#it’s like dog scraps though

[dejaroze]

My mom be like “you should start making your own money!”

Yet questions me when I say I wanna open commissions WOMAN PICK A SIDE

[opikiquu]

ARTS AND CRAFTS CLUB!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[starry-bi-sky]

childhood friends au danny is submissive the same way a dog wearing a muzzle is submissive, send tweet.

[wildflowerteas]

extremely embarrassed I am once again coming to you with 3 asks😔😔😔 elli read chapter 4

OH GOD. here we go. i panicked thinking this was about chapter 5 because of the mid-chapter 4 line but from the skim i just did i think I'm going to have to steel my heart or risk cardiac arrest from your reactions to the smut ( which, by the way, was the first smut I've ever written so please go easyonme ). Chapter 4, however, was incredibly fun to write so I'm excited to read through this. ( Sweet Dreams is playing too--i've had the tsp sskk playlist on loop to get in the mindset for part III )

Yes!!!! the PM is also in the tags! i couldn't make a murder mystery AU set in Los Angeles of all places and not have corporations with dirty hands and deep-pocketed old-money types floating around their establishments. Los Angeles doesn't and didn't have a main crime family with a lot of Aura, so inserting the PM without feeling like I was replacing a very real crime syndicate ( like I would if this was NY or Chicago ) was quite nice.

Yeah . . . TSP Atsushi is a whole different thing, on the surface at least. He's older, more experienced ( Yeah. ), and honestly, has bigger problems to deal with than the budding realization that he might like men so he just waltzes into flirtation with Akutagawa like it's nothing. If I were Ryuu I'd have pushed him down the stairwell by now, but he's too smitten for that.

I need to draw Mori in that shirt ( he did step up, after all. The Tsushimas weren't great, even if Dazai thinks of them with that wistfulness seen in Chapter 2 ).

OMG I CANNOT TELL WHATS BEEN BLACKED OUT IN THESE SCREENSHOTS SO I JUST FREAK OUT WHENEVER THERE'S A MASSIVE SPOILER QUOTE TT_TT. My blood goes cold. Poor Elli I bet there are entire conversations that are just a wall of grey rectangles to them.

I'd LOVE to write a bsd au set in a neo-futuristic AU!!!!!! honestly, that would go crazy, I can imagine it already.

I think Dazai is most attractive when he's shutting the fuck up unfortunately

Oh wow I feel like I'm watching a downward spiral into hornyposting in real-time surely this isn't going to go anywhere.

[bunnyb34r]

Okay finally rested enough to talk ab the craft show!

So for YEARS this one has been heaaavily coveted by many crafters and has been hard to get in, but always told that it's worth it. That you'll make your table cost back in like two hours!

Yeah no... had mom not made wreaths, we would have lost money... Anyway super super dead at times like absolutely no one walking around, just the vendors getting up and shopping bc they could. Then it would pick up but you would get maybe 2 interested shoppers out of every 10. 4 if you were lucky.

People adored the boo boo bunnies and cat toys and I sold the most of them. So now I have to make more cat toys 😭. It's not the amount of effort it takes to make them, I love making them. I hate stuffing them with catnip 😭😭😭 but that's why people (and cats) love them. Also need to put bells on them bc people really like the ones with bells, which I stopped doing bc several people kept asking if I thought their cats would eat the bells... like you can cut it off man idc sgdggdgd once you buy it it's yours idc if YOU eat it if that's your thing just give me my dollar

Have to make a card for the bunnies bc it's hit or miss on if people know what they're for (you pop em in the freezer and hold them to a small "boo boo" and use it like a little ice pack, or you can pop out the reusable cube and use ice. Either way it's a cute little ice pack.

Only my one cousin bought any handwarmers 😭 and her wife had to pay me in $4 worth of quarters sgsgdggddg I was like take your time you could pay me in pennies and that'd be fine too (had a little kid pay me 25 cents for a slap bracelet in various coins and it was so sweet 🥺)

My mom posts our shows on her fb so that family and friends can show up to support us, and the first time since we've been doing these, we had 3 groups of family come in!

But that wasn't always a good thing...

[Put under read more for length]

My mom's cousin brought her daughter and granddaughter, and they talked for awhile and eventually mom's cousin bought a wreath (thank god). And she was like "oh my god this is so beautiful!! 😍" and complimented my stuff as well (but my stuff is more geared towards kids/parents like the boo boo bunnies, so she didnt buy anything from me agdgdgdg)

Then my cousin (not the handwarmers one) came and I used to really love her/she was my favorite cousin... until she moved back to the state and I realized goddamn you're super annoying and have 0 social awareness (in a THE ATTENTION SHOULD BE ON ME! and a never really thinking ab the situations she puts people in when she does shit, way. Not a "I am incapable of grasping social norms/social rituals"/"I cannot control how loud I'm being/why what I say might be considered rude" way.

Anyway she fosters dogs and has 4? Of her own, anyway she always has at least one dog with her at any time. Doesn't matter if you were attacked by one when you were a small child, or that you only have cats, it's a small dog! You're gonna like this one!!

She takes them into the grocery store too 😑. Anyway she brought her foster dog to it and ofc everyone kept coming over to see it and every fucking time she would canvas this dog like "his name is Bob. He goes up for adoption in two weeks at [shelter she volunteers at]" to every goddamn person who walked by.

"But Mar, doesn't that mean she brought customers to you?"

Nope! She and her dog blocked customers from my table bc they couldnt fucking get in with the people cooing at the dog and figured eh I'll skip this one, there's 100 vendors here.

Doesn't mean that every person who skipped would've bought from me, but none of the people who came up for the dog bought anything or so much as looked twice at my shit anyway. 😑

She did tell our cousin to meet her there though bc our cousin's wife is a photographer and she was gonna take pics of the dog at a nearby park. Didn't mention AT ALL that we had a booth, so they didnt really bring a lot of money, they thought they were just gonna say hi to us real quick then go.

My cousin's wife was like YOU DIDNT TELL US THEY HAD A BOOTH HERE?!?! OMG LOOK HOW CUTE!!!!! and they bought 2 handwarmers from us 🥰. And we gave their son some stuff for free as a gift (plus bc they ended up staying for like 2 hours and that shit is only so fun for a 7 year old for so long. But it was more so just Handwarmer Cousin staying to talk to my mom for most of it while her wife, son, and Dog Cousin went shopping/canvased Bob around. But I like HW cousin still so it wasnt bad sgdggdgd I just half listened to them talk while I took care of customers. Sold 1 ornament (the whole show), some cat toys, and I think another bunny, in that time lmao)

But the whole time Dog Cousin was there I was like 😐/🙁 instead of my fake customer service smile bc that smile only lasted until the second person she canvassed Bob to and that was approximately 30 seconds.

She didnt even consider buying anything, or say anything ab our table. Only when my mom asked her if our prices were reasonable. To which we got a "yeah." Then immediately back to Bob. 😐

After they left I went to walk around and goddamn there was nothing really good there except two crochet tables which had little plushies but nothing that jumped out at me.

Did trade a tooth pillow for a small tombstone shaped bar of soap of about the same price with another vendor sggdgdgdgd which was odd but nice

Anyway here's hoping my cousin wont come to the next/last show and that we find fun stuff at that one to buy sgdgdgdg

[niokitties]

old art from march of my poodle oc bonny ..

[alnilaem]

you buy a second-hand laptop from a dodgy craigslist user only to make a carnal discovery hidden between the files.

cw for anal sex, face fucking, pet play, choking, masturbation, noncon filmed sex, overall dubcon, reader is fujoing out

ghoap (x reader)

-

You saw it in a flitting advertisement. Used Acer Aspire V5, female buyers only, and didn’t hesitate to contact the poster.

Ghost was his screen name. Macabre, but not something to dwell on because he’s selling the only affordable hand-me-down you can find. He insisted on meeting at a hole-in-the-wall pub, beneath a metal sheet awning. There’s a cigarette pinched between his lips as you approach, an overripe mask rolled over his broken nose.

“You’re our bird?” He asks in a Manchester hint, exhaling a plume of off-white smoke.

You stifle over that operative word—our—but push through it and meekly nod, preening at his feet.

Beneath the predatory glint of his eyes, you realize you’ve gravely miscalculated the calibre of this situation. Meeting a complete stranger in a gritty alleyway and waiting to pick up his scrap-metal laptop, all because it satisfies your budget.

“Yeah…” you mumble. Try to make yourself invisible even though it’s redundant—he already towers over you, his shadow eclipsing your body, his heat drinking you in.

“‘ere it is,” he grunts. “You’ve got our cash?”

You hand him the crumpled wad of paper, squirming as he passes his thumb over his tongue and folds through the money, counting it with a mean curl of his lips.

“That’s– is everything alright?”

He stuffs the money into his jacket and expells a deep prusten sound, like an idle predator. “Fine. Pleasure doin’ business with you, bird.”

Ghost turns on his mud-clogged boot and strays off, letting the shadows swallow him whole. You hold the bulky laptop to your chest and wield it like a weapon on your way home, finally settling into bed, ready to examine your new purchase.

The hinges creak as you pull it open. A grimace splits your cheeks at the dust crusted in the margins, the rings of juice gummed to the mousepad.

A few letters from the keyboard are missing, and a few strips of tape look dog-eared, peeling from the corners, exposing the laptop’s internal wiring. Gossamer-like, spiderweb cracks work across the edges. The screen is a blotchy eyesore, striated with horizontal lines.

You have to beat your knuckles on the laptop to keep it from jamming. You navigate the desktop with simmering irritation, invaded by the inkling that you’ve been utterly scammed. Nothing matches the photos advertised on Ghost’s account, and just as your annoyance is about to ripen into white-hot anger, something catches your eye.

It’s nestled into a nook on the desktop. It’s an unnamed folder that stares back at you, unassuming, the icon already half-opened and waiting to be examined.

You double click it, more like triple click, actually, since the mousepad decides to cramp, and squirm as the folder flares over the screen. It’s a collection of videos, their thumbnails all spotty and dark, eclipsed by the thumb of whoever’s holding the camera.

Their titles are as cryptic as their photos.

wet.avi; tail_plug.avi; no_prep.avi; with_price.avi.

You find yourself scrolling lower, your fingers working against the mousepad like a rapidly unfurling spool of thread. You decide to investigate one of the videos, one with a foggy, filmy thumbnail, and carefully heed the title before poising your finger above the open function.

johnny_leash.avi

The video is grainy, as if it was imported from a camcorder rather than a phone. The first few seconds are a blurry with grey-scale strobes running across the screen, radiating an aura of seediness that makes a hint of discomfort sink like sediment in your stomach, adhering to your viscera. A deep, damp squelching sound peals out, tempered with the sticky noise of something being broken in, hollowed out.

The camera ebbs, settles, then focuses all at once. You think you’re going to faint.

It’s someone’s puffy ass getting stretched out on a fat cock. It puckers and tightens with each piston-paced thrust, red.

A large hand belonging to the person recording enters the frame. Their hand tattoos stretch as they split their palm across the hind of their spine, the cameraman’s fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into their back, clawing them down on their battering ram of a cock.

“Quit whinin’, Johnny,” the voice behind the camera loudly grunts.

The one getting split open, Johnny, snivels into the pillow. His spine is curved into the mattress, his ass pert and sticking in the air, rippling with the force of the cameraman’s hips.

A plume of dust travels over the screen, fleetingly concealing the image. When the soot thins into the air and bares the salacious material of the video, you gasp.

There’s a glint caught on something silver from the feeble lightning. It’s a chrome-plated chain, you see, connecting to Johnny’s throat. A leather collar cutting into his ruddy skin. The leash is wrapped around the cameraman’s hand like a reel, and each time he tugs, pulling his hand back as if winding up for an attack, Johnny gets peeled off the bed, his back arching so deep you’re sure it’s close to snapping.

“Shit, Simon—!” He squeals. “Can ye… slow down?”

The aforementioned Simon grunts. Animalistic, like a rabid predator. The camera whirls, the unromantic colours of the room they’re in bleeding into each other, and when it focuses, you see Simon’s large palm splayed against the back of Johnny’s half-shaven skull, gripping his hair, pushing him into the bed.

The man flails like a fish out of water, struggling under his hand. It prompts an emergency response out of you—the way he’s being fucked into the mattress, no doubt pressing a Johnny-shaped chalk outline like the ones at crime scenes into the bedding. Alarm seizes you, and the thought of submitting this to the authorities trumpets like strobe lights in your mind.

The video is written with inept non-professionalism, reeking with the sentiment of a found-footage horror film that it’s not the authenticity that rattles your bones like a wind chime, but the morality.

You tell yourself to stop the video, but as the thought squeezes itself between your ears, Johnny’s hoisting his neck back and peering into the camera, his striking-blue eyes flaring in all-encompassing horror. His lips pop open and wrap around a soundless scream, warbling.

“Yer recordin’ me?”

“Smile for the camera, Johnny,” Simon pants. “Who knows who might see this, right?”

Simon shoots his hand up and bullies his fingers past Johnny’s lips. He sinks his nails into the round of his mouth, stretching his cheek back into a repugnant curl. It’s paradoxial—how Johnny’s mouth is pulled into a smile, but his eyes are wide and wet, wordlessly begging.

Your body betrays your moral plight.

Your rapt ocular vein, the signals rushing to your mind, your nipples stiffening in your shirt. You feel as though you’re made of livewire, not matter, as you watch Johnny’s ass get spread open on Simon’s cock, his eyes rolling like unruly billiard balls to the back of his head.

His ass is red and patchy, burning up. Simon’s hand swats through the air and makes the sound of a whistle, flaring into a booming crack of thunder whenever he brings it down on Johnny’s ass. It makes you jump. Makes you feel as if your ass is being abused by proxy just by sitting, and watching raptly.

Instead of inching your hand towards the button that exits the video, your hand dips below your waistband and moves to cup your cunt.

The gusset of your panties is already hot, clinging to your dewy core. It sticks to your pussy, baring your puffy lips and swollen clit. You give it a few slaps and rub your fingers languidly, pace quickening.

But the video abruptly ends before the ascent to your pleasure is able to materialize. You yank your hand from your pussy, smearing your arousal on the mousepad as you search for another video.

You don’t heed the title—face_fuck.avi—before clicking it and readily spreading your legs, flushing at the sound of your lips parting.

The video starts, and you swear it feels like you’ve been hit with a brick.

Simon—or Ghost, you now recognize—is a behemoth. Huge would be an understatement for him. The camera is set up this time, somewhere across the room, but Simon still just barely fits within the margins. He’s folded over Johnny who sits on his knees with his back against the wall, his neck hoisted up at him.

Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. He’s hard—this, you’re sure of because of how red his balls are—yet still, his cock droops with weight, the bulbous tip scarcely teasing Johnny’s lips.

“You want your snack, boy?”

Johnny nods. He darts his tongue out and tries kitten licking the slit, but Simon isn’t having that. He grips the base of his dick and swats it against Johnny’s cheek, slapping him, the noise so thick and resounding it sounds like a palm that breaks his skin, not a cock.

“Greedy bitch,” Ghost snarls—you decide that name is more seemly for him—“Can’t wait when it comes to dick, huh?”

Johnny’s lips part, a response poised behind his chattering teeth. However, his reply gets snuffed out and shoved to the back of his throat as Ghost feeds him his cock, slamming into him with one, slick motion.

Johnny’s head hits the wall, his face puckering as pain blooms behind his skull. The action makes his jaw clench, clamping down on Simon’s cock, but Simon is quickly gripping his hair and puppeting his head back, sliding his cock deeper, until the tuft of steel-wool hair on his pelvis brushes Johnny’s nose.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Ghost grunts. “No teeth.”

The only mercy Johnny is afforded is when he sinks his nails into the sinews of Ghost’s thighs, scratching him striated, trying to offset the burn in his jowls. The back of his head thumps dumbly against the wall with each of Ghost’s jackhammering thrusts, his smaller cock springing up and slapping against his navel.

You keen. Rub your clit a little faster, tease your forefinger around your winking hole as spit and precome sticks to Johnny’s chin the same way your juices strings your fingers together. Johnny goes lax and the video abruptly ends, and you almost feel yourself going crazy, hastily exiting the video because you miss the phantom sensation around your cunt getting stretched. You click on another video that has your heart jumping to your throat.

It’s dated from just yesterday, two days after you placed the order with Ghost.

breeding_my_boy.avi

Your panties are completely soaked through at this point. The image of Johnny folded like origami under Ghost, eclipsed by his body, makes you gush. His knees are pressed against his ears and his ass is in the air while Ghost tugs his cock, towering over him and pressing his tip against his hole, slowly sinking into him.

Simultaneously, you hook two of your fingers up your cunt. Your arousal seeps out and pools into the divots between your knuckles, hot and wet, making a sucking sound as you draw your fingers out and thrust them back in, pawing your walls.

Ghost pulls his cock to the tip before driving himself back inside. He’s deeply-seated, knocking the air out of Johnny’s lungs with each stroke. Ghost draws his thighs close for leverage and sinks his fists into the bed, on either side of Johnny before snapping his hips, feeding him his whole cock.

You sink your other hand below your pants and blindly sweep at your clit, watching with keen eyes as Johnny gets pounded into the mattress, his legs thrashing dumbly with the force, his hands twisting into the moth-eaten sheets because he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands and according to Ghost, he’s “not allowed to touch his cock.”

You can barely see Ghost’s sweat in the coarse-grained, gritty video filter. It comes out as glistening dew, dribbling down his neck and onto Johnny’s cheek, to which he swiftly laps up.

It’s the same thing for Johnny’s tears—sparkling in the soft smoulder of light, smearing like spread as Ghost works his rough tongue against his cheek, licking up his brine.

Johnny’s whimpers and the crack of flesh against flesh emanate out of the janky laptop as tinny, thin. However as Ghost lowers his head, grumbling against the hull of Johnny’s ear, whispering, the thin sound travels out of the speakers and punctures your stomach.

“Wish I could breed you, pup…”

Pleasure gyrates in your belly, frothy. You curl your toes into your mattress and buck into your fingers, feeling your orgasm beginning to crest. You pinch your clit the same way Ghost snakes his hand low, trapping the tip of Johnny’s cock between his fingers to squeeze.

“Smile a’ the camera, dog,” he mutters. Takes him by the jaw and dimples his cheeks as he makes Johnny look into the lens, his eyes glossed over.

“Y’reckon she’s touching herself?” Ghost growls. “Watching you turn a mess?”

Your orgasm is on the edge now. Ghost looks at the camera, his eyes glowing like predators do on trail cams, a swill of molten rushing through you. He looks like he did beneath the awning—animalistic, as he seems to stare directly at you, snapping into Johnny’s ass.

“m gonnae come…” Johnny whimpers.

Ghost chokes his hand around Johnny’s cock, sliding his hand up and down to the pace of his thrusts. And with what happens next, your body girdles, throwing itself into the throes of your panoramic orgasm.

It’s Johnny. Bending his back off the bed and squeezing his thighs. He moans your name—your screen name—the one used to purchase the laptop. He treats it like something to bite on to defer the pain of his orgasm, trembling.

Thick ropes of come shoot from his cock just as an off-white liquid escapes you, splattering over the screen. You’re quivering as Ghost fills Johnny, watching as his balls tighten and breathe like a pulse as he comes inside.

The three of you are miraculously synchronized. Your laboured breaths simmer, thinning into nothing, as the two of them turn to look at the camera.

You undertake the decision to keep the laptop.

And a week later while browsing Craigslist’s homepage, you stumble across a familiar username.

Posted by Ghost 32 minutes ago.

Looking for a flatmate in Manchester. Two roommates. Three bedroom. Females only. Serious inquiries only.

A second doesn’t pass before you’re writing up your application.

[austinwehaveaproblem]

suddenly a weird amount of furry art on my dash all from different people and ijust remembered i was gonna like, post art on here? and then didn't?

[lovelyghst]

Do you know what is my love language? Men (Simon) eating my leftovers so I don’t feel guilty wasting it :) I can make as much as I desire and there won’t be anything left to throw 😩

this is so real!! this simon loves leftovers with all his heart.

that man is literally a vacuum. like, if you two had a dog and you ever fed him/her dinner scraps under the table, simon would deadass get jealous. as if he hadn’t just finished his third serving of the night.

usually he finishes everything, but two, three times a week you’ll wake to an empty bed at a strange hour, when it’s still pitch black outside. trudging downstairs to be met with the bright kitchen lights flicked on, and simon sat at the island counter or couch, munching on whatever was shoved into the refrigerator after your tasty dinner.

sometimes he’s watching tv, other times he’s working on those tedious tasks he saves for when he’s not in your presence and spending quality time with you. either way, you know he’s snacking.

you always curl up to his side in these instances, grumbling sleepy blurbs and wound up falling back asleep on the couch ‘til morning.

but also he’s so insatiable at restaurants most of all. he’ll down his entire plate before you’re barely getting started on yours, and you’re lucky if you’ve made it halfway through your meal before he’s ordering a second dish. it’s a miracle how fast his metabolism is.

always waits patiently for your food to arrive if his came first, though. no matter what, he’s a gentleman.

whether you’re too full, not hungry, or simply don’t like the food, his chest always swarms with love when you push your plate towards him or tell him to take the side items for himself. he does it every time, very happily, no questions asked; there’s not a single picky bone in his body, and it’s practically routine for you two at this point.

he ends up ordering a second dish anyway, to go. he also never passes up on dessert, and will never not drag you along with him.

this man is walking life support for those whose love languages are gift giving and/or acts of service. baking him brownies would actually resuscitate me. i’m gonna gnaw on him like he’s a dog bone.

[more]

[gay-dorito-dust]

Jason loves kneeling before you and holding onto your waist as he burrows his face into your stomach, all the while you have your hand buried deep into his hair as they combed their way through, playing with the ends as he childishly groans at you to keep going whilst holding onto your waist tighter.

You were Jason’s safe place, the first and possibly only person who shown him kindness, love and compassion without seeking for something for yourself. Jason oftentimes doesn’t think your real but with the way you felt beneath his scarred and calloused hands, it was more then enough to show him that you were more then real.

His angel, his beloved, his first experience of kindness, his everything, his anchor. You were everything and so much more to Jason that he honesty doesn’t know how he managed to scrap by life without you kissing his wounds as you help patch him up.

Dick loves resting on top of you, and this was more evident when he’s had a rough day and is in need of a bit of comfort, but doesn’t want to bother you in asking for it. So he just wordlessly collapses on top of you and crushing you beneath his weight, intentionally ignoring your complaints as he gets himself comfortable before burrowing his head into your neck as he rants about the awful day he’s had into your ear.

He liked the fact that you listen to him, allowed him the space to speak openly and freely without judgement, even offering up advice when he needed it as you pressed kisses into his head in hopes of soothing his oncoming headache.

Angel kisses as Dick often calls them and will even over exaggerate the day he’s had just to feel your healing kisses against his skin, smiling at the feeling of you beneath him safe and sound, even if he was crushing you but he claims that it was his love for you that was actually crushing you…what a doofus but he’s your doofus and he refuses to let you forget it.

Damian has a sketchbook full of you and his pets doing stupid things.He has sketches of you and Titus taking a nap together, you and Ace cuddling up on the couch together during movie night, and lastly Damian had a sketch of you and Alfred the Cat sunbathing on the steps leading up towards the Wayne manor. They were all too silly and goofy for him but the fact that he felt compelled to draw, and later immortalise these moments into his artwork, said a lot more than he was willing to let on how he felt about you.

He won’t ever admit it but he likes that you’ve developed a deep enough connection with Titus, Ace or Alfred to be able to do these sort of things without them getting agitated or annoyed. His pets mean a lot to him and for you to be accepted by them was enough for Damian to start trusting you more often.

Damian would watch over you as you took a nap in his room despite knowing that nothing will ever get to you here. He won’t allow it. He was an highly trained ruthless assassin for fucks sake and he’d relinquish that title real fast if you were to ever be brought to harm under his watch. Which doesn’t come to pass because if there’s anywhere you could feel the slightest bit safe, it’s the Wayne Manor. It warms Damian’s heart to see that even Titus was overprotective of you too and would often guard you as you slept but laying himself at your feet, staring at the door as though he was waiting for something to try and get to you while he and Damian where here. Damian guessed that the rumour was true that sooner or later the dog would start to act/ look like the owner.

Bruce Wayne -THE BATMAN- loves the sweet kisses that you’d decided to leave on his cheek whenever he has to leave for somewhere important. He considers them his blessings from you and will keep an internal headcount of how many you’ve given him, with the current score being about thirty five to fourth five at the very least. Neither you nor him had a clue when this became a thing but the action of kissing the other’s cheek had quickly became a much loved tradition of yours.

He’d respond to your cheek kisses in kind with his own, which never fails to leave you smiling widely and warm within your chest, as you were left to feel the lingering of his kiss on your cheek for the rest of the day. The action may not look like much to others, but it was enough affirmation for you and Bruce to know that the love you both have for each other was still alive and strong after being together for so long.

He still tries to spoil you by bolting you things but you had to physically prevent him from bringing out his credit card the moment he spots you looking at something for a second too long. You didn’t give a shit about the fact that he was Bruce Wayne the billionaire, you only cared about Bruce Wayne the sweetest yet semi-awkward man you’ve ever met in your life. When he asks you what it is that you wanted from him, you’d reply with, ‘love, affection in any form that you are most comfortable with. I couldn’t care less for materialistic things because a simple touch of a hand or kiss to a cheek would prove priceless in comparison.’ And Bruce had respect your wish ever since…with several gifts bought now and then for special occasions he could surprise you with.

[cordeliawhohung]

UM HELLO?? MOTHER THE GAZ POST??? HELLO?? WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THAT???

so what i'm hearing is we want more alpha!gaz and omega!reader yeah?

cw: abo dynamics, omegaverse, i am making everything up as i go along

You're chewing on your pen when he enters your office.

Teeth marks scar the tip of the soft plastic as you gnaw like a dog with a bone. It doesn't taste good, and it's hardly a treat. It's a bad habit, one your mother always told you to break before your teeth did, but it's soothing at this point. Being able to mold something against the shape of you.

LED lights burn into your retinas as you read through the email on your screen. You've tried ten times now to absorb the information, but your brain is too saturated to soak up anything more. You're stuck on the same sentence as you were two minutes ago. Rereading to no avail.

... by Friday morning... file reports directly to... sincerely...

"Constance?"

A voice catches you off guard, and your teeth nearly slice through your writing utensil. Hazy eyes glance over your monitor as you soak in the sight of the man before you. He's handsome; clad in the same battle dress uniforms as every other soldier on base. The green looks good on him. No, better than good. It heavenly contrasts his darker complexion, and you find yourself drawn to his eyes; wide and sweet, like a good dog.

"You don't look like Constance," he chuckles. It's warm, and the baritone of it has your throat growing dry.

"Retired. You're looking at her replacement," you hum.

You breathe deeply as he approaches, hoping for a whiff of something. A gentle redolence; something. You're ashamed of the disappointment that fills you when you catch nothing.

A beta.

"Pity, she was sweet. Though, you're much easier on the eyes," he humors. "I swear her scowl was mean enough to send most drill sergeants running for the hills."

You chuckle at his flattery as you click the tip of your chewed up pen against your desk. It echos hollowly in your empty drawers, the space yet to be filled with scrap paper and stolen library books. You tilt your head as he hands you a short stack of papers. You fight the urge to sink your teeth through his palm. Almost time to go home and he gives you more work to do.

"Suppose you're in charge of this now, yeah?" he says.

Solemnly, you nod. "Garrick?" you confirm as you read the name printed at the top of the report.

"Sergeant Garrick," he corrects with a smirk. "Or Kyle, if you're feeling friendly."

His suave humor is enough to earn him another chuckle as you set his report on top of your keyboard. Tilting your head, you pull at the buttons on your blouse absentmindedly, too on edge to sit still. You fail to notice his nostrils flaring at the movement of your shirt.

"Well, thank you, Kyle. I'll get to work on this," you say, quietly excusing him.

Kyle nods short and curt as he takes a step back. "Thank you, ma'am."

He hardly makes it out of the door before he's clamping his hand over his nose. He almost pinches his nostrils; suffocates himself so that he doesn't have to smell anything at all. Everything spins as if the very earth beneath his feet sways with the desire of the universe. You reek. Nothing but need and exhaustion — you're going into heat soon. He's smelled it on omegas countless times before — the brutal hormone change — but it's always come across as just a fact. Something he can sense. Like a light flickering on. It's not supposed to make him feel like this; too warm to be comfortable in his skin.

Shaking his head, Kyle forces his feet to trudge down the hallway as he fixes his posture and clears his mind. This is his own fault. Just needs to get better about taking his hormone suppressants on time, that's all. He's kept up this facade of being a beta this far, and he's not about to ruin it now. Not over some sweet smelling thing in the main office.

Still, he can't recall if there was a bite mark on your neck or not, and he hates the way his throat grows parched — how his tongue needs to taste your skin.

"Fucking hell," he curses with nothing but the empty hallway to hear him. "Get your damn head on straight."

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - nsfw, physical/psychological abuse, wildly unhealthy relationship dynamics, and derogatory language.

Most days, Bailey struggles to decide whether you're an idiot or a masochist.

He’s leaning towards the former, but it wouldn’t take much to sway him towards the latter. That doesn’t make you special on its own, though – no, most of the stupid brats in his orphanage have shit for brains and the survival instincts of pre-splattered roadkill, but you manage to make your peers look like shining pillars of intelligence and caution and all the good, important, necessary traits that you were tragic enough to be born without. If he didn’t know better, he might think that you’re doing it on purpose, that your behavior is just the product of some misplaced cry for attention. You should count yourself lucky that he’s a hell of a lot smarter than you’ll ever be.

He should’ve gotten rid of you the first time you failed to pay your rent. He should’ve, and he tried to – selling you off to the highest bidder, leaving you blindfolded in alleyways and restrained on the edge of town, but like a beaten dog too stupid to acknowledge that its master left it for dead, you always seem to drag yourself back, always bruised, most often bloody, and occasionally soaking wet. More than once, you haven’t made it all the way back, and he’s had to go out of his way to pick up ‘his precious ward’ from the intensive care unit at Harper’s request. He would leave you there, if he thought his reputation would survive giving that freak of a doctor a free lab rat.

 You can’t hold down a job. That part, he can’t entirely blame on you. If going outside is risky, then trying to earn a living is all-but a death sentence in a town like this. He knows you have a few minor gigs, pick up odd jobs every now-and-then around the wealthier neighborhoods, but it’s never more than petty cash, and having to watch you drag yourself through the orphanage halls with torn clothes and that distant, glazed-over look in your eyes almost makes what little rent money you can scrap up not worth it. You’re wary enough to keep your head down in school, so you don’t have a lot of friends, either. Most of your time is spent at home; toiling in your weed-infested garden, trying to pretend you aren’t hiding in your room, and when he lets you, curling up in the smallest, darkest corner of his office – your legs pulled into your chair and your eyes fixed on the floor. He asked, once, why you thought you had to waste your time sulking in his peripheral like some poor, attention-starving kitten. Despite help from the better half of a bottle from his vintage stash, he can still remember your answer.

“I don’t know,” you mumbled, with a smile so delicate, he was almost tempted to see how easily it shattered. “I guess I just feel safe around you.”

He stopped asking for rent, after that.

He tries not to think about you. It’s a constant effort, but he tries the hardest when he’s standing in your doorway hours after midnight, fucking his fist as you pretend to sleep less than a full ten feet away. He still hasn’t made up his mind about the masochist part, but you have to be an idiot. A pretty, empty-headed idiot.

His pretty, empty-headed idiot.

He decides, as he finishes to the sound of your muffled sobbing, that he’ll soak it in while he can. Even if he does his best, even if he keeps his distance, even if you never come to your senses and run far, faraway, he knows he won’t have long left to enjoy this.

He knows that, no matter how hard he tries to hold himself back, you’re not going to feel very safe around him for much longer.

[ghoulphile]

it's always the quiet ones | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | pre-war cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 700 ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; oral (m receiving), throat fucking, choking, dirty talk, bathroom sex ➥ summary | based off this ask; We can see that Cooper tends to go for good girls (like @ghoulfuckersincorporated mentioned!), but what if he ran into a seemingly innocent - or at the very least kind - person… but they dirty talk like a sinner in the sack? ➥ notes | i humbly offer this drabble to @gingersforeverbox 🙈 masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?

At least, that’s what Cooper’s mama always said (and he wouldn’t know how right she was until he found himself shoved in a swanky club bathroom, slacks tucked under his ass as the prettiest — politest — lady choked herself with his cock).

Frankly, how he got here’s a hazy blur of bourbon and cigar smoke.

Whispered conversations and coy looks. The flash of cherry red nails, and a well timed head tilt; a pretty little thing cozied against him as nameless faces passed in and out of view.

Another pointless after party (though far smaller of an event than he used to pull) where vultures circled the room, waiting for their chance to pick at his bones. LA devotee’s ready to snap up the scraps of the once great Cooper Howard.

Dog eat dog; he couldn’t stand the petty games —the mindless indulgences.

So, he’d invited you as a buffer.

An acquaintanceship that’d gone back years, having met on set of one of his earlier productions, you were always cordial and had a kind word to say about anybody. Not a mean bone in that body… or so he’d thought.

Now, he’s not so sure he knows you half as well as he thought he did.

“Fuck!”

Air hisses through his teeth, his hands hovering over the sides of your head, unsure where to grip. Your hair looks awfully pretty (like it took a long time to force into shape), he’d hate to ruin the style. But if you keep trying to suck his soul out through his cock, he might just have to sink his fingers into those delicate curls and yank.

“S-Sweetheart, what are you — oh, ssshit.”

You peer up at him from beneath the spiky fan of your lashes and hum. His hips jump and you choke, your tongue pinned as your teeth scrape along his thick shaft.

Spit drips past your swollen lips, clings to your chin in sticky strings. The lower half of your face is a mess of smeared lipstick and pre-cum.

He pants, gazing down at you with awe. “How’re you so fucking good at this?”

He’s so big, stretching your mouth to the limit. A tender ache sets behind the hinge of your jaw, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Those half-lidded eyes, dark and hungry, make it all worth it. The slack circle of his mouth, the pained furrow of his brows as he wrestles with his self control all the payment you require.

You pop off; trace along the throbbing vein with your tongue as the heavy weight of his cock slips free with a wet suction. Your thighs clench and your toes curl in your heels at the low-throated groan punched from his chest.

“Practice makes perfect, don’t you think, Mr Howard?” you press a sloppy kiss to his leaking slit, lapping up the salty beads of fluid. Your fingers roll his balls, dragging the tips of your nails along the sensitive skin to watch him shiver. “Besides, I’ve seen how you look at me.”

His eyes flick off to the side, blowing wide once he catches your reflections in the mirror. He gulps, his knuckles white beside his hips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”

“Please, spare me.”

You snort, roll your eyes and shoot him a catty grin. Laugh when his cock throbs at the teasing flash of your tongue.

“You’re sweet — as true a gentleman as they come — but you can’t fool me. You’ve wanted me since you met me... and I don't get my best dress dirty for just anyone.”

“...”

“Now, before you try to say otherwise, remember whose on their knees with your cock in their mouth.”

“...No. Y-You’re right but I… I shouldn’t want to.”

You wink, circle the crown of his head with a red nail. More pre-cum dribbles from the slit, sticky drops you kiss away with your tongue.

“It’s okay, Mr Howard,” you say. “I want you too. Now do us both a favor and fuck my throat until I can’t talk. Please, I want it to hurt — want you to make me cry.”

[writeroutoftime]

making me crazy

pairing: tyler owens x reader (requested by: @missminnietwoshoes)

summary: while out on a chase with your team, a storm turns more dangerous than expected. of course, you all set to getting as many people as possible to safety, but you quickly find yourself caught in the middle of the storm.

words: 0.8k

a/n: my first tyler owens request!! when I say this man has a chokehold on me - I'm not joking! also, so sorry for the delay, but please enjoy!! (part 2 should be coming your way shortly!!)

oOoOo

Wind whipped around you, your hand protecting your eyes as you tried to make out what was going even just a few feet in front of you. The storm had come out of nowhere, meaning no one in town was prepared to take cover. Just passing through, you, Tyler, and the rest of your crew made it your mission to direct as many people to safety as possible.

Your heart broke seeing the devasted look on people from the town as they tried to keep calm despite the impending doom. No one had predicted destruction on this level, and now there was so time to do anything but survive.

The storm grew worse as you saw the twister grow closer and closer to where you stood. A quick glance over your shoulder told you that the rest of your team had started to make their way to safety. You all had done as much as you could with the little warning you had.

As you turned to run, you heard a whimper. Scanning the desolate street, you noticed one more person looking as though they were trying to get something out from underneath a porch.

"Hey!" you shouted over the rind, running towards them. "You have to get out of here, get somewhere safe."

The woman looked up at you, eyes shining with tears. "My dog, he got himself stuck under here trying to hide, and I won't leave him."

Distantly, you could hear Tyler's voice calling out, trying to find you. With determination, you turned away from him and nodded at the woman. "Okay, it looks like his paw is stuck. I'm gonna lift this plank and you get him out." you commanded, knowing you only mere minutes to make this work.

Counting to three, you lifted the pile of debris just enough to allow the dog to scamper free and jump straight into his owner's arms. The look of pure relief and joy on her face made it all worth it. However, the peace didn't last long as you were brought back to the fact that you were still in the middle of a very dangerous storm.

"We have to get out of here! Take him and just keeping running until you hit the shelter!" you shouted over the rain that drenched your both, so much so that you felt the chill deep in your bones. "Stay low and don't stop. I'll be right behind you."

She looked terrified but nodded, and then she was running across the street towards safety. You took a breath and moved to follow her, trying to see through the rain while avoided obstacles on the ground and flying through the air. It seemed luck was not on your side, though, as your foot caught on a piece of debris.

Before you knew it, you were sent skidding across the ground. Your palms and knees, newly scrapped, stung, but the worst was the throbbing pain from your ankle. Pushing yourself off the ground, you tried to take another step forward and felt your weight buckle to the ground once more.

"Fuck." you swore, daring to look back at the storm that inched closer with every passing second. There was no way you could make it to any semblance of shelter with this new injury. Tears mixed with the rain that whipped itself against your face as you resigned yourself to your fate.

Just as you closed your eyes, you heard your name in the distance. Jerking up, you could barely make out Tyler's figure in the storm as he shouted over and over on the slim chance you could hear him.

"Tyler!" you shouted back, your last-ditch effort to make it out of this storm.

As if tuned in only to you, Tyler's eyes met yours across the way and he suddenly began to sprint in your direction, arms and legs pumping furiously. You had never seen that look of anger and desperation in his eyes as he slid to the ground next to you.

"What were you thinking? Why are you still out here?" he shouted, cupping your cheeks between his rough hands.

"M-my ankle. I'm not gonna be able to get anywhere in time." you hurried to explain.

Tyler didn't give you a chance to speak further or urge him to go off on his own. Instead, he took one look at your ankle, glanced at your face, then steeled his nerves. One of his hands came under your knees while the other cradled your back. He then sprinted back the way he came, holding you close, trying to shield you from any more harm.

Finally, safety was in your sites and Boone stood by any open storm cellar, frantically urging you and Tyler to move faster. You didn't dare look over Tyler's shoulders, rather you let your face hide in his chest. It was only when you heard the slam of the storm cellar doors and no longer felt the rage of the storm against your skin did you look up.

Safe, you thought to yourself. You were safe and so was your team. Now all you had to do was wait out the same - and deal with the rage that still simmered on Tyler's features.

oOoOo

a/n: to be continued! (featuring more angsty and a confession!)

[luveline]

smart, younger reader who’s like spencer and is awkward but so so lovely and then guard dog botch who’s always there and always ALWAYS so sweet to reader after absolutely biting a guys head of about getting condescending or rude !!

if u would be so kind

thank you for requesting! fem

“Exactly! High five, Dr. Reid.” 

Your hands smack as Spencer gives you a heartfelt high five. Spencer is younger than you, but besides that, Hotch might think you were twins separated at birth (very genetically different twins, but twins nonetheless). If he believed in kindred spirits, that's what you'd be. 

And it's good for him. Hotch knows there are moments where he could've been nicer to Spencer, just that being his boss makes that more difficult than it should, and with you around, you've got all the niceness solved. You're lovely. 

“I knew we'd get there,” you say. 

It's great, but there are better places for your and Spencer's diorama than the office kitchenette. 

“Guys, can we move this to a desk?” he asks. 

He should say, Can we not do this in work hours? But he doesn't. That likely says something about him… he'd rather not explore. Something he already knows. 

“It's a bit delicate for moving,” you hum, eyes on the paper attachment you've created. 

“Move it,” he says, imploring rather than stern. He hides a smile behind the lip of his mug and begins to turn away, stopped momentarily by Anderson just past the threshold. 

Anderson begins asking him about something, Hotch listens, and he pretends he isn't still listening to you and Spencer as you decide what to do with your diorama. You speak in sweet tones, encouraging to a fault, “He doesn't really mind,” you're saying, “he's just the boss. I'll hold this side and you hold that side, and– woah!” 

There's a scuffle, an explosion of paper crunching and ceramic, the sound of water spilled. 

Hotch shifts to the side to watch the aftermath. 

“Are you kidding me?” 

“I–” you say, hand clenched around a scrap of torn paper, coffee staining your shoes, “I– I–” Hotch winces as you struggle for words. “I'm so sorry.” 

“You've gotta be joking.” The man you've seemingly whacked into is an older agent. He's been around much longer than you have, probably almost as long as Hotch, and he has that jaded chagrin about him. Time constitutes knowledge, sure, but not attitude. “Why are you two always messing around in here?” 

“Sorry, Agent Giles,” you say, your hands creeping together toward your stomach defensively, “we were just moving this, and I- I'll–” 

“You're gonna make me another cup of coffee?” he asks contemptuously. 

“That's quite enough,” Hotch interrupts. “Agent L/N had no intention of bumping into you.” He stands to your side. “I'd be more than happy to make a new cup of coffee if it's an imposition for you.” His tone suggests he may not be very happy after all. 

“It's fine.” Giles turns his gaze away. 

Spencer's sprung into action, having fished the bits of your diorama and broken mug from your feet, now on his knees wiping up the puddle of coffee you've displaced. “Spence,” you say, “I'm sorry, I ruined it–” 

Hotch speaks up before Spencer can. “It was an accident.” 

You have this gutted, soft eyed look about you, embarrassed he's sure. You're a sensitive girl. You're probably more upset for Spencer than yourself, and aflame with the heat of the gaze of an entire office. He casts his head back to narrow his eyes at any nosing that's still happening before he touches your shoulder. 

“Sorry, Hotch,” you say, lifting your shoe a centimetre off of the ground. Coffee drips down the canvas of them. It squelches as you put it down. 

“It's okay.” The favouritism he works so hard to hide rears its head, unable to stand the sad quirk of your mouth. “Hey, it's okay. It was an accident. You have spare shoes and socks in your go bag, and it's,” —he lowers his voice to a fond, warm whisper— “not as though you and Spencer have anything to do that you'll actually hand in to me today. Don't let it upset you.” 

You raise your head too quickly at the sound of his teasing. Relief brightens your eyes. “You're not mad?” 

“Not at you.” 

You let that sink in. Hotch's hand drops to your elbow before leaving your sleeve altogether. 

“Reid,” he says. “Don't hurt yourself. I'll call the custodian.” 

“Please don't,” you say, turning your chest to his. So close he can smell the clean notes of your perfume. “We can do it.” 

“Alright. If you're sure,” Hotch says. He resists the urge to touch your face, though the way he looks at you isn't much better. The upset melts your face, replaced with a flustered freneticism that snaps him back into focus. He's your boss. 

He's your boss. 

“Thanks, Hotch,” you smile. 

He turns away before he's tempted into touching you again. 

[humanpurposes]

Can I Be Yours? - Nightblooms II

Aemond returns to the pleasure house after the battle of Rook's Rest // Main Masterlist

Aemond x unnamed female character

Warnings: 18+, smut, dub-con, angst, sex work, unresolved childhood trauma, implied underage and non-con (not explicitly depicted), mentions of war, violence and death, ambiguous ending

Words: 3k

Each day she arrives at the market shortly after sunrise. She has the coin to pay for the usual cheap cuts of meat, for fats and vegetables to make into something edible, but there is nothing to buy; most of the vendors have sold the last of their wares. Summer is at an end, there are less crops coming from the Reach and the sea is still cut off with no end in sight to the blockade. 

King’s Landing has never been a place where she feels at ease but as the season shifts and the war goes on, families are starving and people are getting desperate, fighting over what they can get their hands on. They’ve all been reduced to dogs, clawing at each other over scraps while carts of livestock and fresh produce trundle through the streets towards the Red Keep, guarded by men in Hightower green.

She manages to buy some crabs and vegetables she’ll have to cut the mould from. They have a store of grain in the kitchens to make flatbread, though they have to use less and less each day, anticipating when they’ll be able to find more.

She eats less of her share so the younger girls won’t have to go hungry. Besides, she hasn’t had much of an appetite for days.

She had spent hours trying to rinse herself clean of the King and his companions after they’d had their way with her– after Aemond had left her to their mercy. That night she scrubbed at her skin with salt, then a cloth, then a bristled brush. That feeling was still there, like sweat sticking to her skin, like her body was not her own. She heard their voices and their cold laughter with the rush of water past her ears. She scrubbed harder and harder until she tinted the water pink with her blood.

One morning, one of the girls returns to the pleasure house, unsuccessful in finding a cure for her babe’s fever, but startled by something else.

The Hightower army has returned from a battle, dragging the head of a dragon on a cart through the city.

“It’s monstrous,” the girl says, trying to measure the scale of the head with her arms. “It had black blood, and gods, the smell, like charred meat!”

Sylvi hovers over her shoulder. “Slain by your favourite, I wonder?”

Favourite? Clearly she was not so favoured by Prince Aemond.

Men are led by their desires. That’s why, even as the city is starving, they find the money to come here and seek their pleasure. They are fickle, easily satiated and have no loyalties but to themselves, to their own preservation.

Sylvi huffs when she does not react to her teasing. “Seven above, do try to look less miserable, girl.”

She’s been trying for days, but she can’t force a pleasant demeanour when she feels so hollow.

The returning soldiers come to the Street of Silk that night, newly paid and come to bask in their victory. Her gown is a deep shade of blue and Sylvi has given her some of her jewellery, sapphire earrings and a heavy gold necklace that feels like a collar, to cover the bruises on her neck left by the King.

She catches the eye of a soldier in the main chamber. He takes her by the waist and drags her onto his thigh.

He moves clumsily, trying to drag her core against his leg or the bulge in his breeches, she cannot tell and she does not care. 

Look less miserable, it’s only a motion of the body.

Look less miserable, men want a woman who is warm, who smiles.

Look less miserable, but has he noticed her fallen face and the empty look in her eyes? Likely not.

Her body feels numb again.

“Look at me,” the man demands.

She turns her head towards him but her eyes are down, elsewhere completely. She pictures candlelight, a veil around the edges of a bed so the bodies around her are like shadows. She feels a weight on her chest and stomach, limbs intertwined with hers, long, loose hair spilling over her bare skin. A voice is just out of reach.

Look at me, look at me, look at me–

“My Prince!”

Her senses come back to her as quickly as a match takes to flame. Her head darts to where the soldier is looking, to the man standing before them, dark leathers, silver hair, an eyepatch over his face and a sword hanging from his hip.

Aemond tilts his head, his one eye intent on her. 

“Apologies, Prince Regent,” the soldier says, and shoves her off his lap so he can stand.

She stumbles but holds her ground. Her eyes are on the floor but imagining his face frowning in displeasure, the sight of his scar, the lines of his muscles under his skin. She cannot bear to truly look upon him, but he’s watching her.

Why come now? Why her, when she has already proved worthless to him?

“Come,” Aemond says without reaching for her, without waiting for her to match his gaze. She follows, if only to escape the wanton soldier.

Aemond takes her to the same chamber, standing at the foot of the same bed where they used to lay together.

She stands before him with her eyes lowered.

He towers over her and lifts her chin to match his gaze with a gloved hand. The leather against her skin is unnatural, cold, disturbing her very being like ripples through a peaceful surface of water. The sight of him only brings her pain, as does the separation from him. Fear and admiration twist together and writhe in her gut.

He reaches to remove the necklace first, letting it fall to the floor. “An ugly thing,” he mutters, “do not wear this again, I find it distracting.” It bares her bruises. He traces his gloved fingers over the flushes of red and purple in her skin.

Next he undoes her dress, another gown designed to fall away from one clasp. She does not remove the rest to bare herself, so he tugs the gown away himself, pulling her forward by her wrists to make her step away from where it pools on the floor.

Without any further preamble he surges into her, cupping her jaw with his hands and kissing her passionately. He demands reception with his lips, tongue and teeth, but she will not give it to him. She remains as steadfast as she can.

He pauses, kissing her again, then again.

“What’s the matter?” His voice is subtle and as soft as the edge of a knife. Gently, he takes a hold of her neck. It is tender, but not quite a comfort. Her pulse beats furiously against his fingers. “You are angry with me, is that it?”

Has he thought of her these last few days? Does he blame himself for the bruises on her neck? 

She says nothing.

“I’ll not fuck an unwilling whore.”

“No,” it falls from her lips like a breath.

Aemond tuts and tilts his head. “No?”

She parts her lips but she cannot speak.

His one-eyed stare darkens. He will take her silence for defiance, and that is not what he pays for.

If all he seeks is carnal desire she will grant him this. She tears away the layers of him, his gloves, the buckles on his jerkin, her fingers fumbling in her determination.

Aemond grunts as she pushes the sleeves from his shoulders, the leather landing with a heavy thud on the floor. His face is perplexed but he does not resist.

She tugs at the strings of his undershirt and pulls it over his head. When his chest is bare she puts her hands on his shoulders and pulls herself in, crashing her lips into his. Everything becomes a single feeling, a fire in her chest, hurt and rage and— she’s not naive enough to call it love, but it’s an urge that spurns her to be close to him. Their teeth clash. She loses her focus and her lips graze over his cheek. She finds him again, drawing her tongue against his, dragging her teeth over his lip–

“Fuck!” Aemond hisses, snatching himself away from her. He dabs his fingertips to his lip, checking for blood that isn’t there. 

His eye is wide but gleaming, excited at the challenge. 

Her heart leaps when Aemond grasps her jaw. He drags her chin up, fingertips pressing into the bone. “I find your insolence tiresome,” he snarls.

The edge of his nose brushes against hers. She feels his breath, how his chest rises and falls against her body, how his heart beats as frantically as hers.

She shakes her head. “I am yours, my Prince.”

He lays her on the bed, pushing her thighs apart and holding them down as he kneels.

He sighs at the sight of her.

Each drag of his tongue is divine, circling and pressing at the places he has come to know will please her the most. She tries to chase the friction with her hips but he holds her firmly in place.

She reaches for his hair, slipping the eyepatch from his face so she can see all of him. He looks up at her as she does, his lips glistening with her arousal while his sapphire consumes the golden light of the candles. 

Between the movements of his mouth he mutters to himself, words she has heard before but does not know the meaning to. His voice is heavy and breathless and she adores it. 

Her peak comes suddenly, a wave of warmth and weightlessness that lingers after Aemond has drawn his mouth away from her.

He’s just out of her reach, standing over the bed and slowly pulling on the strings of his breeches. 

She brings herself to sit, only to be thrown down again and roughly turned onto her front.

“Aemond?”

His hands pull her up by her hips. His thumb glides in circles over her entrance and she stutters into compliance. There’s a ruffle of fabric before he replaces his digit with the head of his cock. He teases her as he rocks back and forth. The pleasure is sparse, a delicious kind of torture. She grips at the linens and sinks her teeth into her lip.

On one motion of his hips, Aemond slips inside of her. She sighs at the stretch of it. He stills for a moment to let her adjust, pushing himself to the hilt and slowly drawing back. She feels how his fingertips dig into her flesh, marks that will stay for days. She can picture the look in his eye, his resolve melting away.

She props herself up on her hands, turning over her shoulder. He meets her, pressing his nose against her cheek, teasing his lips over her skin.

“Do you still find me insolent?” she whispers.

Aemond hums. 

He draws back, only to snap his hips harshly into her rear. It knocks the breath from her lungs and he holds his arm around her to hold her close to him, his palm pressing into her stomach as he fucks her roughly and without reprieve.

This is the Prince she has only ever seen glimpses of. She’s heard the workings of his mind and his regrets, but she’s never seen him unleash himself, a dragonrider, a warrior, now a demanding lover.

Each kiss of his cock at her sweet spot aches and drives her towards bliss. She grasps at his hand, leaning her head into his. His sweat drips onto her brow. His moans fall upon the shell of her ear.

She feels another peak edging closer when Aemond pushes her torso down against the bed. He keeps his hands on her shoulders. Her own moans are muffled against the mattress and she cannot move. She can only take what she is given, fast fucking and brutal precision. 

He comes with a unrestrained groan, spilling himself deep within her cunt. His weight falls against her back and he nestles his face into her neck, whispering some appraisal in an ancient language, gently fucking his seed deeper.

She whines as she catches her breath, letting herself settle with him on top of her. They stay like this for a time. Before he finally moves, Aemond presses a delicate kiss to her brow.

They lay amongst linen and silk, his head on her chest, his arms wrapped around her ribs, moving with her as she breathes. 

He tells her of Rook’s Rest, of his plan to attack during the daylight and bait their enemy into sending a dragon, then he would lead Vhagar into an ambush. He had not expected Aegon to join the battle, and when the smoke cleared, only Aemond and Vhagar remained unscathed.

“Perhaps I should have been more forgiving, but he got in my way.”

What did you do? She wonders, but cannot bring herself to give a voice to her question. 

That soldier had named Aemond as Regent. Not the title he wants, but it is a brutal reminder that only one life stands between him and the throne he pursues. 

“And even when he is… incapacitated, my victory is named as his. It was meant to be mine.”

The dragon head was his doing after all. 

Tears run freely down her cheeks, not that he will see.

He takes a breath and waits. She’s done this enough times by now to know he’s waiting for her to say something. He needs her to say something.

What loyalty has your brother ever shown you? He knows you were better suited to war, at least now he will not overestimate himself.

She does not wish to think of Aegon. 

“You left me,” she utters.

Aemond tilts his head towards her. She meets his eye. When he sees the tears on her face his own expression softens.

“You left me to entertain those men. You didn’t even look back.”

Aemond swallows thickly, making a soft clicking sound with his tongue. “I had to.”

“Had to?”

“You would not understand.”

“I understand perfectly. You are a Prince. To you, I am nothing but a body to be used.”

“I’ve never said that.”

“You do not need to say it. It is the nature of the world we live in.” 

He shifts himself to lay beside her, face-to-face. His thumb strokes over her cheek and at the corner of her mouth. “I’ve only ever admired you,” he says. “You came to me when I felt alone.”

Back when they were children, when she was innocent enough to think the gods favoured those who were kind, merciful, good. 

“You looked lost. I was the same the first time…” the first time Sylvi brought her into a room with a strange man. When she sees girls of the same age, she wants to take them into her arms and shield them from strangers, from the people who promise to care for them and do not. “I knew how it felt to be used and then discarded, like none of it mattered. But it did. It mattered to me.” 

Aemond’s eye shimmers like glass.

“I needed you, do you understand that? I needed your protection,” she says.

He blinks and a tear falls from his eye. 

“You taunt me with this,” she says, wiping it away with her thumb.

He holds her hand against his jaw. “I’m not trying to taunt you,” he pleads. “You are the only one, the only one I can speak my mind to.”

She has seen his pride, his remorse, his shame, but she has never seen fear in Aemond. She does now. He clasps onto her hand like she’ll fade away.

“I try. I know my place in my family. I know what they need of me. I try, but I am not always strong enough.”

Jaehaerys, the little Prince who lost his head. He has a sister and a mother grieving his loss, what of them?

What of Aegon?

“I’ll protect you,” he says, kissing the heel of her palm, the inside of her wrist.

How will he do that? Before morning he will leave a purse of gold in her hand and return to his Keep. While he plots his war and demands taxes and tithes from the people of the Crownlands, she will endure in a city that is slowly starving to death.

And when the war of dragons comes to the skies over King’s Landing? Will he pick her out from the masses atop Vhagar? Will he find a way to spare her from the fire and the bloodshed?

It does not bear thinking about. She holds him and tries to forget anything other than this feeling, his weight and warmth, his hair between her fingertips, the points in his bones, his legs intertwined with hers. Everything about him that is cold and cruel. Everything about him that is quietly beautiful.

I've kinda given up on taglists <3