, he rolls away. He does not let you go far, wrapping his arms around you. You shiver at the feeling of him unsheathing himself, suddenly feeling empty.

… And wet. Wetter than expected.

You keep from flushing. Damn, you were really enamored with him, it seems.

You rub your thighs together, relishing in the feeling. Until you pause.

… No, like, you’re really wet. 

You slowly sit up, investigating. To your surprise, you’re leaking… cum. And clearly not just your own. It’s smattered down your thighs, sticky. When you pause and can literally feel the cum drip out of you, you exclaim.

“Fuck… fuck.” You put a hand to your dripping cunt, and are surprised when it indeed comes back wet and pearlescent white. It’s for real. 

“What’s wrong?” you hear, but you hardly register it.

You pull at a scrap of wrinkled plastic, pulling it out. The condom is shredded. It broke. 

“Damian. It broke.”

You stare at it dumbly. It broke. You feel the onset of fear creep by… it’s held at bay, when you feel Damian hushing you, stroking your shoulders.

Damian holds you, asks why are you worrying…? He told you there’s no way. He can’t, he’s sterile. 

You dumbly nod, combating fear by reasoning with yourself. Well… you were about to have sex without it anyway, after all. What does it matter if the condom broke? 

You suppose it’s just the shock of a failsafe… well, failing to save you. So why do you feel so disconcerted? What’s this niggling feeling, you wonder. You stare at your inner thighs. His cum paints you like a mark.

“It’s nigh impossible,” Damian states. He’s doing what he does best – nullifying your emotions with facts. He pulls you back into his arms, your back against his chest. “The condom was really for your peace of mind. It’s not like it did anything.”

You don’t speak, simply staring at the condom in your hand. You nod. 

“Really, there’s no point in wearing condoms from now on anyway. They break.” 

Damian’s fingers trace circles on the bone of your shoulders. “I mean, they’re practically pointless. And either way–”

With his long reach, he grabs his phone off the nightstand. He pulls up an article, illustrating the likelihood of him successfully inseminating you. 

“See?” he says. “It’s not a factor.”

Unwilling to let whatever strange funk you’ve entered ruin the afterglow of your orgasm, you nod again. You turn your head halfway, smiling. Of course, without missing a beat, Damian kisses you sweetly. 

To hell with the condom. And to hell with getting stuck in your head. Lord knows you overthink everything. It’s as Damian says. 

His fingers dance on your abdomen, and it tickles. 

It’s impossible.

[idkyetxoxo]

Aegon Targaryen - Tethering Ties

Summary - Betrothed by the King's decree to repair a fractured royal lineage, neither finds joy in their union. Tensions flare at dinner, resulting in a violent altercation that leaves her injured. Aegon chooses an unconventional way to apologise, his mouth between her legs.

Pairing - Aegon Targaryen x Strong reader

Warnings - Sexual content (oral f!receiving), violence, mild language

Word count - 2485

Masterlist for Aegon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

"Her children are bastards and she is a whore."

The phrase slithered through the hallowed corridors of King's Landing like a serpent, venomous and unrelenting. It clung to my siblings and me like a second skin, an indelible mark of shame etched into our very souls.

I tried to ignore the whispers and stares, but their impact lingered, a heavy burden on my heart. 

My betrothed, Prince Aegon Targaryen, was displeased when he learned of the King's decision. Marrying his firstborn son to his firstborn granddaughter was intended to mend the fragile relationships within our family, but it brought him no joy.

As the carriage rumbled over the cobblestones, the Red Keep loomed ahead, its towering walls a reminder of past glories and present fears. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone. This was not just a homecoming, it was a return to the heart of a nest of vipers.

I accepted the hand of my brother, Jace who looked at me with a pitiful expression, which only deepened my misery. 

"Do not look at me as if I am a wounded pup," I murmured. "I refuse to wallow in despair."

Jace merely shrugged, unable to hide his concern. As I turned, I felt another arm slip into mine. It was my younger brother, Luke, his innocent brown eyes gazing up at me with unwavering trust. His presence was a small comfort.

There was no welcome party awaiting us upon our arrival, an absence that I expected. The grandeur of King's Landing seemed hollow, a silent testament to the tension that permeated the air. 

Instead, we were left to settle into our chambers, the hours dragging by until dinner, where the family would finally convene.

I absentmindedly fingered the pendant around my neck, a dragon, wrought in gold. It was a gift from my mother, a reminder of the legacy I was bound to but today, it felt more like a chain than a symbol of power.

As we entered the dining hall, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken animosity. The long table, laden with lavish dishes, seemed more like a battlefield than a place of familial gathering. 

My betrothed, Aegon, sat beside me, his face a mask of displeasure. Across from us sat my brothers, Jace and Luke.

"Princess," a voice called out, and my head shot up. My eyes turned to my grandsire, the King, who looked withered and worn. "I trust the journey from Dragonstone was well," he continued.

"Yes, Your Grace, the journey was well, tiring but well," I answered, and he smiled at me proudly.

My eyes flicked to my mother, who gave me a reassuring look and a tight-lipped smile. Not a single person in this room was entirely pleased with the arrangement the King had so eagerly requested.

This marriage was supposed to unite our fractured family, but all I could see were the chains it would bind me in. A future of duty, not of choice.

Next, I turned to the Queen, who was looking in my direction but not at me. Her expression was firm as she seemed to be scolding her son in a hushed tone, and he grumbled next to me.

"Princess, I hope you are well," he said, turning to me as his mother looked away. I held back a sigh, clearing my throat before responding. 

"Prince Aegon, it has been quite some time since we've last seen each other," I pointed out, my hand tightening around my chalice as he downed his drink in a single gulp, motioning for it to be refilled.

"Yes, that may have to do with the night your brother maimed mine," he said with a smile as if it were a simple jest.

"You are correct," I said, my grip on the chalice loosening as my confidence returned. "The same night the Queen demanded the eye of my brother in retaliation, the eye of a young boy simply defending himself from heinous accusations you informed your brother of,"

To my surprise, instead of getting angry, Aegon laughed, a loud, boisterous laugh that caught the attention of everyone in the room.

"I am glad to see that the match seems to be faring well," Viserys said, and all I could muster was a polite smile. If only he knew.

"I don't want this," I admitted quietly, feeling his scoff next to me. 

"And you think I do?" he retorted, his tone sharp as I rolled my eyes. 

"All I'm saying is that I am not going to be subdued," I added meeting his gaze head-on. He raised an eyebrow, urging me to continue.

"You may be a prince, but I am a princess," I asserted, my voice steady. "My mother is next in line for the Iron Throne, and if I wish it, I will be after her. I do not plan on being trapped in a castle, producing heirs," I finished, taking a deliberate sip of my drink.

"Oh, my sweet niece," Aegon began. "How you have grown, you do not know the joy it brings me to know my future wife is such a fierce and ambitious lady," he added sincerely.

"I quite appreciate the idea of having such a challenging partner," he whispered the words into my ear, his breath tickling my neck as he pulled away ever so slowly.

Aegon's expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes, something that spoke of more than just duty. Was it resentment? Regret? Or something more dangerous? I couldn't tell, and that uncertainty only deepened my unease.

Dinner continued in strained silence, the earlier tension still palpable. Each forced smile and stilted conversation was a reminder of the precarious nature of our situation. 

My mind wandered as time went on.

It didn't take long until dinner had come to an end, and the adults began to retire to their chambers. Only the younger members of the family were left behind, the room now significantly quieter. 

The tension, however, remained.

Aemond, ever the provocateur, fixed his one good eye on Luke, a predatory gleam in his gaze. He raised his goblet with a mocking smile. 

"To the arrangement of my brother Aegon and my niece," he began, his voice dripping with malice. "You have all grown into quite respectable, charming, strong individuals."

My eyes quickly flickered to Jace and Luke, sensing the tension mounting. Jace clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around his goblet, but it was Luke who reacted first.

"What did you say?" Luke's voice trembled with barely contained fury. 

He stood abruptly, knocking his chair back. Aemond's smirk widened, and he rose from his seat, towering over Luke. "You dare deny it?"

In an instant, Luke lunged at Aemond, fists flying. The room erupted into chaos as the two collided, their movements a blur of anger and violence. The sound of fists hitting flesh and furniture crashing to the ground filled the air.

"Enough!" I shouted, trying to intervene, but my voice was drowned out by the tumult.

Jace sprang to his feet, moving to pull Luke off Aemond, but the younger boy was relentless, his fury driving him forward. Aemond fought back with equal ferocity, a cruel smile playing on his lips even as he exchanged blows with Luke.

Before I could react, Aemond's arm swung out wildly, and his fist connected with my face. 

Pain exploded across my cheek, and I stumbled backwards, my vision blurring. Blood trickled from my split lip, and I could taste its metallic tang.

Aegon and Jace reacted simultaneously. Jace leapt at Aemond with a roar, fists flying, while Aegon pulled me back from the fray, his grip firm but gentle. 

"Stay back!" he insisted, his voice tight with anger.

The dining hall descended into utter chaos. Jace and Aemond were locked in a furious struggle, their movements wild and desperate. Aegon kept me shielded behind him, his eyes darting between the brawl.

"Are you alright?" Aegon asked urgently, his hand brushing against my bruised cheek. The anger in his eyes was mixed with worry, a stark contrast to his usual aloof demeanour.

"I'm fine," I managed to reply pushing him away, though my voice shook.

Aegon stepped forward, his presence commanding enough to momentarily halt the fight. 

"Enough!" he roared, grabbing Aemond by the shoulder and pulling him away from Jace.

Aemond struggled against Aegon's grip, but the arrival of the Kingsguard finally brought the brawl to an end. The guards separated the combatants, their stern faces brooking no argument.

"Luke, Jace, let's go," I demanded, grabbing both of their arms. 

I cast one final glance back towards the dining hall, where Aegon was engaged in conversation with Aemond. Aegon looked over at me, and all I could manage was a solemn shake of my head.

Tonight, the fragile peace had shattered, and the consequences were far from over.

The moon hung high in the night sky, casting its silvery glow as I stood in my chamber, tending to the wound on my face with a hot cloth. 

I couldn't stop the flood of conflicting emotions. Anger at Aemond, frustration with my brothers, and a deep, gnawing fear of what this marriage would truly mean. Aegon's unexpected tenderness only added to my confusion.

Just as I was about to press the fabric against my skin, a firm knock echoed through the room. With a resigned sigh, I set aside the cloth and moved to open the door.

To my surprise, Aegon stood before me as I swung the door wide.

"What do you want?" I asked curtly, annoyance evident in my tone, I turned away, expecting him to leave.

Instead, he stepped inside, ignoring my dismissal. 

"I am merely seeing if you are alright," he said, taking the cloth from my hands and guiding me to sit. He dabbed at my injury, his touch surprisingly tender.

Aegon's hand reached out, brushing against my bruised cheek. I flinched, pulling back instinctively. He chuckled softly, but there was no warmth in the sound. 

"Do not pretend to care," I snapped, hating the tremor in my voice. He didn’t retreat, just tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Alright," he admitted, his gaze unwavering. "I came to see you. It's been quite some time, hasn't it?"

"What are you really after, Aegon?" I demanded, fixing him with a sceptical glare.

"You've caught me," he replied smoothly, closing the distance between us. "It seems time has only sharpened your wit and beauty," he continued, his hand reaching out to caress my cheek.

"You've grown so beautifully over the years," he murmured, his voice sincere yet unsettling.

"All I wanted," he murmured, his tone laced with suggestive intent, "was to see how you feel, how you'd make me feel."

Without thinking, I reacted, my hand snapping across his face in a sharp slap. The sound echoed in the room, breaking the tense silence like a crack of lightning

He recoiled, a hand flying to his stinging face, while I stood there, a mixture of disbelief and indignation flooding my senses. My own hand flew to cover my mouth, stunned by both his brazenness and shock at my own action.

"Aegon," I murmured, my voice barely audible as he chuckled softly. "I didn't..." The words failed me, hanging in the air between us. 

He tilted his head, his jaw clicking before a slow smile spread across his face.

"Tell me to leave," he said, his voice a mix of challenge and invitation. I wanted to, truly, but the words stuck in my throat. 

"Tell me to stop, and I'll stop," he continued, taking another step closer, his gaze unwavering as it searched my face for any sign of resistance.

There was none.

"Okay," he murmured, his fingers threading gently through my hair. He loomed over me, a commanding presence as I sat in my chair.

Suddenly, he knelt before me, his hands hiking up my nightgown with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Tell me to stop," he repeated, his voice low and insistent. 

I shook my head, a barely audible "no" escaping my lips. His smirk deepened, a triumphant glint in his eyes.

His face disappeared between my legs, and he began trailing small, wet kisses along my inner thighs. The sensation sent shivers through me, making me squirm in my seat. I bit my lip, a soft moan escaping as his mouth moved closer to where I wanted him most.

"Please," I whispered, my voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and need. "Don't stop."

Encouraged by my words, Aegon intensified his efforts. He started by kissing the sensitive skin at the crease of my thigh, his lips soft and warm. His tongue flicked out, teasing me with light, fluttering touches. 

He took his time, exploring the area with a deliberate, languid pace, savouring every reaction he elicited from me. Each touch sent waves of pleasure coursing through my body, making me arch towards him, seeking more.

He moved closer, his breath hot against my skin, and then his mouth was on me. His tongue parted my folds, moving in slow, sensual circles around my clit. He alternated between gentle, teasing flicks and firm, insistent strokes, driving me wild with desire. 

I gasped, my hands flying to his head, my fingers tangling in his hair as I held him close, urging him on.

He was relentless, his mouth working skillfully, driving me to the edge again and again. My breaths came in ragged gasps as he sucked lightly, then harder, his tongue darting out to tease and tantalize. 

The intensity of the sensations built rapidly, a tight coil of pleasure winding inside me, threatening to snap at any moment.

"Aegon," I moaned, my voice breaking as I teetered on the brink. 

He responded with a deep, satisfied hum, the vibration sending a jolt of ecstasy through me. His lips and tongue moved faster, more insistently, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.

With a final, shuddering gasp, I fell over the edge, my body convulsing in pure ecstasy. He didn't stop, his tongue continuing its dance, drawing out my pleasure until I was utterly spent, collapsing back into the chair, breathless and trembling.

Aegon pulled away slowly, his eyes meeting mine with a smug, satisfied look. 

"Consider that an apology," he said, his voice a seductive whisper.

I nodded, unable to form words, my mind still reeling from the intensity of what had just transpired. His mouth was glistening with my release, and he licked his lips with a self-satisfied smirk.

With a final, lingering gaze, Aegon stood up, straightening his clothes with unhurried confidence. He turned and made his way to the door, each step deliberate, leaving me in a haze of post-orgasmic bliss.

I watched him leave, my body still thrumming with the aftermath of his touch. As the door closed behind him, I let out a long, shaky breath, trying to collect myself. My heart was still racing, my skin flushed with the memory of his mouth on me.

Leaning back in the chair, I closed my eyes, a slow smile spreading across my lips.

A/n - Aegon's idea of a "warm welcome" involves more than just a friendly handshake, he's just really into making an impression x

[biteofcherry]

Does mafia!Steve's Reader ever get jealous? Maybe there's a businesswoman or mafia related one that Steve has to have meetings with and reader gets jealous?

Nesting

Not an inch away

mafia!Steve Rogers x female reader

warnings for the part below: some angst; soft!dark Steve Rogers; mafia!Steve Rogers; possessive behavior; arranged/forced relationship;

~ * ~

You shouldn't care. You really shouldn't, you tell yourself as you watch Steve open the restaurant door for that other woman to enter.

A woman that looks stunning in a body-clinging white dress and killer heels, not a single thing out of place in her confident persona.

She tilts her head and smiles at Steve, who reciprocates with one of his most charming smiles - one that gets you weak in the knees when he flashes it at you.

He told you he'd be home late because he has boring business meetings to attend to, so you talked your bodyguards slash enablers - Natasha and Yelena - to go to the movies and for some greasy food afterwards.

It's pure coincidence that the spot you picked for your snacking was opposite of a fancy restaurant to which Steve took this woman.

You know plenty of women have successful businesses, but you don't think a mob boss of Steve's caliber would actually do any business with one of them. In a romantic restaurant at that.

Natasha's face is perfectly impassive at the sight, but Yelena cringes as if she feels bad for you for seeing this.

You tell yourself that it shouldn't matter. This whole arrangement, one practically forced upon you after Steve found out about your pregnancy, is one you wanted out of at first, right?

The elegant, shiny ring on your finger, which you grew to love and often looked at with a fond smile, now reminded you of the cage Steve trapped you in. Gold, pretty cage.

With how intense and dotting Steve was, you actually believed the cage could become a warm house, with a faithful, loving husband.

Seemed you were going to become a cliche, instead. A wife to produce heirs to a mafia king, while he fucked around with whomever he desired.

Perhaps you should walk into the restaurant, make a scene, throw a drink in Steve's face. Throw it at that woman's white dress.

But you only clench your hands on the paper bag with takeout you bought to eat at home (your pregnancy is turning you into a bottomless pit). You straighten your back and keep your head up high as you march to the car and get inside, Natasha and Yelena slipping inside soundlessly.

Yelena tries to say something, explain Steve's actions, but you tell her you're not interested.

"I don't care." You announce as coldly as you can, quite proud that your voice doesn't crack with how hurt you feel inside.

At home you devour your food. And some chocolate muffins that you baked in the morning. Each bite as delicious as heavy, your stomach revolting with the bitter jealousy and anger at the thought of what Steve was up to.

Are they having a romantic dinner and smiling at each other across the table? Is he sliding his hand up her thigh and under her dress? Does he make her come silently in front of all the patrons?

Will he take her to a hotel room, or one of his apartments that he owns all around the city, and fuck her into a screaming mess?

Will he fuck her better than he did you last night... yanking a fistful of your hair as he wrecked you into a dripping mess and praised you, A good little wife, taking all of me so well.

Ripping apart another muffin, you decide on your next step. You know running away wouldn't work. For one, you have two guards, who may be friendly, but still were loyal to Steve and what he said triumphed over whatever you wanted.

Secondly, even if you managed to slip out, Steve would find you. And he'd drag you back into the cage and the life he builds with you beside him.

You can't leave the penthouse, but you can make yourself a safe space in one of the free guest rooms.

Since Steve's dipping his dick in other woman's cunt, he doesn't need you sleeping beside him.

You definitely don't want to touch him when he reeks of other woman's perfume. You don't even want to see him.

So after you drag most of your stuff from the main bedroom and hastily put it in the closet in your new room, you close the door. Just in time, because less than ten minutes later the echo of firm footsteps resounds.

You flip a book open, trying to focus on the printed words and not on the way your heart hammers in your chest as you hear Steve's footsteps aiming for the main bedroom.

A vicious part of you hopes that he is a shocked, seeing that you're not there.

Not in the huge bed, naked under soft covers, waiting for your husband lord and master to throw you a crumb of his attention.

The emotionally heaving part of you shudders in sobs at the image of Steve simply not minding that you're not there.

Maybe he's only a little surprised, but brushes it off and simply takes a shower to wash off the remnants of that woman's arousal and his own sweat. Then he'll get into bed and fall asleep sated, uncaring for your state as long as you obediently stayed inside.

You rub at your eyes, cursing the tears away. You shake your head and try once again to focus on the words you're reading.

But then, after a long stretch of silence, footsteps sound through the space. A creaking of door being open. Then another. Slowly moving towards where you are hidden.

Your heart rate increases, fingers trembling against the paper pages of your book.

You take a breath, willing yourself to remain calm and not show Steve how hurt you are. Play it the way mob bosses wives in movies and tv shows do it - cold and indifferent, an armor around you, so nothing can prickle you.

The door to your claimed room opens and Steve stands there in the doorway in all his stormy glory.

He frowns, seeing you sitting stiffly on the bed.

He walks inside. Sleeves of his suit jacket are pushed up, showing his forearms and twirls of tattoos. He braces his hands on his hips and gives you a look that's a combination of concern and blatant anger.

"Can you explain what's the meaning of all this?" Steve's voice is thick and raspy.

You swallow, but shrug nonchalantly as if his heated gaze isn't bothering you.

"I thought it's better to leave the main bedroom, in case you brought your companion home for the night." You say and return your gaze to the book, fighting the urge to wave him away with a dismissive gesture.

"What?" Steve's frown deepens, actual confusion showing on his face.

"I'm not sure your mistress would like seeing me there. Might ruin the mood." You lift your head and sneer at him. "So I simply made it easier for you."

"I have a mistress now?" Steve raises a single brow, remaining calm while everything inside of you was boiling.

You snap your book closed and slam in onto the bedside table. With a little huff you get off the bed and stomp over to Steve.

"No need to lie." You scoff. "I saw you. With her. Didn't know mob business meant taking beautiful women to expensive restaurants."

You push at his chest in anger, but Steve's strong, muscled body doesn't even sway at your outburst. So you push at him again, unsuccessfully, but at least you get to unleash some of your fury.

"Just do me a favor and don't bring any of your whores home once the baby is here. Stay in one of your apartments, or allow me to move into one."

You can't hold off tears anymore and as some pour out, trickling down your cheeks, you clench your hands into fists and slam them against Steve's chest.

Steve's fingers wrap around your wrists, a tight, almost painful hold that keeps your hands bound to his chest.

"You are not going away from me." He declares, a definite order.

His eyes darken, a flash of lethal danger he rarely directed at you.

"In any form." He ads, obviously meaning you switching bedrooms.

Slowly, Steve's face lightens up. Twinkles appear in his eyes and it makes another wave of annoyance surge through you.

He keeps your wrists locked in one of his hands as he uses the other hand to cup your cheek.

"Any moving you're going to do is along with me." He says and tries to lean his forehead against yours, but you pull your head back.

Steve sighs.

"Which is why," he forces you to maintain eye contact with him, "I had a meeting with Camilla. She's a real estate agent who works for me on renovating a house that I bought for us. For our family."

His words make you speechless. A house? Someplace where you'd feel more free and where your kids could run in glee.

Still, you remain suspicious. You want to assume it's just a crafty lie, you're sure Steve's good at those.

"The Infinite is a rather romantic place to talk construction." You narrow your eyes.

Steve chuckles and shakes his head. He lets go of your wrists to wrap both his arms around you, pulling you close to him despite your attempt to squirm away.

"Jealous little bird." He hums and slides one of his hands up to grip the back of your neck.

"In my line of work-" Steve leans closer, his nose tracing the line of your jaw, hot breath tickling your skin making you shiver-

"I manipulate people. Some with threats, some with sugar. And some, like Camilla, with never voiced promise of something they wish for."

Steve's soft snicker puffs across your cheek at your sneer. His lips travel toward your lips. You close your eyes at the intensity of his blue irises and the way your body reacts to the touch of his mouth against yours.

"A restaurant dinner gave her that little spark that will make her work her ass off to grand me all my wishes regarding our house. Even though not once have I even brushed an inch of her body with my fingers."

"It also happens-" the tip of Steve's tongue licks over your bottom lip, his hand starts pulling up the hem of your nightgown- "that I know how to manipulate my wife's body, so she sweats out all that jealousy and anger while she creams on my cock."

Your tiny, needy whimper makes him chuckle in dark victory.

"That what you need, huh?" He grips your buttock and kneads it. "Should I fuck you braindead every day, so that your mind doesn't come up with silly ideas?"

"It wasn't silly." You try to defend your earlier outburst, but it comes out breathy and weak.

"Thinking I could be interested in anyone else when I have your sweet, ripe body at my disposal. Absolutely ridiculous." Steve flashes you a wolfish grin.

He lifts you up suddenly, forcing your arms and legs to wrap around him. His fingers slide from your ass to dip between your thighs as he turns around and walks out of the room.

"You're coming back to our bedroom." He growls a command.

"I'm going to keep you naked and full of cum for the next few days, so it really sinks in that neither of us is stepping away from this marriage. Ever."

[yanderenightmare]

more gojo with curse!darling please! i lobe this concept<3

Gojo Satoru

P1 & P3

TW: abduction and captivity, mild condescension, mild coercion, NSFW hints, some descriptions of darling, but nothing too specific, a joke dissing people with blue eyes and pale skin

gn reader - fem labels (drama queen) & fem accessories (jewelry: various)

He kept you like one would a stray cat. Leaving you be as you found places of comfort around his apartment, hiding when you wanted to be left alone – which was almost always.

You hadn’t warmed up to him yet. Understandably so.

He’d set out food for you, locking the door with seals when leaving – scoffing out a laugh after coming home only to find the dish still on the table. He keeps forgetting you don’t eat.

You may look it, but you’re not exactly human.

But you are getting thinner, unfortunately. Suppose his apartment isn’t ideal hunting ground for a curse. And as you’ve gotten weaker, you’ve become wilder – primitive in a way – hissing at him when he gets too close – feeling vulnerable. 

You’re very cute.

But, cute or not, he doesn’t want to starve you. He isn’t cruel. So he walks and wonders what it is that you would find appetizing. 

Watching your behavior – how you sneak around his apartment looting – like a crow – collecting shiny objects to deck yourself in. Stealing all his rings, chains, watches, belt buckles, manchets, any gold or silver-rimmed glasses, and anything else you can use as jewelry – old coins, can tabs, all the silverware – along with everything else you deem pretty – fabrics, flowers, decorations, all his silk shirts. 

You rob anything and everything of value, making a nest of it all in the tub. 

His theory is that the bathroom is the shiniest place in the house and, therefore, where you feel you most belong. You sleep there despite him having given you a room – coveting all your findings.

He’s never really thought about how a curse can have such behaviorism. It’s not too odd to keep tamed ones as pets, but still, he’s never thought about why one would aside from utilizing them in combat. But you weren’t made for such intents and purposes. You were… just fascinating to have. Not far off from being an exotic pet.

But even for a curse, you’re unusual.

It’s not fear or death you thrive on. It’s… something a lot more innocent, actually – which is probably why you have no malicious instincts to hurt him – not that you could if you tried. But he can tell… you don’t want to be a curse, do you? In fact, those few times he has nicknamed you curse, you’ve scowled at him a little more than usual. 

No, what you desire is devotion – to be worshipped. 

What you want is to be a god.

Quite like him, actually. You like having your ego stroked. 

It’s your pride that needs feeding, and he can only asses that it feasts on people’s mad desire for you – of which he has plenty to give.

But you reject it.

“I won’t rely on the pity of a filthy jujutsu sorcerer. I’d rather starve.” You tell him with a sneer, curling yourself up with folded arms upon your chest – pouting with eyes closed, drowned in your treasure bath as though everything wasn’t nicking your skin, trying to ignore him.

He slants his head to the side, crouched down beside you with his arms resting on the tub, a smirk on his face – playing cute as he reaches a slim finger out to touch your cheek.

“Won’t you let a filthy jujutsu sorcerer worship you a bit? Trust me, a curse has never made me feel so weak before. Don’t you think I’d make for the best beggar?” 

You grimace, brows deepening into a vexed frown without opening your eyes, but you don’t flinch away. “I won’t be patronized. You keep playing with me like I’m your toy.”

“Maybe a little,” He chuckles softly. You’re such an honest and expressive little curse. “But I do think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen~”

“Naturally.” You reply simply, the furrow in your brow softening, but you don’t offer much more.

“Come on, pretty curse.” He drawls. “Let me help you before you waste away.”

You scoff. “Tch- foolish, selfish human… you really are such an ugly thing to behold.” The furl returns, but still, you keep your eyes closed. “Do you honestly think that your rancid touch is going to save me?” Then you laugh – harshly and mockingly. “Please, don’t flatter yourself. A god requires offerings left at their shrine, not the filthy touch of the peasants that leave them.” Your nose scrunches suggestively. “You should consider it a blessing to even be allowed to look at me.”

Vain and stubborn, he thinks. You are the curse of beauty. But still, he's never experienced rejection before.

Suppose he has to try a little harder…

He soon finds himself courting you. Trying to make you comfortable.

He starts giving you gifts – first, silver silk bedsheets that lure you into sleeping in your bed instead of the bathtub, along with other changes that make your room more appealing – ornate wallpaper, canopy drapes surrounding the bed, and a smaller chandelier for the ceiling. Happy to see you abandon your former treasure in the tub in favor of your new dwelling.

Then he gifts you other pretty articles – clothes and such that actually fit you – patterned silks and lace. He attempts to give you clothes you can use to cover up more of yourself, but you seem partial to wearing less – most comfortable in just an elegant kimono you can easily discard on the floor.

You’re confusing like that – walking around his apartment half-naked but hissing and scowling at him when he stares.

It’s more the jewelry you enjoy wearing – crowns, earrings, necklaces, body chains, rings for your fingers and toes, bracelets for your wrists and ankles – everything in abundance. Jingling when you step about.

You seem healthier after receiving his presents. Also, a bit less skeptical – now engaging in conversation with him – although often about what his next gifts will be and if he can buy you diamonds and rubies for you to bead your hair.

“Sorry, but the banks closed. I’m not giving you a single dime, your highness.” He laughs one day, eyes bright and smiling, watching the puzzlement befall your face before the spread of horror that soon followed after hearing his next words. “In fact, I’m gonna start taking things away.”

“You wouldn’t-” Your voice had dropped into something so weak it was adorable, no longer having that strident overconfidence you’d built up.

It makes him feel almost bad watching your face drain and become so distressed like a spoiled little brat who’d just been told no for the first time.

“Oh- I would.” He grinned like it was all only a cruel joke to him – something just for shits and giggles. “Satoru Gojo giveth and Satoru Gojo taketh away.”

“But-” Your lip wobbles, and he can spot the tears brimming in your eyes already.

He doesn’t let it bother him. Or at least he doesn’t let it show.

“I think I’ll start with all your jewelry- how about that necklace you’re wearing right now?” He threatens, pale hand reaching towards your neck to pull your pearls off – but you shrink into a ball on the floor before he has the chance to.

“No, no, no, don’t-” You start sobbing, and he thinks it’s the first time he’s seen a curse be so sad and desperate.

Not to mistake those countless curses he’d made cry and plead for their life, but that wasn’t what you were doing. You were grieving. 

You’re really such a simple thing, aren’t you?

His smile softens into something not so cruel. Crouching down to your level, placing his hand atop your head where you’re bowed and bawling, petting you soothingly. “Okay then, drama queen. Stop your crying. I’ll let you keep it.”

You raise your head, hopeful. Looking at him with terribly puffy eyes - cheeks streaked with teardrops hanging off your lashes. Looking so pained and vulnerable, it made his heart ache at the sight. 

You don’t say anything but he can tell there’s a question on your lips you’re unable to voice.

“Under one condition.” He answers. 

You flinch when his hand slides from your hair to cup your cheek, holding your chin as he rolls on his feet and places a kiss on your salty lips.

You gasp and allow it for a second but then abruptly push him off – falling back on your butt. “No- you’ll make me filthy.” You rush out. “Beauty is meant to be admired, not reaped. It’s not right. You can’t-”

He watches you blush and stutter and thinks it’s silly how he hasn’t thought about it before. But now it’s become clear. Curses spawn from human fears, after all. It’s not strange that they’re so similar. But still… he’d never think a curse would be afraid of losing their virginity.

“It’s okay,” He coos, setting his knees down softly – crawling forward to where you sit, hiding your face behind small hands decked in too many rings. “I’m not gonna stain you…” He promises, his breath warm on your skin. “I’m gonna make you feel like the most desired diety in the world.”

Your breath shivers as he takes your hands and uncovers your face – eyes wide looking at him.

“And after I’m done admiring you, I’ll get you more diamonds and rubies than you can count.”

You swallow – eyes skittering from one of his blue ones to the other.

“Really?” It’s below a whisper.

“You bet.” He answers with a smile, flashing you a smirk. “I’ll get you enough to swim in.”

Your nose does a little twitch like it usually does, but this time, it’s not to express disgust. “Do you promise?” You bite your lip – staring at him.

“Let’s make it a binding vow.”

And that’s the arrangement.

You let him admire you in ways you’ve never let anyone else before, but only if he fulfills all your greedy heart’s desires.

He doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have something to spend money on that’s worth it.

You’ll lie next to him and he’ll get to study you up close – finding things that betray you – model details that aren’t in line with human imperfections. Missing bone structure, flawless symmetry, hairless skin devoid of any and all accent of mark or spot – just smooth milky texture without a single fault.

He says it’s sad – that the standard for beauty isn’t even achievable, to which you reply that it’s only fair everyone should be subject to the same disappointment, never to achieve perfection like you.

He asks if you think he’s really that ugly. And you say yes.

“Liar.” He accuses. Head propped on his hand, his hair a tousled mess lying in the bed beside you.

You’re looking up at the ceiling but close your eyes insouciantly at his comment. You tip your chin a bit as you speak – lips pouty and proud. “Lies are an ugly trade- in which I don’t partake.”

“Oh, really?” He rolls on top of you and you give a whine. Looking up into his sparkling blues and how his pearly hair falls loose and wispy. “Then look me in my eyes and tell me I’m ugly.” He dares.

“Puh-” You scoff, folding your arms above your puffed chest, looking off to the side, still with eyes closed as though to dismiss him like you so often do. “Men with beady bright blue eyes and pink skin look like pigs.”

You sneak a peek with one eye when he doesn’t answer. He’s still looking down at you – still daring you. 

And you continue. Raising a finger to nudge his nose up. “Say oink-oink, piggy.”

He brushes your finger away as he leans in closer. Now with his nose rubbing yours.

“Tell me I’m ugly.” He repeats – his voice dipping low into that serious tone that makes your breath tight and your stomach flurry.

“You’re-” You try but it ends up swallowed, stifled beneath those big worldly blues. “You’re…” You try again but it’s worse than the first time, making you bite your lip. He’s not budging.

You look away. Feeling defeated and mopey because of it.

“You’re not as pretty as me.” You finally sulk.

So cutely grumpy with your pursed lips and vexed brow, he just has to laugh. “Tch- now that we can both agree on.”

And then he forces you to laugh too – beginning to snort like a boar into your ear, placing sloppy kisses to your neck while you scream out that it tickles.

P1 & P3

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 4)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 3, Part 5

summary: You get your laptop fixed... eventually.

warnings: smut!! (finally lmfao) masturbation, mutual masturbation, tiny bit of voyeurism, recreational drug use, dry humping, etc 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: caught up to where the og oneshot ends so i wanted to switch it up!!

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 6.8k (still in shock i wrote all this lmfao, i'm strictly a <4k words kinda gal)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

lips black and blue and gold.

You're frustrated. Bouncing off the walls, head spinning; and it's for a couple of reasons. 

First off: you haven't managed to find a laptop. Money you've worked damn hard for, and you can't really afford a new one. With moving around, you've burnt through quite a bit of your emergency fund. Enough to convince yourself you'll be just fine with a pen and paper in class, and the Google docs on your phone when desperate. It might actually force you to go to the library instead of half assing assignments the night before, you think. 

And there's your lab book, which you were smart enough to back up on your computer, but guess what? That's fucked; probably taken apart and sold for scraps by Miguel's mysterious friend , who you've conveniently never even heard of and–

"Just ask for an extension." He says, feet up on the sofa. Oddly enough, you've been doing that more often; spending time together. He's not holed up in his room as much, and spends time studying on the dining table, or pretending not to watch the soaps you've got on TV. 

"You're overthinking it. Explain the situation, chula, and it'll be fine." He doesn't even look up, just throws the statement in your direction like the lazy pass of a ball. 

You scoff, because he's right, and go back to overthinking. You think you can copy out the ruined half of your labbook by hand, and if you beg your OChem teacher for an extra credit project then–

"If I let you use my laptop, will you stop doing that?" 

"Doing what?" You frown as he walks over, and reaches to gently pull your hands apart. He turns your palms over, pointing at the raw edges of your fingernails. 

" That. " Mindlessly, you'd been picking at your fingernails, without even noticing. Looking up at him, he rolls his eyes. 

"...is that a yes?" You nod, hesitant, and catch the hint of a smile as he pads off to his room. 

When he returns, open laptop in hand, he thrusts it into your arms - and sits himself back onto the sofa. This time, he splays out facing you, avocado socks resting on your knee. You fight the urge to push him off, a small price to pay in return for his moment of kindness. He's been doing that more often now, slightly more touchy and maybe even… comfortable around you. Eyes flickering up towards him, you catch his. His brows knead together, and you return your attention to the screen just as quickly. 

You're going through the motions, more or less, logging into your college's portal and drafting up quick emails to send to your lecturers. But it's when you open up a new tab, that you see something at the top of the screen and pause. Mouse hovering over an incognito tab, hidden in a nest of referencing websites and scientific journals; it's there. Bold letters, in all caps: WOMAN POUNDED BY BIG BEEFY–

You shouldn't. You really, really shouldn't. Once again, you look up at Miguel, and he couldn't care less; tapping away at his phone, only stopping to look at the TV. Nevertheless, you shift to hide the laptop screen from him. But you're not going to look, or anything. You know better than to take a look at your roommates porn habits, the stuff he drools over whilst he fucks his fist; a big, dextrous palm wrapped around his shaft. 

You've done it. Clicked on the tab and nothing's exploded, as of yet. You turn down the brightness, with some shame, as if to make the paused video less explicit. But the image stays, a woman folded under the weight of the man above – in the middle of bullying his fat cock into her pussy. It's amateur; hot and sweaty and sticky, with only the woman fully visible. You suppose your curiosity's been sated, but you can't help but think…

…the woman. She looks like you. 

Tilting your head, you can't help but see the resemblance. Not the exact same of course - but her hair is similar, body type, skin tone, eyes. It's not close enough to be weird, you guess, but it's enough that that thought stays - burrows into you like an earthworm into an apple. Scrolling down, you see other videos, with the same woman, other women that look like you - the telltale red bar of watched videos. Evidence, but not really, and it makes you heat up. Your mouth goes dry, and you look over to him: only able to concentrate on the hand he's got spread out at his belly, the brown flesh peeking out - and how it looks just like the one on the base of the woman's stomach in the video. 

"...everything ok?" He's looking at you, suddenly; and you attempt to click over to your original tab, discreetly. 

He doesn't seem to notice, padding over to your side and leaning into your shoulder. 

"Yeah, no, I just…" All you can manage is a nervous smile. "The screen froze, so…"

"Oh." He gives the track pad a swipe. "Seems fine to m–" 

He freezes up slightly, and you watch as his eyes flick up the screen. The laptop is eased out of your hands, and he gives a few quick clicks. By the time it's back in your lap, the offending tab is gone. Imperceptible, his jaw shifts. 

"...Should be okay now."

You hum, a little amused at the display. He's seemingly unfazed, his little slip up notwithstanding, and leans back to lie up against you. Obnoxious, he splays onto the sofa cushions, his weight practically smothering you as you fight to push him off. You think he likes it – it's the only possible explanation – and gets off from watching you squirm. He seems desperate for a reaction, a child pushing boundaries and pressing buttons to see what exactly makes you tick. 

And that's the second thing: it works . He's  more touchy, and just as insufferable – jumping at any excuse to be near you, it seems. Miguel has a tendency to hover, follow you around the apartment as you talk aimlessly, and you do the same. You sit by against the doorway to the kitchen whilst he makes dinner; he floats around the door to your room when you try to study. In fact, you've spoken to your roommate more in the past week than you have in the past month; about anything and everything. Sometimes, he actually tells you where he goes during the day; off to lectures of his own, another tutoring session or his basically-an-unpaid-job of an internship. In your words, it seems like with the shit they make him do at Alchemex, he may as well be a full employee: with way fewer perks and a distinct paycut. It's almost as if they're paying for my degree, he says with an eye roll, practically hanging off your door frame. 

He does that a lot, now: arms drawn upwards to lean from the oak trim. Especially during lazy mornings in - he'll hang on the frame, and move to tug at your heel, waking you up despite fervent protest. Ultimately, it's a kindness and you don't know how to tell him how much you appreciate it; as he wakes you up on time to get to the library in good stead. You're still waiting on that laptop, debating whether or not to bite the bullet; but for now Miguel obliges, letting you borrow his now and then. 

He's not nice, you think his tongue is much too sharp for that; but he is kind, giving you some grace you're not too sure you deserve. It's more than what you've been given in a relationship of 4 years, and you don't know how to feel about it. 

Well, you do. Your talk on the living room floor not so long ago flipped a switch and all of a sudden you're paying attention to your roommate; really, really looking at him. He is very, very pretty; with a tendency for lingering touches disguised as something else. And you're out of practice: horny, frustrated, stressed. With the way he touches you; a hand on your back to greet you, a squeeze of your shoulder to tease, bare legs across yours on the sofa; it's a lethal combo. 

And here you are, headphones on, prepping to take a dildo. Incredibly self-indulgent, but you need it . You don't quite have the emotional stability for a one night stand (you think if someone touches you just right, you'll fall in love), but this dry spell has taken its toll. 

It wasn't just after the break up, either. Mismatched libidos had felt like a steady death knoll. Realistically, you knew Jaime was always too tired after a placement, but it didn't make you feel wanted. You just want to be desirable and fucked within an inch of your life – was that too much to ask? 

As a result, your toy drawer had grown: vibrators and dildos, clit-suckers and g-spot strokers; crude once said aloud, but all in search of something. With the stress of school and Miguel, Schrodinger's slut ; it's a wonder you haven't cracked it open earlier. 

You're on the floor, its purple base suctioned to the hardwood and towels to cushion your knees. Lower half completely exposed, it's an art , porn on your phone to complete the visage. The screen is smaller than that of the laptop you're used to, only providing some stimulation. And so, as you sink down on its silicone length, you can't help but think back to the sofa - and the videos squirrelled away on an incognito tab. Miguel, hunched over and fisting his cock to someone that looks like you; maybe even thinking of you – although the jury's still out, on that one. 

But you keep it close to your chest, rub your clit to the thought of it: you're his type, and maybe he'd fuck into you like the man on your screen. Broad, gorgeous shoulders and you wonder how pretty he'd look with scratches littered down his back, or hickeys sucked into skin: lips plump and messy and swollen. 

"Oh, fuck," You say it under your breath, knowing that whilst Miguel is out of the house, it still feels odd to put your lips around the pleasure that thinking of him gives. 

You speed up, the slap of thighs ringing out into your bedroom. The dildo is around 6 inches, sizeable; but you can't help but wonder how it compares to Miguel's. He might even be bigger; thicker, most definitely; and you bet his cock is just as pretty as he is. Oh fuck, and he'd tease; press into your hole just to snatch it away at the last second, rubbing persistent circles at your clit. You hear his voice in your head, the low grunts and groans you've memorised from all those nights he's spent with other girls. 

"Miguel,"  You're moaning shamelessly now. "...f-fuck, please–" 

There must be something electric in the way he fucks: with the litany of girls in and out of his bedroom, what keeps them coming back? He must talk them through it, whispering filth with his plush lips against their ear, and you wonder what he'd say to you. God , you'd give anything to hear it him say, just once, how beautiful he thinks you are; for him to wrap his hand around your neck and pull you close. You want him to fuck you; hard and deep and desperate. 

With that, your pace quickens and you gush around the toy. A spasm of limbs, and you're clamping down on the silicone – an orgasm that leaves you breathless and heaving. You convince yourself it's the taboo of it: fucking yourself to the thought of your roommate, after listening to his grunts and groans for the past couple weeks. He started it … thin walls, and all that. 

You ignore the want that lays stubborn at the pit of your stomach, riding through stuttering spasms as your orgasm winds down. You're touch starved, that's all, and Miguel's the closest warm body to latch onto. Nothing more, nothing less. Groaning, you shift, picking up your hips to gear up for another round. Just once more, so you know for sure. 

Thin walls. The sound leaks into your roommate's bedroom. But with your headphones on, you can't hear the sounds that echo back: Miguel O'Hara, back home early, with an ear pressed to the wall and desperately pumping his cock. 

~~~

"I'm not completely convinced, to be honest." You're in Miguel's car, tongue sticking out as you fiddle around with the dials. 

His gaze flicks over, and bats your paws off the dashboard. Flopping into your seat, you watch as he turns up the AC and switches the radio, as if reading your mind. 

"You really think I'd go through all this trouble?" He scoffs. "Bundle your ass out of the house and drive all the way here to…. do what exactly?" 

"Assert dominance in our shared ecosystem." You say it with finality, and he scrunches up his face in confusion. 

"...what does that even mean?" 

"Like in that nature doc you were watching the other day." 

"Well, the point was that spiders aren't hierarchical in the traditional sense. They form colonies that are… quasi-social, if anything, and–" He pauses. "Wait. You were paying attention?" 

You shrug. "I thought it was interesting." 

"Seriously?" 

"...no, not really."

You laugh as he pulls over to park, in a space next to what looks like an apartment complex. It looks way nicer than your place, with sandy brick and hedges that look well kept. Your laughter peters off. Miguel looks decidedly not amused. 

He opens the car door and clambers out as you scramble for the seatbelt. To your surprise, he opens the door for you; stretching out a hand for stability as you get out. When you both walk over to the intercom, your palm burns with his touch, and flexes with the memory of it. It's becoming a problem, his hands. You push down the beginnings of a hazy daydream. He presses a panel, waiting for the buzz. 

"Lyla? Could you let us up?" 

He waves demurely to the camera, and the receiver clicks. A cheery voice rings back. 

"...Us? Who's us, Miggy? Did you finally find a girl that puts up with your shit?" Her voice is singsong, teasing. With a smile, you watch as Miguel bristles, speaking into the slick panel. 

"My roommate, Jesus, Ly–" He says the next bit a little rushed, turning away slightly as if you still can't hear her loud and clear. "I thought we went through this, you can't keep trying to embarassmeeverytimeI–" 

She talks over him towards the end, rapid-fire banter that you can barely make out. 

"You never come and visit, except when it's 2am and you need to break into–" 

"Once! It was one time! Déjate, ya está bueno ya–" 

[Let it go, that's enough now–] 

"Let it go? No, no, absolutely not… what is it that you always say? It's the principle –" 

"Can you just fucking open the–" 

"What's the magic word?" 

He sighs, mouthing an apology to you. "Lyla–" 

"Magic. Word."

He mumbles. "Please." 

"Please what?" 

"Please could you open the fucking door."

There's a pause, and rustling over the intercom. The door buzzes open. 

In the elevator up, you keep quiet, trying your hardest not to burst out laughing. Miguel is visibly brooding; arms crossed and brow furrowed. 

"Don't." He says, with a pout you almost think is cute. Almost. 

"I'm trying really, really hard not to." You put your hands up, as if to surrender. "... Miggy."

"Fuck off." And then, a little softer. 

"...I told you I have friends."

~~~

You leave it at that until you're in Lyla'a apartment, when she opens and ushers you in. She looks exactly the way she sounds: pretty, mousy features, with her hair in short, choppy layers. She's bundled up into a plush white robe; heart-shaped sunglasses sliding down the tip of her nose. 

Miguel breezes past her, towards the murmuring voices you can just about make out in the front room. 

"Lovely to see you too, Miguel." It's under her breath, but when she turns towards you there's a twinkle in her eye. 

You introduce yourself, and she pulls you into a tight hug. 

"I know," She says. It's ominous, but her voice is light and airy. When you separate, she flashes a wide smile. "Lyla. It's nice to put a face to a name."

"Uhh, sorry. What?" She ushers you further into her apartment as you speak, confused. 

"Oh, Miggy talks about you all the time. Complaining , mostly, but in that way he gets when he's trying really, really hard to pretend he doesn't care. Like, he texted me yesterday and–" 

"Thaaat's enough." You feel hands on your shoulders, and all of a sudden, Miguel is steering you away from her grip. You stumble into her living room, so bright and airy your eyes have to adjust to the light that floods in. Looking around, her apartment is gorgeous; a spacious open plan, floor-to-ceiling windows with a prime view, and lush furniture. Everything about it screams expensive – especially in comparison to your paltry place. Maybe the shock is visible on your face, but you're in awe. She can't be much older than Miguel, right? She looks about the same age, mid-twenties, not too far-removed from college… and it isn't quite adding up. 

"How can she afford this? That's what you're thinking." There's a voice on the sofa that makes you blink. A young man with messy brown hair, a set jaw and 5 o'clock shadow calls out to you in between mouthfuls of pizza. "Lyla's… mmhgh… suuper fuckin' rich… mmfgh… that's how." 

It's then that you notice there are other people here, sprawled out on the sofa set; boxes of takeout on the side tables next to them. Of course Lyla's rich: only 20-somethings with money to spare have matching sofas. 

She's like Beetlejuice, or the Candyman, and pops up next to you when her name's said. 

"I work in tech! With a cute little job on Wall Street, and a part-time one white hat hacking." She clarifies. " Ethical hacking." 

She giggles like she's told a joke somewhere, and you nod – still not quite understanding. 

"...and some side gigs that aren't as ethical." A blond haired man next to Mouthful-Of-Pizza pipes up. "When are you going to introduce us, Miguel?" 

He's grumbling in the kitchen area, digging through the shelves for something. He returns with a bag of chips and dip in a container, flopping onto the zebra print throw pillows. Distracted, he waves a hand around the group noncommittally. 

"Uhh, Peter, Ben, Lyla." He gestures to you, saying your name, and then to himself; tearing open the bag at the same time. "-and Miguel. All done"

"My turn for questions, now," Miguel says, pointing at Lyla, looking at the boys to his side. "Is she…?"

"...super high? Most definitely." Lyla giggles at Ben's words, for good measure. 

"...right. Peter Parker, nice to meet you." He throws a thumb to the back of the sofa, where you notice a little mop of red curls peeking out. "And this is my little Mayday."

Peals of laughter erupt from behind him, and you notice grubby hands with a death grip to the cushion rest. Miguel leaps up, rushing to her side to help her up its back. 

"Ayyy dios mio." He scoops her up carefully, "Buenas, Arañita." 

Mayday is on his lap now, a little toddler of about 1 or 2, snaking herself around to hug Miguel's chest. She is certifiably the cutest thing you've ever seen: gap-toothed and giggly, with a smatter of freckles like someone's flicked a paintbrush across her nose. And with the way Miguel melts, you can die happy, knowing that you've seen the impossible: Miguel O'Hara, cooing and fussing over the little girl. 

"Arañita?" You ask, to no one in particular. 

"Itsy-bitsy spider." . ..is the sing-song, choral response from everyone but Miguel. They're mimicking his tone of voice, and he raises his head from May, looking around. 

"I don't sound- " 

"You do, dude." Peter sighs, tickling the little red head on the tummy; smiling as she collapses into bright laughter. "I don't have a nickname, and I've known you waaay longer than she has."

Miguel covers her tiny little ears, and says, "Eres un pendejo, Parker . "

[you're a dipshit, Parker] 

The scraggly man sticks his tongue out in response, and May pulls at his hair for good measure. He yelps, and Miguel passes her over to her Dad. The scene is funny, for sure, but you feel it's warmth more than anything. God, you can tell they've loved and laughed with each other for years; the kind of friendship you'd kill to have. 

"We just need whatever's left of her laptop, Lyla," He's blunt, batting away long forgotten chips and dip. "...and then we'll get going. Wish I could stay longer, Arañita, but I've got some work to finish off."

May makes grabby hands at him, and you melt. Who knows how Miguel can stay strong in the face of her big, round eyes. 

He gets up to stand next to you, arms crossed. The height difference is stark: his tall, solid frame towering over everyone else. It seems like an intimidation tactic, but you know him just well enough to tell: he's trying not to be swayed by puppy eyes and promises of food. 

"You just got here, Miggy." Lyla sighs. "We're going over prep for Jess', and we'll be two minutes, I swear."

"Oh?" His eyebrows light up. "I knew it! You were being evasive on the group chat, and Pete wasn't returning my calls…"

Huffing, he clasps his hand around yours, ready to storm out. "This is an ambush. A goddamn setup!" 

"Wait, Miguel, I need my-" 

"I'll pick it up later for you, okay?" It's said like an aside, so soft only you can hear it. With his hand around yours, it certainly feels more intimate than it should. And it seems like he realises a little too late, dropping your hand as your faces are mere inches away. 

"Um, we should… we should go." 

You look past him to the faces blinking at you guys, on the sofa. A pause, and then you're gulping down stubborn feelings to ask a question. 

"Jess' ? Is there a party, or something?" 

Lyla nods. "Yeah, and Miguel's meant to be picking up cake."

The man in question pinches his nose. "I can pick up the cake just fine. It's the whole… going to a party bit I'm not too keen on."

"Come onnn, you know Jess would love it."

"She'd love to blackmail me with some dumb shit I did drunk, that's for sure."

"It's her birthday, hardass ." Peter whispers that last bit, covering little May's ears like before. "She can have a little blackmail, as a treat."

"You're gonna say no to a surprise party ?" Ben echoes, shaking his head dramatically. 

"A surprise birthday?" You light up. "Miguel, you have to go."

His stony demeanor cracks, for a moment. You latch onto it, hellbent on wearing him down. He's always got his laptop out doing work, or cracking open a little notebook to prep a lab. When he's not at home, he's at that internship, or tutoring, or planning a tutoring session. Work, work, work; and you'll be dammed if you let him rot away in a little cage of his own machinations. 

"Come on, Miggy." You watch him bristle, prying at that little crack in the surface. This has to be done with finesse: present a challenge, and watch him scramble to prove you wrong. "You're telling me a couple of hours at a party's too much for you? That's it? " 

"That's not–" 

"S'what it sounds like to me." You shrug, a little smile on your face. The aim is to look as smug as possible; and it seems to be working. 

His jaw shifts, annoyed. Lyla catches on, giving you a crazed smile. 

"Even your roommate's gonna come." She says, an arm linked in yours. 

"I am?" She gives you a little dig, and you're spluttering. "Y-Yeah, I am!" 

You can see him fight with his own ego; but it's a one-sided affair. 

"Fine. " He strains. "Two hours, max. And then I'm gone."

Lyla gives you a squeeze, and then wraps you both up in a hug he desperately tries to fight off. Ben slots around you guys, and Peter's last to join, with Mayday squealing on his shoulders. 

Eventually, you get what's left of your laptop: a little thumb drive with as much as Lyla could save. You'd thanked her profusely, of course; trying to slither out of her vice grip of a hug, as best you could. She's absolutely batshit, the good kind; cryptic, and strange, but with a lot of heart. She makes you wonder, and they all do; just how did they become friends with Miguel? How do they fit? 

The man himself seems a little different, as if reinvigorated by being around friends. In fact, you catch him smiling to himself on the drive home. It's sweet; to see a different side of him around people he's clearly comfortable with. If only for a little while, he sheds the heavy weight he seems to carry around. 

Around the house, you notice he seems lighter – humming to himself whilst cooking dinner. That very day, you watch the little sway of hips as he stirs a pot; headphones in, singing under his breath. He can't sing for shit, of course, and he'd kill you if you ever uttered a word; but it's a sight you commit to memory, not knowing when next he'll be in such a good mood. 

There's still the question of a new laptop in the air, but you feel more settled by the events of the day. You're a little less fucked school-wise, you've got a party to look forward to, and potentially a drunk Miguel to make fun of. He goes to bed early; and you can hear the quiet drone of a podcast from the other side of the wall. He drifts off to the sweet, dulcet tones of Top Ten Genetic Precursors for Early Onset Dementia; one of his favourites, you've determined. 

All is well, for now. A tentative truce, and maybe, just maybe: you're finally friends with your roommate. 

~~~

There's something about dramatic irony that seems to smack you across the face, every time. 

You've come to somewhat of a understanding with your prickly roommate, and the stream of women in his bed seem to slow down, for a bit. He's hot, he's a whore; but he's sweet, with an eye for detail. He can read you with a scary amount of accuracy. Antsy and hungry from a long day? He leaves you scratching your head at his clairvoyance when you come home, chucking you a hot water bottle and a warm meal. You go to bed with a full belly, cramps abated. 

He's still a prick, of course. Sarcastic comments, and a massive grump – but you've learnt to deal with that. Just a couple of days after a seemingly settled week; what you can't wrap your head around is the pounding music from next door, at fuck-off-o'clock . He shouldn't be awake, let alone interrupting your late night study session. 

You're pissed, leaping from your desk to pound at his door. You're thudding towards his room, ready to deliver a well-deserved verbal lashing, and the door just… swings open. Empty; there's a window ajar and music pumping from speakers. Bachata and cheesy 90s R&B; which sounds suspiciously like his sex playlist. 

Yes, he has a sex playlist. And it really has no business to sound as good as it does. 

Nevertheless, you're resolute. If he's managed to sneak someone, at this hour, you decide he's going to get more than a stern talking to. 

There's clattering in the kitchen, and you whip around; half-expecting the giggle of another girl. When you walk in, it's just Miguel, rummaging through cupboards: a half-naked thief in the night. 

"Miguel?" 

He pops his head up from a cabinet, with a half-eaten piece of bread in his mouth. Caught red-handed, you suppose; and he gives you a little smile. 

"S'everyfin' – mmmfggh –" He scarfs the rest of it down. "Everything okay?" 

You squint. "No. Not really."

He chuckles, a slight rasp at the edges of his voice. Dickhead – what exactly is so funny? 

"You can't have your music so fucking loud, not when I'm studying. It's the middle of the night and–" 

Dressed in nothing but a pair of gray sweats, he's busying himself with a sandwich on the counter; clattering around noisily like he doesn't have full control of his limbs. Which is…. weird, admittedly. You'd trust Miguel to slice a grape with a machete – his dexterity is usually unmatched. Not that you'd made a habit of staring at his hands, or anything. 

"Are you even listening to me?" 

He nods, attempting to keep a straight face, but the faux solemnity does nothing to hide that droop of eyelids and slump of his shoulders. You get closer, pushing him to face you properly. 

"Oh, fuck," His eyes are a little red, hair messy and windswept. "Are you… high? " 

Miguel O'Hara? High? You'd never thought you'd live to see the day, honestly. His eyes go wide, dropping his sandwich dramatically. And then he's got a big hand at your shoulder, pulling you closer with a finger pressed to his lips. 

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering your name like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone."

With the way he says your name it makes you light-headed. It's slow and careful, as if he's testing the way it feels spilling from his lips. And maybe, with the way he smiles, it feels good; tastes sweet wrapped around his tongue. 

"I won't." You breathe, and then you're both giggling.

There's something about the way he looks at you, peering under heavy lashes; basically eye-fucking you in the space of your tiny kitchen. You feel bare in a little t-shirt and sleep shorts; suddenly exposed. 

"You should…" He starts, cocking his head ever so slightly. "Join me, chula. "

It's soft; sinful, even; said as he coaxes you between his body and the kitchen counter. 

You don't trust your voice enough to answer, legs already shaky, so you nod. Slight, at first; and then with a little more gusto as the idea of him and you on his sheets – intimate, alone – creeps in. He stretches out a hand, and you take it; led to his bedroom like a scene you've seen before. All those girls before you; led to the dragon's lair like damsels in a fairytale. Except in this one, you suppose, you're not waiting for a knight in shining armour to save you. 

He sits you down on the bed, passing you a freshly rolled blunt. Passing it to your lips , more specifically; hand on your chin as he brings the lighter up to its end. Even prettier up close, all you can do is watch the press of plump lips, and pink tongue sticking out as he concentrates. As he leans in, there's a hand on your bare thigh. You inhale, deeply, and he hums with content.

"Good girl," He purrs, prying it from your lips to take a slow drag. 

"You're a bad influence." You murmur, watching as his eyes flutter shut. 

"You need to relax," He leans back, arm drawn lazily upwards. "This is helping."

"That's not–" Oh. You feel it now, a steady haze rolling over limbs. 

Miguel quirks up an eyebrow, amused. 

You repeat, slowly, "You're a bad influence ."

"Does it feel good?" You pause, trying to ignore his low tone; and the steady blaze that it ignites within you. Dragging your eyes to meet his, you see it: want, lust, something heavy that swirls behind them. 

You nod, itching for another pull. As if psychic, he gestures for you to come closer; and your lips almost slot against his. He exhales, and you inhale; in the closest thing you've come to a kiss in months. It makes you ache for just a little more contact, for those pretty hands to slot between your thighs and–

"Is this all I need to do for some quiet around here?" He asks, lilting. If only he'd stop talking; interrupting your fantasy with that stupid grin of his. 

You're shaking your head, laughing at the sheer gall . 

"You're fucking someone new every week, O'Hara. Loud. Who was it the other day? Cathy, Kayla –" 

"Sita, actually." He has a strange expression on his face. "And we didn't fuck. Just going over lecture notes."

"Sorry . Must have gotten mixed up with the half-dozen other girls in and out of here. Our apartment's not a brothel , Miggy."

He rolls his eyes, handing you the remnants of the blunt. 

"...s'not my fault there isn't anyone fucking you right."

You scoff. "How would you know?" 

"Thin walls. " It's cryptic. What the fuck does that mean?

You take a careful drag, and hand the blunt back – trying your hardest not to strangle him. It must show on your face as you tussle with the thought, because Miguel is staring; unabashedly, unashamedly. When you notice, it throws you off. 

"... what?" Ready to defend yourself, you huff. 

He shrugs. His expression is soft, reminding you of that night, not long ago. 

"You look like a painting."

You practically short circuit. You've been complimented before, of course. Hot, by men trying to get into your pants. Pretty, sometimes. Beautiful, the other times. Whether it's been sincere, you don't know – but you're smart enough to not overthink it. It's hard enough to live a life, as it is; and you'd rather not be bogged down by what others think, how you look whilst doing it. And yet, you feel your body betray you; a steady bloom of heat at your heart, like you've been stabbed. So deep, it spreads like blood on the front of a blouse. Like a painting, he says. And you like the way he says it; how it sounds spilling from his lips. 

Its implication sits heavy. Like a painting : hand-crafted, silken, soft –

He blinks, the crack of a smile on his face. And it ends in a fit of giggling, if you can even call it that. 

"Stop fucking with me." You grumble, and he thinks the way your face scrunches up with disdain is cute. There's probably an implication there he should unpack in therapy – how he likes it when you shout and put him in his place – but he's much too high to care. 

"M'not-" He quiets down, flattens his face into something resembling sobriety and gravitas. He gets a little closer, so close you can feel the heat of his body and flutter of lashes. With wide, dilated pupils, he stills - and it really doesn't help that he looks so pretty. 

"Can't stop thinking about you, hermosa." His voice is low, slurred with the weight of the blunt he's taken careful drags of. Every word makes you feel hazy, drawn in by his lips. " Fuck, all the time."

"Hear your laugh in my dreams, sometimes." He circles your bare thigh carefully, without breaking eye contact. With a thumb on your chin, he brings you closer, and closer still. Gently, you close your eyes, expecting the press of his lips against yours… 

…instead, you get a puff of smoke for your troubles. Reeling, you push him away. He collapses on the bed in a laughing fit. 

"... now I'm fucking with you." Rumbling laughter, and you've got the wherewithal to be embarrassed – hand still resting on his bare chest. 

A little cruelly, you push down, giving him an elbow to the ribs for good measure and he splutters with surprise – laughing all the same. 

"Asshole." You slur, and he grabs your arm to pull you onto the covers with him. You paw at him wildly, wrestling amongst the table of sheets. It's not a fair fight, not really; the wide expanse of his bare chest feels solid, and he's probably got more muscle in his pinky toe than you do in your whole body. Miguel is strong , but plays along regardless, pinning you to the bed with his hands around your wrists - but lets you turn him over just as quick. You're both laughing, the blunt long forgotten but its haze blurring the lines. You straddle his middle, hips flush against his and he keens; head back and cheeks flushed.

"Fuck," It's quiet, said as he writhes below you and you try to pin his hands above his head. Maybe it's the weed, but he lets you: eyes low, breath steady. And you stay like that, for a moment; bodies laid against one another. 

You don't know who starts it: the slow roll of hips, the swell of his cock bucking up against your heat. Regardless, you welcome it, letting the heat build up with the pressure at your clit. Your hips sway and all Miguel can do is watch. 

Lips parted, head back; and you set a steady rhythm that washes over you both.

Humping against one another, you get more desperate and drag your hands to his chest for purchase. Underneath you, Miguel practically purrs – one hand on your waist and the other clutching yours at his chest. 

"So, so pretty…" He sighs into it, wide palm pawing at your ass, shamelessly grabbing handfuls. By now, he's rock hard; and you feel him throb through the thin material of his sweats. 

"Fuck, I can't–" You moan, ragged, the roll of your hips gaining speed. 

Miguel coos, bringing a hand to your chin to pull you closer to the crook of his neck. 

"Too fast, hermosa. S-Slow it down for me." He grips your waist, forcing the pace to slow. Your hips stutter against his, delicious pressure making you cry out. And, God, you're close; pleasure building up at your gut. 

"Ohhh, fuck. Just like that, just like–" It's soft, whispered between the press of bodies like a prayer: reverent, intimate, a slew of garbled English and Spanish into the shell of your ear that goes straight to your pussy. 

"A-Ahi, ahi–"

[t-there, there–] 

Plush lips brush against your cheek, and you try so hard to not float away - with only his words to keep you tethered.  

"... no pares lo que sea que estes haciendo–ohh-fuck–" 

[don't stop what you're doing, oh fuck–] 

The coil at the base of your stomach snaps, and you arch into his touch as he does the same. Miguel spills into his sweats, heaving with the effort. He can feel the clench of your pussy above, and he chases it in the aftermath; craning his neck to finally get a kiss. Limbs heavy, you still manage to swerve so his kisses land at your jaw. He's grateful for the contact anyway it comes and sucks careful hickies into the skin: at your neck, your collarbone, and anywhere else he can reach. 

You sink into it, curl up on his chest like a housecat; his hands wandering the gentle slope of your back under your shirt. 

Limbs heavy, you pry yourself from his hands ever so slightly. He strains to follow you up, snapping back into the sheets like an elastic band. Still, he kneads at your flesh - bare thighs spilling from your shorts. 

" Miguel," You whisper, hand travelling past his neck to cradle his jaw. "Need more…"

You punctuate that last word with a roll of your hips. Wanton, conflicted; he groans . 

"It's late, chula. " He says it slowly, hesitant – like he can't believe the words are coming out of his mouth. He's still high, lost in the whispy remnants of that blunt. You've never known weed to make someone more responsible, and you flop to his side, a little childishly. 

Miguel makes sure to keep a hand wrapped around your waist, dragging his other knuckles up your exposed tummy so that it rides up to the swell of your tits. 

"And you've got that 9am."

You cover your face with the span of your hands, grumbling. From between the gaps in your fingers, you repeat, 

" ...and I've got that 9am ."

He traces lazy circles in your flesh. Maybe it's the blunt, or the afterglow of an orgasm; but you make him laugh, a gentle ache replacing the creak and shudder of gears. 

"Idiot." He says, kissing it into your skin. And he burns from the touch, fleeting; like the warm flame from paper lanterns, or the flicker of a lighter against cool night air. 

_

_

_

Miguel taglist (1): @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns

@ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings @aiyaaayei @hyp-oh-critical @tea-earl-grey-thot @sunset-euphoria @moonsio @akiras-key@szaplsdropthealbum@levanneisdumb @naiya-patel17 @Serostapesweat @strawberrymiguel @yumeeesss @errorundyne-exe @spear-bitch @redsoleily @marsissoswag @slezhara @ye4gerzz @adlct515 @nanam1 @indigocookie @cincocosas-blog @starguiders @path0logicalpeoplepleaser@funkyfishy@whoreloll@eugeab@tarjapearce@maddielikesmoths@egotaestical

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Gold Dust

Pairing: Modern Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Public use of an app based sex toy, smut. Word count: ~1.8k

Summary: Aemond's office Christmas party is the last thing either of them want to attend, however, he comes up with an idea to make it fun for both of them.

Author's note: Can be read as an addition of this series, but also works as a standalone. Day seven of the Smuffmas prompts - "sharing a drink and toys". No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Aemond edit in first picture is by @kyloremus.

It’s been six blissful months since her and Aemond moved in together. Having decided his own lofty high rise flat no longer felt like home - in truth, it never had - he’d offered a swap with Mysaria, and she’d leapt at the offer.

Aemond’s flat was paid for outright, so there’d be no expenses incurred on her part, beyond standard bills and utilities. She suited the space, adding a touch of glamour to the modern matte black and chrome surroundings. Her jaw had dropped when he’d handed her the deeds, his grandfather’s law firm already having handled the necessary paperwork and transfer of ownership. Aemond didn’t want rent, he simply wanted to live with the woman he loved. The simple act of Mysaria giving them a space to be by themselves was payment enough in his mind.

The security of the smaller, more homely feeling flat which she now shared with him had been trickier to negotiate. The landlord had snubbed Aemond’s initial offer to buy it from him, insisting he’d make more in rental payments from it than he would if he sold it. Some moderate pressure applied by the legal team of Otto Hightower, and an offer well above its current market value had soon seen to that, so now they were homeowners of a place that was theirs.

Mysaria’s old room had been turned into a home office, a space where either her or Aemond could work from home if and when they wanted to, aside from that they had made no further changes. The cosy little space was where they had shared their fondest memories, and every aspect of their relationship was woven into it.

She shrugs off her coat, hanging it up by the front door, and sighs in relief as the warmth of the central heating prickles her skin. She stoops to ruffle Vhagar behind the ears, a reward for the elderly doberman having reluctantly left her bed to greet her, before walking through to the living room. The blankets on the sofa are exactly as she’d left them the previous evening, and she eagerly retreats back into her nest, snatching up the TV remote from the coffee table.

“Good day?” Aemond asks, propping himself against the door frame as he emerges from the home office, the faintest smirk of amusement playing upon his lips as he looks at her.

She regards him with a warm smile, her features softening instantly despite how tired and irritated she feels. “Horrid, thanks for asking. Do we have any wine left?”

“There’ll be wine at the party, I expect,” he says, moving to sit next to her and brushing a chaste kiss against her temple.

“What?”

He narrows his eye at her, drawing back to look at her carefully. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

She groans as realisation dawns upon her. “Shit, your office Christmas party. Do we really have to go?”

He sighs, nodding and interlocks his fingers with hers. “Ordinarily, I’d give it a miss, you know I loathe parties, but my grandfather has called in more than a few favours for me this year. I owe him this.”

An hour later, and she steps out of the bedroom, hair and make-up finished and a slinky silk dress hugging her curves.

“Beautful,” Aemond breathes quietly, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips.

She smiles bashfully, feeling her skin heat up beneath the weight of his compliment as he pulls away, and watches with curiosity as he moves past her to rummage around on the top shelf of their wardrobe.

“What are you doing?”

“Your outfit’s missing something,” he tells her, pulling down the Lovehoney box, a glint in his eye as he turns to her.

“Aemond, no!”

The app controlled egg vibrator had been a drunken purchase on her behalf, that she’d regretted the moment it had arrived. Upon discovering it, Aemond’s reaction had been much more enthusiastic, kneeling between her spread legs and watching in fascination as she’d whimpered and writhed as he’d played with the settings using the app on his phone.

It had been fun at the time, but she’d considered it impractical and tucked it away, hoping he’d forgotten about it. It’s clear now that he hasn’t.

“Oh come now, darling, it’ll make the evening much more fun for both of us. Consider it an early Christmas gift to me.”

It doesn’t take much persuading, and soon she is sitting in the back of a black cab next to him, her coat pulled tight around her against the chilly December air, made colder still by a distinct lack of knickers, which Aemond had insisted she leave behind.

She is acutely aware of the feeling of the egg enveloped snugly inside of her, its presence, though discreet, making her feel as though she brandishes a scarlet letter that their taxi driver must be aware of.

“No!” She mouths desperately at Aemond as he pulls his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over the app.

He flashes her the briefest of grins, tapping once on the screen. A mild singular buzz reverberates through her, causing her to clasp a hand over her mouth to muffle her squeal. Aemond eyes her carefully, poking at the inside of his cheek with his tongue before pocketing his phone once more.

Tonight was going to be interesting.

They step into the office, already bustling with people, chatter and light classical music fill the opulent space which is decked out in rich, mahogany furnishings and forest green upholstery, ever the indication that the Hightowers come from old money.

“There they are!” Aegon greets them loudly with a grin, arms spread and half drunk flutes of champagne clutched by the stem between each of his fingers. His shoulder length blonde hair is tousled, and his white shirt is open by three buttons.

“How long have you been here?” She asks, taking in his bedraggled appearance.

“‘Bout twenty minutes,” he slurs around a mouthful of vol-au-vent.

Otto steps up behind him, placing a ring clad hand upon his shoulder. “I tell you where you might like it, Aegon, on the terrace; outside.”

She watches with amusement as the older man leads him away.

“I’d better give him a hand,” Aemond mutters quietly, the warmth of his palm leaving her lower back as he moves to follow. He nods towards his older sister. “Good to see you, Hel.”

She smiles warmly at Hel leaning in as the two peck each other’s cheeks. “How are you doing?” She asks fondly.

“Starving!” Helaena complains, pulling her sheer turquoise wrap tighter around herself and waving away a tray of canapés that’s being offered around by a member of serving staff. “Not a single vegan option here, everything’s either got salmon in it or is slathered in cream cheese.”

“You could always sneak off to grab something?” She offers sympathetically.

“Aeg said there’s a kebab shop over the road. I might see if he’ll grab me a falafel wrap later. Anyway,” she continues, snatching up two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and handing one to her. “How are you?!”

“Yeah, really good!” She grins. “Aemond mentioned we might fly to New York for New Year’s, go and see Daeron. I’ve not met him yet and I– oh!”

She bows her head, biting back the quiet moan that tries to escape her, as the egg inside her vibrates incessantly. Her head snaps up, making eye contact with Aemond, who stands in a corner with his phone out, a sly smile upon his face.

Bastard.

“You alright?” Helaena asks, eyebrows pinched together in concern.

“Mhm…just...champagne bubbles…they go right up my nose!” She feigns a laugh, embarrassment making her skin feel hot.

Ever the dutiful girlfriend, she does her rounds of the office, speaking to colleagues and family members alike, though every interaction is thwarted by sudden and persistent vibrations between her legs.

After an hour of polite chit chat with Alicent, Criston, Otto and several other party guests, she leans back against the wall next to Aemond’s office door, needing a breather from socialising, but also feeling lightheaded from the intermittent throbbing in her core.

The door swings slowly open and Aemond steps out, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid in hand.

“Having fun?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Mmm,” she narrows her eyes, “you clearly are. What’s that you’ve got?”

“Laphroaig,” he tells her, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Thirty six year old The Wall Peat, to be precise. Grandfather would never offer this around to the guests. Lucky for me I know he keeps it stashed in his bottom desk drawer.”

“Lucky indeed,” she purrs up at him.

He grabs her hand, pulling her into his office and closes the door behind them, before backing her up against the desk, until she perches on the edge.

“Let me see,” he whispers, pushing her dress up above her hips.

His free hand applies gentle pressure to her knee, spreading her legs, and she watches the bob of his throat as he swallows thickly, taking in the sight of the arousal that coats her centre.

“Fuck,” he mutters darkly. “The idea of you walking around making innocent small talk while you’re soaked is driving me mad.”

She giggles, clenching around the egg that’s nestled within her as she sees his gaze darken. Aemond pulls out his phone again, changing the setting to a constant vibrate, before setting it down on the desk behind her.

Mewling helplessly, shockwaves of pleasure ripple through her as Aemond’s thumb swipes against her sodden folds, spreading her open to watch intently.

He takes a sip from his glass, and she gasps as he grabs her forcefully by the hair at the back of her head, crushing her lips against his and letting the whisky pass from his mouth to hers. She moans quietly, the intensity of the burn of the liquid that slips down her throat and the throbbing ache between her legs making her feel dizzy.

She is devastatingly close, can feel the pressure building to boiling point, and she whines, pressing her face into the crook of Aemond’s neck, fingertips rumpling the fabric of his black button down shirt as she grasps his biceps for purchase. “Fuck, Aemond, I–”

“It’s alright, I’ve got you, let go,” he coos.

She bites down on the juncture of his neck to muffle her pleasured cry, earning her a startled grunt from Aemond. Her body spasms around the toy, climaxing with a force that makes her toes curl inside of her high heels, before going limp against his chest.

He settles his glass down and strokes her hair before pulling back. His long, dexterous fingers wrap around the cord of egg, and despite how gentle he is as he tugs it free, she still hisses with overstimulation as it leaves her body. The sudden feeling of emptiness is alien to her after having spent most of the evening with it inside of her.

“Can…can we go home now?” She asks tiredly, as he wraps the toy in tissue and deposits it on the desk.

“Hmmm, not just yet,” Aemond tells her, taking her hand and guiding it to palm over the erection that strains against the confines of his suit trousers. “I’m not quite finished with you yet.”

[sailoryooons]

alright fuck it somebody's gotta ask for some fluff around here. i want in the soop vibes !!! but it's just you and yoongi settling into the place you've rented for a weekend away bc you're forcing him to take a break. you share expensive whiskey and he cooks for you and it's domestic and CUTE (and like it could get smutty if you waaaaant idk idk). ok love you you're doing amazing sweetie !!!

❀ Pairing: Yoongi x f. reader

❀ Summary: A cozy trip to the woods is exactly what you and Yoongi need to manage your stress. You especially love the moments when Yoongi gets to enjoy you right by the fireside. 

❀ Word Count: 2,352

❀ Genre: Fluff, established relationship, smut

❀ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

❀ Warnings: Teeth-rotting fluff, Yoongi and reader are really touching but in a cutesy way, recreational drinking but no one gets drunk, explicit language, explicit sexual content including nipple play, vaginal fingering, a little bit of overstimualtion, light teasing, and a lot of WAP. 

❀ Published: August 1, 2023

❀ A/N: It’s cool it only took me an entire year to finish this request for the literal love of my entire life. And the best part? They’re now back to read it! Thank you for being my best friend and my light in the dark and the moon to my stars and also for picking oral or fingies even though I don’t know if you knew what you were picking them for skdjgndfigdh te quireo mas, mi vida. 

❀ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

| Masterlist | Ask | Hali’s Happy Agust | Part Two |

Yoongi squeezes the back of your neck gently, making you look up from your book poised in your lap. Smoke from the grill catches on the wind and blows south, carrying the smell of sizzling meat. Yoongi doesn’t look at you, flipping pork belly with one hand while keeping his other hand on you.

“Will be ready in five,” he informs you, eyes inspecting the grilling vegetables on the top layer of the grill. “Better finish your chapter.”

You smile at that, pleased that he knows that you won’t want to get up from the chair you’ve drawn across the porch to sit next to him until you finish your chapter. Nodding, you dive back into your book, determined to finish before Yoongi’s done grilling.

It’s hard to concentrate, though. Dinner smells amazing, the smoky scent of meal and glazed veggies filling the porch. The weight and warmth of Yoongi’s hands as he kneads the muscles of your neck is comforting, Yoongi determined to keep his hold on you despite cooking.

Moments like this are few and far in between. Instead of reading, you take a second to soak it all in. Around your rented cabin is a stretch of evergreens and mountains, the blue sky turning liquid gold as the sun sets somewhere beyond the peak of the mountains. 

Evening blankets the woods around you, urging the crickets to start up their nightly hymns and birds to flit from tree to tree as they head to their nests for the night. It’s not quite autumn yet, but there’s a chill in the air at this elevation, chased away by Yoongi’s closeness and the smoking grill. 

“Come on,” he urges gently, giving you one more squeeze. “Ready.”

“I didn’t finish my chapter.”

“With all that staring into the trees, I’m not surprised. You looking for bears out there?”

“I was living in the moment. Plus, maybe a werewolf will appear.”

“Hmm. Come live in the moment with this pork before you turn into a werewolf from hunger.”

Dinner is spread out on a picnic bench table, platters of meat and vegetable skewers and steaming sides. Yoongi slides on the bench next to you, bumping your shoulder. He leans and gives you a gentle kiss on your head before turning to the food, reaching for skewers. 

You flush with warmth, smiling over at him. Having him to yourself like this is wonderful. He’s warm and calm, smelling like cedar and smoke. Leaning into him a bit, you load your plate, both of you eating in silence as you watch the sky shift through layers of gold to pink and purple. 

String lights on timers buzz above you, lighting the porch in warm, gold light. The air is chilly by the time you finish your meal, full and satiated. Together, you pick up what’s left and head inside, a shiver crawling up your spin from the breeze. 

“I’ll start a fire,” Yoongi murmurs, smacking your ass as you head to the kitchen full of plates. You squeal and he laughs, deep and throaty. 

When you’re done with the dishes, you pour two glasses of whisky. You stop just behind the couch, watching him as he stretches to spread out the corner of a blanket. There are piles of pillows surrounding him and extra blankets, a nest of his own creation in front of a warm, crackling fire. 

Yoongi looks cozy. His nose is a little red from being outside and his long hair is tucked under a beanie. He’s shed the flannel he had on earlier, now in just sweatpants and a t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders. You don’t remember when he got so broad, but your stomach does a flip as you watch him, taking in all the things you’ve missed in the last few, very stressful months.

Sensing your stare, Yoongi looks up at you. His face brightens immediately, a small smile appearing on his face. “Hi.”

“You look cozy,” you tease.

“Missing the main ingredient.” He sits down and pats the space in between his legs. “Come on.”

Giddy, you hurry over to Yoongi, who takes the glasses from your hand and sets them to the side. Yoongi leans back against the rows of pillows he’s wedged up in front of the couch, legs spread for you. You sit down gently between them, your legs kicked out in front of you as you lean back into Yoongi’s warmth.

Cedar and smoke wrap around you. You can feel Yoongi’s heart beating through your back as you melt into him, sighing. He brings his arms around you, lifting one of the glasses for you to take.

“Better,” Yoongi hums, voice like velvet. “Much better.” 

Leaning your head into the crook between his neck and shoulder, you tip your glass back, swigging the smoky, burning whisky. You make a content sound, drawing a laugh from Yoongi. The sound rumbles against you. 

“Let’s stay here forever,” you mutter, gazing at the crackling flames. “We don’t need to go back.”

“Okay.”

“Really, just like that?”

You feel him shrug behind you. “I’m always down to do what you want. If you’re a bird, I’m a bird and all that.”

“God did you watch The Notebook with Jimin again?”

Yoongi’s laughter is louder this time. “Maybe so.” 

Night stretches on and your whisky glass empties. It’s not enough to make you feel buzzed, but you feel snug in Yoongi’s arms, turning your head to press your nose against his neck. He shivers behind you and you giggle, nuzzling him further. 

Yoongi nudges the glasses further away. His hands wrap around your middle and he squeezes you, turning his head so that his mouth rests against your forehead. Your skin buzzes where his lips are pressed, warm and wet as his tongue slips out and across your forehead.

“Ewww, Yoongi!”

He laughs. “What do you mean ‘ew’? You weren’t saying ew last night when my tongue was in that pussy.” 

Yoongi’s words are heavy. They sink right through you to your core, a lick of arousal hot in your stomach as his hands drift from your waist to your thighs. Even through sweats, your skin heats up as his palms skate gently over the fabric, fingers squeezing as they go.

You squirm in his lap and Yoongi tuts, making you go boneless. Burying your face in his neck, you let his hands brush back up and under the hem of your shirt, jumping when his calloused fingers make contact with the softness of your stomach. A small sound escapes you, his tough featherlight and sending chills up your spine. 

Every drag of his touch across your skin makes you feel hotter than the fireplace in front of you. You suck in a sharp breath as he drags his fingers on the underside of your breasts, soft-slow touch driving you mad. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your back into him as you arch a little, unable to sit entirely still.

Yoongi just laughs, the sound like honey dripping in your ears. 

“Kiss me,” he says softly, nudging you with his head. 

It feels like your head weighs a ton when you lift it to look up at him, your world spinning. His gaze is dark, smile lazy as he leans forward, pressing your lips to his. Yoongi’s mouth is slow and decadent, sucking at your bottom lip gently before pressing his tongue against your lips.

Years ago when you’d kissed Yoongi for the first time, you knew that no one else could kiss you like this. No one else could brush their tongue against yours, making your thighs squeeze together with just the simple melding of mouths. Now, you can’t get enough of his wet mouth on yours, leaning up into him as he hum-laughs at your eagerness.

Distracted, you barely realize that his hands are cupping your tits now until his thumbs brushing gently over your hardened nipples. You gasp into his mouth and he doesn’t let up, turning the slow kiss into something a little more demanding, a little hungrier.

Yoongi could swallow you whole and you’d let him. He could burn you up from the inside out after taking you apart piece by piece and lighting you on fire.

He pinches your nipples, pleasure rippling through you. The effect reverberates to your aching cunt, thighs pressed together to relieve the throb between your legs. Too easy for him. You know it’s easy and you used to hate it, but now, as Yoongi keeps one hand tweaking a nipple and the other slides down, you love it.

Love that he works you up like this. Loves that he knows how. Love that he can give you what you want without making you beg too much for it.

Tonight, Yoongi is indulgent. His hand is sure as it slips beneath the waistband of your sweats. You part your legs for him, placing them on the outside of his spread knees. He lets out a hum of appreciation, fingers slipping between your sticky folds.

“Good girl,” he whispers. You don’t know if he means because you’re dripping for him or because you open yourself up to him without command. Maybe it’s both. “Such a wet pussy, hmm?”

You nod, dropping your mouth from his lips to his neck, your lips messy and spit-slicked against his soft skin. Your tongue darts out, laving the tender spot beneath his ear and he moans. “Please,” you ask, kissing him there. “Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.”

He continues to drag his fingers up and down your pussy, careful to avoid your clit. You feel like you’re going to fall away into time and space, but it’s also not nearly enough. Your thighs squeeze, fighting the urge to shut your legs.

“You arrrre.” 

“Only a little.” 

Finally - finally - Yoongi applies pressure to your clit, circling it gently with the collected juices from your leaking entrance. You soften in his hold, complete putting as he draws fluttering gasps and breaths from you, pleasure blossoming from your pussy to your stomach. 

Biting your lip, you squirm a little in his lap. Yoongi’s legs spread a little wider, pulling your legs apart further, the stretch in your thighs pleasure-laced pain added to the stimulation. Yoongi lets go of your chest, sliding his hand down to tug at your sweats.

“Help me out, baby.” 

Lifting your ass for him, you help him pull your sweats down but not all the way off. It’s just enough to display your glistening cunt in the firelight. He doesn’t delay a second, hand coming back to use one middle finger to lazily trace patterns around  your clit and the other to explore further, teasing your hole.

“Greedy,” he mumbles. You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or your pussy as he slips a finger in, making your hips buck. “Keep still.”

“It’s hard,” you shoot back as he slowly begins to fuck you with his finger, his other hand careful not to stimulate you too fast. “Feels good.”

“Better than your own fingers when I’m gone?”

“Yes.” 

“Better than-”

“Not better than your cock,” you gasp as his finger brushes against your g-spot. “Stop asking stupid questions, Yoongi.”

He just laughs but concedes, setting a pace matched with both of his hands. Your eyes roll back as you sink low against him, hips sliding down further to chase his thrusting hand. He pulls you apart so easily, knowing exactly the speed and depth to press, knows exactly when to add another finger, the stretch and pressure maddening. 

Flames lick at the logs in front of you, heating up your skin even more. Yoongi is relentless, pulling you toward your orgasm at an agonizing pace. After years of practice, no one knows how to lure you better than him, no one knows how to string you up on the edge of a precipice, breath stilted, body shaking. 

“Come on,” he murmurs, kissing your neck. “You want it so bad.”

And you do want it. You’re a writhing mess, feet digging into the blankets beneath you, legs straining against the waistband of your sweats that are pulled to the knees, nails digging into Yoongi’s forearms. The wet sound of him working your cunt makes the room spin, your arousal loud and messy and so so so good.

“Fuck,” you growl through gritted teeth. You clench up around his fingers, leg muscles twitching, shoulders pulling in as you start to seize up. “I’m gonna-”

You can’t finish your sentence. He thrusts his fingers harder, pressing right up against your soft spot, the pressure driving you to the edge of insanity. You think you’ll break in his hands, shatter to pieces with the force building in your gut.

“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees, as he slips a third finger in, fucking you hard, leaning forward and bending you in half as he uses the leverage to thrust his fingers upward. “You’re fucking gonna.” 

“Shit!”

Between the angle, Yoongi’s knowing hands, and the sloppy, all tongue and teeth kiss he places on your shoulders, you break. You come around his fingers hard, wet, hot and screaming his name. He keeps going, the soaked sound of his fingers fucking your hole bracketed by your cursing as you squeal and lean away from him, trying to escape the grip of your orgasm.

Yoongi doesn’t let you. He pulls every drop of it out of you until you’re seeing white, your body filled with static. He goes until you’re boneless once more, useless in his lap as you gasp raggedly for air. Sweat-slick, overheated and mindless, you lay in his lap for a second as he slowly pulls his hands back. You feel empty without them, whining. 

“Hush,” he admonishes, biting your arm lightly. “I’m not done with you yet.” 

[romanticoms]

this lovin' i have for you, it'll never change

title inspo age ain't nothing but a number by aaliyah

18+ MDNI. (perverted) dbf!leon x afab!reader, age gap (reader is 21+ leon is 38), cunnilingus, deepthroating, choking/gagging, semi public sex, dirty talking, praising, reader has a father // wc;1.3k tags: @kennedyswhore (this was a reupload btw hehehe)

a/n: YEOWCH this whole thing has been eating my brain so either enjoy or watch as my parental issues worsen. btw this isn't proofread NOR has it been beta'd so enjoy the work i create out of sleep deprivation.

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You were at a bar nearby for your dad's daily work discussions— or whatever they were. For the boredom of it, you understood why they'd hold such meetings in places suited to give them a sense of boost in attitude, simply put, coping for the long, tedious hours.

You were bored out of your brains, not even in the mood to drink so you'd just stroll around the bar hoping to find some form of entertainment. Darkness overtakes the room, a gold light in each corner guiding you through each creaking tile.

Your eyes immediately turned to the pool table, you felt more confident than any other time, to know that the bar wasn't as crowded as you'd typically expect it to be. 'Why not go for a round?' You let the question linger before you grabbed a cue stick leaning against the mosaic tiles.

Preparations were done, you had yourself set behind the balk, arching around the edge of the table like a cat, you shut an eye to sharpen your precision, "Here, you have to pinch your thumb against your hands." A familiar voice hit your ears.

Slowly, you turned your head around to find Leon, his eyes were focused on the cue ball, his hand wrapped on top of yours, body pitted against yours before he let the stick hit it, strike. "Good girl, knew you were a fast learner." He coaxed, ruffling your hair, almost leaving it a nest-like mess. "Mr Kennedy— I didn't know you were here!" You replied shyly, fiddling with the hem of your skirt. "Came here on my own, aren't you too young to even be here?" He raised an eyebrow, handing the cue stick right back to you.

"Dad's right there, he's busy with whatever," You rolled your eyes playfully upon turning your head back at your dad, who'd been oblivious to Leon's presence. "Same as ever." Leon chuckled to himself, head faced down before his eyes pierced yours.

"Up for a new round? Or do you wanna.. finish this up?" He asked, finger circling around the billiard table, indicating to pick up where you left off. "Practice round, how's that sound?" He asked, a faint smirk painted on his face. "Yeah, yeah. Let's do that." You nodded in regards to his proposal.

"So you know to hold it like that.." He mumbled, body encasing you as his hand tugged on yours, letting him arch over you, letting himself feel you. A part of you didn't want to let this minute crush intensify and worsen what little feelings you've had for him. He's your dad's friend, for fuck's sake. You shouldn't even have your mind reeling over this. You shook your head lightly to shake the feeling off, focusing on the game. But how could you? When someone this fucking hot is right behind you, guiding you. Praising you. Strike. "What a smart girl you are, I might have to reward you for this later." He winked before heading back to his table for a brief moment, gulping his beer down, you observed as his adam's apple bobbing over the drink, watching intently as a drop of beer fell past his chiseled jaw, sharp enough to cut, followed with his stubble trailing past his neckline.

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Bending you over the sink, he whispers into your ear. "Your reward for winning earlier, and mine for teaching you." He grinned against your cheek, you could read onto it despite shutting your eyes closed. Gripping onto the shallow porcelain well was your only task.

Now that you know you have even scores to settle out, Leon starts, hands gliding under your skirt before the index and middle wandered through the now wet gusset of your panties. "Christ, didn't even do anything." He muttered under his breath. "Don't worry, 'm gonna take good care of you." Both pads of his fingers ran through your clothed cunt, rubbing it up and down before tugging onto your underwear. Unbothered and horny, Leon just let your panties sit on the side of your swollen cunt, throbbing and aching 'specially for Leon.

"Just gotta let me do all the work, 'kay?" He mumbled into your ear, a hand on your ass, dropping down to your cunt, stretching your pussy lips with his thumb. Getting on one knee, his tongue broad as he licked a long strip against your slick covered folds, darting his tongue in you, thrusting repeatedly as you struggled to hold yourself together. "Love tonguefucking this sweet pussy," He chuckled against your cunt before sucking your clit, tongue swirling routinely. Before you knew it, your orgasm came crashing. Your body was out of your own control, a hand tugging on his scalp, pulling him closer and closer in until you couldn't feel yourself. Moans and whimpers soft as you'd attempt to stifle them by burying your face deep into your forearm before briefly letting go.

It wasn't long before your body was craving Leon again, you'd long forgotten about why you were even here in the first place. "We don't have all day, sweetheart, 'fraid daddy might come in here looking for ya'." His words drove you to drop to your knees, hands lazily finding his zipper, undoing it before both hands pinched either side of both his jeans and boxers, letting it drop to his ankles.

You marveled at the sight that was Leon's cock, throbbing and engorged, waiting for you eagerly. Slowly, you pull the foreskin back, your tongue circled around his slit, laced with precum; taking him in gradually. Tutting, he mutters to himself, "This won't do," intertwining his fingers around your hair, thrusting you in with force, back and forth while you choke and gag over his size, eyes bulging as tears ran past your lashline. "Such a tight throat for me too," He groaned, "Gonna keep training this throatpussy, get her to take it over and over, even if she can't." He sputtered before a loud moan overtakes his words. "Oh, fuck, fuck, take it," He growls, pulling you in, nose against his pubes, filling your throat full of his cum, sticky and hot against your insides, he pulls back after a while. "Open." He instructs, you comply hesitantly, mouth agape, filled with his mess. You decide to fuck around, pouting your lips as you spit some of his cum out, letting it bubble around your lips, a sight straight out a porno at best. "Swallow." He concludes by pulling his hand away from your now tangled hair. You do as you're told, looking into him your messy state was rather enticing. It's been far too long since he's done something like this, with someone like you. "Clever girl, always attentive, obedient. Can't wait to find you again, fuck you like this, even if your daddy's here— can't resist a tight girl like you, makes me wonder if your pussy's just as tight." He muses. You're supposed to find his words wrong, but if anything; it just gets you all the more wet, you kept quiet rather than let your mind speak. "You'd let me do that, wouldn't you? Oh, sure you would; you were made for me to fuck." He snickers.

"Would love to fuck you, really would, but I wouldn't wanna wear my little girl down now, would I?" He murmurs, arms crossed as he leaned against the cramped bathroom walls, watching you fix yourself from the mirror. "Wanna taste those sweet tits too, bet those nipples are hard," He teases, his words weren't exactly false, too. "Mr Kennedy!" You yelped softly, "Don't mind me, sweetheart, there's only so much I can say about such a sweet thing like you." He replies, rubbing his hand across his stubble back and forth.

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You were absolutely afraid, hoping your dad hadn't run around looking for you, or even worse, left thinking you hitched a ride back home. Leon assures you just from the look on his face, pushing the bathroom door open before slowly walking out as if you were in a horror movie, you took a sharp right only to find your dad, still in chatterbox mode with his friends. "Still up for round two? I always have my mind set on things," He grins, watching the dumbfounded look on your face as you'd been worrying over nothing.

[the-californicationist]

They Think They're Sneaky

(Ghoap & Price/Reader)

It had taken you a while to make it feel like home. The soggy Liverpudlian winters were dreadfully different from your eighty-degree Miami holiday seasons. Seeing Santa Claus in shorts and a Hawaiian shirt was the Christmas of your childhood, and now you were bundled up, fighting the wind stinging your nose. After you were seeing each other for a few months, Price had been the one to invite you to stay, paying to break your apartment’s lease and cleaning out his extra room to help make space for you. You’d nested together, buying furnishings and linens, two little love birds. 

Price smiled at you over the kitchen island one day,

“What about a housewarming, then? Make a party for the boys before we head out on this next campaign.”

You agreed, rushing to prepare for a dinner. You made sure to head to the butchers for the best meats and cheeses, made sides from scratch - the whole deal. Price had put up the tree and the lights, hanging ornaments with you into the middle of the night, making love to you in the glow of the garlands, the tiny bulbs turning his skin into gold. 

The tables were set, the patio was cleaned, and the tree was trimmed. Then, the doorbell rang.

“Hey! C’mon in!” You hugged Soap, Ghost, and Gaz as they crossed your threshold, arms full of gifts, mostly bottle-shaped, hugging you back.

“Good ta see ya again, lass. Where’s the old man?”

“Out back, waiting for you,” you smiled, leading the team to the patio. 

The party went on for a good long while before anyone even mentioned being hungry, and you all drank more than you meant to. Price had smoked through two cigars, and he had a dram of whisky in his huge hand, talking animatedly with Gaz. Your friends from the gym had shown up, as well as your two pairs of neighbors, and the house was alive with laughter and warmth.

You spotted John across the kitchen, through the crowd, and gave him a knowing look. He saw you, mid-conversation with the neighbor, and excused himself, stalking you as you moved out to the patio. 

“Mm,” you put your hands inside his coat, “My warm bear. Bit chilly tonight, huh?”

“Aye,” he held you close to him, breathing into your hair, kissing your forehead. 

You looked up at him, seeing the love and desire in his eyes, hoping he’d kiss you. When he did, it washed over you, warm and fiery, burning down to your core. 

“Careful, love,” he warned, breaking your kiss, “House full o’ people are ‘bout to get more party than they came for if you keep rubbing on me like that.”

“Oh, yeah? How about the greenhouse? Surely they won’t miss us for that long,” you suggested, tugging on his arm, your eyes wild with mischief. 

He laughed, following you around the house to the large greenhouse he’d built for you. You’d mentioned missing fresh tomatoes, and so he had given it to you as a coming home present, breaking your heart with his surprise. You’d fucked his brains out in it that night, both of you sweating from the hot, humid interior, creating a tantric sauna, rolling around in each other’s filthy, soil-covered arms like animals. 

Now, as you approached the little building, you noticed that your secret space was occupied. Price held a hand to your mouth as you approached, pushing you back to the wall, hiding you from view. Slowly, carefully, you knelt with him, watching the scene of your two friends, Ghost and Soap locked in a half-naked embrace, unfold in front of your eyes. 

“Oh, my God!” You whispered as Price lowered his hand. 

“Hush!” He put a finger to his lips, unmoving, watching them as you crouched together, spying on them voyeuristically. 

Soap was having his cock sucked enthusiastically by Ghost. His mask was flipped up onto his nose, and his jaw was stretched to accommodate the Scot’s hardness, using his pink tongue to lick the silken skin along his shaft. He was jacking himself off with one hand, and fingering Johnny with the other, making him whine and beg for more of everything. Then, Ghost stood up, setting himself between Soap’s spread knees, ripping off his shirt, and began to feed himself into his lover’s asshole. You watched as Simon pulled Johnny’s mohawk back, exposing his huge Adam’s Apple, licking and sucking at his neck, leaving cruel bruises. 

With a unique urgency, he began to thrust himself up into the sergeant, jerking his cock as he did, spitting down onto it, rolling it in his palm. Soap was gripping onto Simon’s waist with white-knuckled hands, desperately keening. 

You gasped and Price turned to look at you, tearing his eyes away from your very personal porno,

“Mm, ‘s hot, huh, love? Got me fuckin’ hard. Wanna feel?”

He grabbed your hand and rubbed it along the crotch of his tight jeans. 

“Too bad our spot’s taken. Think they left us any room in the back corner there?” You joked with him, fondling his fleshy head and his rigid shaft through the fabric. 

You heard a terracotta pot shatter. Ghost yelled out a string of curse words, and you and Price ran for the patio, hurrying so you wouldn’t be spotted if they came out of the greenhouse. You stood by the back door, panting, laughing with each other, watching as the two sweaty bodies got dressed in a panic. Gaz poked his head out of the door and saw you two laughing, panting, and gazing out to the greenhouse. 

“What’s all this then?”

“Nothing! It’s nothing,” you tried to cover it up. 

But, just as you went to push him back inside, Ghost and Soap very casually exited the greenhouse, disheveled, Ghost’s black mask out of place, and Soap’s mohawk beyond repair. Gaz looked at them and then at you,

“That doesn’t look like nothing, does it, Cap?”

[estrellami-1]

Keep You Company

So this happened because 1) I was babysitting and the little girl wouldn’t sleep until I laid in bed with her and my heart has NEVER been more full and 2) my dad’s an audio engineer with a home studio and my mom will just???? Sit in there with him????? He’s got a couch for when clients come over but 90% of the time if I can’t find either of my parents they’re both in there. I love my mom but I swear she’s tone deaf. Not to mention if any of you have heard someone else work on pitch correction you KNOW how annoying it can get after roughly .3 seconds. But she sits in there completely content because they just???? Want to be near each other????? After close to 30 years of marriage????? Where can I find someone who loves me the way my parents love each other. And the way Steve and Eddie love each other. Please.

Also side note if any of yall read Little Love I’m tempted to make this a future excerpt 👀 different name bc who knows if anything’s gonna come of this. and Joanie’s name comes from Joan Jett anyone who got that gets a gold star ⭐️ also Joanie is either 4 or 6. Idk which. But she’s one of those ages. Which if you know anything about kids you know there’s somehow no difference and yet every difference in the world between those two ages.

“Night, Daddy,” Joanie says, moving into Eddie’s studio to drop a kiss onto his cheek. “Love you.”

Eddie startles away from the computer screen, blinking as he realizes just how late it already is. The clock on his desk blinks 9:08 in red, incriminating flashes.

He smiles at his daughter and throws his arms around her as he stands, hugging her to himself and whirling them around the space, careful around the low coffee table. “Goodnight, my little rockstar!” He crows, peppering kisses to her cheeks and forehead, feeling laughter bubble up inside him in response to Joanie’s giggles.

“Daddy!” She shrieks, but doesn’t try to pull away. He laughs and finally puts her down, pressing one last kiss to the crown of her head as he kneels in front of her.

“Night, Joanie-bug,” he murmurs. “Sorry I’ve been stuck in here all day. I wish I could just play with you all day instead.”

He boops her nose and she giggles. “What are you doing?”

Eddie hums and picks her up, moving closer to the computer to save his project. “Well, y’know how Daddy’s in a band?”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Well sometimes, Uncle Gareth gets a note wrong.”

Joanie giggles. “Only Uncle Gareth?”

“Only Uncle Gareth,” Eddie agrees in a super-serious way that they both know he doesn’t mean.

“And sometimes Daddy forgets how not to be a perfectionist,” Steve adds from the doorway with a smile.

“Also very true,” Eddie nods, putting his computer to sleep. “But I did a lot of work today, so hopefully I should be done soon. How about for now, I do bedtime clean-up routine, and Papa can read you your book?”

“M’kay,” Joanie says happily, because she’s a heathen and prefers Steve’s storytelling skills over Eddie’s. Eddie wants to bite her cheeks, she’s so cute, so he does, takes a big chomp and makes a dinosaur noise that has Joanie shrieking and laughing.

“Okay, munchkin,” he says, swinging her around onto his back and trotting through the house, purposely jostling her. “Beddy-bye time, which means it’s time for teeth brushing!”

“Can you sing the song?”

Eddie fights back a groan. Somehow, he’d forgotten this was coming. “Sure thing, Joanie. Let’s get some toothpaste on that brush, alright?”

They do, and Joanie looks at him expectantly. “Sing it, Daddy! Sing it!”

“Brush your teeth, up and down. Brush your teeth, ‘round and ‘round. Brush your teeth from left to right, brush your teeth in the morning and night.”

He goes through the entire song, helpless to the smile that grows as Joanie bops happily along to his singing. “Okay, baby bug,” he says finally, standing behind her with a brush. “How d’you want your hair tonight?”

Regardless of the rat’s nest it will be in the morning, Joanie refuses to sleep if her hair is at all in her face. Steve and Eddie started with simple braids until she discovered the magic of YouTube tutorials, which makes the bedtime routine both longer and less mundane.

“Two Elsa braids,” she says, resolutely not learning the proper name and instead using the one Eddie had jokingly said once.

“Two Elsa braids, coming up,” he says, because it’s cute and he’s not going to dissuade her.

“Can we do beads?”

“Beads are a daytime hairstyle, ‘member, munchkin?”

Joanie pouts at him in the mirror. “But they’re pretty!”

“They are pretty, but they won’t stay while you sleep. They’ll fall out, and then you’ll wake up in the middle of the night ‘cause you’re laying on beads, and you’ll wake us up, and then we’ll all be cranky.” Not that that exact thing had happened.

She narrows her eyes at him, trying to find a way around it, then finally huffs and agrees. “Okay.”

“You’ll look pretty even without the beads,” Eddie promises her. “And Elsa doesn’t have beads, remember?”

“Yeah, but Daddy, Elsa’s got magic powers!”

“That she does.”

Joanie pretends to shoot Eddie with her Elsa powers, and Eddie freezes in the middle of the first braid. “I can’t move,” he says, not moving his lips. “You froze me!”

Joanie giggles. “Unfreeze, Daddy!”

He dramatically relaxes and sighs. “Oh, good! Thank you!”

He finishes doing her hair and chases her into her room, where she picks out her pajamas: a pink shirt with ballet-dancing kittens, and a neon-green pair of leggings. “Bold choice,” Eddie comments. “You wanna do it yourself? Or do you want me to help you?”

“I wanna do it,” Joanie says, just like Eddie knew she would.

A few minutes later, she huffs, frustrated. “Daddy, help,” she asks, just like Eddie knew she would.

He helps rescue her from her shirt that had somehow become sentient long enough to wrap around her head, then gets her pants on and tucks her into bed before pressing a long, loud kiss to her forehead. “Nighty-night, Joanie-bug,” he murmurs. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Joanie giggles. “Only Joanie-bugs allowed in my bed!” She declares, and Eddie chuckles. “That’s right.”

He moves toward the door where Steve’s waiting to press a kiss to his husband’s forehead. “Sorry I was so busy.”

“You were working,” Steve murmurs. “It’s fine. I’ll come join you when I’m done, m’kay?”

“I’m gonna be in the studio for at least another hour tonight, babe,” Eddie says apologetically.

“Then I guess I’ll come keep you company.” He presses a quick kiss to Eddie’s lips before shoving him out the door. “Go work, I’ll be there in a bit.”

“Sir yes sir,” Eddie salutes, marching back to his studio.

The next time he surfaces, it’s to a tugging at his sleeve. He blinks, glances at the clock—10:37—and turns, ready to apologize to Steve, only to see Joanie.

A quick look reveals no Steve anywhere in the studio, so Eddie thinks he’s probably in bed. “Hey, munchkin,” he murmurs, picking her up and setting her in his lap. “We put you to bed an hour ago, what’s going on? Bad dream?”

Joanie shakes her head before resting it on Eddie’s shoulder. “Papa’s snoring.”

Eddie blinks. Steve does snore, but not loud enough she should be able to hear it from her room. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Did he fall asleep before finishing the story?”

Joanie nods against his shoulder, and he sighs as he cuddles her closer, once again saving his project before completely shutting the computer down for the night. “M’kay, Joanie-bug, let’s go get Papa into his own bed.”

“Daddy?” She asks on the way to her room.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Why’s Papa so tired?”

Eddie sighs. “He’s a teacher, sweet pea. He does a lot all day. And he loves his job, but it is very tiring. Then he comes home and cooks, ‘cause he’s better at it than I am. And there’s a lot of stuff that needs to be done around the house.”

Joanie’s quiet for a second. “And me?” She finally asks.

Eddie’s heart stutters painfully. “No, baby,” he murmurs. “Your Papa and I love you, so much, okay?”

“Okay,” Joanie agrees, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I love you too, Daddy.” After a few seconds of thought, she says, “Are there cooking videos on YouTube? Like for hair?”

Eddie blinks. “To learn how to do it? Yeah, I think so.”

Joanie nods. “You should watch those. And cook for Papa.”

Eddie chuckles. “Maybe I will,” he agrees, stopping short in the doorway to smile at the sight in front of him.

The bedside lamp is on and Steve, glasses askew, is halfway on the bed, on top of the covers. The book is open in his lap, hands still holding on to the sides. He is, as Joanie had said, snoring.

Eddie kisses Joanie’s forehead and puts her into bed beside Steve before taking the book from Steve’s lax hands, shutting it and putting it on her bedside table before kissing Steve’s forehead. “Stevie, baby,” he murmurs. “Wake up.”

Steve’s eyebrows scrunch and his eyes flutter beneath his closed lids before he takes an extra-deep breath and his eyes open. “Eds?” He murmurs. “What’s wrong?”

“You’ve gotta get up,” Eddie murmurs. “This isn’t your bed.”

He watches as Steve processes his words then looks around. He sees the confusion morph into understanding when he sees Joan. “Oh,” Steve murmurs. “Sorry, Joanie.”

“‘S okay, Papa,” Joanie answers. “You should go to bed.”

Steve chuckles tiredly and kisses her forehead. “I am, right now,” he promises. “Night, Joanie.”

“Night, Papa. Night, Daddy!”

“Night, Joanie-bug,” Eddie answers, wrapping his arm around Steve’s waist, half as a hug and half to help his husband stay steady.

“Sorry, Eds,” Steve murmurs. “Meant to join you.”

“It’s alright,” Eddie promises. “How about tomorrow I take Joanie out early for breakfast and let you sleep in?”

Steve frowns. “But you have work.”

“I’ve done the majority of it already,” Eddie answers. “You could take her out tomorrow afternoon if you want. Or just have a movie marathon here. I’ll finish up what I have to do. Tomorrow’s Saturday, right? So I’ll finish tomorrow, then Sunday I can make waffles for all of us. How’s that sound?”

Steve hums. “Good, ‘sides the you cooking part of it.”

“Oh, you little shit,” Eddie says delightedly, pressing a kiss to Steve’s temple. “Just you wait, you’ll understand the power of YouTube tutorials.”

Steve chuckles, quiet, tired, but no less full of love. “I can’t wait.”

Permanent Taglist (which I’ve been COMPLETELY terrible at I’m so sorry I promise I’ll try to do better): @justforthedead89 @ilovecupcakesandtea @madigoround @bookbinderbitch @suddenlyinlove @nburkhardt @artiststarme @paintsplatteredandimperfect @i-less-than-three-you @alyelf @quarble @messrs-weasley @littlewildflowerkitten @vankaar @starman-jpg @bornonthesavage @steddie-there @goodolefashionedloverboi @andienotannie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @platinum-sunset @just-ladyme @steddiestains @swimmingbirdrunningrock @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @martinskis-lydias @notaqueenakhaleesi @sleepyboosstuff @bestwifehaver @m-owo-n @thatonebadideapanda @finalmoondragon @velocitytimes2 @callmeanythjing @ajeff855 @ilikeititspretty @knitsforthetrail @sillysparrow @that-one-corvid @ace-is-bored @muricel @harpymoth @weirdandabsurd42

[coffeeghoulie]

Mushy May Day 10: Quiet Nights

A quiet night in the band ghoul den.

Much thanks to @forlorn-crows for putting Mushy May together, and to @ghuleh-recs for the divider.

After dinner leftovers are put away, dishes done and dried and back in their cupboards, Aether pulls his readers out of his breast pocket and heads to the common room. Rain and Cumulus are already there, having helped Mountain cook dinner.

The common room is typically quiet, these nights. Most of the others break off into pairs or just head back to their rooms alone, but the three of them lounge out in the common room for a little while longer. Mountain and Dew slip past Aether as he makes his way, and all three of them pause in the hall.

"I'll join you two in an hour or so. You don't have to wait up for me," Aether hums, pulling Mountain down for a soft kiss, and the earth ghoul goes easily. When they break, he turns to give Dew the same loving treatment.

"We'll keep the nest warm for you, starshine," Dew says, pressing himself against Aether's side for a moment like a particularly affectionate orange cat. Aether smiles and ruffles his hair, much to Dew's faux-chagrin.

"Have fun, nova," Mountain says, patting Aether's shoulder. Aether reaches up and squeezes his hand, and he heads to the common room as his mates head off towards bed.

He finds the common room as it usually is this time of night, ceiling lights turned off, a few lamps casting warm, gold light over the room. Cumulus settles cross-legged in her favorite arm chair, her thick glasses resting on her nose as she squints at a pattern, trying to make sense of the stitch abbreviations. There's a hook tucked behind her ear, a skein of yarn in her lap. Sunny's sprawled out on her stomach on the floor, her well-loved Gameboy in hand, the volume turned down way low.

Rain's on the loveseat, tucked into the corner, a well-worn paperback from the Abbey library open in his hands. Aether takes a seat on the other side of the loveseat, reaching over to the drawer in the side table for his crossword book and a pencil.

As soon as he's settled, Rain shifts until he rests his head on one of Aether's thighs, his knees hooked over the arm of the loveseat. It's a practiced motion, and when Aether feels the weight of him against him, something deep inside of him relaxes. He flips open his crossword book to the first unanswered page, about three quarters of the way through. It will be another week or so before he needs to get a new one.

He puts his readers on, reading over the clues as he starts to work. His other hand goes down, raking blunt claws through Rain's hair. He gets a glance at the spine of his novel, recognizing the cover as something Mountain was reading a few days earlier.

They exist together quietly, the only noises the scratch of pencil on paper, soft video game music playing, Cumulus quietly counting as she keeps track of stitches.

Aeon sticks their head in, noise-canceling headphones covering their ears and a Rubix cube in their hand. "Hey, guys?" All four of the other ghouls turn to look, and Aether glances at them over his readers.

"Yeah, pup?"

"Sorry, could I join you guys?" They scuff their shoe against the floor, trying not to shy away from the unadulterated attention of the others.

"Of course," Cumulus says, waving them over. They take a seat on the floor, back against the front of Cumulus's chair. Aeon leans their head back against Cumulus's shin, playing with the toy, the colors flashing underneath their lithe fingers.

Aether settles back into the couch, working on his crossword, slyly watching Sunny's gameplay. There's no obligation to talk, no masks that need to be held up physical or mental, it's just five ghouls existing together, and it's something that Aether cherishes.

It takes him longer than it normally does to finish his puzzle. That's just because every so often, he tucks his pencil behind his ear, making sure not to catch it on his piercings, and just takes it in. This is what they've worked for. Sure, spreading the word of the Unholy Father is rewarding in its own way, but this is something else, something almost more rewarding than the work, and Aether intends to enjoy every minute of it that he can.

Once he's done, he cards his fingers through Rain's hair one more time before putting his book and pencil away. Rain chirps quietly, shifting reluctantly so Aether can stand. "Good night, angelfish," he whispers, trying not to break the peaceful silence.

Rain squeezes his hand, fighting not to yawn himself as he gets comfortable in the spot Aether's vacated.

He steps, surprisingly quietly for a ghoul of his size, over Sunny, tapping her shoulder with the spade of his tail. She hums in response, focused on her game but still wishing him good night.

Aeon gets their hair ruffled, careful not to dislodge their headphones, and he bends down to press a kiss to Cumulus's forehead. She presses up into it like a cat pleased to receive affection, even though there's no shortage of love in this pack.

Aether spares one last glance back at them before he heads up the hallway to his room, the exhaustion of the end of the day beginning to creep in on him. There's a crack of light underneath his door, and he sighs as he steps into his shared bedroom.

"I told you two you didn't have to-" He starts, cutting himself off as he takes in the sight of his mates in their nest, fast asleep even though the nightstand lamp is on. They're both on their sides, Dew curled around Mountain's back, something that almost looks humorous given their size difference.

Aether smiles, big and warm, and he pulls out his phone, even though he has hundreds of pictures just like this. He knows his mates have pictures of him like this too, and it doesn't stop him from snapping a few before setting his phone and readers down on the nightstand. He changes into a pair of sweats, tossing his day clothes in the hamper before crawling into bed behind Dew.

Mountain shifts but doesn't wake when Aether slings a big arm around his and Dew's waist, but Dew huffs a breath, craning his neck to look back at him.

"Hey, starshine," Dew whispers, voice slow and sleepy. Aether leans in and kisses his cheek.

"Hi, baby. Sorry to wake you."

Dew hums and nuzzles back against him, knocking their horns together. "S'all good," he hums. "Glad I get to say good night, though."

"Me too." Aether gives him another kiss on the cheek, reaching over him and Mountain to pull the cord on the lamp. "Good night, love."

[kikimurphys]

Behind Closed Doors (Part 17)

Pairing: Cillian x Y/N

You choked on your water when you heard her name. "Fuck," you thought, panic seeping in. You were about to meet Cillian's sister—right now. Anxiety washed over you as your mind raced. What if she thought you were just a gold digger after her brother's money? Meeting Cillian's family had always been one of your biggest worries.

Orla stood at the door, waiting for Cillian to greet her, but he seemed to freeze in place.

"What's wrong, Cill?" she asked, noticing his odd reaction.

"Nothing, sorry. Hi, Orla. How are ya?" He quickly recovered, giving her a kiss on the cheek and closing the door behind her.

She carried a few boxes and bags as she made her way to the kitchen. "I'm just passing by to drop this off," she said, placing them on the counter nearest to the kitchen door. "And I bought this set of curtains for Mum and Da, but I don't know if they—" She suddenly noticed you sitting at the kitchen counter and paused, recognition dawning on her face. "Oh, hi," she greeted you with a warm smile as she walked over.

"Orla, this is Y/N. She’s on bed rest, so she's staying with me," Cillian explained, his tone firm, making it clear that you were important to him.

"Why? Are you okay?" Orla asked, concern lacing her voice as she leaned on the table. Her sweet demeanor and well-mannered approach immediately put you at ease. You could tell she was genuinely kind, much like Cillian.

"Yeah, I was hospitalized last week," you began, placing a hand on your belly. "I had some bleeding, but we're okay now. I just have to move as little as possible."

Orla’s eyes softened as she looked at you. "Oh, I’m so sorry. Glad you're well now. Bed rest’s the worst, especially when you get that insane need to nest in the third trimester. Those urges are no joke," she said, raising her hands for emphasis, making you laugh at her playful tone.

There was a brief, awkward silence as the three of you stood in the kitchen, unsure of what to say next. 

“Well," Orla finally broke the silence, patting the boxes she had dropped off. "I was just passing by to leave these. Don’t forget to take them to Cork,” she said, gesturing to the boxes, before handing Cillian the curtains. “And here, what do you think of these? Do you think Mum and Da will like them?” she asked, her expression a little more serious now.

"They're okay, I suppose," Cillian replied with a shrug, clearly not too fussed about curtain shopping. Orla rolled her eyes at his lackluster response, amused by her brother’s indifference.

"Alright, I’m headed off," Orla said, reaching for her coat.

"We were just about to have dinner, if you want to join," Cillian offered, sensing that this could be a good opportunity for you to spend more time with her. "I'm making chicken curry."

"You know what, Cill?" Orla smiled as she settled beside you, pouring herself a glass of wine. "I could go for some of that chicken you make."

As she took a sip of her drink, she turned to you with a curious smile. “So, how far along are you?”

“Almost 22 weeks,” you replied, feeling a bit more comfortable now.

“Ah, halfway already! Do you know what you’re having?” she asked, excitement lighting up her face.

“A girl,” Cillian chimed in from the stove, turning to you both with a proud smile.

“Oh, they’re the best! I had my Nina last year, and it’s so different than having boys,” Orla said warmly.

“How’s baby Nina?” Cillian asked, his eyes softening at the mention of his niece, who was nearly 10 months old.

“She’s exhausting,” Orla sighed dramatically, making both you and Cillian laugh. “She just learned how to get off the bed, and now I can’t close my eyes for a second without her disappearing.”

The evening flowed pleasantly after that. Orla shared stories and showed you pictures of her baby, and you got a glimpse of just how close she and Cillian were. His gentle care for his sister warmed your heart, and the easy dynamic between them made you feel more at ease.

After dinner, fatigue began to weigh on you, and Cillian noticed immediately. He offered to prepare the guest room for you, knowing that it hadn’t been decorated or lived in yet. You thanked him as he left to make the bed, his attentiveness leaving you feeling cared for.

Once Cillian was out of earshot, Orla leaned in closer with a playful, curious smile. “So, how’s my brother been treating you?” she whispered, her tone filled with interest.

You smiled softly. “He’s been very attentive and has helped me so much. He’s a good guy,” you said, genuinely grateful for Cillian’s care.

Orla raised an eyebrow slightly. “And are you two not together then?” she asked, her eyes flicking to the separate room where you'd be sleeping. “I don’t want to be invasive, but Cillian mentioned the situation…”

“No, it’s okay,” you reassured her, appreciating her honesty. “To be honest, I don’t really know,” you added with a small laugh. “We’re taking it slow... just taking our time.”

Orla nodded, understanding. “That makes sense,” she said gently.

“I’m just staying here so he can take care of me if anything happens until my sister arrives. I don’t want to take up too much of his time,” you explained, feeling the need to be transparent.

Orla gave you a knowing look and smiled. “You don’t have to worry about that. Cillian wouldn’t offer if he didn’t want to be there for you. He’s always been a bit of a caretaker, especially for those he cares about.”

Orla’s smile softened as she leaned back slightly, swirling the wine in her glass. “You know,” she began thoughtfully, “even if you two don’t end up together, that baby girl of yours... she’s still part of this family.” Her eyes flickered warmly toward your belly. “And we’ll love her no matter what.”

You blinked, a wave of emotion rushing through you at her words. It was the first time someone from Cillian’s family had said anything about the baby, and hearing that acceptance brought a sense of relief. 

“She’s going to be surrounded by love,” Orla continued, her tone filled with sincerity. “You, Cillian, and the rest of us. Family isn’t always about how things start, but about how you come together in the end. And believe me, we’re here for both of you, no matter what happens between you and my brother.”

Her reassurance eased a knot in your chest that you didn’t realize had been building. “Thank you,” you said quietly, feeling a surge of gratitude. “I’ve been so worried about what people would think... that maybe they’d see me as some sort of... I don’t know.”

Orla waved a hand dismissively. “People will always have something to say. But those who matter—the people in this family—we’ll always have your back. And that little girl... she’s going to have an army of people loving her.”

Hearing that made you feel more welcome than you had expected. “I really appreciate that,” you said, your voice soft but sincere. “It means a lot.”

Orla smiled again, this time with a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Plus, you’re stuck with me now—an honorary sister. We’ll spoil her rotten, you just wait.”

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at her words. All you wanted in the world was for your baby to be happy and grow up in a loving environment.

Just then, you heard Cillian’s footsteps coming down the hall. “What were you two talking about?” he asked, his brow raised slightly as he entered the kitchen.

“Oh, nothing much, just talking behind your back,” Orla teased, shooting her brother a playful grin. Cillian rolled his eyes, used to her antics.

“The bedroom’s all ready for you,” he told you softly. You nodded, feeling your eyelids growing heavier as the night wore on. "Thanks, Cill."

Orla stood up, gathering her things. “Well, I better head off. Gotta tuck the kids in.” She smiled, giving you a quick hug. “Don’t forget to rest, okay?”

“Of course,” you smiled back, sipping the last of your tea.

Orla turned to Cillian, reminding him once again about the package for Cork. “Don’t forget! You’re as forgetful as ever,” she teased.

“What’s that for?” you asked, glancing at the large box she’d mentioned earlier.

“Cutlery and plates for our parents’ anniversary in October,” she replied. “Their 50th. We’re planning it way ahead.”

“You should bring Y/N,” Orla repeated, looking between you and Cillian. “It’ll be the perfect chance for her to meet everyone at once.”

Cillian’s eyes widened, and he shot you a quick, slightly panicked glance. You could feel anxiety bubbling up in your chest, a knot tightening in your stomach. "Oh no, don't worry about me. I wouldn’t want to intrude,” you blurted out, your voice a bit shaky. Your palms were suddenly sweaty. What would his family even think? You were already pregnant and hadn't met them. What if they judged you? You weren't even sure where you stood with Cillian—how would you explain this to them?

Orla quickly picked up on the tension, her smile softening as she placed a reassuring hand on your arm. “Honestly, don’t stress about it,” she said warmly, sensing your worry. “There’s plenty of time to decide, no pressure. Just something to keep in mind.” She gave you a comforting smile before turning to Cillian, pulling him into a hug as she said her goodbyes.

Cillian moved to the sink to wash up as you quietly made your way to bed. While he scrubbed the dishes, your mind raced. *Would he really want you to meet his family?* You still felt insecure, unsure of your place in his life. Despite all his efforts to show he cared, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you didn’t belong, especially with the baby on the way. He already had a family, a whole life. Sometimes, you felt like an outsider. Or worse, like you were intruding on something that wasn’t meant to be yours.

Meanwhile, Cillian’s thoughts were completely different. As he washed up, the idea of you meeting his family filled him with joy. He could picture you with your baby, surrounded by nephews and cousins, fitting right into the warm, lively chaos that he loved so much. You’d bring a new light into his world, one that had dimmed over the years. You’d made him feel alive again. But he didn’t want to push you. He’d let the idea sit for now, give you time to decide. 

Later, lying in bed, you rubbed belly butter over your growing bump, your mind drifting. The realization that your body would never be the same hit you hard. You wouldn’t say it out loud, but you were terrified. The stretch marks, the weight gain—it all scared you more than you let on.

Cillian, meanwhile, was fussing over the curtains, trying to make the room feel cozier. The space had been bare when you first arrived, just a bed and a mattress. He’d worked tirelessly to make sure you were comfortable, and now he was determined to block out the morning sun.

“Cill, it’s okay,” you laughed softly, watching him work. “I can do that tomorrow. You’ve got work in the morning.”

He shook his head stubbornly, finishing up with the curtains. “No, I don’t want you waking up with the sun in your face at 7 a.m.,” he replied, focused on getting it right.

You grinned, amused by his overprotectiveness. It was a little over the top, but sweet. You felt lucky that he was going to be the father of your child. Once he finished, he stood back, hands on his hips, looking at you with a smitten expression. Seeing you lying there, belly growing with his child, no makeup, just real and vulnerable—it melted his heart.

“All done,” he sighed, dusting off his hands.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice softer now. “Do you have to leave early for work?”

“Yeah, but I should be back by lunchtime,” he replied.

“Well, I’ll let you sleep then,” he said, turning to leave, but something made you stop him.

“Cill?” you called softly. He turned back to you, walking closer.

“Yeah?” he asked gently.

“Thank you,” you said, reaching for his hand, your voice filled with sincerity. “For letting me stay here, for being so good to me. And Orla, too. I was really scared to meet her, but she was so nice. I’m really grateful.”

He smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You don’t have to thank me for any of that,” he murmured. “Goodnight.”

Your heart fluttered at the softness of his touch, and almost as if in response, the baby kicked. She always seemed to know when you were nervous around him. “Goodnight,” you whispered, rolling over and closing your eyes. The sound of Cillian moving around the house was oddly soothing, and before long, you drifted into sleep.

Cillian went to his room and changed into his pajamas, but after tossing and turning for almost an hour, he gave up on trying to sleep. He padded softly into the living room, careful not to wake you. Opening your door just a crack, he peeked in. You were fast asleep, soft snores escaping your lips, and he couldn’t help but smile. 

He closed the door gently, grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen, and settled on the couch. Turning the TV on with the volume barely audible, he let the low hum of some sitcom wash over him, hoping it would help him fall asleep.

tags:

@mamawiggers1980 @xsweetcatastrophe @galactict3a @thistheivyseason @cillianmurphyvevo @sweetcheesecakesblog

[lokisgoodgirl]

The Legend of Long-Dong Laufeyson [Pirate!Loki x Fem.Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: A stranger with a mysterious legend in tow visits your tavern. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut (Multi) Ridiculous HC lore. Language. Abandon canon all ye who enter here (w/c 4.8k) A/N: I quite clearly used elements of POTC for inspiration, I hope you enjoy this little piece of nonsense. Poss part of a larger thing, we'll see.

“Do you know who that is?” Scarlett whispered, her eyes wide. You had seen her scoot over from the other side of the tavern with mischief in her stride, and something else; fear. None of the patrons seemed in the mood for a fight this evening but still, something was...off. You set two overflowing tankards of ale down before turning towards her with an aggravated smile. “Who?” She nodded towards the bar, where several bedraggled pirates lay slouched in various stages of consciousness. “I doubt even they know their own names.” you snorted, starting to turn before she grabbed your forearm, jolting you further around. “No, him.”

As she said it, your eyes found the tall figure shrouded in half-shadows leaning against the wall. The brim of a triangular hat covered his eyes, wisps of wild hair fluttering in the evening breeze from the open doorway. “That’s Long-Dong Laufeyson.” Scarlett hissed. “Don’t be a fool” you spat, “Long-Dong hasn’t been seen in years. He’s a fugitive, wanted for that business with the-” Scarlett nodded feverishly. “-with the governor's daughter, yes.”

The figure swirled the tankard in his grip, staring at it intently. You could just make out his infamous jawline beneath the shadows; cheekbones sharp and curved like the bow of a ship.

He wore a dark waistcoat, trimmed with gold thread and heavy buttons. A linen shirt hung low on his chest, the sliver of taut skin drawing your eye before falling to the loose ruffles hanging from billowing sleeves. The outline of his biceps were visible beneath the voluminous fabric; altogether too white to belong to anyone sleeping in hog barns or cargo holds. The leather waistcoat nipped in to his thick torso, the buttons straining lightly. The shirt was casually tucked into the waistband of his tight trousers. Too tight for climbing up mast-lines. Your analytical eyes ran from the leather strap diagonally buckled to his torso to the knee-high boots which glinted in the candlelight. He was clean. Too clean. This was no fugitive. And no pirate, either. Scarlett leant closer. “They say he can only come on land once every five years...” You scoffed, batting her away and offering a brief curtsey and a leer down your cleavage to the men seated at the table. “It’s true!” Scarlett whined, tugging the back of your apron as you padded over the cobbled floor towards the bar. “I have work to do.” you mumbled, trying not to look at the mysterious figure in the corner. She pulled your apron again, making you spin with a warning growl. “They say his night spent on land...that he picks one woman and…” she trailed off. “And what?” you snapped, folding your arms.

Scarlett’s eyes flickered to the side, checking for eavesdroppers. Her hand grasped your wrist again, pulling you both to lean on the bar. One of the comatose drunks stirred, foam drooling from his open lips. You’d never seen her so worked up, and considering penchant for the dramatic; you were impressed. “That he picks one woman, and fucks ‘er mad.” You snorted, a relieved smile stretching across your face. “Ai, Scarlett. You shouldn’t believe the tall tales men tell. Especially these men.” You cast an elbow behind you, hitting one of the drunk pirates shoulders. He raised his head, a mess of hair like a birds nest; eyes rolling. “Ehy-my quarterdeck ye lowly biscuit-eater...cleave him to the brisket..” he slurred, before his head fell back to the wood with a thump. “Besides” you continued. “He won’t find any governor's daughters in this shithole if that’s his type.” Scarlett was staring over your shoulder, entranced. “Look...look” she hissed. “The medallions wound in ‘is hair. Solid gold, they say. And every one, a woman’s soul.” You rolled your eyes, as she continued in hushed tones. “They say that when the poor bitch he’s fuckin’ is having’ her last climax...you know, the one that addles her mind...she can hear the voices of all the other ladies howlin’ his name as their sanity melts with pleasure...” A roar of raucous laughter erupted from the other side of the tavern. Your stare narrowed at the near-hysterical girl in front of you. “We need to get back to work, Lottie. It’s busy tonight.” She nodded reluctantly, before the colour drained from her face.

Her wide eyes were focused over your left shoulder, fingers pulling at the tuck of your apron. “Go.” you murmured. Years as the owner of a place like this had taught you when you were being approached from behind, however soft the footsteps. She scuttled away, immediately busying herself with the group of lively men at the rear of the tavern. “Can I help yo-” The question evaporated on your tongue as you spun to face the infamous Long-Dong Laufeyson. The tricorn hat had been pushed upwards slightly, the angles of his exquisite bone structure a chasm of shadows in the candlelight. “Am I to understand you are the proprietor of this establishment?” You snorted, flexing your fingers in a fist. This man is no pirate, you thought again; letting the breathe that had caught in your throat settle. He was too well spoken, the heavy English accent as dark and deep as dead man’s trench. It was too unassuaged by drink and hardship and rough sea air. In other words, too perfect. “Who wants to know?” He let out a measured chuckle. “I think you know. Your wench gave my introductions, did she not?”

You felt your cheeks heat, taking a defiant step towards him. “Strangers are always welcome in my tavern, sir.” you said, firmly. “But brutishness will not be tolerated.” His deep blue eyes searched yours, looking to discover any untruth in your words. Seemingly, he found none. “Of that I am certain, Madam.” he purred, reverently. You stared at him, lips pursed; breathing through your nostrils. The pulse in your neck was fast. Heavy. “You think it lies?” he murmured, pinching a curl which fell over your collarbone and swiping it backwards. “My...legend?” “When you work in my business long enough, you realise most everything is lies.” you said coldly, tilting your chin up as all your concentration focused on slowing your breaths. “And I’ll thank you not to touch me.” The man leant on the bar, the bend of his elbow creasing the leather of his waistcoat across his wide chest. He removed his hat. “Captain Laufeyson, at your service.” he murmured knowingly, tossing the headpiece on the counter. It was impossible now not to notice the tiny gold medallions woven into the lengths of his hair, linked in strands and dispersed throughout the dark mane like embers in the night sky. Like stars, you thought; trying to count them. “Nineteen.” he noted quietly, before taking a sip of mead. “Don’t you need a ship to be a captain?” you sniffed, mirroring his stance on the bar. “I haven’t seen any new bodies in the harbour.” He released a mirthless chuckle. “I have a ship, my lady. Your next question?” His face tilted towards you, making your breath hitch. The Captain’s dark lashes framed entrancing almond eyes, his alabaster skin smooth and seemingly untouched by abrasive ocean air and burning sun. “There’s a rumour about you. Abducting women and driving them mad. Pretty disgraceful even for a pirate.” you sneered, swiping a trail of mead from the counter-top. “Seduction, Madam...not abduction.” he hummed calmly while you scoffed. “And I prefer the term freedom, to madness.” He took another sip with his eyes fixed on you. Foam gathered on his top lip as he lowered the tankard, his keen stare glinting as he watched you observe his tongue flick out and lick it away. “You are a woman of the world, and no virgin I’d wager…” he murmured, narrowing his eyes playfully. “But I would wager also that you know such myths among the folk do not simply appear from thin air.” He twirled a coin in his fingers, before making it vanish beneath his thumb. “Do you believe in magic, I wonder...” he purred, making your breath hitch as his eyelashes fluttered upwards.

You could have sworn you saw the greenish blues of his irises ripple. “No.” you said plainly, watching his lip tug upwards in a clandestine smirk. Suddenly you noticed that a hush had descended over the tavern, and that more eyes than were safe had fallen on you both. “You should get out of here, there’s still a bounty on your head.” you snipped, seeing his smile stretch wider.

“Ah, so the Governor discovered us then.” he chuckled. You folded your arms. “She ran away before the wedding to her betrothed, and not before she told her father all about what you did.” you spat. The Captain raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Ran away, you say?” he pondered quietly. “Good for her.” “That was a smart match. You ruined that poor girl…” you chided, running your eyes down the maddening leather strap hanging sluttishly across his chest. He adjusted the ruffles of his cuffs, before placing the tricorn hat back on its jaunty angle. “You say ruin, I say...liberated.” he coyed, leaning forward.

His breath was sweet and warm, a tang of sea salt hanging on the rough edges of his curls. “I spared her from a life of misery, and you know it.” he whispered. “Now, enough of these inane pleasantries...come and see my vessel.” You raised an eyebrow, dumbstruck by his proposition. The man leant closer, the scent of leather and spices filling your nostrils.

“I recognise the yearning inside you. The resolute and unyielding need.” he hummed, making your thighs squeeze together. “The one that craves adventure away from these…” he cast a glance over his shoulder to the pirate now hanging dangerously over the edge of the counter-top; “...cretins.” he finished with a sneer. You snorted. “I’ve seen enough vessels in my time, Sir. I am certain yours is nothing special.” you scoffed, an awkward laugh making it’s way between the words. Your stomach flipped as the candle on the bar between you flickered, warmth nestling in the shallow of his cheekbones.

“Good lady...” he purred deeply, trailing off as he dipped one wide fingertip in the pooling wax. You watched it harden in seconds, feeling your heart beat faster beneath your corset. He rubbed his thumb against the smooth white cap cupping the long digit, a smile curling at his lips. “I can assure you, that you have never boarded a vessel like mine.”

A wisp of cloud webbed the moon as you walked with the stranger to the harbour. There was no sound save the eery lapping of water at the helm of the barges tethered close to the side of the stone jetty. You pulled the shawl tighter around your arms, a barrier to the unseasonal chill. Your companion’s boots thudded against the rough walkway, clunking buckles punctuating every purposeful stride. The soft jingle of the golden medallions in his hair was soothing, if you didn’t think too much about what Scarlett had said. You shivered. “So, what do I call you?” you muttered, scouting around at the ships dotted further out in the basin. The stranger chuckled, saying nothing. “Long-Dong?” you scoffed, as a gust of sea air skated up your long skirts. “Captain? Allegedly…” you grumbled, casting another look around the port. You had reached the end of the jetty, passing the final ship at anchor. Crossing your arms, you stopped. This had gone on long enough. “And what kind of name is Laufey-son anyway? That sounds a fiction too, like the rest of it.” “Long-Dong, Captain, Laufeyson…all correct, Madam. All very much...verifiable.” he smarmed, turning with a flourish at the very edge of the jetty. You scoffed, a reluctant smile twitching. He was mad, of course; but weren’t they all.

“Close your eyes.” he murmured, skirting his hands beneath the open tunic to rest on his hips. It was your turn to chuckle. “I wasn’t born yesterday Long-Dong.” you sneered, seeing him shrug.

“Merely trying to save your sanity, darling.” he said coyly, before spreading his palm; waving it gracefully in a practised half-crescent. You gasped, eyes widening as a huge frigate vessel painted itself into the air before you, moving from left to right. Its mammoth form rippled across the ocean below it, as still as glass. Barnacles clung to the black hull, rigging rising to the moon as it assembled itself like a mirage dwarfing the smaller ships around you. Six huge sails unfurled theatrically with a deafening roar, catching against the breeze; flickering, before the vision settled. Muted thumps sounded as a dozen canons came into view, slotting against shadowed gunports carved into the side. A flag blew proudly at the bow, despite the lack of strong wind. You squinted, making out a skull with two daggers through the eyes bathed in the bright light of the moon. Your mouth hung open, before you felt the pirate’s fingers nudge it closed. “You haven’t seen anything yet, Madam.” he whispered, as a gangway appeared by your feet. “Who a-are you?” you choked, feeling your feet drawn up the narrow walkway of their own accord. The man said nothing, following behind with a hand lightly clasped to your waist. You drew your skirts up, stepping onto the deck with trepidation. The air was eerily still, a warm calm infusing the air like static. The Captain’s heavy steps came to a stop, his breath fanning your cheek. The only sound was the light jingle of the gold woven into his hair; melodic and ghostly. “Come.” he murmured, winding his fingers through yours. The cool metal of his rings stung against your skin, clasping tightly. He led you across the ship to the steps up towards the quarterdeck.

“Where are the crew?” you questioned quietly, seeing the man shoot a glance over his shoulder with a coy smile as he led you up the steep steps to the next level of the boat. His eyes caught yours, dark in the shadow of the moon, before fluttering downward. “Do you wish me to open your mind this night, Madam?” the figure purred, releasing you with a flourish, making you stumble against the helm.

Your fingers wrapped around the raised wooden nodules, making the wheel sway with your weight. “I think...you have already..I don’t know what you are but-and why do you only show up every five years...what is this?” The pirate placed a finger on your lips, pressing his hips to yours. The heavy buttons of his tunic dug against your ribs as he lifted his hat and threw it to the wooden slats below. “I have other business to attend to during my absences, which does not concern you.” he said sharply. “Your little corner of this world offers...freedom. And I enjoy bestowing it on those like yourself. Constrained, but yearning for more...” he muttered, sliding the finger under your chin and raising it to meet his gaze. Those piercing eyes searched yours, hunting for resistance. He found none. The ruffles of his sleeves scraped your cheeks as he cupped your face in his palms, pressing his mouth to yours in a dirty kiss. The pirate’s warm tongue slipped around your own, deep moans rumbling from his chest as the heavy protrusions from the ship’s wheel pressed into your back.

You ran your hands beneath the waistcoat. The baggy shirt tucked into his leather trousers came away with a tug, allowing your wandering fingers to brush against his lower back. He pressed his tongue deeper as your fingernails scraped down, hips rocking into your body.

For the first time, you felt something hard and furious press against you, a ravenous pillar of flesh ready to ruin what was left of any innocence you might have. The legend itself. “W-where...where are your crew?” you panted slowly as you both broke for breath. His hair hung in messy tendrils around his jaw, medallions glinting in the cool light. A condescending smirk tugged at his lips as his eyes narrowed playfully. “My dear, they’re already here. Can’t you feel them?” he hummed, making a violent shiver roll down your spine. A low whistle sounded from the starboard, followed by another lower pitched call in response from the crows nest. Your head whipped back and forth, trying to track the fleeting noises. Another low, long whistle. And then another. Bodies began to appear like smoke in the darkness, shapes forming from shadows turned flesh. Your breaths became short as figures appeared leant on barrels; hung against rigging, stood on the very planks you had trod only minutes before.

His crew were dressed in seafaring garbs, scarves wound around their heads, ribbons holding back dark locks or falling in salt-clumped wisps. In their hands they held their work, seeming to have stopped their ghostly duties in mid-stride. Every set of keen eyes was trained on you; pinned helplessly by their captain at the ship’s wheel. There were dozens of them, all different and yet-

Him. They were all him. “Sir…” you whispered, fear washing over you as another warm breeze rolled across the quarterdeck. The Captain let out a mirthless laugh, rubbing his long cock against your thigh through the rough fabric. “They will not harm you, they are under my command.” he whispered in your ear, a clutch of medallions in his hair nestling in the hollow of your collarbone. “But they do like to watch.” “W-who...what are you?!” you gasped, as one of his hands slid firmly down your waist, grasping at the lengths of your skirts. “So many questions, and yet so little capacity to truly understand.” he murmured, finding purchase on the soft flesh of your thigh. In a moment of panic, you slapped him. He rubbed the skin, stepping backwards with a smirk. You grabbed a fistful of the skirts at your thighs, barrelling down the stairs to the main deck; pushing past the ghostly figures you soon discovered were all too real. You jumped as one appeared to the gangway, reclining shirtless across the gap to the exit with a bottle of rum swinging between lightly clasped fingers. Another gasp escaped you, seeing his carved stomach muscles clenching in the soft Caribbean moonlight. This figure’s hair was tied back in a faded silk ribbon, the pantaloons wrapped around his bare midriff fluttering in the breeze. Stumbling backwards, you tripped on a raised grate. You screamed, visions of unceremoniously breaking your neck on the deck of an impossible ghost-ship flashing through your mind in freefall before feeling the wind knocked out of your lungs.

A strong arm had wrapped around your waist, swinging you upwards into the endless starry night.

One of the Captain’s identical minions clasped you to his chest with his other hand wound around a long-line of rope from the mast-line. His wild hair whipped backwards, exposing familiar jagged cheekbones set in a grimace as you screamed into the night. You buried your face in his neck, feeling a soft chuckle radiate through his shoulder.

Squeezing your eyes shut, your stomach flipped as the two of you swung backwards; landing with a heavy thump on the quarterdeck at the Captain’s feet. “Thank you.” their leader muttered, pacing calmly in a circle with his hands clasped behind his back. The crewman nodded, his boots thumping softly as he descended the staircase back to his post. “Madam, I told you; you are under no obligation to me. You are free to go if that is what you wish, you only have to say the words. But I must insist that etiquette is observed. No brutishness, as you say, will be tolerated.” You looked up, hair sticking to your lips and strewn across your forehead. The man’s angular face was ethereal against the night sky; his fairness luminescent as he extended his hand in front of your wide-eyed stare. “Adventure.” he murmured knowingly, making a thrill race through you. Had you not known that the legends were true? Is that not why you had come? “Show me…” you whispered, rising to your feet with your head held high. “Show me why they talk of you the way they do.” “Madam, I thought you would never ask.” he purred. He stepped towards you, making you automatically shuffle backwards. Your spine met the mizzenmast with a thud, the boning of your corset sitting tight against the thick wooden pole as he pressed closer. Your fingers flew to the cords of the trousers, untying them frantically as he hissed above. His hair fell around your downturned face, the two of you watching his mighty cock released from the confines of the leather. The hem of the billowing shirt fell messily around his hips, the sight making your breath hitch. “As I said. Verifiable, Madam.” he chuckled, echoing your earlier scepticism of his moniker. A whimper slid past your parted lips as you wrapped your whole palm around the girth. “You will always remember the night you were fucked by Long-Dong Laufeyson, I promise you.” he murmured solemnly into your groan of anticipation, long fingers digging into the soft flesh at the back of your thighs. With the smallest of jumps, your calves were bound tight around his hips; the long skirts of your dress falling obediently to the sides. His wide tip slid across your messy entrance, nudging inward. “Are you ready to be freed, pet?” he hummed. A series of pants and gasps of approval were all your could muster as he began to squeeze his thick cock inside your tight heat, every inch making your eyes roll back further as you arched against the mast. “C-captain…” you keened, relishing the shudder of desire racing up his body as he bottomed out with a guttural moan. One of his hands steadied your hips against his own, the thick metal of his rings digging into the curve while the other found it’s way to the mast above your head.

His hips pumped upwards in slow, devastating thrusts; circling methodically as his length dragged against every pocket of pleasure buried deep inside. “G-gods..” he stammered nonsensically, the scrape of his fingernails on the wood above your head making you buck into him. His moans were primal, the tilt of his jaw to the sky drawing you forward to suck the irrisitable pulsing vein on his neck. You wound your hands in his hair, catching on the golden medallions woven through it. He hissed as you tugged gently, the jingling of the metal punctuating every measured mount of his cock into your soaking pussy.

“More…” you whispered between high pitched whimpers of pleasure. You could see several of his crew members out the corner of your eye leaning observantly against the side of the boat, silently watching their Captain at work. “More?” he growled, “My Lady…you are a mischievous one, aren’t you?” You whimpered again, feeling the crest of climax swelling.

“One for me, then one for them. Do we have an accord?” he purred knowingly, squatting lower before pumping upwards. The movement shoved you higher on the mast with a cry of pleasure, your hands flying above your head around the thick column of wood. The Captain’s grip pinned you in place, fucking you mercilessly over the precipice with a garbled moan of curses to the night sky. You saw stars behind your eyelids as he hummed approvingly, milking the leaking arousal from your core onto his manhood with slow thrusts before letting you slide gently to meet the solid deck below. “Gentleman.” the Captain commanded, a casual wave of his hand summoning two of his duplicates from their positions lounged at the side of the ship. A third appeared ascending the steps to the quarterdeck, the shirtless crewman who had blocked your earlier misguided escape attempt. The Captain slid his manhood from between your legs, his hand immediately taking the place of where your pussy had gripped it moments before. You watched in heady awe as the shirtless duplicate lay down on his back upon the deck, propped up on his elbows just below the ship’s wheel. The moonlight caught every ripple of muscle across his clenched abdomen, raven hair falling in tendrils from its silk tie. He raised his knees, eyebrow arching as he ran a lustful gaze over your bedraggled form. His two fellows stood to either side, waiting for their orders. “I think they wish to see what’s beneath those pretty skirts, darling. Indulge them, won’t you?” the Captain coyed, beginning to unlace the corset bound to your chest with the hand not slowly palming along his length. You followed his lead, divesting yourself of the layers of clothing that seemed unfitting in this maddening harbour of sexual impossibility. The skirts and corset pooled around your ankles, before you kicked them to the side. You stood naked in the low light of the clear night sky, moonlight bathing every inch of your body for the eyes that stared rapturously from all sides; coveting every curve. The man lying down beckoned. Your eyes flew to the Captain, now perched against a barrel. His cock was stiff with furious desire, the slow drag of his calloused fingers up the length of velvet flesh making your thighs clench. He nodded.

Silently, you made your way to his double lying on the ground; standing with your feet on either side of his torso. He made a twirling motion with his finger, and you obediently turned to face his feet before sinking down to meet his bare chest. The slick of your cum glided against his cool skin, making you rock deeper before feeling familiar hands cup your hipbones and pull you backwards. You gasped, feeling his warm tongue nestle between your folds. It flicked your clitoris, working around the delicate flesh as he discovered each curve and valley of your sex. Your hands curled against his hard stomach, grasping for purchase before a shadow covered the moon above you. Another double of the Captain sank to the deck, straddling his fellow crewman’s abdomen. He pulled you into a deep kiss, the rough cotton of his shirt catching beneath your fingertips as you ran your hands greedily over his shoulders. Fingers toyed at your hardened nipples as the form between your thighs lapped at your dripping pussy. His flattened tongue massaged and swept with delicious enthusiasm, every lick accompanied by a muffled groan of pleasure that left you desperate to flood his open mouth. But not yet, you thought desperately. Fuck, please not yet. You groaned like a whore as the crewman in front of you palmed your naked breasts, sucking needy kisses into your neck accompanied by low growls. He wanted you. They all did. He pulled you forward lightly, positioning you further on all fours. You whimpered at the loss of contact from the pirate beneath you; before his wet ministrations began again; neck craned upwards. You glanced down, seeing the clench of his abdominal muscles straining from the effort. A breathy moan from deep in your throat filled the air, making the duplicates chuckle in synchronicity. The Captain hand-fucking himself to the side was the loudest of all. “My mischievous wench…” their leader groaned, before biting his lip. His eyes were fire, the smouldering embers flickering in shadow. “You look so beautiful thus, being pleasured in the moonlight by my loyal crew...” You tore your eyes from his and glanced over your shoulder, seeing a third copy of the Captain dressed in a worn tunic and loose pants sink to his knees. Hair fell loose around his jawline, a deep scar running down one cheek. The one with his tongue slipping inside your wet heat rested back on the third’s thighs, pulling your hips back onto his flattened muscle with a strangled moan. Your vision began to blur, your disbelieving mind struggling to catch up as the new addition brought a finger to his lips and coated it liberally. His lust-filled eyes narrowed as he drew the digit out with agonising slowness, sucking in the hollow of his cheekbones. You felt climax surging, before the vision in front of you nudged your head back to face him. His tongue slid inside your mouth, caressing your nipples as tendrils of unrestrained pleasure curled through your veins. The newest member of your party began to tease at your asshole, the slippery digit massaging the forbidden entrance. You clenched, feeling the crewman between your thighs let out a grunt of anticipation as your head fell back, lips parted as whines of pleasure bounced between the sails fluttering above. A finger slid gently inside the tight entrance, curling gently against the curve of your body. His face burrowed into your neck, releasing deep moans as he pleasured you slowly to the knuckles.

The man in front sank down, latching his lips to one of your nipples and beginning to suck while rolling the other with his thumb. Shallow pants from the Captain broke through your haze, opening your eyes to meet his. His enormous cock was leaking over the tight fist slowly gliding up and down; a wet slick glistening under the light of the full moon as he watched. You raised one hand to pull the head of the man behind you further into the crook of your neck, the other winding in the dark curls of the crewman latched to your breast. Their Captain’s brow furrowed, his jaw slackening as he mirrored your expression. The grip of the crewman pleasuring your pussy tightened, his laps becoming messy and ravenous as he pushed you further to the brink.

All three worked in tandem, rocking you towards your undoing. Orgasm rose and blossomed like a tropical storm in your belly. The lustful pants of the three men were music, each a perfectly mistimed cacophony of pure sex.

With a howl of pleasure, you came undone in a mess of endless, juddering spasms. Your thighs tightened around the midriff of the man beneath you, knuckles turning white on the fists gripping the hair of the other two as they made your world disintegrate with their mouths and fingers. Through it all, your eyes never left the smouldering gaze of the Captain; the steady pace of his grip around his mighty cock never faltering. His fingers uncurled from the thick length between his thighs, before giving two short claps. You gasped as the three crewman vanished, leaving you a dripping naked mess strewn on the boards. Looking around, there was no trace of them; the eery silence of the ship returning in the pale blue light bouncing from the ocean. You looked up at the pirate captain stalking forwards, every pace of his heavy boots making unleashed desire thunder in your heart. He extended his hand, still warm from friction. The stranger pulled you to his chest as soon as your fingers met his own, a growl of desire rumbling as he ran his hands wantonly over your naked curves. A shudder ran down your spine as he gripped your ass, the sudden realisation of knowing that you would never be the same. “Who are you…?” you whispered to the breeze, expecting the same silence that had greeted you the many times before. “I am Loki, of Asgard” he murmured darkly, before placing a wet suck over the bruises appearing on your neck. You could feel the blood breaking through the vessels as he marked you with a black spot of remembrance. A curse, perhaps. You smiled against his hair, hearing the golden jangling of the medallions as he rubbed his length possessively against your mound. “I think I preferred Long-Dong...” you gasped through a giggle, before he threw you over his shoulder and turned towards a pair of ageing doors; kicking them open with a heavy thud.

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[inkinmyheartandonthepage]

Wish Upon Me

Day 31 of flufftober (we did it!) and the prompt is Make A Wish. I hope you all enjoy and you can read it on Ao3.

Of all the places that Evan “Buck” Buckley had been summoned, a fire station was not what he had been expecting. He’s in some kind of loft. There’s a comfortable looking couch and a something long and black that he doesn’t recognise. There’s a long table and a couple of small ones that sit before an open style kitchen. It looks bright and clean and new-aged.

Usually, he was summoned in someone’s living room or study, a few caves and on one occasion he was summoned high up in a tree because a bird thought his ornate bottle had made good nesting material. The person who had gone to reach for it had fallen out of the tree and his first wish had been for Buck to fix it. 

His bottle now was being held very carefully in the hands of a man who looked like he had been hit over the head with a frying pan. Buck was used to this expression. Those who found his bottle were usually surprised that someone was indeed inside it. Then there were those who knew exactly what they were holding, and that expression was never good.   

“Evan.”

Buck tore his gaze away with a jerk at the sound of his name. He blinked, his own expression mimicking that of the man who had summoned him when he stared at his sister.

“Maddie?” Buck asked, eyes widening with shock. It had been…well, Buck isn’t entirely sure how long it had been since he had last seen his sister. He had been trapped in his bottle for who knows how long, the last owner passing away and his bottle forgotten. She hadn’t changed. Her hair was brushing her shoulder’s, and she was dressed in burgundy top and black pants and -

Those thoughts were immediately halted when Maddie crossed the space between them, hugging him tightly. She was soft and warm in his arms as he wrapped her up in them tightly.

“I found you,” Maddie sobbed, pulling back so she could cup his face. Her fingers brushed over his birthmark, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Buck leaned into her familiar touch, his heart pounding in his chest. “I missed you too.” Tears pricked his own eyes, and he sniffed them back. “I missed you so much. Hi.”

Maddie gave a choked laugh that was a half a sob. “Hi.”

“You – how did you find my bottle?” Buck asked. “How are you even here?”

“I’d like to know that too,” the man who had summoned him said.

Maddie’s fingers left Buck’s face but before he could mourn the loss of her touch, she was taking one hand in his, holding him tightly. “Yes, yes, of course.”

“Maybe we should sit,” a taller man suggested, looking between Buck and Maddie.

“Good idea,” another man agreed, and he gestured to the couch.

Buck was a little surprised when the man took a seat beside Maddie, sitting so close that their thighs were touching. Buck took in the way Maddie leaned into him, though Maddie didn’t release his hand, keeping them entwined on his knee.

The taller man, the man who had summoned him and another female sat down on the surrounding chairs, all looking at Buck like he was the strange one. Though, he supposed he was. He felt distinctly out of date when he released that everyone was wearing a uniform and he was in the last clothes he had been wearing when he had been returned to his bottle; high waisted black pants, riding boots and a long white shirt that was covered in a velvet green and gold buttoned vest.

Maddie cleared her throat, squeezing Buck’s hand tightly. “Everyone, this is my brother. Evan. Evan, this is Captain Bobby Nash.” Maddie pointed to the taller man who gave Buck a warm smile in return and a kind nod.

“I’m Hen,” the woman said, and she smiled at Buck. “Welcome to the 118.”

Buck smiled back, relaxing ever so slightly and he gave a polite nod.

“This is Howie,” Maddie introduced the man beside her.

“Everyone calls me Chimney,” he said. “Nice to finally meet you, Evan.”

“Yeah – yeah, you too,” Buck stammered, feeling slightly overwhelmed. Being introduced to new people was something he was used to, but having his sister tucked up against his side was making him feel unbalanced. “And uh, you can call me Buck.”

“Buck?” Maddie frowned.

Buck nodded. “Too many Evan’s in my last master’s household. She liked to call me Buck. I liked it.”

Maddie nodded knowingly while the last man, the one who had summoned him, made an odd chocking noise.

“This is Eddie Diaz,” Bobby said, clapping Eddie on the shoulder and Buck could see the way his knuckles flexed as he squeezed the muscle there.

“You’re my new master,” Buck said, straightening up. He stood up and went to bow but Maddie tugged him back down before he could finish. He shot her a startled look, but she simply patted his hand soothingly.

Eddie looked startled. “What? Master? Uh, no. No, no, no, no. No.”

Buck frowned, glancing at his bottle that Eddie was still cradling in his palms gently, and then back up to Eddie’s brown eyes. “You summoned me. That means you’re my master.”

Eddie looked at Maddie helplessly. “What does that even mean?”

“I think,” Bobby said slowly. “Is that Buck here is a genie too.”

Buck nodded, a smile lighting his face. “Yeah! A genie.” Buck held up his arm where a tattoo circled his wrist; an ancient script that bound him to his bottle. The old pang of bitterness stung through Buck as he looked at it, remembering the greedy patron who had bound him and Maddie to a life of service for his family, taking advantage of their giving nature. He had sought their magic for power and had wanted the same for his family.

Buck’s and Maddie’s bottles had been separated when the man’s home had been looted by angry people who feared and hated the power the man had accumulated. They had found their way back together once before, a moment when they had almost been freed only to be separated once again.

Until now.

Buck looked at Eddie, taking in his new master. He was handsome, far more handsome than any of Buck’s previous masters. He looked so overwhelmed that Buck just wanted to smooth the frown between his brows. He looked physically fit and while some master’s had enjoyed Buck’s body, and while he had enjoyed it the act never meant anything, he wouldn’t mind Eddie enjoying him too.

Buck turned to Maddie. “Did you not explain to him what would happen when he found my bottle?”

“Evan,” Maddie said, squeezing his hand once more. “Evan, Howie freed me.”

Buck’s eyes immediately dropped to Maddie’s wrist. Gone was the ancient script that bound her to her bottle, her wrist now naked.

Buck snapped his gaze to Chimney. “You freed her?”

Chimney nodded, looking slightly nervous. “I did.”

“What did you wish for first?” Buck demanded.

“Nothing,” Maddie said quickly. “Evan, he only wished for me to be free.”

Buck opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Nobody ever wished them to be free. Sure, they had alluded that they would, but they never followed through. How many times had Buck been promised that he would be freed only to be shoved back into his bottle, another to become his master. Usually, he stayed within a family until someone ultimately betrayed the others and Buck was lost until he was found by someone new.

“I did,” Chimney promised.

“And that’s what I’m going to do,” Eddie said firmly.

Buck snapped his gaze to Eddie. “No, you’re not.”

Eddie jolted backwards. “What? Yes, I am.”

Buck scoffed. “Yeah, sure. That’s what they all say. What do you want first? Wealth? Illness treated? A rival to fall on hard times?”

Eddie’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want any of that.”

Buck hummed low in his throat. “Yes, you do. You all do. ‘I’ll free you,’ they all promise. ‘I’ll free you. But first, I just need….’ So yeah, I believe you’ll free me.” Buck rolled his eyes. He looked at Maddie, eyes dropping to her naked wrist. “What did you have to do first?”

Maddie released Buck’s hand and gently cradled his face in her palms. “Evan, I swear to you, Howard Han freed me without any favours in return.”

Buck searched his sister tear-filled gaze and saw nothing but the truth. His eyes blurred as his stomach clenched and a thick lump clogging up his throat. “He – he freed you?”

“Yes,” Maddie choked on a sob. “And Eddie, he’s going to do the same.”

“We found your bottle on a call,” Chimney explained gently. “We got a call out to a hoarder –“

“What’s a hoarder?” Buck asked with a frown.

“Someone who holds on to everything,” Hen explained.

Buck nodded slowly, thinking that maybe he understood. He last master liked to keep everything. She had even wished for Buck to add another room on her home to keep all her belongings.  

“And I saw your bottle. It reminded me of Maddie’s,” Chimney continued. “So, when the patient was in the ambulance –“

“I took it,” Bobby took over. “Hid it in my turn out. Maddie had explained to us about your…childhood. I thought it a necessary theft.”

Buck looked back at Maddie. “How long have you been free?”

“Almost a year.” Maddie’s smile wobbled. “I’ve told everyone to keep an eye out for you.”

Buck looked to Eddie who was looking at him sadly. “You’re – you’re really going to free me?”

“I am,” Eddie promised with a firm nod. “I’ll do it right now, if you like.”

“Please,” Buck whispered.

Eddie nodded and took a deep breath. “Evan Buckley, I wish for you to be free from your original enchantment, to remain a free genie for the remainder of your life, no matter who tries to wish it differently.”

“You’re wish,” Buck said automatically, feeling his magic compel him. “Is my command.”

Buck’s wrist burned and his gaze dropped to watch the ancient script that had adorned his wrist crumble away until his skin was bare. His breath hitched and with shaking fingers he traced over the now bare skin. Goosebumps erupted over his feather light touch, and he looked back to Eddie, a tear dripping down his cheek.

“You – you freed me.”

Eddie’s shoulder’s relaxed and a beautiful smile spread across his lips. “You’re free.”

Buck ripped himself from Maddie grip and launched himself at Eddie. He got a look of Eddie’s started face before Buck was wrapping him up in a tight hug. It was Awkward because Eddie was still sitting down, and Buck was half sprawled across the man’s lap, but he didn’t care.

“Thank you.”

Buck shuddered when Eddie’s arm hesitantly wrapped around him, one hand soothing down his back. Bit by bit, Eddie relaxed under him and Buck bit back the sobs that threatened to break out of him.

“You’re welcome, Buck,” Eddie murmured. “You and Maddie deserve to be free.”

~*~

“How exactly am I supposed to tell Eddie that he’s my true love?” Buck hissed, shooting Maddie a look. “You haven’t even told Chimney yet!”

It had been nearly six months since Buck had been freed from his bottle and was still adjusting to that fact. The 118 had been amazing in helping Buck assimilate to his new life. He had caught up on the world and all its new technologies (and some magic may have been involved to help speed up the process.)

Bobby had been delighted when Buck had showed an interest in becoming a fire fighter and had helped him study for the academy. Hen and Chimney had happily helped him study and Eddie had offered to help him with an exercise routine that they did together. When he had passed, they had all taken him out to celebrate where Bobby had proudly welcomed him to the 118.

Eddie had quickly become the best friend that Buck had ever had. He had a wicked sense of humour and was the kindest and most generous man Buck had ever met. He introduced Buck to his kid, Christopher, who was the most amazing person Buck had met. He thought that Buck being a genie was awesome right up until Buck said that no he had not enchanted a carpet to fly.

“Why would I do that?” Buck had frowned.

“You don’t know Aladdin?” Christopher had gasped.

“Whose Aladdin?” Buck had asked.

Buck had then been sat down and forced to watch the movie which then led him to enchanting the Diaz rug and let Christopher float around the living room until Eddie had claimed it was bedtime.

Spending time with the Diaz’s, and with the 118, Buck was reminded of how his life had been once before and how lonely it had seemed back then when all he had was Maddie.

Maddie, who was currently flushing a pink. “I’m going too. We have only been together for a few months. I don’t want to rush him.”

“And yet you want me to tell Eddie that he’s my one true love.” Buck gave his sister a disbelieving look.

“At least ask him on a date,” Maddie shrugged.

Because with most magical enchantments, they come with a true love cause. Only the Buckley’s one true love would set them free without asking anything in return. Buck had never believed that, not until Eddie.

They were currently at the Grant-Nash home, the group coming together just to spend time with one another, something they were trying to do more often since learning how long Maddie and Buck had been a part. Buck had been staring at Eddie who was playing with the kids in the back yard, looking beautiful as always with flushed cheeks and a bright smile.

Buck had been staring more and more lately and nobody could blame him for falling in love with the single father. He thought that maybe Eddie felt the same way, he just wasn’t one hundred percent sure.

“Easy for you to say,” Buck huffed with a pout. “You and Chim are already dating.”

Maddie gave a small coo. “You could be too, if you grew some guts and asked him out instead of pining in the corner.”

Buck opened his mouth to protest but yeah, his sister kind of had a point.

“Is this a super-secret genie meeting?” Athena’s voice drifted over to them and both of them snapped their gaze to see the Athena sauntering over to them. “Or are you two joining us for lunch? Because its ready.”

Buck thoughts were on what Maddie said all through lunch. Buck had never had a friend like Eddie, had never had someone want to know him just because they liked him and not for what his powers could offer him. Eddie, and everyone had at the 118, had gotten to know Buck for who he was, and they liked him. It was a new feeling, one that made Buck warm all over and even his magic reacted to it.

He continued to think about it when he left the Grant-Nash home and returned to his loft. He thought about it well into the night as he stared up at his ceiling until he finally drifted off to sleep. When he woke up in the morning, his first thought was Eddie and Chris, and he knew what he had to do.

Buck made his way over to the Diaz home and let himself in with the key Eddie had given him. He slipped inside and went to start making breakfast. By the time he was plating up a stack of fluffy pancakes, two sleepy Diaz’s shuffled into the kitchen.

“Morning,” Buck beamed brightly, drinking in the sight, his heart stuttering in his chest.

“Morning,” Chris and Eddie yawned back.

Buck chuckled and gave them each a plate of pancakes before he joined at the table. Slowly the Diaz’s grew more awake and started chatting to Buck. When they were finished, Buck sent them off to get dressed and started on the dishes. He was just finishing up when Eddie drifted back in, hair still damp from his shower.

“You going to tell me what was going on yesterday?” Eddie asked, leaning against the cabinets as he washed Buck was up.

“What do you mean?” Buck frowned.

“You seemed…distant,” Eddie said, giving a little shrug. “Like you had something on your mind.”

Buck finished the last plate, putting it in the rack to dry. He drained the water and wiped his hands on a tea towel. Chris always asked why he just didn’t use magic to do the magic and Buck always answered that he liked doing this the human way. When they were dry, Buck turned and faced Eddie. With a flick of his wrist, his bottle appeared in his hand.

“Why do you have that?” Eddie’s voice was sharp.

Buck looked up to see Eddie’s eyes were narrowed at the bottle. He supressed his surprise laughter and held the bottle out to Eddie.

Eddie pressed himself further back into the cabinets. “No. I’m not taking it. I wished you free, Buck. I’m not putting you back in there. Over my dead body. Whatever it is, we can figure it out.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not doing it.”

“I know,” Buck said, voice soft and fond. “Eddie, I’m not asking you to put me back.”

Eddie shifted. “Oh. Well. Good.”

“Ed’s, I’m asking you to keep this for me,” Buck said.

Slowly, Eddie’s arms uncrossed. “Why?”

“Because there is no one else I trust more than you and Chris to keep it safe,” Buck said honestly.

Eddie’s breath hitched and his mouth dropped open.

Buck took a step closer to Eddie. “You and Chris, you welcomed me into your family and you both like me for me and not what I can do. You – you have no idea what you mean to me.”

Eddie swallowed thickly. “Buck,” he whispered.

“So, I want you to keep it for me. If – if you want to.” Gingerly, Buck held out the bottle for Eddie to take.

Eddie stared at the bottle for a beat before he reached out, fingers closing around it. His other hand shot out and gripped the front of Buck’s shirt, yanking him in close.

Buck stumbled but managed to catch himself before he crushed Eddie. That didn’t stop him from shifting under he was chest to chest with Eddie, their faces so close that he could brush his nose against Eddie’s. He couldn’t resist and did just that, feeling Eddie shiver under him.

“Of course, Buck, I’ll look after your bottle. I’ll look after you,” Eddie murmured between them. “I love you, Buck.”

Buck grinned. “I love you too.” And then he leaned in and sealed it with a kiss.

His magic lit up inside him in a way it never had before and Buck sunk into the kiss, hands coming to rest on Eddie’s hips as Eddie wrapped one arm around Buck’s shoulder, the other holding the bottle as it pressed between them.

Buck had ever only had one wish and it had just come true.