#like this hair is SO good on him I cannot believe

[tangerineliqu0r]

Then It is a Good Dream

(Gil-Galad x reader)/(Sauron/Annatar x reader)

You were the only member of the envoy sent to warn Lord Celebrimbor of Sauron's disguise to make it to Eregion. Unfortunately, Sauron beat you there. You feel bound to Eregion by duty and find a welcome reprieve from the darkness in your dreams.

if you prefer reading on ao3

Warnings: smut (p in v, breeding, oral f receiving, dream sex?), noncon, manipulation bc its Annatar, Sauron is evil so so evil, reader is not winning

authors note: I definitely have more of an ending in mind for this if anyone is interested in a second or third part, it did end rather abruptly but I wanted to keep it under 5k

You arrived in Eregion on what felt like the hundredth day of rain. You were wounded and sopping wet, and your long hair stuck to your sallow cheeks. The journey from Lindon had not been easy. Orcs had slain the other elves with you, and you had managed to escape, though not without damage. You had been sent along as a guard for those carrying the message because you knew the truth of Halbrand’s identity. Now, you had one arm wrapped around your torso, holding yourself together, but just barely.

You stumbled in through the gates, searching for a familiar face among the guards who had run to you in alarm. Of course, you and the others had been warned of dangers on the roads, with orcs becoming ever stronger and present in the lands. The warning did not matter now, though, only the information you carried. Beyond the fear of death, you worried more that Sauron had already reached Lord Celebrimbor, in one form or another, to convince him to forge more rings.

You could not focus on the guard hauling you inside, your mind still swimming with worry for Lord Celebrimbor. Your mind was hazy with blood loss and the reminder of your duty.

When you woke, the first thing you noticed was the thick bandages wrapped around your torso. The second was that someone had washed and brushed the muddy mats out of your hair. Their efforts to return you to some semblance of care brought life you didn’t know you still carried back into your body. You had believed the wound would be fatal and had tirelessly traveled with no thoughts of your health and only of delivering your message.

“She should be awake now my Lord.” The sound of voices draws your attention to the door.

When the door opens, the kind face of Lord Celebrimbor graces your vision. He looks at you rather pityingly before your attention is drawn to an unfamiliar elf behind him. Golden hair drapes his shoulders, and he is dressed in dark robes. His face is unsettlingly calm. He stands behind Lord Celebrimbor with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the Lord with a blank gaze.

“My Lord Celebrimbor,” you greet him, attempting to sit up, though your weak body is wracked with a cough as you do.

“Be still, child; rest. Our healers have tended to your wounds. You are safe now.” He approaches your bed, resting a calming hand on your shoulder, though you know it is to prevent you from trying to rise again.

“I come from Lindon, bearing news, my Lord.” You start again, this time steadying your voice. “The rings have been successful; the great tree is healing.” Your eyes flit between the unnamed elf and Lord Celebrimbor, and you sink deeper into the heavy sheets as you speak, letting the weight dissipate from your body. You hope that to all present, it conveys your relief at telling them the news.

Lord Celebrimbor lights up at the news. His soft smile turns broad, and you cannot help the soft quirk of your lips in response. The unnamed elf with him smirks slightly before schooling his features. Lord Celebrimbor seems to notice your gaze and clears his throat before speaking. “This is Lord Annatar, my lady. He is a messenger of the Valar, a maia here to grant us his wisdom in the times to come.” He smiles at the elf looking at him with a deep kinship.

“The Lord of Gifts.” You speak slowly and your eyes flit back to the tall, fair-faced elf. Yes, this was him. You were sure of it. His eyes were cool, empty, and unsettling, his features too perfect. He was not the Lord of this Kingdom, yet he seemed to command the very air in which he breathed. Yes, you were sure that this pretender Annatar was Halbrand and, in turn, Sauron. And unluckily, it looked like he had Lord Celebrimbor wrapped around his pretty finger. The High King Gil-Galad had been right to send you along with those who had carried the message.

“Rest now, my child. Heal.” Celebrimbor is happy with the news you have delivered. Neither man notices the wariness in your voice. The two of them chat together softly as they leave your room. They speak of the forge, and Celebrimbor seems especially excited about your news and its prospects for his future work.

You lay in your bed alone when they are gone, finally able to breathe and think freely. You knew, based on the few observations of the interactions between the Lord Celebrimbor and Annatar, that you would not be able to free Lord Celebrimbor from him. His trust had been freely given. He had no reason to mistrust Annatar, and you feared that convincing him otherwise would be impossible. You worried for the Lord of Eregion, but you pushed him from your mind.

Instead, you thought of kinder things. You thought of Lindon and your King there. While Galadriel commanded the Northern armies, you commanded those of the South. You had entered his service before the second age had begun and had not left since. Your closeness with the High King was uncommon, though you were grateful for it. You were thankful for the comfort and security he provided. Now, you missed that closeness more than ever. You longed to be back in Lindon, wrapped in his sheets rather than locked in Eregion, in such close proximity to evil.

You missed him more than ever. You missed the sweet taste of his lips against your own and the feeling of his silken hair woven between your fingers. You longed to feel his skin against yours once more. And yet if he could advise you now, you knew he would encourage you to stay steadfast. He would implore you to stay in Eregion and keep a quiet watch over Lord Celebrimbor and Eregion’s other inhabitants, for it would not be safe as long as the deceiver walked its halls wearing a kind face. And so you would stay.

You rested for a week before the healers permitted you to move about Eregion freely again. Once you were allowed, though, you were readily invited by Lord Celebrimbor into the forge. Long had you known the Lord of Eregion, and even he knew you would grow restless quickly. You wished for nothing more than to return to training, return to the wilds, return to killing orcs, but the healers had forbade you from training for another week at the least, and you were now bound to Eregion by both duty and honor. So you assisted Lord Celebrimbor in the forge, little as you could.

“Fetch me my hammer, would you my Lady?” Lord Celebrimbor’s voice carries through the forge from his workbench to you. You follow his instructions with an easy demeanor. You were glad to be helpful in doing anything, and even more so to the Lord. You handed him the tool with a soft smile, glancing over his shoulder as he worked. You tried to be discreet but he noticed anyway.

“These are the latest designs for the rings, Lord Annatar has been helping me perfect them.” He sends you a soft smile, seemingly searching for approval. For an elf of such esteem, you understood how Annatar had so easily wormed his way into the man’s heart.

Your eyes flit over the pages, seven of them, you note. “They are beautiful, my Lord.” And they were. His work, despite being tainted by Annatar’s hand, was still one to marvel at. You look in awe at the pages, leaning over his shoulder. “May I?” You ask, reaching out a hand, wishing to examine them in greater detail.

He smiles brightly and stands ushering you to the seat, which you readily accept. You finger through the pages of work slowly, admiring both the beautiful strokes of charcoal and the designs they make up.

A sickly sweet voice reached your ears, though it was not Lord Celebrimbors. “Do you have much experience in smithing, Commander?” It is Annatar, the deceiver.

You look away from the pages, your fingers stilling as you glance over your shoulder to the man who has approached you and Lord Celebrimbor. “No, my Lord Annatar. I have not. But Lord Celebrimbor’s designs are beautiful all the same.” Your vision is drawn back to the pages.

“Who will carry these rings, my Lord?” You question Lord Celebrimbor. You see a glance pass between the two lords. “I apologize, my Lords, I do not mean to intrude upon your work. I will take my leave.” You stand from the table abruptly, suddenly aware that you are the other, not Lord Annatar.

“No, no, my dear child,” Lord Celebrimbor stills you with a soft word, “These are for the Dwarf Lords.” You are shocked at his admittance, and by a quick glance towards Annatar, you determine he is equally surprised, though he quickly schools his features.

You nod and consider your words carefully, knowing that they will likely determine if you are welcomed back into the forge. “If they are anything like the Elven rings, they will bring strength and security to the Dwarven cities.” You thumb through the pages again as you speak, doing so slowly as if to display awe.

Even Lord Annatar smiles softly at your words, and from that you know you’ve spoken well. Celebrimbor laughs heartily and clasps your shoulder with an excited smile.

“Yes, yes, exactly! We can give them the same ward against the darkness as we have found.” You are almost saddened by his joy. You know these rings cannot be true. To see such a great smith, so admirable a person, yet unknowing of what he would create, wracked your heart with pangs.

Lord Celebrimbor does not request your help again while you are in the forge. Instead, he lets you observe him as he works, and you notice, that Annatar observes you. He was rightfully wary of your presence. He had revealed himself to Galadriel and you had come from Lindon carrying a message from the High King himself. By all truths, he should be suspicious of you.

You are broken from your thoughts by Lord Celebrimbor’s voice. “Tomorrow we will begin forging them. But! Tonight we will celebrate the finishing of the designs.” Lord Celebrimbor is talking excitedly to Annatar, and both men are smiling.

Annatar looks away from Lord Celebrimbor to you, and you try not to shrink under his scrutiny. He speaks before you can question his observation of you. “Will you join us, Commander?” His tone is easy, but you do not trust it. Though you cannot deny him either.

“If the healers permit it.” You bow your head slightly to them.

“Nonsense! You will be under no great strain, and some wine and laughter will do you good child.” Lord Celebrimbor cuts in, quickly dismissing the only excuse you had to avoid their celebrations.

Later that night you had somehow been convinced to partake in both laughter and wine. You had more of both than you should have, given the circumstances. However, Lord Celebrimbor had refused to give you an easy night. Instead, he roped you into all the smith’s celebrations.

You had stuck to Lord Celebrimbor’s side for most of the night, watching the way the other smiths fawned over Annatar and listening to the great smith speak about whatever he wished. When he disappeared from your side and was replaced by Annatar, you were less than pleased.

“Why do you linger alone?” He sat next to you with a composure that none other in the room possessed, for they were all taken by the copious amounts of wine they’d been drinking.

“I do not belong here.” You realize, too late, that you have also had too much to drink to be speaking to the deceiver. You stiffen at your own words, your face blank if not a little sad.

He raises a brow at you but nods. “You are from Lindon, yes.” You think for a moment while he speaks. Perhaps you could gain his trust after all. You had watched him speak to each and every elf in the room tonight, charming them with pretty words, and they were all too welcome to it, due to his fair features and the wine they consumed. You knew he was gaining their trust and surely making sure none of them were threats to him. And now, he was trying to do the same to you.

You take a long drink of your wine, before letting your eyes turn to him. You understood why the others had fallen for it, his disguise, for it was a pretty one. An endearing smile graces your lips when you speak, “Ah yes, I do miss Lindon, though it is the people I miss much more.” Your mind flits to your High King and your cheeks burn red easily.

A slight smirk graces his features and with that, you are sure that your feigned drunken honesty is beginning to work. “Ah- someone waits for you in Lindon, anticipating your return.”

“Yes, I am bound to Lindon, by more than duty, my Lord.” You look down and reach for your wine glass, taking another sip before returning your eyes to his empty ones.

His eyes go to your hands, which fidget in your lap as if to draw his attention. “Though, you are unwed, are you not?” He raises a slender brow once more.

Your blush deepens further, and this time it is not due to your design. Even the tips of your ears burned red. “I am unwed. Though I am bound to another.” You clasp your hands together tightly, fiddling with your fingers to steady yourself. Elves were not known to bind themselves to partners and remain unwed. Yours would be a scandal should it be known. You knew you would never wed the High King Gil-Galad, nor did you wish to. Both of your perspectives on the matter were a rarity, and yet the two of you were content on finding comfort in each other and remaining each other’s closest friends.

He hums contemplatively and per your glance, he looks shocked. Your revelation has silenced the deceiver, though you are sure his silver tongue will not be stayed for long.

“Such devotion is admirable, Commander.” He replies and you know he is appeasing you. No true messenger of the Valar would support such a union. Any further reply he may have is halted by Lord Celebrimbor’s return.

“Ah, I am glad to see my two closest friends conversing so happily.” His cheeks are flush from the wine, and you cannot help but be amused, laughing as he joins the two of you. The three of you converse late into the night, and all the other smiths have retired when you stand and bid the men goodnight.

When you return to your rooms, you slip into your cool sheets with a lightness you have not felt in moons. You, for once, do not worry about Lord Celebrimbor or exposing your true intentions for being in Eregion. Rather, you think of Gil-Galad. You fall asleep with kind thoughts of your king dancing in your mind.

When you wake, you’re shocked, first, by the radiant light shining into your room, and second, by the realization you are in Lindon. A familiar, regal voice fills your ears and your fëa sings at the realization. Gil-Galad.

���Commander.” Your eyes find him, bathed in sunlight, his hair shining chocolate in the morning light. You spring from your bed at a speed you only possessed prior to your near-fatal injury, wrapping him in a tight hug. You bury your face in his hair, breathing in his scent, your fingers tightening in his robes.

The rumble of his chest, as he laughs, warms you in a way you did not know you craved. “What have I done to deserve such a greeting my Lady?” A large hand under your chin tilts your head back and brushes through your hair before gently cupping the side of your face.

You lean into his hand, turning so that you may kiss his palm. You press tender kisses to his hand, speaking softly against the soft skin as you do. “You have granted me a kindness and visited my dreams. I am far away and yet you are here, in my mind.”

He smiles softly, wistfully. “It is a good dream, is it not? I have long hoped I would wake in Eregion with you. It seems you have wished the same of Lindon and of me.”

You cup his cheeks softly as he speaks, your eyes searching his face. You try to account for every line and freckle gracing his cheeks, tracing them with feather-light touches as you do. “I would recount your every feature so that they are ever present in my waking mind.”

He smiles with a gentleness he is not usually graced with. You speak again, knowing your time is limited. “Come to bed, let us rest in the sunlight. We cannot be dragged away by duty here.” You take his hand, pulling him into the soft sheets with a practiced ease. He allows it, intertwining his fingers with yours.

He responds as he climbs into bed, following you, and giving you all of his attention. “You speak the truth, my love. Duty will not take us here.” You were glad for that. In Lindon, neither of you was ever indisposed for long. There were always duties to be upheld, whether they were kingly or those of a commander. Now, you were free from interruptions, save waking.

No sooner than both of you are settled in bed, does he have you atop him, pressed tightly against his chest, as he presses kisses into your hair. “You… the halls of Lindon feel empty without you gracing them.”

You sit up to observe him as he speaks, and the way he looks upon you, with such reverence, sets you alight. As does the gentle weight of his hands upon your hips. He follows your ascent though and captures your lips in a kiss. It conveys that which a thousand pretty words cannot, the longing, yearning for the closeness you once shared. You gasp into his mouth as his grip on your hips tightens, letting his tongue mingle with your own. He tastes of honey and pears, and you wonder if you taste of the deep red wine you had drunk so late into the night.

When the two of you part, your lips are but a breath from touching again, and the two of you pant, breathless from your unwillingness to part. You whisper, your words ghosting over his lips. “Gil- you feel so real. Your light shines so brightly, even here locked away within our dreams. My fëa sings at our reunion. I-”

He cups your face tenderly, affection clouding his eyes, as he gazes into yours. “Speak to me, dearest, what do you want.”

You consider him for a moment, before speaking. “I know this is only a dream. Yet, I cannot help but want you. I wish to feel your closeness, Gil. In this time, more than ever, I need you.”

He smiles again, brushing your hair from your face as he does. “You need only ask, dearest. I know this is only a dream, but I cannot fault you for that which I crave as well.”

You kiss him then, this time though, the two of you do not part at breathlessness. When your lips part, his find your throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses and bites to it, that are sure to leave marks on you. When he finds the most sensitive spot where your neck and shoulder join he sucks and bites at the tender skin there, marking you as his. Your eyes close and your mouth falls open in a heady gasp. You do not feel his hands leave your hips until they are in your hair and closing around the tips of your ears, rubbing gentle teasing stokes down their points.

“Gil!” You gasp at the touch. He was usually reserved in touching that erogenous zone, as it was seen as very intimate to all elves. Despite the two of you sharing a bed often, he had only twice before felt so strongly as to breach that intimacy.

“You are so beautiful, even more so when you are gasping my name.” He smiles and his hands still for a moment before they go to your sleep shift. Sheer as it was, he wanted you bare. He looks to you for your consent though. “I want to see you. May I?”

“Please.” Your voice is thick as he pulls it from your form, baring you to him. You are quickly pulling at the ties of his robes, wishing at this moment for nothing more than to feel the heat of his skin against yours. And once his robe is discarded with your shift in a heap on the floor, you feel it. He is burning hot, and the fire of his skin sets you alight.

You roll your hips against his tentatively, testing the waters. Your thighs bracket his hips tightly, squeezing him, as you try to contain your need. His hands go to your hips and begin to guide you, moving you against his quickly hardening cock. A groan escapes his lips as your folds catch on him, making his cock shine with your wetness.

In one quick movement, he has you beneath him. You lay on your back and he sits on his haunches between your thighs, spreading your legs with his thighs, pressing them open wider, until you are completely open to him.

“So beautiful…” He trails off as his fingers ghost over your stomach and then your thighs, avoiding the place he knows you want him more than ever. He caresses down your thigh and your calf and repeats the same over the other leg, at an agonizingly slow pace. When he drags his hands back up to your center, you consider begging and he knows it. “Use your words for me, dearest, tell me what you want.”

A whine escapes your lips before you find your words, “I need you to stretch me out on your fingers, my king, please.” The plea in your voice is enough for him and when he begins by slipping two large fingers inside you with ease your back arches off the bed. He curls them inside you, reaching for the spot he knows will make you drip wetness for him.

When he finds it, he grins. He watches the way you move underneath him, writhing in pleasure, begging for more. “Gil- please- I cannot wait any longer. I need you. I need you inside me.”

“So impatient, dearest. Do you crave the feel of my cock inside you that badly?” He teases you gently, slipping his fingers out of you. You reach up and capture his wrist between your slender fingers before bringing his hand to your mouth. You lick and then suck your wetness off his fingers. He is quick to lean down and capture your lips, tasting your cunt on your lips with a groan. With that, he pushes into you, slowly, tortuously. The stretch is as straining as you remember if not more and you’re suddenly reminded of why he usually took his time opening you up. His cock was much like his stature, imposing. He did not lack in girth or length and the stretch was bordering painful every time.

You rest your forehead against his, and he waits watching your eyes carefully as you focus on relaxing to accommodate him. When it seems like you have regained your composure he begins to move. He rolls his hips, driving his cock even deeper into you, leaving both of you gasping in pleasure. He starts slowly, kissing your throat as he opens you up. You gasp and whine at the intrusion, in near bliss at the feeling of being joined with him once more. Your eyes stay locked on his as you speak, your hands clutched in his hair. “Gil- you are- by the Valar Gil.”

He takes your broken words as encouragement and picks up his pace, lifting your legs over his shoulders, sending him impossibly deeper into you. Your head falls back now, and you babble incoherently as he plows into you. Your eyes finally snap, open when one of his hands slips between the two of your to rub rough circles on your clit. He is unrelenting and your babbling has morphed into loud moans. “Gil- My King- Please-.”

“Fuck- so tight- so wet, you’re driving me mad.” He begins to speak in broken sentences, and you know he is close. He does not let up though, pounding into you relentlessly.

“Please- please- fill me with your seed, my king. Gil- please.” You know the words that will drive him over the edge and your cunt clenches tightly around him as you speak. You feel the hot spurts of his seed coating your womb as he finishes inside you with a drawn-out moan. He pumps into you a few more uneven times, making sure you’ve taken all he can give. He pulls out of you but does not let your legs down, instead lowering himself to your cunt.

His hot breath on your folds, makes you clench and tremble with anticipation. A little breathless he looks up, meeting your eyes before speaking, “I’m sorry dearest, I can’t help myself when you speak such enticing words.” He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh before he dives in like a man starved. His tongue begins a steady rhythm on your clit and his fingers are back inside you before you can anticipate them. Your gasps and moans of his name fill the room.

He keeps a steady pace, each curl of his finger punctuated by his name on your lips. Your vision goes white hot when his lips wrap around your clit and suck, his fingers never letting up. You finish with a cry of his name, your legs trembling over his shoulders. He continues sucking on your swollen bud until you put a hand on his shoulder to push him away.

“Ah- Gil, please, I cannot take any more, please.” He relents, letting your legs down from his shoulders and coming up to capture your lips in a deep kiss, collapsing on top of you, as if he has suddenly lost all strength.

“Gil!” You laugh as he lays his head on your chest. You can see his feet dangling off the end of the bed. Your fingers trace intricate patterns on his back before you wind them back in his hair.

“You are incredible.” He speaks, and you find his eyes upon yours once more.

“As are you, you have no idea how much I have missed this, how much I have missed you.” You speak with a wistfulness that is only made by separation.

“Don’t I?” He speaks and it is punctuated with a poorly concealed yawn. You are sharply reminded that your time remaining is limited when you feel a yawn bubbling in your throat.

“Come up here, let us fall asleep in each other’s arms. We can pretend, if only for a moment, that this is our reality and not only a dream.” He smiles gently before crawling up and wrapping you in his hold. His strong arms cage you against his chest and his long hair drapes over your shoulder tangling with your own. You do not know how long the two of you lay like that, breathing together until you drift off.

You are woken by sunlight streaming into your room. This time, though, the first thing you notice is that you are in Eregion, in a bed that is not quite yours, with the wound on your stomach screaming in pain. You sit up in bed with a sigh, memories from your dream still fresh. The second thing you notice is the undeniable dampness between your legs. You were not surprised by this but rather how wet you seemed to be. Your hand dips under the sheets and you slip two fingers between your folds, gathering some of the wetness before bringing your hand back up. You are shocked at the blackness that coats them. Pitch black seed coats your fingers and you feel the bile rise in your throat immediately.

You are out of bed and hunched over the nearest waste basket spitting up bile within seconds. Your wound screams at you as you wretch, unable to stop.

“Such a convincing visage was it not? Much like the one you’ve been putting on for the past week.” The honeyed voice of Annatar carries through your rooms.

Your eyes find him in horror and disgust. He stands at the end of your bed, watching you with a sick curiosity and a sadistic smirk. “You are foul. Deceiver.”

“Am I? Now, dearest, let us not be rude. I thought your fëa sung at our reunion.” He repeats your words to him with a wide smile gracing his cold face. You wretch into your wastebasket once more.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Scorpius Malfoy and The Great Hufflepuff March

A/n: This was sitting in my drafts/ I am sick and it's all I got right now.

It had been a relatively calm morning in Malfoy Manor.

That was, of course, until Scorpius Malfoy came marching proudly down the grand staircase—

Wearing his mother’s old Hufflepuff scarf like it was his greatest treasure.

Draco, sitting in the drawing room with a cup of tea, froze mid-sip.

You, who had been sorting through old Hogwarts memorabilia, looked up just in time to see your son parading proudly across the room, his tiny arms swinging and his little chest puffed out with importance.

“I am a HUFFLEPUFF!” Scorpius announced, his voice echoing dramatically through the manor.

Draco groaned, setting his tea down. “Oh, Merlin.”

Laughing softly, you propped your chin in your hand. “Where did you find that, love?”

Scorpius grinned, clutching the well-worn, yellow-and-black scarf like it was a royal cloak.

“In the old trunk!” he chirped. “And now it’s mine!”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “It is not yours.”

Scorpius gasps,actual betrayal...from his own father.

“MUMMY?” he turned to you, scandalized. “Is it mine?”

You having to fight back a smile tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear. "Of course sweetheart."

Scorpius cheered, immediately resuming his grand march around the drawing room.

“I AM A HUFFLEPUFF!” he declared again.

Draco sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “For Salazar’s sake, you’re four. You don’t even have a Hogwarts letter yet.”

Scorpius ignored him entirely because, clearly, his father’s opinion was irrelevant in the presence of such Hufflepuff greatness.

Instead, he climbed onto the sofa beside you and snuggled into your side, still proudly wrapped in the scarf.

“Mummy,” he whispered, all soft and full of wonder, “do you think I’ll be a really good Hufflepuff like you?”

You melted instantly.

Pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, you then smoothed out his soft blond curls. “Oh, sweetheart, I think you’d be the best Hufflepuff ever.”

Scorpius beamed, glowing with pride.

Draco, watching this entire display of betrayal, groaned and dramatically flopped onto the couch.

“I cannot believe this,” he muttered. “I married a Hufflepuff, and now I’m raising a tiny Hufflepuff, too.”

Scorpius popped up, giggling wildly. “I LOVE YOU, PAPA!”

Draco sighed deeply, reaching over to pull his son into a reluctant hug. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, pressing a quick, secretive kiss to Scorpius’s temple. “Love you too, little badger.”

And Scorpius?

Scorpius just grinned, proudly wrapped in his mother’s old scarf, absolutely certain that he was the greatest future Hufflepuff to ever exist.

Another day, another time because of course the Malfoy Manor was never meant to be quiet when Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy was around.

Especially not today.

Because today, Scorpius had decided that he was leading a parade.

A Hogwarts Parade, to be specific.

And his uniform?

•His mother’s old Hufflepuff scarf, wrapped around his tiny shoulders like a royal cloak. (Now officially his, according to you.)

•His father’s old Slytherin scarf, which he had stolen from Draco’s study and was now flailing wildly in the air like a victory flag.

And so, off he went, marching proudly down the grand halls of Malfoy Manor, his tiny feet stomping with purpose.

“I AM A HUFFLEPUFF!” he declared.

“AND ALSO A LITTLE BIT OF A SLYTHERIN!” (flails the scarf dramatically)

“I AM VERY POWERFUL!!”

Draco, who had just entered the hallway, took one look at his son’s chaotic display and groaned.

“For Merlin’s sake,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.

You, leaning against the doorway, were absolutely beaming. “He’s very powerful, Draco,” you teased.

Scorpius paused his parade, spinning on his heel to face his father.

“PAPA,” he said, waving the Slytherin scarf wildly, “I AM A HUFFLERIN!”

Draco blinked. “A what?”

Scorpius threw his arms out. “A HUFFLERIN!” (flails both scarves aggressively) “LIKE YOU AND MUMMY TOGETHER!!”

You giggled, crossing your arms. “Well, that does make sense, love.”

Draco just stared, running a hand through his definitely-not-a-Hufflepuff hair. “That is not a thing.”

Scorpius gasped, utterly offended.

“It IS a thing, Papa!” He stomped his tiny foot, silver eyes wide with childlike righteousness. “It means I am brave AND smart AND loyal AND sneaky!”

You nodded, fully supportive. “That’s very true, sweetheart.”

Scorpius beamed at his mother before turning back to Draco, throwing the Slytherin scarf over his shoulder in a move that was so dramatically Malfoy, it nearly brought a tear to Draco’s eye.

“DO YOU ACCEPT ME, PAPA?!” Scorpius demanded, throwing his arms wide.

Draco sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh, for—”

Then—

Scorpius’s little lip wobbled.

Draco panicked immediately.

“FINE,” he groaned, kneeling down in front of his tiny menace of a son. “Yes, Scorpius. You are a very powerful Huffle—whatever.”

Scorpius cheered, throwing both scarves in the air before leaping onto Draco’s chest in a full-body hug.

“I LOVE YOU, PAPA!”

Draco groaned dramatically, but his arms tightened around his son anyway. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, pressing a secret kiss to his blond curls. “I love you too, little menace.”

You, watching the entire scene unfold, giggled before whispering under your breath—

“Hufflerin for life.”

And Scorpius?

Scorpius grinned proudly, knowing that he had officially won the battle for house unity in Malfoy Manor.

[evansbby]

BESTIE ITS GETTING EVEN BETTER THAN ARI AAAAAH

IT’S NOT ACTUALLY BUT IT IS VERY CLOSE 🥹🥹🥹🥹

[momomallowart]

Good morning gamers ʕ⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴥ⁠ꈍ⁠ʔっ✨

[unriding]

hi evie !! how have you been ? :33 i hope you dont mind me borrowing you and moze for something ehehe <3

[karinasbaby]

what the actual HELL

i audibly gasped and physically folded

[weepylucifer]

We only meet the students for such a brief time, just a blip in their lives. Like the other characters in DE, there’s no way of really telling what they’re like when we don’t see them and when they’re not interacting with a cop. With them, since they seem to mirror Harry and Kim to some degree, it’s especially fascinating to wonder what Harry-and-Kim-like traits they might have that we’re not shown. Like this,

*just gives depression to Steban* sorry my boy

[bi-writes]

an eye for an eye | knight!ghost x f!reader

your husband bends to your will. men must learn from difficult lessons how far that bending goes.

type: a continuation of a hand for a hand, but can be read stand-alone (11.6k), AO3

cw: 1600s au, dark!ghost, reader described as curvier/plus-sized, graphic depictions of war + violence, possessive!ghost, war-criminal!ghost, inaccurate historical settings probably, unprotected piv, cumplay, breeding kink, size kink, simon "i'd do anything for my wife no matter the devasting consequences" riley (18+)

Your husband has an insatiable appetite. Such a big man he is; he towers over you, so much so that you must tip your head back always to look up at him. You had to make many arrangements in your house to accommodate his hunger–a pantry stocked full of eggs and less fabric for your skirts.

Your house isn’t like others. Neither you nor Ghost have ever lived in luxury. When he showed you your home for the first time, you had shaken your head–you didn’t believe that such a large place was supposed to be yours, and even now, sometimes you feel like a stranger, out of place when the maids ask you what you want for supper or where you’d like to take your afternoon tea. You don’t like the fuss, the asking, the women that curtsy when you come near, concentrated over the creases in your skirts or the loose thread of your sleeve or the wispy hairs that fall out of your braids. You are told all the time that you must behave like a duchess, that you must poise yourself with your new title and your new money, and you must do the things that duchesses do–but no one says the same to your husband.

He is still allowed to sleep in the barracks. Lick the blood off his gauntlets. Polish his sword in the dirt. He’s still allowed to be everything that you cannot be anymore, he still lives the life he had before.

He still kills; and he is still very, very good at it.

Your queen told you in a letter that the king is very pleased. Ever since your union, Ghost has been quite the conqueror. Bloodthirsty and very determined, your husband has been taking his men across the water. He is not any less impressive off land. Not even the pirates have tried to negotiate; they bend the knee or taste the salt water. You breathe shakily when you read your queen’s letters—her praise for your husband’s conquests, how blessed your family will be and how valuable you are to the crown, how grateful she is that Ghost is no longer a fiend in court but rather a little more polite and a little quieter.

All for your sake. Ghost’s name is now your own, and he refuses to embarrass you now that you have it.

You won’t lie; the bodies that Ghost has stacked since you’ve been wed do not scare you. He’s doing it for you. He has never said it out loud, never told you so, but you know it. He wants to show you what kind man that he is, what kind of soldier—you know he’s trying to prove himself worthy. If he killed a thousand men to have you, how many will he slaughter to keep you?

He sends you letters of his own. Not many, but he does send letters, and while Ghost seems to be ineloquent and entirely too brutish, he has quite the voice when he writes.

To my wife,

The sun falls quicker here. I’d like to come home. Tell me of your day, and I will tell you of mine. There were a fleet of ships that came to meet us at dawn. When we sank three, they begged for us to spare the rest.

I have you to think about now. So I burned them.

Simon

A poet, your beloved.

He signs his real name in his letters. Your eyes skim over most of it–you don’t even blink when he tells you what he does to them. Sometimes he writes in great detail about the screams of a hundred souls, the way burning flesh smells, the taste of dirt in a new place when you know it is finally yours. He doesn’t like having secrets. He tells you all his thoughts, even if they might scare you, because you are his wife, and he has discovered quite quickly that you have been cut from the same cloth.

Even when he is home, and he tells you these things all over again, he can’t help the way his cock hardens when you merely blink and ask him if he has added any scars to his collection.

Ravenous, naughty little duchess, and you are all his. He knows he picked well–he knows, he knows he wasn’t wrong when he saw you across the throne room hiding behind his queen, he knows now that he was right about what he saw in your eyes.

You do hate when he’s away. You’re not used to the maids helping you dress, and you secretly abhor the help. That is why when you hear the shuffle of your house early in the morning, your heart thuds in your chest knowing he’s home.

The staff get antsy when Simon is around. He is very good at keeping an estate for someone that has never had to or ever been taught to, but he leaves the responsibilities with you and only you every time he goes. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do it, and every time he comes back, he makes you sit on one big thigh as he teaches you something new that you need to remember for when he goes away. He demands much of those he employs, and they are eager to please him. Whether it is because they respect him or are afraid of him, you aren’t sure.

Perhaps it’s both.

You sit up as the bedroom door opens. You smile, big and wide and sleepy as he steps into the room. He shuts the door with his boot, slipping his hood off, and you sigh as he grips the clasp of his mask and unhooks it. He tosses it onto the floor, bare-faced, and as he makes his way towards the bed, he sheds the rest of his clothes until he’s completely naked.

You cannot stop yourself from the shaky breath you take. He is all muscle and fat, strong and entirely too scary, but it’s hard to focus on what he really is when he stands before you like this. He has fat thighs, big shoulders, carved muscle of intense labor around his middle and along his biceps. He has large hands with calloused palms and split knuckles, and your eyes meet his own as he comes closer. He’s so gorgeous, even with a face like that. He has a long scar that stretches from one brow to his lower jaw, another that cuts his nose and splits his lip, but those eyes are dark and lovely, and you can’t help the warmth that comes over you when he catches you staring at him, closer, right to his cock that hangs heavy between his legs.

Just as he begins to lower himself onto the bed, you hold out a hand, giggling.

“Simon, if you think you are getting into this bed without a proper bath, you’re mistaken!” You laugh, and he raises a brow.

“Mmm…” He smacks his lips together. “Tha’ right, my lady?” He clicks his tongue. “This is my bed. ’s oll mine. Every blanket…every pillow…” He grips your ankle from under the covers and yanks you towards him. “And every part of you.”

You giggle again, shaking your head, “Please, Simon!” You push him away with your toes. “They only changed the sheets yesterday. You’ll dirty them…” You flutter your lashes. “Will you bathe if I join you?”

He grins wide, licking over his teeth.

“Can’t refuse an offer like tha’.”

You hold out your hand for him, and he takes it gently. You watch as he brings your knuckles towards his mouth, and you bite back a smile when he decides to kiss each one, slow. He tugs finally, pulling you up, and you wrap your arms around his neck as he hoists you up into his arms. You would worry about your weight normally, but Simon holds you so easily, barely even a grunt as he wraps your legs around his middle. You don’t waste another second, cupping his cheeks in your hands and kissing him softly.

It’s never just a kiss with Simon. He slides one of his hands up your back, into your hair, and you whine as he tips your head back just enough to slip his tongue into your mouth. Simon doesn’t just kiss, he consumes. What he did to get back to you, the things he endured, the places he has seen and the bodies he has buried and burned and scattered across the places he now calls country, it’s always to get back to this place.

To you.

“How’s my boy?” He asks when you pull away. He carries you to another room, to where the tub sits, and he rings a bell by the door to call the maids in. You snatch a robe off a hook and cover him with it as he sits with you, but all he does is put a few fingers under your chin and make you look at him again. “Oi. Asked ya question, luv.”

Your lip wobbles a little, and you look away.

“I…”  You wait until the maids have gone to fetch hot water to tell him. “I bled while you were gone. I…”  You smooth your hands over the robe, distracting yourself. “I’m…I’m sorry, Simon.”

You close your eyes as he leans close, resting his forehead against yours, and you shake a little as he lets out a warm breath against your lips. He moves a warm hand over your soft stomach, cupping you there, and you lean your head back a little at the tender touch.

“It will happen,” he says finally, and your mouth opens to respond, but he sticks his thumb between your lips to shut you up. He doesn’t want to hear you blame yourself. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his, for not being here with you, for not be able to take care of you. You give in, suckling on the salt of him, and he grits his teeth as he watches you. “I know. Seen it in m’dreams.”

Simon has dreams. Lots of dreams, but he tells you that they are not dreams, they are glimpses into something that has already happened. When you asked if he was some kind of seer, the kind that the king used to have at parties, Simon doesn’t laugh.

He says the dreams are why he knows he won’t die. Why he is never afraid, because he knows somewhere behind his eyes what’s to come even if he didn’t see the entire painting of it. It is why he knew he would marry you; it is why he paid you so much attention, why he knew he would win his battles, why he always knows whose blood it is in his mouth because he has tasted their death before and relishes in the knowing of it all, in the certainty.

It’s never I think, it is always I know, and Simon is nothing if he is not the most honest man that you know.

So if he says you will have his babe, it is as good as truth. As green as the grass grows beneath his feet, as blue as his sky, and as red as the blood that is caked underneath his nails.

When the tub is filled with water, you let Simon sink into it first. You kneel beside it, picking up a glass of oil, pouring it into your palms before sinking your hands into his hair. It’s gotten longer since he left, in need of a cut, but you smile when he leans his head back into your shoulder. You can feel his content as he relaxes into you, and you admire his physique as you use the warm water and scrub the mud and grime off of him.

“I missed you, husband,” you whisper, and he only lets you massage his hair for a few more moments before he grips you by the wrist and tugs you forward, right into the bath. “Simon!” you laugh, “my night dress—oh!—it’s ruined!”

“Too far away,” he mutters, practically ripping the silk off of you as he tosses it besides the bath. “Mmm…” He cups your breasts with two big hands, smoothing his thumbs over your nipples, and you whine a little as he pulls at them just enough to make them stiffen. “Y’should be naked when I come home,” he says lowly. “I’ll soil y’r bloody gown next time, m’lady.”

You giggle, and he smiles. A real smile. As real as he’ll ever give anyone, maybe the only one that anyone has ever even seen. He has never shown his face in court, and while it angers the women and irks the men, you revel in the fact that all of this is only for you.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You kiss him softly. The water sloshes, warm and inviting, and sometimes you forget your life used to be anything but joy. A year ago, you would not believe that you would be here, titled, wealthy, in a stone room lit by candles bathing with a blood hungry ghost.

A year ago, you trembled whenever he looked at you. You cowered when you heard his footsteps. What a stupid little girl you had been. What a fool. She had no idea what she could have, the kinds of things she could hold in her hand.

Real power wasn’t being able to command a room with your words. Real power was being able to say anything and have it be believed as truth. Real power was making someone look in one direction and have them see what you see, even if what you see isn’t real.

He lays you down in your bed afterward and eats. Your wet hair soaks the sheets, but you can’t seem to be really bothered as he fits your legs over his shoulders and bends you at the waist, his mouth suctioned to your clit as he eats you slowly. One of his hands is spread out over your tummy, the other you can hear making a squelch as he fists his own cock. It’s slow and methodical, and he slides his tongue between your folds firm, catching what dribbles from you on the tip of his tongue before he swallows it and leans in for more.

He has eaten you in nearly every room in your house. Frightened the cooks tossing you onto the dining table, given a servant a scare as he ducked under your skirts in the library, had the gardeners fleeing as he dropped you onto the grass near the lake and disappeared with a frenzy to eat your cunt during sunrise. It’s maddening, the kind of need that Simon requires, but it’s hard to refuse when you feel so warm and bubbly and happy after he’s finished. A pampered princess you are, never lifting a finger, only awake long enough when he’s home to eat until you’re full and cum until you fall asleep again.

Maybe that’s why you’re not pregnant yet. Simon likes to be here, between your thighs, mouth fixed on your wet pussy until he’s practically exhausted himself with a sore jaw and lax tongue.

He kisses you sloppy after. Licking into your mouth, practically spitting onto your tongue, wanting you to taste—tastes so good, luvvie, don’t ya see, yeah?—wanting you to know why he’s so eager to be on his knees all the time.

You sniffle, a little dizzy, shaking your head.

“’s not what I really want,” is all you whimper, and he nods, because he knows, he always knows.

“I know, luv. I know wot ya really need.”

“I must be broken,” you sob, cradling his face in your hands, and he shakes his head.

“Not broken,” Simon assures you. He speaks so surely that it’s hard not to believe him. “It wasn’t time.”

“You can’t see the future, Simon! You don’t know!” You cry, and he snarls a little, shaking his head again.

“You listen t’me,” he growls. You shake a little as he grabs your face with one hand, fixing your jaw under his grip as he holds onto you firmly. “Wot I say goes. Y’r my wife, so listen t’me, and listen t’me good. Y’r not broken. Not time. Say it back t’me.”

Your lip trembles, and he rattles your head a little.

“Say it,” he snaps, and you hiccup.

“It’s not time,” you whisper, and he plants a fat kiss onto your tear-soaked lips.

“Just need my cock, luv,” he murmurs. “Tha’s oll. Just need me t’fuck it outta ya.”

You nod, pressing your face to his, and he tuts, reaching down and spreading your legs wide to accommodate him between them as he lays over you.

“’s oll y’need,” he repeats, and you nod again.

You have to take another bath in the same morning; and this time, you weren’t able to walk there.

You like when Simon is home because it’s quiet. The only one that dotes on you here is Simon. The maids do not dress you or do your hair or moisturize your skin. It’s always Simon.

You smile at him in the mirror as you sit at your vanity. He has a brush in one hand, and he’s using it delicately to detangle your hair how you like. His hands are practiced and gentle, and when he finishes, he leans over you as he starts to part your hair to braid it. He did not have sisters, but his mother had him always do her hair after she lost the use of her hands with age. You don’t know where his mother is, but you assume she is not here anymore, because he never invites you to meet her.

He oils your skin. He slips the robe off of you, revealing your damp skin from the bath, and he slathers oil in his hands before using it to soften your skin. He takes his time, smoothing those big hands over your shoulders, down your back, along your arms. You tilt your head back when he warms your breasts, squeezing and fondling your tits. He murmurs in your ear the entire time, and he has to fuck you with his fingers to quiet you when he stops because just his hands on your tits has you wet all over again.

He dresses you, too. Helps you slip into your undergarments, fastens the cage for your skirts over your hips. He ties them skillfully, and after he layers your skirts over the farthingale, he gets you into your corset. It’s intimate as he does this. Even with your wide skirt, he comes closer, over your shoulder, and he tugs at the laces at your back, pulling it tight with firm grunts. You sigh when he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hand skimming over your breasts as they sit nice and perky between stiff fabric and whalebone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, unnerving…the way ya look…”

You close your eyes, “S-Simon, please…I’m already dressed…”

He chuckles, “I know. I know.”

But when he has to leave again, you nearly come with him. You fasten his armor for him, help him slip each piece of leather on and click every piece of metal into place. You tie his cloak and slip his mask on, and you try and duck your head when you flip his hood up, but he catches you, tilting your chin up.

He huffs when he sees your face. Tears sliding down your cheeks, lips wet with them, eyes all glassy and red. He draws you up onto your toes, pressing his mouth to yours through the mask, and you hold onto him tightly, digging your nails into his chest armor and threatening to not let go.

“I want to go.“

“No.”

“Simon, let me go,” You gasp, begging, gripping his hood in firm fists and not caring that his armor is cutting into your front. “Let me go with you, I can’t do this anymore, I want to go, I can do it.”

You aren’t sure if Simon underestimates you. You think it’s more that he does not want you to see him in a place where he is most true. Where he wears the least of a disguise. He does not know he wears it the least with you, and that you have already seen his blood and how it curdles under his skin. You like it that way. You like him angry…and mean…and terrible. You like him when his sword is dirty and his armor needs polishing and his mind thinks of nothing else besides war. He should know this by now. He should know that you see him and see what he is even more than his king, more than his men.

He couldn’t scare you, even if he tried.

“War is not where women go,” Simon snaps. His tone is harsh, even for you, and you stiffen when he grips you by the jaw and rattles your head a little. “Especially not one like you, my love. War would eat ya, eat ya fuckin’ whole. Look at ya…” He huffs, deep, sliding that gloved hand down your throat to slip it beneath the neckline of your dress and fondle your breast with a firm grip. “Beautiful. Meant for my lips…for these dresses…meant to be held in my hands, not bleed from stray arrows, because tha’ is surely the least of wot they would do t’ya if they knew ya were my wife. Now ya will wipe these tears, ‘n see me off, and then ya will come back inside like a good girl, ‘n you will wait for me here until I come back.”

Your bottom lip trembles, and you scowl up at him. Not indifference, but frustration, and Simon doesn’t think it suits you.

“I’m sick of waiting for you, Simon,” you spit. “It’s all I ever do, wait. Wait for you to come back, alive or dead, I never know. And don’t say you do this for country, that is a lie.” You shove him backwards, but he barely budges when your hands touch his chest, a rigid wall that does not give. “You do it because you like it. You’re a bloodthirsty dog, and all you do is bend to our king’s will.”

A lie, but you tell it anyways, because you want something, and he will not give it to you.

“That is my duty.”

“Your duty is to me,” you snap. “Kings come and go, but I will not.” Simon stills. He glares down at you from behind his mask, and perhaps this might terrify his men, but that you are not. You are his wife, and you are protected by that title alone. The only man to ever lay a hand on you would not live to see another second, himself included. “Now you will let me join you, or so help me God, Simon, I will not be here when you return.”

You do not expect the full-bellied laugh that leaves him. His armor shakes with him, and you grind your teeth, narrowing your eyes. He uses his thumb to force his mask up, and then he cups the back of your head and draws you in for a sloppy kiss. You resist at first, but when he feeds you his tongue, you melt. You kiss him back, letting him draw you closer, and you sigh as he tangles his fingers into your hair and cradles you with those big hands.

There is nothing more to say. Simon neither confirms nor denies, but you taste it in his mouth, his devotion. Not wrong, not right, but just so–he has many responsibilities, but you are the only one that will remain the same. One day, his king will die, and he will serve another, but the space you have made beside him will never change. Even when you die, because he knows you will go before him, there will never be someone else to fill it. You and you only, the woman he found and made his, the one he demanded lest he kill his own country for it, it will always be you. Soft and sweet, you are, but the Lord knew Simon could only have one woman, and he made it be you; the one spitfire enough to defy her own king because she trusted his love enough for it.

Would you commit treason to save his life? Would you watch a king die if it meant your beloved lived? 

Would he?

He thinks about what you have said when he takes his fleet across the water. He runs his tongue over his teeth behind his mask, breathing deep when he thinks about your proclamations of duty. Of change. Of what remains when other things move, of the kind of life that waits for him when he comes and goes with a king’s order. He thinks about how easily he is taken away from you, and he knows there is truth in what you feel. It is not really Simon that sacrifices, it is what he leaves behind, and that is you.

It’s never angered him before. He had accepted the fact, as early as your wedding day, that he would leave and come back, then leave again. It has always been the way of his life, come desire or not, so it bothers him that of all the things that surprised him in his life, it would be missing someone that shocked him the most.

Missing his wife. Missing the serene perfection of one woman, and the perfect place between her soft thighs. Every day that he finds himself between them is the best day of his life, he reckons, so now he feels bitter about staring at a freezing ocean amongst his men because he will go weeks without her.

Her. Her. Her.

He is bitter, yes, until he is not.

It comes in a letter from a messenger on horseback. They have been stationed in a foreign land for weeks now, watching slowly as the stone walls of a castle at their front crumples day after day from the stones filled with powder that ignite what is wood and break what is rock. The letter is sealed with wax, with the motif of a snake. It is given directly to Simon, whose name is scribbled in the letter, and when he reads it, he tastes ichor and smoke.

So the great phantom has come to seal my fate. I am not in the business of letting what is mine be taken. Even if you have brought your all, it won’t be taken from me.

I heard you have a beautiful new wife. I heard you paid for her in blood.

I shall do the same. I will hang your sword above our marriage bed.

Ghost is not someone that bends to the threats from foe he cannot look in the eye. Words are so empty. It is nothing like when he stands just a few meters apart from them, eyes fixed against one another, as they decide whether today they want to live or they want to die. The letter means nothing, but he’s surprised by the heat that bubbles under his ribs at the mention of his bride. He meant it when he said you were not meant for war, and that meant in this regard, too–nobody was allowed to talk about you, not like this, not ever.

When his king orders him home, Ghost crumples the note and tosses it into embers. He watches it burn, and then he orders his men to set to flame the ground around the stone walls.

So men like him can be goaded, it seems. His resolve is not as strong as he thought.

The weeks make you anxious. All you do is sit and collect dues and tell the maids which dress you want to wear and which you do not. It is peaceful and boring, and you wish Simon was here to make your days more exciting, but he is not.

His letters are the only things that keep you occupied, truly. He writes to you about war and loneliness, and you write to him about the mundane of domesticity and the ache he leaves behind. Sometimes, his letters come folded with pressed flowers he finds along the way, and you start to collect them, putting them away in small boxes or using them as bookmarks as you go through Simon’s library.

He has many books. His most loved books are those of war, of history, and you smooth your fingers over the pages he has dogeared and find comfort in reading the same words that he once did. You learn, as well. While in your studies as a girl, they made you learn arithmetic and the flowery bits of history and art, here in Simon’s house, you learn of strategy and weaponry and military tactic. Sometimes you disagree, and you write about these disagreements to Simon, and he writes back, pleased with your observations. He told you once that if you were a man, he would want you in that tent with him, beside him, deciding on which formations to take and when to strike. You responded saying that you could be that for him anyway. What did your sex have anything to do with whether you were right or wrong?

Simon agreed.

But I would never invite you here, dear wife. You have to understand that.

When your queen asks for your audience for dinner, you oblige easily; finally, you have something to do rather than add up numbers or sign a document on Simon’s behalf or read another fucking book.

You don’t want to wear all the costume your maids insist on, but you appease them after they repeatedly explain to you what your title means. With a drawn face, you let them tie your corset and layer your skirts, and you watch in the mirror as they braid your hair and drape large, obnoxious jewels over you. You grimace at the tiara they fit into your hair, and your elderly handmaid pinches your cheeks and tells you to put on a fair countenance, Your Grace, lest you make the Duke look ungrateful.

You bite your tongue from snapping at her. She should know that Simon would say nothing about your countenance; all he would do is fix whatever was bothering you until you smiled again.

You arrive early enough to have tea. Your queen is so excited to see you; she gushes when you meet her in the throne room, pulling you up from your curtsy so she can hug you tight, squealing. When you try to address her with a curt “Your Majesty,” she shakes her head, pressing her hands to your cheeks and giggling, “No need for formalities now. Call me Victoria.”

You hide your displeasure with a small smile. Now that you are no longer her lady-in-waiting, she allows you her name. Is it because she sees you more as equals, or because now you’re allowed to be somewhat of friends?

You must be some kind of friend. She sizes you up like you are one. She wears England’s colors this afternoon. A fire red dress adorned with gold accents, a dragon pin holding her shawl. She wears magnificent red and gold jewelry, but she’s looking at your dress, and you can see the slight twitch of her eye. You are wearing French lace, and she doesn’t like it. Or maybe she doesn’t like the color, the accents of navy blue and silver that you wear.

The skull motif that is woven into your tiara and printed on your coat and sewn into your dress. Does it insult her? That all your life, you wore nothing but browns and beiges and grays, were invisible to her, and now you represent your house, visit her as your guest, and bear an honorable name?

You were no one when you served her. Just a girl, no close family, no friends, just a distant uncle who gave you to the crown that hoped you could be of service. That was to be your duty for all your life–to serve the king’s wife until she wanted you no more or until she was gone. To cater to her every need and every wish, no matter the time of day or night.

Now you sit across her, more noble. Refined. Wearing a dress she despises, perhaps because she likes it more than her own.

Over tea, she gossips about the other ladies she has visit. You’ve heard this before, but you’ve never been included in the conversation. She talks to you, and she wants to hear your opinion, and you find yourself uneasy as you try to think of what to say. She is your queen, and you want her to like you. When you worked for her, you earned her favor by always warming up her jewels before she put them on, by making sure she had her tea ready in the morning at her bedside, by always holding the fan she so loved for when she inevitably had a hot flash. Now, as her friend, you weren’t exactly sure what to do. You suck in a soft breath and look at her, and then you purse your lips.

You think it best to agree with her. To be on her side. You might not be her direct servant any longer, but you still must fall under her favor. A queen’s favor can be just as powerful, especially if she occasionally has the ear of her husband.

“Well, that’s not very kind of her,” you say finally, and she laughs.

“No! She’s such a prude. I think her husband doesn’t sleep in her bed enough, if you know what I mean,” she winks at you. You giggle at that. “Speaking of husbands–” She pops another cake in her mouth. “How is yours?”

You reach up and tug at your necklace a bit, smiling nervously.

“Oh, uh…” You clear your throat, “He’s doing very well. I hear his latest campaign is quite the success. His majesty is very smart, heading for the east that way, I’m sure they will be victorious soon enough.”

Victoria smiles at the thought of her husband. His intelligence. She always used to talk to you about how many hours he worked, how she hated when he was away, how she wished he was home more so he could give her a son because she was so, so lonely.

“Wise words from the duchess, aye, my love?”

You jump a bit at the low voice from behind, and when you turn, you gasp, immediately standing and falling into a delicate curtsy. John Price waves his hand, coming further into the room, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. “Please, sit. You’re here as my guest.”

You stand and lift your head, trying to relax. You take a seat, smiling nervously, and Victoria smiles giddily at her husband. When he bends to kiss her cheek, she fawns, reaching for his hand and squeezing it before taking another piece of tart and eating it. John hums before motioning for one of the staff to fill your cup again with tea. He eyes you curiously, taking in your appearance. You sit up at that, performatively brushing off over the skull pattern on your corset. John runs his tongue over his teeth, smoothing a big palm down his wife’s long coils of hair.

“Since you’re here, I’d like a word, if that’s alright,” John says to you. His tone carries a little more authority now, and Victoria sighs, whining a little.

“John, please, she’s my friend. Can’t it wait–”

“That wasn’t a question, Victoria,” John bites. Her face falls a little. She swallows and tucks her hands into her lap. You’re reminded as you look at the slight wobble of her lip that there is no one truly above John Price, not even her. You keep your face neutral, but if you were invisible, you’d pity her.

What a shame her husband sees her as less than. How embarrassing. Your Simon would never. Your Simon waits until you finish speaking before speaking himself. Your husband kneels to take off your shoes, your husband tears your skirts to get a taste of you, your husband used his teeth to sever a man’s throat just to have your hand.

What did John Price do to get his wife? Who did John Price kill to have her hand? How many bruises did he earn around his knees on their wedding night from eating her out? As many as Simon, whose knees were black and blue by morning?

No, you suppose not. How unfortunate. How pathetic.

Victoria picks up her skirt and stands, pasting a big smile on her face. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and you can see the way her hands shake a little as she scurries off. She scowls as soon as she turns away from John, clearly annoyed.

“I’ll go check on dinner,” she says, but it is soft and unenthusiastic.

When she goes, the room falls quiet. At the nod of John’s head, the staff leave, and you keep still in your seat as John sits across from you, picking up one of the cakes in front of him and breaking off a piece to busy himself. He keeps his eyes on his task of cutting up the cake in small pieces, focused on his hands and how they work. You watch him carefully, steeling yourself.

You anticipate a conversation between man and woman, not a king and his lesser.

“Simon’s been away for some time. I bet that’s difficult for you.”

You straighten your posture, realizing what this conversation will be. By his tone, John seems to think you a bored, stupid housewife, perhaps. Uneducated. A woman, no thoughts in her head. You let your face relax, and you fold your hands in your lap. Maybe now is the time John should learn who you are and who you are not.

What you have become and what you no longer are.

“I do just fine, Your Majesty,” you say finally. You pick up a spoon and drop a cube of sugar into your tea, and you stir, picking it up to take a long sip. John is curious by your content. You have a quick tongue. “I could say the same to you, couldn’t I?”

John laughs. He narrows his eyes a bit at your clever response, taking a large bite of the cake and running a cloth over his beard. His eyes sparkle a little.

“So you know.”

“Know what, Your Majesty?”

“You know I gave Simon orders. And you know he didn’t listen to me.”

You purse your lips, but he sees the shine in your eyes. The lack of surprise. His face twitches a bit, and you shake your head. You blink slow, and it irks him to see you so calm. He is your king, and Simon answers to him, and you are his wife, so you must answer, too.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“I could have your husband’s head cut off for treason for that, you’re aware, aren’t you?”

You tilt your head to the side. What an odd thing for John to say. What an odd thing for John to contemplate, since it would never come to pass. “Don’t be daft, my king. You wouldn’t want to do that.”

John slams his fist on the table, making the plates and cups rattle with his frustration, but you do not even flinch. You blink, stone-faced, and it makes his nostrils flare. He recognizes that glare, he knows it well. He has seen it before, stared it down many times in rooms just like this. Only now, he is not fighting for land, he fights for control of the one man that he has always been able to rely on. Simon has followed him into battles outnumbered by a thousand men, and only now he ignores an order? Only now he chooses something different?

“Now, let’s be civil, Your Majesty,” you say softly. You smile at him, leaning your head in your hand. “Is there something that you need from me? I have a feeling you might have encouraged this dinner just so you could see me in passing, so why don’t you just ask me what you wanted to ask me?”

John lets out a deep breath, leaning his elbows on the table, lowering his voice. He leans towards you, and you admire how blue his eyes are. John is quite a handsome king, but he does not captivate you. It has been a long time since John has tasted blood, and he lacks the edge that you crave dearly.

“I need him back here, is what I need,” John murmurs.

“My king, I couldn’t get him back here any more than you could, even if I wanted to.”

“Now who’s being daft?”

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. John is not a stupid man. He created a beast of a man, and he is trying not to poke it too hard. You shift, brushing down your skirts, and you let out a low breath.

“Why did he refuse?” You ask finally.

“What?”

“Why does he ignore your order to come back?” You ask again. “I can’t think of a lot of reasons why he would stay. So why did he ignore you?”

John clicks his tongue, smoothing a few of his fingers over his beard. He averts his eyes, looking out the tall windows, frowning a little at the grim weather. The weather is always grim here, but it irks him at the moment, makes him scowl a little harder.

“I was…informed that there was some sort of letter,” John explains. “Some threat.”

“I don’t follow. He gets lots of threats. And terrible letters.”

“Was about you this time, Your Grace.”

You close your eyes at that, shaking your head. Simon would never be so foolish as to be baited by baseless threats. He barely bats an eye when someone even in front of him draws his sword. He is so comforted by his ability to win, by his dreams and his visions that have not yet happened.

“That’s absurd,” you breathe. “Simon wouldn’t…”

John chuckles, but there is no humor there. “Wouldn’t he?”

“I still don’t understand what you expect me to do,” you roll your eyes, looking away. “Simon is…he’s not…he doesn’t listen. It’s why he’s good at this, isn’t it? He doesn’t really take orders, he’s…I…”

John has never complained before about the way Simon chooses to lead. Oftentimes, it is an order ignored that has made it so that he delivered another crown at John’s feet. Simon asks for forgiveness, not permission, and John has barely batted at eye at it. He sees Simon as some kind of distant son, but this refusal bothers him so?

John leans forward. “You need to understand something here, Simon is a rabid dog,” he spits. “And sometimes I let him off his lead, but this isn’t like anything I’ve had to deal with. I need you to call him back here.” He scoots closer. “England needs you to call him back here. To me.”

You narrow your eyes a little. England needs you to call him back? What kind of sick sense of patriotism is he trying to instill in you? John is stupider than he looks, to think a woman like you would show loyalty to country. You are loyal to your husband, and nothing else, because what has king and country ever really done for a woman like you except for dispose of you?

You wear Simon’s colors, not John’s, and you will wear them to your deathbed.

“If I do this for you, my king, then you owe me,” you whisper. He laughs again, no humor, and he picks up a goblet and fills it to the brim with wine. He drinks half before slamming it down onto the table, spilling it over his hand.

“Kings do not owe their subjects.”

“Quite right, Your Majesty,” you agree, picking up your napkin and dropping it onto the table. You stand, giving him a polite curtsy. “But I am not doing this as your subject.”

“Everything you do is as my subject.”

“You put your entire right to the throne on the back of one man,” you say softly. You are not accusing him, you’re reminding him of a truth. “Simon is why…he’s why your counsel still listens to you. He’s why your people are free from famine, why…why your taxes get paid on time, why your kingdom is still standing, no thanks to your father who wasted this place’s fortune on women and liquor.” You shake your head. “You have an eye for conquest, Your Majesty, but you lack the execution of any plan you conjure.”

You are not wrong, and John knows this, and it’s why he hasn’t spoken up yet or interrupted you. The man before, his own father, was a drunkard who spent all their money. He drank himself into the grave, and the only reason John stands before you now is because of Simon. A man who he fought beside, who he commanded, who once John’s duty became reality took up the mantle and finished what his father never could.

John would be in the next history book you read because of Simon, and it’s Simon’s name that will never be written. They do not bestow legacy to men who serve other men.

“Where…Where did you learn to speak to men this way?” John scoffs. “I am your king.”

You must have hit a soft spot. John is defensive now, and men only deflect and insult when they are cornered with the truth. They don’t like being held in front of a mirror.

“You are king because my husband made it so,” you correct him gently. “And Simon is a loyal dog, and that is good for your sake, because if he had any desire for your seat, it would be his.” You come closer, your heels sounding, and John glares down at you; but you glare right back because you are protected by your name and what you can do with it. John knows this, and it angers him, but he seems to have difficulty facing the truths of his own making. “But he is not your dog anymore. He’s mine.”

Your pen on paper is aggressive. You can tell because the splotches of ink are deep, bleeding black sinking into white as you put angry word to parchment. Not even a fortnight later, you are playing cards with Victoria, and you see Simon’s silhouette standing in the doorway, hood shadowing his masked face as he observes. When you look over your shoulder where John sits, and you meet his eyes, he looks away from you with a grim understanding.

Simon answers your call. Always.

At dinner, John is in better spirits. He drinks with a big smile, eats more than one plate, and he picks Victoria up by the waist to make her dance with him when he asks for the music to be played louder. Simon sits, fidgety, gloved hands moving in and out of fists as he watches you cut into your food and eat it with a blank face. He huffs beside you, his armor stiffening as he sits up straight, and you let your fork clatter onto your plate as you turn to glare at him.

“You were thinking with your cock, Simon,” you spit. “That is how men like you get killed.”

“You ‘ave no idea how men like me get killed because there are no men like me,” Simon growls. You roll your eyes, standing, and he grips your wrist angrily, tugging you close until you fall into his lap. You sigh, shaking your head, putting your hands on his broad shoulders and making him look at you.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But I’m not wrong. It is how you’ll lose. You know better than that, Simon. To fight someone because they taunted you in a letter, it’s playing the fool.” You cup his cheeks, keeping his eyes on yours. “You don’t need me to tell you that, and yet here we are.”

He breathes slow, closing his eyes for just a moment. He thinks he came for this, just a little. For clarity. Reason. It comes from you in waves, and it’s comforting to hear. It is something he knew, and yet it only makes sense now that you have said it.

“I know,” Simon mutters. “I know. Y’r right. I’m sorry, luv.”

You ask him to apologize when he undresses you. You ask him to apologize again when he sinks into a hot bath with you. You ask him a third time when he is in your bed, a heavy weight between your thighs as he licks and sucks at the soft skin of your tummy. He begs, lowly, let me ‘ave it, and you will, but he has to say he’s sorry again.

“‘m sorry,” he breathes, sucking on your inner thigh, and you close your thighs around his head, forcing his mouth against your cunt.

“Again, Simon,” you whisper. “I wanna hear it again.”

“‘m sorry,” he slides a rough tongue between your folds, breathing shakily when he tastes the oil that he smoothed over your skin only moments ago. You taste so good, you smell so lovely, coming off of you like fumes blinding his senses so that nothing else but you makes any sense at all. When you open your eyes, you think about where you are, and you nearly come thinking about what you have wrapped around your finger.

Not even your king tells your husband what to do. Not even your king commands his men, they won’t listen, he’s not who they turn to when things go belly-up, it’s your husband, and your husband answers to you.

You weren’t sure about it until today. Seeing him when you asked him to come, it flooded you with something that hurt. You could tell from even so far away that Simon was salivating under that mask. You knew the only thing separating his mouth from your cunt were the other people around him (and they were not privy to seeing you naked).

It is such a thing to observe. John needed a lead on Simon when he was his dog. You need no such mechanism. Simon never strays, not with you. He sits proper when you ask, and he speaks when spoken to. He tears at unwanted flesh, and he comes when you call.

John cannot give him all that he desires. Perhaps he thought what Simon truly wanted was fame and fortune. Legacy. But like most things men do, John does not observe. He takes in only what is right in front of him, and he makes assumptions. Simon is not like other men. Fame and fortune do not matter. He does not care about legacy. What matters to Simon is what he can hold in his hands. The ground under his feet. The steel in his hand. The woman underneath him, spreading her legs, inviting him in.

You love Simon. You love Simon more than anything in the entire world, but it would be a lie to say that you are not at some advantage here. Simon is all-consuming. He is the pinnacle of duty and honor and everything that a man is supposed to be, but Simon is also weak. There is something that he wanted more than anything in the world, and now that he has it, he will do anything to keep it, and that makes him vulnerable. Subject to all kinds of new things. Revenge. Retaliation. Pain.

Manipulation.

Maybe you should feel bad about it. Maybe you should feel guilty, but it’s hard to feel anything like it when there’s a big bear of a man between your thighs slobbering on your pussy like dessert. It’s hard to feel anything but bliss when he’s tracing the letters of his name into your cunt and making you see stars and fucking you into the silk sheets like it’s the last time he’ll ever have you.

It is men who govern your world, and if this is how you must move in it, then so be it. You will not feel bad. You will not be sorry for doing what anyone else would do. John thought he could keep his hand there, muzzle his mutt, but you like him this way, and you’re certain John doesn’t fuck the way you do.

He’s mine.

It isn’t John that commands an army, it’s you; or maybe your cunt, but that belongs to you, too, so it is you, isn’t it? You’re the one that lets him inside, that whispers in his ear, that tells him things you know he wants to hear to make things move in your favor, so it’s you, right?

Not John. Not Victoria. Not their counsel. You. They have stepped on you your entire life. They have made you small and inferior and sad for all of your existence, and they gave you something feral knowing it could eat you alive, and now you are the hand that feeds, and they are forgetting that if they bite too hard, you have something that will surely bite harder.

A collar would suit him, you think. He would look so pretty. He already is, the terrible beast, prettiest thing you’ve ever seen (the necklace your drape over him does just fine, a pendant with his motif that you hope reminds him of you). You don’t care if people would say his face is quite ugly. It is, very much so, but you never see him this way. Whenever that mask falls, your stomach flips. He takes your breath away. His intensity, his raw form of love, the look on his face–there is nothing else in the entire world that will love you the way he loves you.

“You came back for me?” You ask. You have a leg tangled between his, and his fingers are between your thighs, a shadow of a smirk on his face as he feels the mixture of your cum and his. He grunts a little, and you tilt your head to look up at him, your chin on his chest.

“‘f course,” Simon mutters, and you kiss his chest gently, keeping your eyes on his.

“But not for John.”

He turns his head, looking down at you more intently, and he scoffs. You know it’s true, but you want to hear it, anyways. You want to hear Simon admit, unknowingly, that you are the tether.

“John is afraid, and I don’t listen to ‘im when he’s afraid. Makes bad choices.”

It’s almost adorable that this is what Simon tells himself. That he comes back for his own sake, and not for yours, even though they are one and the same, intertwined and inseparable.

“Simon,” you say softly, and he sighs, his eyes closing briefly when you kiss him gently. “You have to listen to your king when he asks you to come back. Making a…rash decision about war strategy is one thing, but…” You cup his cheek gently. “Make things easier for me, husband. If he asks you to come back, you come back.”

This time, at least. Just this time.

Simon snarls a bit, but you swallow it when you kiss him. You maneuver yourself over him, straddling his hips, and he grunts as you sink down on him. He swells hard again very quickly, releasing a deep breath as you give a slow roll of your hips.

“Make things easy for me, my love,” you whisper, and he leans his head back, putting two big hands on your ass and moving you with ease. “Appease your king, yes? For me?”

“Can’t say no when y’r pussy squeezes me like tha’, sweet’eart,” Simon groans, and you giggle, planting your hands on his chest and starting to move a little faster. You lean your head back, your mouth falling open, and you gasp when you sink down completely, your ass touching his thick thighs as you tighten around him. “Fuckin’ Christ–”

“I hate when you go,” you whine, digging your nails into his chest. He hisses, planting his feet on the bed, and he fucks up into you with a renewed fervor. “Hate when you’re not here, Simon, I-I miss you, miss this–”

“Nghh…fuck, I know,” Simon pants. “Can feel it. Feel you.” You squeal when he grips you by the waist and turns you over. He makes it seem so easy, tossing your weight underneath him, and your arms circle around his neck as you draw him closer, hanging onto him. “Y’r so fuckin’ pretty…”

“Simon–”

He kisses to devour. His jaw hinges wide to kiss you sloppy, breathing in the moans that you can’t contain. Simon always fucks so well, stretching your thighs as wide as they will accommodate so he can make room for the goliath of himself that he is. He suffocates, in a good way, and his cock never fails to stretch you for all that you are worth. Simon holds your jaw in place as he grinds into you, relishing in the wet smack of his hips against yours. The fat of you satisfies him. It makes him growl with delight when he grabs onto wide hips, your fat arse, the body that you hold that tells him you are fed and warm and content. It draws his grin wider, and it makes him drool thinking about having you again and again and again, until you beg him for reprieve and his heir sits in your womb.

Simon fucks for sport. He wants to see how stupid he can make you. He wants to know how long you’ll cry for, how fat he can make your tears. He wants to know how loud you will cry, how many times he can make you cum before you’re incoherent, he wants to know the extent to which he can use you that you will still be awake enough to say his name just one more time. Simon is not satisfied until he pushes your limits.

It is what a Riley does. They endure, and they eat, and they consume, and they take pleasure in the all-encompassing indulgement of things they have never been allowed to have. You are a woman, so he knows this will come easy for you. So often, he knows, women are not allowed to indulge at all, so he wants you to. He wants you to cry and moan and eat, and he wants you to do it bearing his name so that no one will ever tell you no.

Simon says no to kings, and they placate, or they die. His wife will be offered the same respect, and he’ll stand behind her with a sword to make it law. When you bear his children, he will expect the same of them–to give their mother utter devotion, lest they answer to his hand. There is no one above you, not God, not country, and certainly not blood. They will know what their father did to have you, and they will spill the same amount of blood to keep it that way. They will do it for you, and then they will do it for their own lovers, and if they don’t have the same sentiments, that love is not true, and Simon will not give his blessing.

Everything else is trivial. He knows this, understands it, because history repeats itself. It is cyclical, and you are right. Kings come and go. Sons die to other sons, fathers make bad decisions, and crowns are passed to bastards and back again, until lineage is merely spectacle and power changes hands often enough to lose generational merit. There is one thing that remains, and it is what you do while you are on earth, while you are standing on the ground you were born on. Even faiths change; when men find it suitable, they change the rules, and then you worship a different God, so Simon sees no point in staying loyal to any of it.

Instead, he is true to what he knows. To what he can see and what he can feel. With John, he remembers being a young man, fighting alongside him. He follows John, to an extent, because he knows what it is like to share blood with him on a muddy hill and take an arrow for him.

With you, time stands still. He saw you in a room, and he had to have you, and he brought nations to ruin to make certain no one would bat an eye when he asked for your hand. He saw you in a dream, too–he saw you laying in his bed of furs, wearing nothing but a tiara of his making, wet between the thighs because that is how it’s meant to be. He recognized you when he saw you that first time, and he doesn’t know how, but saying no to you, really saying no, will change that vision, and he couldn’t bear that.

Your voice echoes. You’re moaning, overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop. The hair around his cock rubs your clit too many times, and when you come around him, you’re a shaking, withering thing, back bowed and nipples pebbled. Your toes curl as you cry from the starry-eyed, hot pleasure, but he keeps moving, chasing something in the distance that he can taste, so close.

Yes, Simon ignored his king. Yes, Simon did not ignore you. Yes, Simon admits, he came when you called, and he doesn’t feel bad about it, he doesn’t care how it seems. He would do it again if he had the chance. John could give him the same answer as you in every timeline, but he will only move if the command comes from you, and yes, Simon knows it makes him a liability, but crowns come with costs, and this is the one John must pay.

Simon will fight any of John’s enemies, but he won’t fight fate. He won’t fight what has already been seen, and he won’t fight what he already knows will happen.

With Simon’s cock in your mouth, you can make him deliver on promises. Sucking on the girth of him, you can make him an honest man. Taking inside of your mouth what you can swallow, you can make Simon do your bidding, and it is a hard lesson that John learns.

“Do this for me,” you slobber against the underside of his cock, and Simon relents.

“Make me happy,” you say, swirling your fingers against your puffy pussy, and Simon kneels with an open mouth.

“Just this once,” you whisper with his cum on your tongue, and Simon seals his choice with his hands on your tits and the taste of himself in his mouth.

When you make eyes with John across the low lights of the throne room, he can’t help the way he admires you. You stand beside Simon, looking the essence of nobility and reverence in another intricate silver and blue dress. The train of your skirt glitters with delicate jewels hand sewn into the fabric, and the headpiece you wear adorns a skull insignia. Your corset has been tied just right, thanks to Simon’s hand, and your own fingers are clasped between his. Your corset and jewels are of exquisite detail–one of the newest designs from Paris, structured and elegant and accentuating every curve of soft skin.

You glow in the room. His wife must be wearing a dress just as expensive, probably more, and yet his eyes (and everyone else’s) cannot help but follow you. Your own eyes won’t leave Simon; you flutter your lashes whenever he looks down at you, big smile on your face, and even when there are people curtsying and bowing to you and giving Simon their gratitude between bites of cake and glugs of wine, your attention never really strays. 

John feels inadequate in his own fortress; suddenly, red and gold sicken him, and England tastes sour in his mouth.

In a few generations, John’s house will likely fall. He will make heirs that will fail him, he knows this. In a few centuries, his family will not sit in the same place, but a Riley will remain right where they are supposed to be. Banners of blue and silver will always fly. If Simon does not make sure of that, then you will.

It’s what happens when you force women like you to their knees. When they grow up invisible, always in the shadows, forgotten and sold to the next man who will pay a higher price, it’s what you learned to do. It’s all you’ve ever known, to make the best out of something terrible.

Simon is the same, in that sense. You understand him in a way his king will never be able to. Simon has nothing, and neither do you, and Simon was stepped on and berated and tortured to the point of no return. It is why blood does not scare him and why death doesn’t come knocking. Time will be the only thing capable of killing him, and everyone that stands up to him learns that when they eat his blade.

In the quiet of the evening, Simon undresses you. He sits behind you on the bed, fingers pinching the bows at your back and unraveling them. He traces your corset, thumb circling over the skull pattern of the belt around the small of your waist, and he tastes something warm in his mouth at the sight of it. You look so beautiful–more beautiful than he’s ever seen you maybe, decorated in his colors and wearing his motif and sitting so pretty.

“You wanna know something…funny?” You ask quietly. Simon finds the ties of your skirts and starts to undo them. He grunts in reply; he might sound standoffish, but you know he’s listening. “John…John made it…he makes it seem like you don’t really listen to him. He implied that…in the face of adversity, you might only listen to me.” You put your hands on the front of your corset to keep it from falling. “Isn’t that funny?”

“Wot’s so funny?”

You swallow, looking down. Your hands fidget, and you take a closer look at the ring you wear, the delicate gold band he gave you not so long ago.

“I…”

“Mmm…might be right, innit?” Simon snickers after a moment. You feel him stand, and you look over your shoulder as he peels his mask off and grins down at you. He tilts his head to the side, and you smile back at him a little. “Do anythin’ for ya. Disobeying a king…” Simon cackles, tearing your corset off, tossing it onto the floor as he walks you backwards. “Ignoring one…” He shrugs, “Oll in a day, love.”

“He can hang you for it,” you whisper. “Cut off your head. Cut off mine.”

Simon lays you back on the bed, spreading you out, climbing over you. You blink up at him, and he leans down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I would ‘ave seen it. I would know.”

He would have seen it in a dream. It would have come to him in a reflection in a pool of blood on the battlefield. It would have come to him, the voices in his head, he would have heard them amongst screaming, or perhaps in the void that he finds his mind in when he’s between your plush thighs.

You can’t help the smile that graces your face when Simon kisses the curve where your jaw meets your neck. It is fun, you suppose. Fun to control the tides that set the courses of history. It is fun and almost unbelievable that a king bends to the will of one man’s wife just because it solidifies his name.

You wrap your hand around the twine that dangles from Simon’s neck. It twirls around your fingers, easy, solid. Simon’s eyes are dark, and they are yours, and when you smile, so does he, because this is where you are meant to be, forever and always.

“What if I want more?” You ask. Simon hums, low from within his chest, and you run your tongue over your teeth. “Did you see that in your dreams, Simon? Hmm? Do you know what I’m asking for? What it is that I really want?”

Simon smiles. A dark one, with teeth, and you know he hears it. What more means for a duke and his duchess. What more means when you have all the money you could ever want, all the land you could ever need.

What more means when you have climbed your way to the top and still desire more. More, more, more. There are not many steps left to climb. There are not many places left to take, not much more of the world that can really be yours, but Simon looks ravenous, and Simon looks hungry, and if you fuck him now, you’ll have him right where you want him.

When you tug on what hangs around his neck, Simon bends. Simon follows.

[stunie]

i just WOKE UP !!?????!!!!!!

2024.07.15 — dinner date with Ume. ♡

(hands up if you know where the reference photo’s froooommmmm!!!! >:3 aju nice.)

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 3 — LINGERIE

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — kazuha, scaramouche, kinich, alhaitham

— warnings. — fem! reader, fingering/scissoring, lots of teasing, alhaitham is the teasing master in this, hot and bothered genshin boys

⚝ — KAZUHA

"do i look good in this?"

good— was an understatement, and kazuha's breath stays stuck in his throat when he sees you in that dainty, little lace, his eyes widening in awe, admiring your magnificence.

the world around him seems to fade, leaving only you bathed in the soft glow of candlelight and frail garments hugging the curves of your body, "you’re… breathtaking," he whispers, his tone of choice an octave lower.

your fingers reach out to guide him, trembling slightly as his digits trace along the intricate patterns of the fabric— every touch was reverent, his fingertips brushing over the sheer bra exposing your erected nipples to him—fuck, it's as though he can’t decide which was more captivating.

"i can’t believe you’re real," he laughs and brushes away the loose hair strands sticking on his forehead, his eyes never leaving yours.

he pulls himself on top of you before placing his palm on your breast, "so beautiful…" kazuha continues, his glossy lips ghosting over your collarbone, his teeth grazing at the sensitive skin on your neck until he’s certain that there's a little hickey there as you twist and curl underneath him, voicelessly telling him to just touch you already.

and here he was now, in fact, he cannot stop touching you, each caress lingering as though to forevermore memorize the feel of you under his hands.

he slips his digits through the flimsy waistband of your underwear as your walls instantly flex and pulse around his fingers when he inserts them knuckles deep— only one, then after pressing it in and out for about three times, he add another, continuously sinking them into you as he smears harsh circles into your clit to multiply the sensation he's about to give you all night.

⚝ — SCARAMOUCHE

you’re so soft above scaramouche and it only spurs him on, especially with those graceful garments daintily squeezing your frame.

his tongue licks across his bottom lip when he pulls his fingers through the panties to scissor his digits inside your walls, playing with those searing spots he knew got you trembling, got you to beg for more. you're curling into him, squeezing yourself so close for him to add a couple kisses on your throat.

the volume of your voice increases each time scaramouche would find another compliment befitting of the new set of lingerie he's bought you— the wider his smirk gets, the more it means you're squeezing his fingers harder, "just like that, you look so good in this, picked it right for you, yeah?"

you eagerly nod as he feels your warmth clamping when he begins to scissor you, pumping his slender fingers in and out before adding the third.

well, lets be honest here, in the beginning he thought to himself on how ridiculous it must be for him to buy you something like that and he almost went back to return the costly good, yet now? wow, how fucking thankful he was to himself that he didn't.

⚝ — KINICH

"gimme a spin, yeah? like that," kinich smirks as you twirl around the newest set of lingerie, a deep red that hugged around the curves of your breasts and leaves almost no fabric left on your bottom.

and those thigh highs you added on, they made him feel like he's about to absolutely ravish you. kinich's not used to being at a loss for words, well, he keeps himself silent on purpose but with you? seeing you like this he thought he could say something other than look at you like a man who's never seen a woman before.

he was too drunk on the sight and so fucking hard already, feeling a twitch inside his boxers when you kneel down to press a harsh kiss on his bulge, looking up at him through doe eyes— and the next almost cruel throb in his shorts was to die for— this is making him lose his mind. you are.

he bites down on his tongue, his hips rolling into your palm with your lips hovering over the length. palming the front of his trousers, your face slants forward to smear your saliva across his lower abdomen so you'd be perfectly bend across him, making it fairly easy for kinich to watch your pretty ass and your folds barely being covered by anything but a fine silken line.

⚝ — ALHAITHAM

alhaitham's eyes barely flicker up from his book when you step into the room, though there’s a telltale tension in the way his grip tightens on the pages. he acts disinterested, you ponder if that book in his hands had a soul catching story for him to be this way— but you can feel the weight of his gaze when he thinks you aren’t looking.

"sit," he bluntly says, his voice commanding and motioning to his bulgy thigh, but he speaks in a way as though your appearance in such delicate lingerie wasn't affected him— although when you ultimately settle on his lap, he doesn’t miss a beat, his hand immediately reaching to the hem of your lace.

"read the next page for me, think you can do that?" he orders, though there’s a slight edge to his voice that betrays his focus, it's no longer on the book, but on your cute tits and sheer bra prancing with your lovely nipples.

you gulp down, adjusting your seat on his lap as you begin to read while he began to trace lazy patterns along the fabric, his fingertips brushing lightly over the lace, teasing and coaxing out needy shivers from your spine.

so well, his eyes stay fixed on the book, but his hand grows bolder, slipping beneath the edge of the lingerie, feeling your bare skin, "you’re really distracting, you know that?" he mutters, though his smirk says otherwise, "i was only planning to read this book but now—"

there’s a tension in the air, a game he’s playing where he pretends the book holds his attention — but in reality, all he was focused on was you.

day and night, no matter what you'd wear.

his sensitive length twitches against your thigh as your hole squeezes around nothing, your lips exhaling a stutter before he lets his hands squeeze your thighs— your jaw slack in surprise at how bold he began to be, now digging hard between your legs to press into your clit and rub it— his cloudy, bloodshot gaze focused on the pulsing, little pearl getting all the more roused the more he flicked it back and forth.

"i never said you should stop reading," he adds on, "already done for the day, hm? you tired?" a little too nonchalant for your liking.

you pout through your dreamy, lustful expression before you're letting your hand smooth through his hair, lightly pecking his forehead, "fine, but I'm sensitive there alhaitham, be careful."

© 2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[connorsui]

Hi! Can I ask for a Sylus fluff, where he gives the reader his bank card for her to go shopping, and he expects a bill to be at least $10,000, but all he sees is about $100. So he asks her if she bought everything she wanted, and she says something like "yeah, there were such good discounts, I didn't spend too much, did I?"

And man is just ಠ⁠益⁠ಠ GIRL GO SPEND MY MONEY I WANT TO SPOIL YOU

My beloved @lalaluch I cannot explain to you just how much fun this was to even imagine but let alone even WRITE 🩷 like I was losing my mind trying to bust out my Google docs to even make this. But my sickness was literally getting to me that all I could do was imagine--but anywhoo now that it's finally done I hope you all enjoy it ✨️

p.s: I hope this sickness finally leaves me because it be making me internally cry on the inside ...I pray for prayers lol 💅🏻

BUDGET QUEEN

It had taken weeks of gentle coaxing, half-joking remarks, and the occasional exasperated sigh before you’d reluctantly agreed. You had this stubborn streak, an insistence on independence that both irritated and fascinated him. But today, you’d finally caved.

“You’ll take it,” Sylus had said that morning, slipping the sleek card into your hand, his fingers brushing against your palm. “No arguments. No excuses.”

You had sighed, rolling your eyes. “Fine. But I’m not going crazy with it?!”

He had only smirked, knowing full well you would—and knowing full well that he wanted you to.

And now, hours later, he awaited the results.

Sylus leaned back in his leather chair, his crimson eyes flicking lazily over the documents cluttering his desk. A rare break in his usual chaos had him sipping on his usual drink, savoring the brief quiet. That was until his phone buzzed. He set his glass down and checked the notification, a message from his bank popping up.

He expected it—he wanted it. You had finally caved to his insistence after a literal month of convincing and taken his black card to go shopping. He’d envisioned the inevitable message all morning, something like:

One-hundred million spent at Celine and The Row’s combined?

Or perhaps?

Fifty million at Loro Piana?

You’d mentioned their beauty and elegance more than once.

Nevertheless, the man wanted indulgence, excess—you deserved it, after all.

Instead, the message read:

$157.45 at… Assorted Stores.

Sylus stared at the screen, unblinking. Surely, this was a mistake. He refreshed his balance multiple times. Same amount. He checked for pending transactions. None.

“…What?” he muttered, his irritation simmering beneath the surface. He slammed his phone down, crossing his arms as he waited for you to return.

Minutes later, the front door opened, and you walked in, humming happily, two bags dangling from your arms. You looked utterly content, your warm smile sending a pang through Sylus’s chest. He didn’t want to ruin the moment, but he had questions.

“You’re back,” he said, leaning against the doorframe to his study, watching you set the bags down in the living room. His towering presence cast a shadow over you, his white hair catching the light, giving him an almost otherworldly aura.

“Yup!” you chirped, rifling through the bags. “You wouldn’t believe the deals I found today! It’s like the universe knew I had your card!”

Sylus squinted. “Deals?”

“Yeah! Everything was on sale! I even had coupons for some things. Oh, and this boutique downtown was having a clearance event! It was amazing!” You beamed at him, oblivious to his growing disbelief.

“Clearance? ..…How much did you spend?” he asked, his voice neutral. Too neutral.

“Um…” You frowned, pulling your phone out to check. “About a few hundred, I think? Oh, wait—like one-fifty! I didn’t spend too much, did I?” You tilted your head, as if genuinely concerned.

Sylus stared at you, his expression shifting to one of incredulous disbelief. His red eyes seemed to glow, and his lips pressed into a thin line. It was the look of a man deeply offended. Not by you—but by the principle.

“…That’s it?” he asked, his voice sharp but measured, as if he were trying to comprehend an alien concept. “One-fifty?”

You blinked up at him, a little confused by his tone. “Well, yes… I mean, I didn’t want to waste your money—”

“Waste my—” He cut himself off, running a hand through his snowy hair. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his composure. “Sweetheart,” he said slowly, “do you have any idea why I gave you my card?”

“To… buy some stuff?” you offered, suddenly feeling like you were missing something obvious.

“To spoil you,” he emphasized, stepping closer. “To treat you like the queen you are. To shower you in luxury. And you—” He gestured to the modest shopping bags on the floor, his voice taking on a dramatic edge. “—come back with clearance items?”

Your cheeks flushed. “But… I didn’t need anything expensive! I found good deals, and I thought—”

“No.” Sylus leaned down slightly, bringing himself to eye level with you, his crimson eyes boring into yours. “Listen to me, love. I don’t care about the price tag. I want you to have the best. The fact that you’re this thoughtful is adorable—don’t get me wrong—but next time…” He paused, his voice dropping into a softer, more commanding tone. “…I want to see receipts that would make the average person cry.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m not.” He straightened, towering over you again, his arms crossing. “Do you know how much money I make? How much I’ve set aside specifically to spoil you?”

“I can guess?…”

“Clearly not if you’re spending less than a casual dinner out on everything.” His voice was calm, but laced with unmistakable disapproval.

Then, with a breath, he softened—only slightly. “I just want to see you dressed in diamonds,” he corrected, stepping closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. “To watch you slip into golden heels that make you shine like the goddess you are. To drape you in silk and velvet, to see you standing before me in a dress that costs more than a car and still doesn’t compare to your worth.”

Your lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the sudden weight in his words.

“I gave you my card,” he continued, voice lower now, intimate, “because I want you to indulge. To spoil yourself the way I ache to spoil you. Because you deserve to walk into a store and not think—just watch and admire”

Your throat went dry.

He lifted his hand, fingers brushing over your wrist before tracing upward, his touch featherlight against your skin. “I want to see you try on jewelry without looking at the price tag,” he murmured. “I want to sit back and watch as a saleswoman fumbles to put a necklace around your throat because her hands are shaking too much from the sheer amount of wealth wrapped around you.”

His gaze dipped lower, lingering on your frame as he exhaled through his nose. “And instead… you bring me deals?”

Your heart pounded, a mix of amusement and something else entirely stirring in your chest. “I didn’t think I needed to spend that much—”

“You don’t need to,” he interrupted, thumb ghosting over your jawline. His voice was softer now, but no less commanding. “But I want you to.”

Your face heated.

“Next time, I’m going with you.”

“What, to make sure I spend enough?” you teased.

“Yes,” he said, dead serious. “And to carry your bags. And to remind you that you can have whatever you want.” His red eyes softened slightly, and he tilted your chin up with two fingers. “All I want is to see you happy. No discounts required.”

You smiled at his sincerity, warmth blooming in your chest. “Okay, fine. Next time, I’ll go a little crazier. Maybe five million?” you joked.

Sylus groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Woman, you’re going to be the death of me.”

You laughed, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. “You’re so dramatic, you know that?”

“And you’re too frugal for your own good,” he shot back, pulling you into his arms. His voice softened, turning almost playful. “But I guess I’ll just have to teach you how to spend properly.”

“Looking forward to it,” you said, grinning against his chest.

Sylus sighed, resting his chin atop your head. As much as he wanted to spoil you senseless, he couldn’t help but love your thoughtful, practical side. It was part of what made you you—and he wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Still, next time… he was definitely making sure you left the store with at least an entire closet filled with designer bags.

For his sanity—and yours.

[midnite-c6]

Omg so I just LOVED the fics that you wrote about thanos and namgyu soo I wanted to ask can you like write more fics about them in like threesome degrading tf out of us so much that we cannot even think of anything or maybe like a second part for timid!reader THAT ONE WAS AMAZING!!!! keep up w your work btw its really good 😭🙏🏻

help thank you😭😭 honestly i love writing abt them i jus.. meow...

thanos & nam-gyu imagine pt. 4!! 🤤

warnings: 18+ DARK content, drugging, dubcon (read at ur own riskk!!)

they both believe you can't fight for yourself since you're so quiet, so they do their best to keep you safe!! they're so kind despite their nature!! you think to urself..., and despite the way they used your body after the six legged race, you still stick with them since they helped you in mingle too!! honestly, thanos and nam-gyu would've thought you'd be getting away from them after that incident, so by you staying, they've confirmed they've got you right in their trap!!

thanos looks up from his food, his eyes lighting up when he sees you "señorita?" he tilts his head, "i don't have any other group to eat with.." you say, looking down at your feet, "nooo! i know what it is!" he nudges nam-gyu's shoulder, "you're here for more aren't you?" he says with that smirk again, dramatically gasping. "what..no.." you weren't like that, you swear! nam-gyu laughed "shit, she's just using our bodies, man!" you quickly shake your head "no!" nam-gyu tilts his head "when did you learn to say no?" thanos stands up, getting closer to you, "listen here, beautiful, we'll do whatever you want, sure.. you're the one in-charge." he smiled 'innocently', leaning in to whisper in your ear "c'mere after lights out, kay?"

nsfw below.. (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)/

"you really are a fucking whore." thanos quietly whispers into your ear as he slams in and out of you, your back pressed against his chest, your moans being muffled by his hand, it was a good thing thanos' bed was closer to the ground and that the players above him were already dead, but you know the other players could still hear the faint squeaking of his mattress. "of course you'd listen like a slut, coming here, infact, you were excited for this. hmm?" why DID you go there anyway? ..maybe it did feel good? but poor you! his thrusts weren't giving you any mercy at all.

"i bet.. you don't have any shame at all. you're quietness is just an act.." nam-gyu whispered aswell, with his body infront of you, his hands exploring every inch of your skin, painfully pinching your nipples and biting your neck as you rub your hand in and out of his cock. "you're practically begging for it." "n-n.." you couldn't speak back because of that purple-haired addict's hand!

"wait.. fuuuck, you're sucking me in like crazy, you're gonna cut my dick off, god." thanos whined, putting in two fingers inside your mouth, the taste of his fingers all over your tongue.

"y'knoww.. so fucking funny how she's volunteered to be our personal ..stress toy." nam-gyu's hand find it's way to thanos' necklace filled with ecstacy, he grabs a pill, his attention back on you "we truly thank you for that.. are you proud of your services, freak?" he says mockingly just to spite you, his other hand grabs thanos' hand muffling your mouth. "let go, dude." "she's gonna scream," "nah, nah, she won't. she doesn't wanna die does she?" you whined, shaking your head. "good, slut." nam-gyu smiled, taking the pill he had in his hand and putting it in his mouth. thanos' takes off his hand, his middle and ring finger covered in your saliva as he now places it on your clit, rubbing sloppily. and before you could make any noise, nam-gyu slams his mouth against yours, making you swallow the pill of ecstacy. his tongue tasting your mouth, swallowing each moan escaping your lips. nam-gyu pulls away from your mouth, forcing it to open just to spit inside.

with all the pleasure they were giving despite the mean words, you camee:( your legs were shaking like crazy! "hey! no fair, bitch! i didn't get to cum yet." thanos was frustrated, yet you whimpered in response, you didn't mean to cum!!. "but.. just means we'll be here for muuuuch longer, baby. ya' can't complain, you know you're a whore who can't live without us." thanos didn't lie, your cunt was throbbing and overstimulated by both of their cocks in and out of you. he also didn't lie about how you wouldn't be alive without them, it's true, they saved you anyway, guess you gotta thank them for keeping you safe. ♡

this is pretty long, im srry guyss!! only putting in what my mind is thinking of atm AHHAAH 3somes are so hard to write 😭😭😿🙏🏻

[cheeseceli]

Skz meeting a pretty fan

Pairing: Ot8!skz × Gn!reader (individually)

Genre: fluff, just a tiny little bit of angst, headcanons

Description: their reaction to meeting a pretty fan during a fan meeting

Warnings: kind of love at first sight trope, delusional, some of them are dramatic, they are all idols, not proofread

A/n: the way it's been over a year that this has been in my drafts | daily click

Bang Chan

He was kinda of tired already so he was zoning out

When he sees you he is like "...oh"

He is so invested in your conversation

If you comment about the production behind the music he will be so happy

Genuinely loves when someone acknowledges his work so his eyes will shine and he will smile so hard while explaining everything to you

He is upset when you need to move on to the next member

Sees you laughing with the other members and he's like 🤨

Wonders what they did that managed to make you laugh that much

Lee Know

He would stare at you

You know when his mouth is open and you can see his eyes shining?

Yeah, that's him right now

You say hello and he would give you his nervous laugh before looking at you again with those stary eyes

I swear he is such a softie

Would listen to every single word that you say, you can tell he is paying so much attention

Autographs something for you and makes a funny drawing as well hoping you'd laugh

Side eyes the staff when they say the time is up

Even when you move to the next member and other fan is talking to him, he would still look at your direction sometimes and get so flustered if you catch him looking at you

Changbin

Starts small talk right away

Will 100% compliment you

You ask him an autograph and he wonders how bad would it be if he gave you his number instead

Like he knows he cannot do that

But maybe if he was sneaky enough...

Doesn't do it by the end but he low-key regrets it for the rest of his life

He will wake up one day after five years and be like "damn I should've given them my number"

And he will make that everyone's problem

The boys can't stand it anymore because they've heard enough about you by now 😭

Convinces himself that he will see you again one day

Hyunjin

He sees you before you see him, so he is panicking

Is looking at the line all the time wondering if you will want to talk to him

Asks han if his hair looks good before it's your turn to talk to him

No but fr, he can't take his eyes off you

When you start talking he is like 😯

You look and sound like an angel, he must be in heaven

Even after the fan meeting he can't stop thinking about you

If he's feeling bold enough, he will definitely flirt with you

Low-key forgot he was an idol and was ready to risk it all for you

Han

Might believe in love at first sight after your meeting

Compliment him once and he will get so shy

Like sir, weren't you the one flirting like two seconds ago🤨

Would feel so betrayed if he isn't your bias LMAO

He has like a minute and a half to convince you he's the best stray kids member and he WILL try that

And he hopes that someone will record his flirty antics and post it on tiktok just so he can find your socials

He will make all the boys stalk the internet to try to find you

"but you can't contact them even if you find their account, so what's the point?" idk bro but he wants to see you again somehow

Felix

SUCH A FLIRT

The moment he looks at you he is already trying to win your heart

Kinda forgot he was an idol pt.2

Except he didn't forget

He just doesn't care

He wants to flirt with you and that's precisely what he will do

Will even flirt through his autograph if he can

Uses any kind of excuse to make physical contact with you ✨

And side eyes the staff when they tell him it's time to move on

Like no it's not??

Seungmin

Actually pretty good at hiding his new crush??

The most normal one out here surprisingly lol

He will be able to cover it up as just "good mood" but let's be for real

It's because of you

Anyways

Will smile so much

If you compliment his smile (please do!) he will get shy but so so happy

Also steals glances when you go to the next member

He'll be talking to the next fan but ends up laughing because of something he heard you say to another one of the boys

The fan is like ?? but Seungmin is able to play it off

I.N

So dedicated to give you a good impression

If you tell him your favourite skz song is one of his solos (or that your favourite has that title because of his vocals) this man is in heaven

Forgot he was an idol pt.3 except he didn't forget

He just lowkey very lowkey didn't want to be an idol in that exact moment

Had it been on any normal occasion he would probably try to charm you over

But this was his job

He couldn't possibly get delulu over a fan 😭 although he was already midway to that

Ends up covering a song you said you thought would fit his voice

Sees the comments of the cover wondering each one of those were yours

Masterlist | you'll probably like: unrequited love

Reminder that this is all fiction, this does not represent the members in real life!

Taglist (open!): @yuyubeans @dandelions-143 @sleepyleeji @jinnie-ret @sheraayasherrecs

Dividers by @thecutestgrotto | Images 1, 2 and 3

[sugurugetofavoritemonkey]

if requests are open… i beg of you, the ethan writer…. to please write something about ethan being a certified munch… like you can’t tell me he doesn’t eat pussy for a SPORT. sure he’d love you to sit on his face but… i can just imagine him folding your knees up into your chest so he can have full access to you

A/N : Hii ! <3 I loooove your request so much, it just SCREAMS Ethan Landry to me, this man would happily die between your legs if it means he can eat your pussy for hours and make you cum multiple times !! 🤤🖤 Please tell me if I did justice to your request and you know where to find me if you want other Ethan’s fics 😘✨

Ethan Landry lives for eating you out as he loves giving the sweetest pleasure to your pussy…or is it his ?

❦ Even though Ethan Landry is inexperienced when he first starts eating you out, your boyfriend would improve so quickly because of two simple reasons. First, because Ethan wants to do things right and would absolutely listen to your advice when he asks you what feels good or not, taking mental notes of which spot makes you moan the loudest and which pace makes you cum the fastest. Secondly, because Ethan wants - need - to eat you out so frequently that he, anyway, grew to be very good at it.

❦ Ethan would definitely leave hickeys on your inner thighs before he even touches you pussy, his head nicely snuggled between your thighs as he nips, bites, licks and kisses your skin that will show his marks, only for him to know who you really belong to.

❦ He would then press his fingers on your pussy, his thumb rubbing on your clit through the pretty lace material of your panties that he offered you a few days ago, teasing you as Ethan feels the wetness dampen the fabric underneath his fingertips and proudly smiles when he realizes that he can work you up this nicely by barely touching you.

❦ Ethan would also always, and I say always, kiss your pussy through your panties before starting to eat you out, almost like he’s greeting your little cunny like the sweet boyfriend he is.

❦ This man could die between your thighs and he would be the happiest man ever. He would literally overstimulate your pussy for hours because Ethan cannot even realize how long he’s been giving you pleasure and he doesn’t care, he just wants you to feel good and…Ethan also gets excited just by eating you out.

❦ In fact, Ethan would get so painfully hard from pleasing you only with his mouth that he would start humping the bed to get some relief, cumming in his pants a few times seeing how much he’s desperate for you, and only you, making his head spin with pleasure.

❦ I also believe that Ethan’s hair is quite sensitive and with how much you would be pulling on his curly strands when he gives you orgasm one after the other, Ethan would whine, moan and grunt so much against your pussy, creating the most delicious vibrations against your sensitive clit.

❦ If you try to remove his head from your pussy (and if it’s still consensual of course), you won’t have any chance against his strength, his head won’t budge away from you. Nothing will stop Ethan if he isn’t finished with you yet and he will pin you down with his free hand by pressing against your tummy if he has to.

❦ Ethan will also bite your thighs if you contain your sounds of pleasure, he doesn’t want that and absolutely won’t let you do it. Ethan relishes in the way you so beautifully moan his name, whine in a pitched tone when you’re close to your climax and when you softly tell Ethan that you love him between soft whimpers after he overstimulated you.

❦ If he eats you out from behind or when you sit on his face, Ethan makes sure to grab handfuls of your ass while your thighs tremble and shake under his sweet indecent ministrations.

❦ Hell, this man would even eat you out at school between classes when Ethan really can’t wait to have you alone for himself. Ethan would take you to the restroom and press you against the wall as he kneels before going down on you. His head would be snuggled between your thighs as you look down to find his filthy gaze not leaving yours until he can hear you moan his name while you cream on his tongue. It simply feels like heaven to Ethan.

❦ Your boyfriend will even eat you out just to get rid of his stress, as Ethan paws at your skirt and then sliding his hand underneath it to caress the lace of your panties, after you both came back home from a long tiring day. « Please baby… I’m stressed, just need to eat you out real quick… I’ll be good… Can I ? », Ethan pleads you as he nuzzles your pulsating neck with his cold nose, pressing encouraging kisses there.

❦ Ethan feels immensely proud about giving you such pleasure only with his mouth and to hear those sweet sounds of yours mixed with little cries of his name, it all sounds like the most perfect music to his ears. After a session where your boyfriend knows that he did a particularly good job at making you feel good just by seeing the blush on your face, Ethan would silently look at you with a smug smile like the nerd he is.

❦ Ethan would make eye contact with you when he knows you’re close to reaching your climax. His eyes being half lidded white how pussy drunk he is.

❦ If you squirt while he eats you out, Ethan will feel so proud that he won’t ever shut up about it as he gently encourages you to do it again for him.

❦ After giving you so many orgasms with his mouth, a long session that leaves your pussy sensitive and puffy because of his lips, Ethan would so gently and softly kitten licks your pretty cunt and press little kisses on your clit, like the sweet boyfriend he is.

❦ While going down on you and after taking care of you, Ethan would praise you so much as he leaves kisses all over your face and pampers you with lovely words that he reserves only for you, his perfect girlfriend, « You did so well for me, angel. »

❦ Well, Ethan worships your pussy if that wasn’t clear enough.

❦ But what Ethan favors to do the most is folding your knees up into your chest so he can have full access to you and literally do whatever he wants to your pussy. Ethan would sometimes add two of his fingers when he wants to give you even more pleasure while sucking on your clit, twirling his tongue around it and lapping at your folds like the sweet puppy he is as he tries his best to tongue fuck you.

❦ When Ethan’s finished with you, as you’re so overstimulated that your legs go limp when he releases them, barely able to feel your legs anymore seeing how much strength your boyfriend applied on them. Some marks already start forming as Ethan apologetically presses kisses on your bruised skin, his face now covered in your juices as his mouth glistens. Ethan would give you the sloppiest kiss ever to make you taste yourself on his tongue, as he whines in your mouth at the feeling of having done a good job at making you feel good. During this kind of kiss, Ethan feels restless as he uncontrollably paws at your chest and holds your face to deepen the kiss, as he rubs his still hard-on against your pussy. His pants dampened with his cum after cumming in his pants so many times, feels sticky on your skin while he humps himself on your poor overstimulated and swollen clit. Yet, Ethan will never forget aftercare as he cleans you up like his dear little princess before cuddling you. Ethan is the loveliest puppy as he holds you tight in his arms, moving you closer to his body before he gets sleepy and rests his head on your shoulder, snoring lightly in your ear while he nuzzles against your face.

💗 Ethan Landry Masterlist 💗

[silkentine]

All I could think while drawing Nami was, “Wouldn’t you like to know, weatherboy?” And, of course, with Robin I was thinking, “save a horse… 🥵”

Design Notes and other opining below the cut:

For Nami, I wanted to go for a mix of cocky Jersey mafia newbie and surfer boy. I like to think that some of the horrendous outfit choices that Sanji makes (especially in the movies) were actually picked out by Nami. She’s the shopper!!! But yeah, the vibrant swim trunks and graphic tees just scream Nami. I also wanted to put him in a wetsuit/rash guard because I think that’s a sexy look so sue me if you hate it. You cannot argue with me that Nami doesn’t wear swimsuits as clothes.

He’s toned but not as muscular as Robin or Luffy (for example) because he isn’t a front-line fighter, I want him to maintain the same kind of role that Nami has in the animanga. He’s the best navigator in the world!! I couldn’t decide if I wanted to change the violent tendencies that Nami has, but ultimately I think he’d still give the more deserving members of the crew a healthy wallop (although I might portray it more cartoonishly). Boy Piece!Nami still grew up under Arlong’s authority so he spent a lot of his childhood walking on eggshells to protect his village and his brother, Nojiko, so I think he never really got to learn “you’re not supposed to hit people just because they frustrate you” lesson. I gave him a shark-tooth necklace because surely Arlong had a few loose teeth to spare once Luffy took her down. Victory spoils LOL

If he can get the girls to stop wrestling and sit down quietly for a while, he likes to host card games (with betting, of course) or watch the clouds while sipping whatever fruity cocktail Sanji whips up. I believe that Canon!Nami is a total lesbian, and I can’t possibly envision a Nami who doesn’t like women so Boy Piece!Nami is bi. I am, of course, a Namivivi truther and Vivi is also a man in this AU. I don’t hate Sanami within this dynamic though… lots to think about.

Okay!!! All-shipper mindset aside, let’s talk Robin. I gave him long hair because 1) it’s hot and 2) I think it makes him look like Dragon. Yeahhh, I subscribe to the Luffy and Robin are half-siblings theory because I think it’s funny and makes some sense. Crocodile is 100% Luffy’s Mom in this AU and I think Robin knows it LOL

For his outfits, I wanted to lean a bit more Indiana Jones where I could; he’s still primarily cowboy inspired though. For the main look, I went with the Skypeia color palette hehe, I think Robin looks good in yellow. I did some flower-petal shaped color blocking on his chaps because I think it’s cute and subtle. I really love that the powers of the Hana-Hana-no-mi are like… unexpected for a “flower flower” fruit and I think Robin would be more aware that juxtaposition as a guy. You might also be wondering about the gloves and I initially just had it for his cowboy look but I decided to put them on all the outfits up until the events of Enies Lobby. Canon!Robin has a really difficult childhood and I think it’s exacerbated by the fact that she’s a girl on her own. If Robin was a boy, he’d probably have an easier time living on his own but would be a lot less emotionally open. All of these elements combine to make him want that physical barrier between his real hands and the world. Once he can trust that the Strawhats will always be there for him, he’s more willing to be more physically open.

I also think it’d be cute if he was much more of a coffee drinker :3c I see Canon!Robin as a connoisseur who likes a well-brewed espresso but Boy Piece!Robin needs a cup of joe (no matter its quality) every chance he can get. So I drew him with his special #1 ARCHAEOLOGIST mug.

It would make me so happy if you left your thoughts in the tags or replies!! Even if you hate everything about them, I just really like engagement hahaha. I’m thinking girl Usopp is next despite the poll results because she’s on my mind rn (don’t hold me to this, LOL I’m fickle). I’m making these for fun so I just wanna make designs in the order that interests me the most. Check out the tag “girl piece” on my blog to see all the genderbends I have so far. And happy pride!!!

[ai-higurashi]

THANK YOU SO SO SO SO SO SO SO MUCH FOR ALL THE PRESENTS OH MY GOD, I'M LIVING SO MUCH, THEY'RE ALL INCREDIBLE 😭🥺😍❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Hi @ai-higurashi I'm your secret santa for @precuresecretexchange this year!!! I have written you two fics:

Battamonda is the best. What do you mean you don't know? Check his Wikipedia page! OR A social media fic focusing on the generals of the Undergu Empire.

This one I had to make fanart for, so it is also a gift for you. Check below the cut ;)

The other fic? Also below the cut. Merry Christmas!!

Caprikon has heard some juicy gossip lately. But, being the wise and caring person she is, has decided to confirm the truth of the gossip before perpetuating it. Not because she's bored or anything. OR Caprikon decides to bother Skearhead.