#no one is perfect [<- conceded through gritted teeth]

[numberone-wifeguy]

I think expecting grandeur is going to be my undoing.

[love-lilacs]

as simple as that | tyler owens x reader (18+)

“That alright?” Tyler asks, voice husky and breathy in your ear. It sends a shiver down your spine as heat pools in your core.

You nod quickly, not trusting your voice not to waver and betray you.

warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI. porn w minimal plot, not beta read. smut. unprotected pnv (wrap it before you tap it pls). oral, m+f receiving. spanking. dirty talk. no use of y/n. slumby in a truck on the side of the road yk.

word count: 3.7k

It’s the middle of the night. The middle of the fucking night, and you’re tucked into the passenger seat of Tyler’s beat up red truck as you make your way through the middle of nowhere, Oklahoma. There aren’t any streetlights here, and the last car you saw was nearly an hour ago. 

“Tyler, the storm will still be forming tomorrow morning. Please, lets just pull over and get some sleep.” 

He shakes his head stubbornly, “It’s better if we make it tonight.” 

You huff, crossing your arms. “We won’t perform any better if you’re half-asleep while we’re chasing.”

“Darlin’ when have you ever known me to half-ass anything?”

You grit your teeth, unwilling to concede. “There’s a first time for everything.” 

Another half-hour passes in silence with only the tinny music crooning from the radio to fill the air. 

It annoys you, how perfect the great Tyler Owens is. He was the big man on campus back in college, 4.0 at graduation, party guy, and never turning down a challenge. 

And your personal nemesis, because while you were studying late into the night, he was blacked out at a bar and still managing perfect scores. He would always tease you in class, gently tugging your ponytail or stealing your pretzels during group projects. 

“I’m just saying-” 

You’re interrupted by a loud thunk from underneath the hood. You lean forward, peering through the windshield as if you could miraculously see through the metal to see what went wrong. 

“It’s probably nothing.” Tyler says calmly, anticipating your quip, “we’re only an hour and a half to the hotel. Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’ll get it checked in the morning.” Even as he speaks, Tyler grips the steering wheel a little tighter, an action you don’t miss in the dark cab. 

Something rattles, as if in response to his assuredness. 

“Oh yeah, it sure sounds like nothing.” You snark, turning to face him.

“Just relax, would ya?” Tyler snaps. “I know my truck.”

Silence fills the air as the truck begins to loose speed, the hood steaming as the two of you come to a slow, rumbling stop. On the side of the road, in Bumfuck, Oklahoma. 

Tyler must be reading your mind as he whips open his door and points a finger at you. “Don’t go anywhere.” He slams his door shut before you have a second to respond, circling the front to open up the hood. 

“Couldn’t if I wanted to!” You call sarcastically at his slammed door. Huffing out a sigh as you wait, petulant and childish as you sulk. 

But you aren’t good at waiting, and you aren’t half awful with mechanical things, so you jump out and join Tyler at the front of his truck. You stare down at the mess of metal and the steaming engine. 

“I can’t get it going again tonight.” He begrudgingly admits. “We’re going to have to wait until tomorrow morning for Triple A or someone on the team to get us.” 

“You’re fucking kidding.” You groan, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“It’s not half bad out here.” He muses, looking around. “We have our sleeping bags and blankets. We can just stretch out in the truck bed and sleep there.”

“Seriously, Tyler? That’s your best idea? Motel Owens?”

“Do you have a better one?” He fires back, putting his hands on his hips. “If so, I’d love to hear it. The next town isn’t for another fifteen miles, the team is blacked out at the motel, and even if they weren’t, there’s no service to call. Even if we walk, we aren’t getting there until daylight anyways.”

“If you had just listened at the last town-”

“Fuck! Okay! I get it! I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t know the truck would break down.” Tyler yells, stepping closer to you. 

“It’s not my fault your truck is old and shitty!” You yell back. 

“No, but you could be less of a dick about all of this. I’m not trying to piss you off, but you because you hate me you’re apparently determined to make me feel like shit!”

You open your mouth and close it. Your faces are inches apart, only illuminated by his headlights. You feel his breath coming quickly, in cool puffs from whatever mints he kept popping, and for a split second your eyes dart down to his lips. You don’t say anything and neither does he, chests heaving as if waiting for the other to say something. 

“Can we just suck it up for tonight?” He says lowly. 

You swallow thickly and nod.

“Good.” He steps backwards, slamming the hood and going to grab the bedding to make up his truck bed, leaving you standing alone and questioning the sudden desire you’ve had to kiss Tyler Owens. 

When he’s done creating a makeshift bed, you clamber into the truck next to him. Neither you or him have changed into sleep clothes, him in those stupidly tight jeans and flannel, you in linen shorts and a tiny t-shirt. Not the most comfortable sleep clothes, but you both seem determined not to complain to the other.

Tyler gave you the right side, knowing you like to be on that side of the bed in whatever hotel you crash in. He gave you the only sleeping bag you have, leaving him covered only by a thin fleece blanket. It’s springtime in Oklahoma, and while its been warm for the last few days, the incoming storm brings a cold front that leaves you wishing you had a sweatshirt and that you couldn’t feel him curling tightly into himself to try and keep himself warm.  

You tuck your hand under your chin, musing to yourself about Tyler’s chivalry. He wasn’t bragging, and knew without asking. You know each other more well than either of you would ever like to admit. 

So you don’t hate Tyler. Maybe you like how determined he is to contribute to every project equally. Maybe you love how much he strives to make everyone feel included, and how he volunteers in towns that storms have hit badly, searching through rubble for precious lost items and offering free food to the locals. Maybe you steal his food right back, secretly hoping he doesn’t eat the blue and red sour gummy worms because he knows you like those best, buying the spicy pretzels because he off-handedly mentioned that he really liked them the first time you brought them. You don’t hate Tyler Owens at all, in fact you might like him more than you can possibly handle. 

You’re both facing away from each other, staring at the walls of the truck bed. You roll over to face him, greeted with his plaid covered back, the blanket comically small and barely covering his waist to feet. 

“Tyler?” You ask tentatively.

He grunts out a “Hm,” in response. 

“I don’t hate you.” You say meekly.

There’s a pregnant pause, filled with the sound of crickets from the nearby field. Tyler rolls over. “Sure have a funny way of showing it, darlin’.”

“Well, I-I don’t. I’m sorry if I made you think so.”

“It’s okay.” 

Crickets again, and you can’t help but notice him shiver again as a rough breeze lifts the ends of his hair from his forehead. Abruptly, you sit up, yanking down the edge of your t-shirt where it had ridden up and unzipping the sleeping bag. 

“What are you doing?” Tyler asks groggily. 

“You’re clearly cold. We’re both adults. We can share the sleeping bag like a blanket for tonight.”

Tyler’s green eyes are wide in the moonlight, looking up at you uncertainly.

“Really, darlin’, it’s okay. I don’t want you to-”

“Tyler, we’re sharing a blanket. It’s not like I’m asking you to cuddle or something.”

“You don’t want to?” Tyler teases, propping himself up onto his elbow, that relaxed, crooked grin making an appearance on his face. 

You laugh and it comes easily as your cheeks go pink, imagining your body pressed against Tyler’s, him holding you close. “Are you asking?”

Tyler shrugs, laying down again with the sleeping bag covering him and an open space for you next to him. “Just to stay warm, right?”

You swallow hard, nodding slightly. You can’t deny that you want to cuddle him.

“Right.” You echo, laying down next to him. 

Your back is pressed to his front as he tucks the sleeping bag and blanket into your side to trap any heat from escaping. Tyler carefully tucks a thigh between your knees, wrapping his arm around your middle to secure your bodies together. 

“That alright?” Tyler asks, voice husky and breathy in your ear. It sends a shiver down your spine as heat pools in your core.

You nod quickly, not trusting your voice not to waver and betray you. Tyler’s chest is firm and comforting at your back, his arm securing you to him as if he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers like sand. His breath comes in soft, even puffs against your neck. However close you were to sleep before, its all gone now. 

Tyler has consumed your senses. His touch, his scent, his voice, and you’re becoming very aware of his hardening cock against your ass. 

Fuck it, you decide, testing the waters and grinding ever so slightly back against him.

The soft groan he lefts out surprises you both and you freeze. Tyler grinds forward into your plush ass, pulling you ever tighter as he whispers.

“Now darlin’, I know that wasn’t an accident.”

You respond by grinding back again, whimpering as you feel him against you. He’s so close to where you want him and yet so far. 

“Please?” Is all you can manage, squeezing your eyes shut in anticipation. Wether for in preparation for rejection or mortification, you aren’t sure. Tyler flips you over to face him, green eyes searching your own for any sort of hesitation or regret. 

“Kiss me.” You beg fervently, running a thumb over his lower lip. “Please, Tyler.”

You don't have to tell him twice as he surges into you. It’s hard and rough, yet romantic in a way that only he could manage to pull off. Those mints are still on his breath and you find yourself addicted to the taste as it mingles with the scent of whatever cologne he’s wearing. Tyler’s tongue prods gently into your mouth, exploring with gentle fervor. 

You’ve never understood just how romantic kissing with tongue could be until this moment. 

Tyler bites your lower lip, taking advantage of your shocked moan to haul you on top of him, cradling your cheek gently as he presses your body to his. He’s warm and smells intoxicating, like sandalwood and sage. You can feel him pressing into your thigh. 

Tyler’s fingers trail up your shirt, tracing the underwire of your bra. You sit up, pulling your shirt over your head as he stares at you with what must be awe. His lips are kiss-bitten and swollen but his eyes are wide as he takes in the view of you topless and perched on his thighs. 

He surges up to meet you, kissing you again and letting his hands rove over the newly revealed skin. Your body shudders with anticipation as he reaches behind him to yank off his own shirt. Toned, tan skin meets your hungry gaze and your eyes catch on a newly revealed scar at the base of his neck. You must know what it feels like under your tongue, so you attach your lips to it, biting softly.

Tyler lets out a guttural groan, filling his large hands with your ass through your jean shorts. 

You grind down onto him, moaning as the rough fabric of his jeans catch on your shorts just right. You must be soaked through your panties. Still, you rock forwards on his groin, him guiding your movements. Need is pooling in your lower abdomen- it must be pathetic how close you are just from grinding on him. Your motion becomes quicker, chasing a high you never knew could come so quickly.

“Does that feel good?” Tyler prompts, slapping your ass.

“Yes!” You cry out, raking your nails down his pecs to his abs. Ignoring the throbbing in your cunt from your abandoned orgasm, you slide down his body to mouth at him over his jeans. Eyes darting up to meet his, he gasps as you pull the zipper down. 

“Shit, baby. You gotta let me have a chance to-”

You don’t give him a chance to finish, instead trailing your hand to the waistband of his jeans. The soft hair of his happy trail meets your fingers as you dip your fingers inside and grab his thick cock. 

He groans like he’s been punched, when you first reach your fingers around him. Tyler changes his grip to fist his hands in your hair as you pull his jeans and boxers down, taking him out. 

No wonder he walks around like he does. He’s long and thick, with a thick vein trailing down the side. His tip is swollen and leaking cum, a rosy pink color you’d love to have a lipstick shade in, making you question why you’re waiting so long to have him in your mouth. 

When you first wrap your lips around him, Tyler sighs, the sound music to your ears as you take him more and more. What you can’t fit in your mouth, you pump gently with your fist. His breaths are coming in short jagged bursts.

“Fuck.” He cries out as you start bobbing your head. “I can’t believe I’ve been letting you run your mouth all this time when I could’ve been using it for- shit, this.” 

You love having the weight of him on your tongue, love the taste of him as you bring him closer to the edge. 

Abruptly, he pulls you off of him, eyes wild and crazed as he pulls you up to his mouth again. “I don’t want this to be over too fast, baby. I’ve gotta get my mouth on that pretty cunt.”

You let out a moan without thinking and he smirks.

“You like the idea of that, huh baby?”

You nod and he smiles, laying you down on your back. Where you were quick and eager, he was slow, taking his time as though you were something to be worshiped. Tyler took his time making his way down your chest, sucking your nipple into one mouth while he flicked the other with his fingers. You moaned softly as he lifted up his head, blowing cool air onto the hard bud. 

When he finally makes his way down to your core, you squirm. He presses a kiss over the top of your underwear before sliding them down your legs. Tyler spreads your legs, using his shoulders to hold you open as he drags a thick finger through your sopping folds, pausing to suck the finger into his mouth. 

“So goddamn’ wet, tell me how bad you need it, baby.” Tyler breathes, settling in. He rubs slow, tight circles on your clit, light enough to leaving you keening into his touch. He watches you intently as he waits for your reaction.

“So bad,” You whisper, “so, so bad.”

“What do you want?” Tyler teases, nudging your hole with his fingers. But he hold back, not quite giving you what you want without you asking.

“Your fingers. Your mouth, please Tyler.”

Tyler smirks, pushing his fingers into you and you gasp at the sweet intrusion. “Please, Tyler.” He mimics you, “I could get used to hearing that. Lucky for you, I’m desperate to taste your sweet pussy.”

He doesn’t give you a second to think, much less respond as he leans forward and licks a long stripe through you, thrusting and curling his fingers as he down so. You clench around him as he manages to find the right spot, barely curling his fingers before doing do. 

You gasp, pressing a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound.

“Don’t do that. I wanna hear you, darlin’.” He pulls your arm down, hand away from your mouth and lacing his unoccupied fingers through yours. His forearm bands across your waist, holding you in place as he sets his unwavering pace, rubbing your clit gently through it all. 

When he finally wraps his lips around your aching clit, you nearly scream, feeling him smirk into your wetness as the sound reaches his ears. “Atta girl. So sweet, baby. Come for me, I know you wanna.”

You can’t control yourself as you chase your high, grinding into his face. He moans as you do so, encouraging you as you chase your high. The sight of Tyler between your legs is nearly unholy, him deriving as much pleasure from it as you are. The thought turns you on even more as you feel back, all shame lost as you squeeze your eyes shut and stars bloom behind the shut lids. 

“Atta girl. Come for me baby, you’re so beautiful. This pussy is so sweet, so sweet for me. You gonna come for me? Let me feel this pussy come for me.”

Your high washes over you in a wave, warmth surrounding you as he works you gently through it. It finally starts to calm as Tyler presses a kiss you your clit, causing you to jolt up.

“‘S sensitive.” You whisper as he comes up to you, kissing you sweetly. His chin is wet, dripping with you and you can taste yourself on his tongue. The thought makes you want him more. 

“You did so good for me, baby.”  

You peel your eyes open as Tyler nudges his nose against yours. The action is sweet, but your mind isn’t on sweet. His cock is still resting against your thigh, throbbing, hard, and you’re desperate to be stuffed with it.

“Tyler?”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t fuck me in the next minute, I’m going to kill you.” 

Tyler laughs, then groans, “Fuck, I don’t have a condom.”

“Don’t care.” You mumble, kissing him, “I’m clean and on birth control.”

Tyler groans, pressing his cock to your dripping pussy. “Thank fuck. Me too.” 

He pushes in slowly, and you grip his shoulders, lips ghosting over his in a silent moan when he bottoms out. Tyler stays still to let you adjust, an oddly romantic gesture. Then again, your last boyfriend didn’t give you a chance to adjust to the feeling and he wasn’t anywhere near Tyler’s size. Tyler must know that too, based on the gentle praise he’s whispering into your ear.

“Gotta move, baby.” Tyler says after a moment, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. 

You nod, digging your nails into his back and gripping the short blonde strands at the base of his neck, looking down at where your bodies join. You watch as Tyler pulls his hips from yours, relishing as the drag of his cock against your velvet walls. Tyler trusts back in sharply and you cry out as he sets a bruising pace. The way he moves is intoxicating, playing your body like a violin as he works you towards your high with just his cock. 

“You take it so fucking good, darlin’.” Jake sighs into your ear. You can only cry out in response as he hits that spot inside you again and again. 

Tyler trails his fingers down your body, never ceasing his movements as his fingers reach your swollen clit. He rubs tight circles on the nub, determined not to reach his high before you can get yours. 

“Tell me who makes you feel this good.” 

“You, Tyler!” You maon breathlessly, tugging at his hair again, “So good. You’re so fucking good.”

Tyler groans shamelessly into your ear. 

“Atta girl. I know you want it. Come for me, baby. Let go.”

Stars bloom from behind your eyes as your whole body goes hot, coming with his names on your lips. You feel like Jell-O as he pulls your orgasm from your body. Yet, he slows down as your clench around him, coming down from your high. 

When you open your eyes, Tyler is gazing sweetly down at you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “All good, darlin’?” 

You don’t say anything, rolling your hips in response. You take advantage of his shocked expression and agape mouth to slip off of him and flip him over. Before he can open his mouth to speak, you’ve mounted him and are riding him within an inch of your own life. 

Tyler’s emerald eyes are wide as he gazes up at you, running his hands from your hips to your breasts, squeezing tightly as he gasps sharply. He thrusts up to meet you with every rock of your hips. Tyler is looking at you like you hung the moon and stars, pure wonder in his eyes. It only spurs you on; you like being under his gaze. 

“Gon- gonna- fuck, baby.” Tyler moans, “so fucking good for me.”

You rake your nails down his chest as he thrusts quickly and messily. You don’t stop as you feel him spill inside you. Slowly, you still your movements and slip off of him. He turns to look at you as you flop next to him. Tyler doesn’t say anything as he pulls you into his side, brushing a thumb up and down your spine. 

“Never would have taken Tyler Owens for a cuddler.” You mumble, kissing gently at his pec. You feel his laugh rumble though his chest. You tangle your legs with his, snuggling closer to him. 

“Is this just a tonight thing?” His voice permeates the silence.

You sigh, looking up at him. For once, he looks unsure and timid, afraid of your answer. 

“If you want it to be.” Is what you reply, feeling nerves settle in the pit of your stomach at his question. 

“Honestly? I don’t. Been chasing you for years, baby.”

“So ask me out.” You sit up, legs still tangled with his and blanket pooling around your waist, “and I’ll say yes.”

Tyler swallows hard, eyes catching on your exposed chest and pebbled nipples. “As simple as that?”

“As simple as that.” You smile reassuringly, placing a hand on his cheek. Tyler turns his head slightly, pressing a chaste kiss to the palm of your had. Instead of saying anything else, he pulls you back down into a searing kiss, holding you close as the sound of the Oklahoma night lulls you both to sleep.

[bat-mom-writer]

Bat Baby: Part 5

Reader(wife) X Bruce Wayne(husband)

Reader(mother) X Richard(Dick) Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and Damian Wayne

Summery: The bat bois finnally meet their baby sister.

Note: Thanks for the name

(I do not own any DC characters)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

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She stirs awake in a quite hospital room morning, the soft hum of medical machinery the only sound to greet her. The sun has barely started to peek through the blinds, casting a faint, comforting glow across the stark white sheets. Her eyes blink open slowly, adjusting to the brightness that seems too harsh for such an early hour.

Her gaze lands on the sleeping form of Bruce Wayne, slumped in the chair beside her bed, his strong jawline slack with fatigue and his chest rising and falling in the rhythmic pattern of deep slumber. He had been there for hours, ever since she had been wheeled into the delivery room, his hand clutching hers as she had gritted her teeth and pushed through the pain.

With a gentle smile, she turns her head to the side, her eyes seeking the tiny, swaddled figure in the clear-sided bassinet next to her. There she is, their baby girl, her little cherub, with a shock of dark hair standing up in soft peaks and a button nose that looked as if it had been pinched from a doll. Her heart swells in her chest at the sight of her. She reaches out a hand, her fingers trembling slightly, to touch the soft, velvety skin of the newborn's cheek. The baby's eyes flutter open, revealing a pair of piercing blue orbs that stare back at her with curiosity and a hint of recognition.

"Good morning, my little love," she whispers, her voice hoarse from the exertion of the previous night. The baby's eyes widen, and a tiny, perfect hand emerges from the fold of blankets to grasp at her mother's thumb. She feels a rush of warmth, a bond stronger than any she has ever known. This is her daughter, her flesh and blood, the culmination of a love that has weathered many storms.

Bruce stirs awake with a deep inhale, his eyes blinking rapidly to focus on the scene before him. He sees his wife, the mother of his children, and his heart fills with a tenderness he never knew existed. Her face is etched with exhaustion but glows with the kind of joy that only a new mother can understand. He stands up, careful not to disturb the fragile moment, and leans over to press a kiss to her forehead.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.

She looks up at him, her smile widening. "Tired, but... happy." she looks back to the little baby, "Look at her, Bruce. She's beautiful."

Bruce nods in agreement, his gaze never leaving the baby's face. "Just like her mother," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek.

Suddenly, she expression shifts, a shadow of regret passing over her features. "I'm sorry again for lashing out last night," she says softly, her voice thick with emotion. "And for... threatening to... kill you." she smiles awkwardly.

Bruce chuckles, the tension in the room easing. "It's all forgotten, honey," he says, "You were in a lot of pain. And I love you, but I don't think you could take me on, especially in your current state." His eyes dance with humor, the corners crinkling with affection.

She laughs softly, the sound music to Bruce's ears. "Well, maybe not," she concedes, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Bruce carefully lifts the baby from the bassinet, his strong arms cradling her with a tenderness that belies his usual stoic demeanor. She nuzzles into his chest, making a contented little sigh as she's held by her father for the first time.

With the baby now in Bruce's arms, she shifts slightly in the hospital bed, making room for him to sit beside her. He lowers himself onto the edge, his one arm coming around her shoulders to pull her close. The warmth of his body and the solidity of his presence provide a comfort she hadn't realized she needed until this moment. The three of them form a small, perfect circle, a new family unit that feels both foreign and incredibly right.

As Bruce holds their daughter, he presses a gentle kiss to the top of his wife's head, his lips lingering there for a brief moment. She closes her eyes, savoring the touch, feeling the weight of the past few hours lifting from her shoulders. The love that flows between them in this moment is palpable, a force that seems to fill the room and push out any remaining shadows of doubt or fear.

"Thank you," Bruce says, his voice a warm, rumbling baritone that resonates in her chest. He doesn't have to elaborate; she knows he's thanking her for the baby, for their family, for choosing him despite his dual life. her eyes well up with tears, and she nods, her voice too choked to form words. She's thankful too, for his unwavering support and love.

The quiet of the moment is broken by the soft knock on the door, and a nurse peeks her head in. "You have visitors," she says with a knowing smile that reaches her eyes, which are kind and gentle. Her heart skips a beat, her sons have finally come. Bruce had called they late last night that they should come over in the morning, guess they couldn't wait very long.

Dick Grayson, the oldest of the bunch, is the first to enter, his eyes immediately darting to the small bundle in Bruce's arms. He's followed by Jason Todd, his face a mask of curiosity and wariness. Tim Drake brings up the rear, his gaze flicking between Bruce, their mother, and their baby sister, his expression a mix of excitement and uncertainty. And Damian, who had been in on the secret, stands slightly apart, his arms crossed over his chest as if bracing for the reaction of his brothers.

The room is filled with a tension that only families can create, a thick silence that stretches out for a few heartbeats before Tim breaks it with a nervous chuckle. "We're calm, we promise," he says, his voice a little too high.

She can't help but laugh at the sight of them all, so serious and unsure. She holds out her free hand to beckon them closer. "Come and meet your little sister," she says, her voice filled with warmth.

They quickly shuffle closer, their movements tentative, as if afraid they might shatter the delicate scene before them. Dick's eyes are wide with wonder, Jason's with a smile, and Tim's with a cautious excitement. Damian, ever the stoic one, watches with a hint of a smirk, enjoying the rare moment of unity.

Bruce carefully passes the baby to Dick, who takes her with the same gentle care he uses when handling the most fragile of gymnastics equipment. Dick's eyes light up as he looks down at her, and the room seems to hold its breath as he whispers, "Hi, sis." The baby's tiny hand opens and closes, reaching for his face, and Dick's heart melts.

Jason, standing beside Dick, watches with a soft smile, his hand reaching out to gently brush the top of her head. The gesture is almost imperceptible, but it speaks volumes about the bond he shares with the child he had no part in creating, yet feels protective of. Her heart swells as she sees the tenderness in Jason's eyes, knowing that despite their tumultuous past, he has a place in their family. "She's so tiny," he says, his voice filled with awe.

Tim's hands are clenched at his sides, his knuckles white with the effort to contain his excitement. "Can I hold her?" he asks, his eyes wide and hopeful. She nods, and Bruce carefully passes the baby to him. Tim holds her with a mix of reverence and fear, as if she might break. His movements are stiff at first, but as the baby snuggles into his chest, his body relaxes and he beams with pride. "Wow," he murmurs, looking down at her. "She's perfect."

Damian, who had been watching from the sidelines, steps forward. He's the youngest, but often the most serious and guarded. He's been looking forward to this moment, to see if the bond he felt for his brothers would extend to this new member of their unconventional family. He holds out his pinky finger, watching as the baby's tiny hand wraps around it, her grip surprisingly strong. He can feel the warmth of her skin, the rapid beat of her pulse, and something within him shifts. The fiery protectiveness that fuels his nighttime escapades as Robin flares to life in his chest, and he knows that he would do anything to keep her safe.

Bruce, sitting back down with his arm around his wife's shoulder, watches his sons interact with their new sister. He's proud of them, each in their own way. Dick, the eldest, who has stepped into the role of a leader, guiding them through their training and life outside of the Manor. Jason, who has come so far from his rough beginnings, now a strong and capable ally. Tim, the youngest of the three, who has proven to be a quick learner and a vital part of the team. And Damian, his own biological son, who is learning to navigate the complexities of his identity and heritage.

"We're sorry that we sneaked out," she says to the boys, her voice tinged with a hint of apology. "We didn't want you to worry."

"We're also sorry," Dick says, his voice thick with a mix of affection and understanding, "for being overly protective."

"Yeah, I guess we went overboard," Jason admits. They've always been a tight-knit group, but with her pregnancy, they had all felt the weight of their responsibilities even more acutely.

Tim nods, still cradling the baby with awe. "But she's worth it," he says, his voice filled with pure happiness. "Look at her, she's a miracle."

"We promise to be more supportive next time," Dick says, a hint of humor in his voice, looking between Bruce and their mother.

Jason nods in agreement. "Yeah, no more jumping to conclusions or freaking out," he adds. She laughs, the sound light and airy.

"I'm glad you boys aren't mad." she says, looking to her eldest sons.

"Mad?" Tim repeats with a smile, "Are you kidding me? We're pissed." His words hang in the air for a beat, the humor in his voice unmistakable. Dick and Jason laugh, the tension in the room dissipating like a popped bubble.

"But we think we can find some way in our hearts to forgive you," Dick says, his grin widening as he glances at Tim, who nods solemnly, still holding the baby as if she were a fragile treasure. she laughs, her eyes shining with love for her sons.

"Okay, my turn," Jason says, his voice a mix of excitement and nerves as he steps closer to the bed. Tim carefully transfers the baby into Jason's arms, who holds her with surprising gentleness, his eyes never leaving hers. The baby stares back at him, seemingly unfazed by the exchange, and Jason's heart skips a beat. It's a moment he never thought he'd experience, being a big brother to a little girl, and he's overwhelmed with emotions.

"Hey there, you're just a cute little baby aren't you?" he says, his voice taking on a high-pitched, playful tone that seems to resonate with the baby. She responds with a gurgle and a kick of her tiny legs, making them all laugh.

Alfred, the Wayne's loyal butler, steps into the room with a tray of breakfast, his eyes immediately going to the newest addition to the family. "Ah, Mrs. Wayne, Mr. Wayne, and... the newest little Wayne," he says, a warm smile spreading across his face as he sets the tray down on the bedside table.

"Still working, Pennyworth?" she jokes, the nickname, a playful jab at Alfred's uncanny ability to appear whenever needed, brings a chuckle from the normally stoic man.

"Just ensuring that everyone's well taken care of, madam," he responds, his eyes flicking to the baby before he retreats to give the family their space.

"Alfred, come join us," Bruce calls out, his arm still around her shoulders. "You're a part of this family, too."

Alfred nods and approaches, his smile growing wider as he looks down at the baby. "Congratulations," he says sincerely, his British accent a comforting presence in the room. Hesitating for just a moment, he reaches out a gnarled hand to stroke her cheek. The baby's eyes follow his movements, and she coos contentedly.

Damian, who had been standing back, his arms still crossed over his chest, finally unclasps them and takes a tentative step forward. "May I hold her?" he asks, his voice softer than her has ever heard it. Bruce nods, and Tim carefully hands the baby over to Damian, who holds her with a mix of awe and trepidation. The baby seems to sense his uncertainty and reaches out a tiny hand to grasp his finger, holding on tight.

Damian's face relaxes into a smile, and she can see the love in his eyes, despite his usual stern demeanor. "Hello, little one," he whispers, his accent lilting slightly. "You've got quite the family to keep you safe." The baby looks up at him, seemingly responding to the strength in his voice, and Damian's smile widens.

As the boys continue to coo over their sister, her mind drifts to the future. The thought of raising a daughter in a household filled with so much testosterone, with Bruce's demanding schedule and the constant shadow of the Batman looming over them, fills her with a mix of excitement and trepidation. But she knows that with the love and protection of her sons, she has nothing to fear.

"What's her name?" Damian finally asks, breaking the comfortable silence that had descended over the room. She looks up at Bruce, who nods at her to go ahead. She takes a deep breath, savoring the moment. "Her name," she says, her voice strong and proud, "is Meillia," She glances to Alfred with a smirk, "Penny Wayne."

Alfred's eyes widen in shock, and his cheeks color slightly, a rare sight that brings another round of laughter from the room. She had always had a cheeky side, and it was moments like these that made her feel like she truly belonged in this strange world of masks and heroics. "Well, Miss Meillia Penny Wayne," he says, his voice filled with affection, "you certainly have an interesting family tree."

The laughter fades into a comfortable silence as the boys take turns holding Meillia, each one whispering promises and secrets into her ear. She watches them with a mix of pride and awe. They were her guardians, her protectors, and now, her brothers. Her heart swells at the thought of the adventures they would all share together, the love and chaos that would no doubt come with raising a daughter in the shadow of the Batcave.

[vnti-vnxiety-recs]

A yeosang x reader smut fanfic where she's taking photos in a field and Yeosang runs into her knocking her over mid handstand pose, so she ends up hurt and he carries her away and books a hotel room. Gets her in a bath and checks over the wounds etc?

This one was cute. Enjoy

Unprotected sex, mature, MDNI

Yeosang accidently hurts the reader (M)

You were trying to snap a few quick photos. The weather was perfect, and you lived near a stunning field bursting with flowers. You had wanted to capture something cute and coquette to showcase the new outfits you ordered from a small online store. The day felt magical, and your excitement was through the roof. The outfit looked just as you had envisioned, and the lighting was ideal, making your photos turn out adorable. You were so thrilled that you couldn’t resist doing a cartwheel in the grass.

But just before your feet hit the ground, you felt a sudden impact.

You let out a grunt of pain and tumbled, scraping your elbows as you faceplanted into the soft grass.

What. The. Fuck.

Gritting your teeth, you tried to sit up. You were adjusting your clothes when you managed to stand, A sharp pain shot through your ankle, making you wince—it felt sprained. Annoyed, you turned to find the source of the chaos and saw a guy struggling to get up from beneath his fallen bike. Anger welled up inside you.

How in the hell do you hit someone with a bike in the middle of an open field?

“I’m so sorry! My bike was out of control. Are you okay?” the guy asks, noticing your scrapes.

You take a deep breath to calm down, pushing back tears. “No, I’m not okay. I can hardly walk,” you reply, frowning.

He searches for the right words but can’t seem to find them.

“Umm, how can I help?” He asks, uncertainty lacing his voice.

“I need to get home,” you reply coolly, taking deliberate steps despite the pain. You know it was probably an accident, but this whole situation has ruined your mood.

“I live close by!” he insists, hurriedly walking beside you as you try to hobble away. “I can get you cleaned up. I just feel really bad,” he concludes, guilt etched across his face. It’s clear he can’t let you go like this without trying to make amends.

You pause, glancing up at him. His sincerity catches you off guard. “Fine,” you say, resigned. “Lead the way.” 

As you both start moving, you notice him constantly glancing at you, concern flickering in his eyes. “What’s your name?” he asks, trying to break the tension.

“Y/N,” you reply, keeping your tone neutral.

“Pretty… I’m Yeosang. Really sorry again for this. I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

The pain in your leg pulses with every step, but his earnestness softens the edges of your irritation. “I know it was an accident,” you say, “but it’s just... not the kind of day I needed.”

“I could carry you, if you want,” he offers, his voice a mix of hesitation and warmth.

Normally, you would have turned him down, pride holding you back. But as you take another step, the sharp pang in your leg makes you reconsider. The warm summer day suddenly feels stifling, and the thought of hobbling home feels overwhelming.

You glance at him, weighing your options. “You know what? I think I’d appreciate that,” you admit, a hint of vulnerability creeping into your voice.

With a swift but gentle motion, Yeosang bends down, giving you a nod of reassurance. He scoops you up carefully, his hands steady under your legs and back. Surprised by his ease, you relax a little as he stands tall.

“See? Not so bad, right?” He teases, a playful smile breaking through the tension.

“Yeah, okay, this is definitely better than walking,” you concede, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. The heat of embarrassment washes over you, but there’s comfort in his strength and the way he carries you effortlessly.

As he strides forward, you find yourself appreciating the view from this new perspective. Maybe this day wouldn't end up being so bad after all.

When you arrive at his place, Yeosang keeps his word and helps you clean your wounds. As he disinfects the scrape on your face, you can't help but feel shy at his gentle touch. His brow is slightly furrowed in concentration, and you appreciate how careful he is, treating each scrape as if it were fragile.

“You’re all good now,” he says after a moment, his voice softening. You manage a small nod, trying to keep your composure. There’s something intimate about this moment, the way he’s dedicating his attention to you, and it makes you feel both shy and cared for.

He gestures to the bathroom, offering you a pair of spare clothes while he takes your dirty ones to wash. They had gotten covered in dirt and grass from the fall. “They might be too big on you, but it’s better than wearing those,” he chuckles, holding out a comfortable-looking t-shirt and sweatpants.

“Thanks; I’ll take anything right now,” you reply, grateful for the kindness.

Once you emerge, you find Yeosang waiting for you, a welcoming smile on his face. “Looks good on you,” he remarks playfully, and you feel your cheeks heat up at the compliment.

“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to hide your bashfulness. The atmosphere is light

You had to wait for your clothes to finish washing, so you both decided to sit on his couch and talk while you waited.

At first, it felt pretty awkward; you were in a stranger's house wearing nothing but a baggy t-shirt. But as the minutes passed, the tension began to dissipate, and you found yourself settling in.

“So is this how you get girls alone in your apartment? You just hit them with your bike and hope for the best?” You joked, hugging one of his throw pillows as you lounged on the couch.

He rolled his eyes, a playful smirk on his face. “Haha, you’re not going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Hmm, maybe once my ankle feels better, I’ll consider it,” you teased back. “But for now, I have free reign to bring it up whenever I want.”

“Alright, let me make it up to you,” he said with a teasing smile.

“And how will you do that?” You quirk a brow, intrigued.

“Come here if you want to find out,” he replied playfully, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

You scoot closer, your knees brushing against his, and tilt your head curiously. He leans in, the space between you shrinking, and pauses just a breath away from your lips. The air is thick with anticipation, and for a moment, time seems to stand still.

“Can I?” he asks softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, heart racing, and in an instant, he closes the distance between you. His lips are soft against yours, and you feel his hand gently caress your face. The kiss is sweet and tentative at first, but it quickly morphs into something more heated. His hands tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, and the sweetness shifts to an urgency that ignites a fire within you. 

You lose track of everything around you; the distant hum of the dryer singing its lullaby fades into oblivion.

He pushes you back against the sofa cushions before kissing down your body. He kisses over your cotton panties before he pulls them away from your body. He takes his time before giving you what you want. Your heart races as he softly takes your ankle in his grasp and places a tender kiss against the swell that formed there. 

“So sorry baby” He mumbles against the skin. “I'm gonna make it all better”

He kisses down your calf and leaves a few love bites on the inside of your thigh before finally kissing your clit. He draws a lazy circle around it before laying another kiss against it. He's building up the tension, making you needy. Then suddenly he's sucking it into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it sloppily. He lets it go with a pop and looks up at you for approval. 

“Feeling better?”

“Not yet,” you sigh dreamily. 

He shoots you a smirk and sinks back into you, this time prodding his tongue at your hole, collecting your juices and dragging it back up, lathering you in his spit. He brings his focus back to your clit pulling it back between his lips and sucking gently while rough hands knead and massage your hips and thighs.

His eyes are closed in bliss, savoring every taste of you, getting lost between your folds.

He's practically making out with your cunt and you can't help the permenant arch your back is in.

He dips down again and plunges his tongue deep inside you as far as it’ll go and he hums in delight, satisfied with the juices that spill out onto his tongue.

Your fingers find their way into his hair again and he pulls out to flatten his tongue against your clit, letting you roll your hips up against his face. You were slowly losing it; you could feel the subtle shake of your thighs and knew you were close. Yeosang slips two fingers in and lets you ride his face pumping leisurely, allowing you to take most of the control.

“Almost! Please!” you whine.

Yeosang shakes his head back and forth, the movement adding extra pleasure to your already blissed-out state of mind and you finally cum. He helps you ride it out and finally pulls away from you with a finally peck to your clit.

“Better now?”

“Yeah…yes” You breathe out heavily with a smile.

“good”

[maddie-dog-story-blog]

The Birthday - 6

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

I continued to cry into the warm, soft fabric of Princess Bear as I felt my wife stand up next to me and move to leave the room. Bawling like a baby in a urine and cum soaked diaper, I couldn't bring myself to look at her.

It didn't take long until I heard her footsteps re-enter the room. I felt as she walked by me and sat back down on the couch.

"Alright, big boy, stop pouting," Melody said. "You put on a wonderful show for Mommy, and you deserve a reward. I know my big, strong husband doesn't like being treated as a baby in most ways, but I know you're going to like this."

"No, just leave me alone," I said into the bear, "I'm done."

I felt Melody lean over and caress the side of my face with her hand. She then lightly hooked her finger under my chin and lifted my head up. I looked as my head lifted to find that she was sitting in front of me topless. Her immaculate breasts on display for me.

Melody gave me a coy look as she watched my eyes drift to her exposed chest.

"Mommy knows you like these," she said, shrugging her shoulders a little bit to emphasize her womanhood. "And Mommy knows you like to suck on these like a baby, even when you're a big boy."

Melody wasn't wrong. Despite my hatred at the idea of being regressed as treated like an adult infant, I did have one vice that would be called 'Little' behavior on the online forums I frequented. I loved sucking on my wife's tits.

Nursing was a habit I picked up when our kids were infants, and Melody has occasionally asked me to suck on her to relieve some pain when one of our kids or a pump wasn't handy. Overtime, it has developed to an almost non-sexual bonding experience between the two of us. About once a week, after we put the kids to bed, we would turn on a show and Melody would expose her breasts. I would lay my head in her lap and suckle as she watched television and lovingly ran her fingers through my hair. While I was embarrassed by my infantile actions, the feelings of love and comfort I got from our together time was too much to resist.

I licked my lips subconsciously as I stared at my wife's chest. She smiled and sat back on the couch. She then grabbed the remote, turned on some reality schlock she likes, then patted her lap expectantly.

"Come on, baby. Push your stuffie to the floor, put your head on Mommy's lap, and have a little suck. You know you want to," Melody said.

I frowned. I did want to. I was exhausted, frustrated, humiliated, and upset. Laying down, closing my eyes, and suckling on Melody's breasts, like I normally did, sounded like a perfect way to forget about this horrible day and unwind.

However, my pride just wouldn't let me concede that that was what I wanted. I was sitting in nothing but a soaking wet and sticky diaper. I couldn't call my wife anything but 'Mommy.' I just came in my diaper while humping a fucking stuffed animal. If I gave in and let myself pretend to breastfeed, it would be more proof that I deserved to be treated like the pathetic little diaper boy she was forcing me to be.

"No, Mommy, I'm ok. I don't need to suck on your tits like a pathetic little infant," I said, unconvincingly.

Melody reached over and delicately rubbed a tear off of my cheek. She gave me a caring, motherly smile.

"Baby, you don't seem ok. You've had a rough day, but, you were just a really good boy for Mommy. Let Mommy take care of you now," she said.

I gritted my teeth. Despite being what I wanted, I was not going to give in. Like a toddler trying to make a show of his own Independence, I dug my heels in. I climbed off of Princess Bear and pushed the large stuffed animal to the floor. I then sat down on the now vacated space on the couch. I made a face as the wet padding if my diaper squelched beneath me, but then quickly turned to the television and did my best to pretend to be enamored with the latest episode of 90-Day Sister Wives.

"No, I'm actually fine. I just want to watch TV and forget about this mess," I told my topless wife.

Melody scrunched her mouth to the side as she looked at me with a disappointed expression.

"Baby, you're lying. Mommy can tell. Don't make me prove it," Melody said, "Just scoot your little butt over here and get some special Mommy-Baby time."

I turned bright red at her referring to our weekly bonding ritual as 'Mommy-Baby Time.' Calling it that just strengthened my resolve to not willingly debase myself further.

"I said no," I responded flatly. I made no move to comply with her repeated requests.

Melody let out a deep sigh.

"Have it your way then," she said. "Mommy says to do what would make you feel the happiest right now."

For what felt like the millionth time that day, the hypnotic trigger kicked in. Like every time prior, I tried to fight it. In my head, I tried to convince myself that what would make me the happiest at the moment was ripping my diaper off, taking a shower, and braking the hypnotic triggers in my head so I could act like a normal adult again. But, I was lying to myself and my subconscious knew it.

I felt miserable, humiliated, and, frankly, a little unloved by my wife. What would make me happier than anything else would be to place my head in Melody's lap, take her breast in my mouth, and close my eyes and let the world slip away as she lovely rubbed my head and back.

My body only hesitated a moment as I tried to fight my wife's command. Quickly, I found myself laying on the couch, diaper-covered butt facing out, with my head on a pillow in Melody's lap. Delicately, my wife grabbed me by the back of the head and guided my mouth onto her nipple, just like a mother would help an infant latch. With Melody's nipple pressed firmly in my mouth, I surrounded her areola with my lips, closed my eyes, and began to suck.

"Good job, baby," Melody said softly as I suckled on her breast. "That's Mommy's good boy! Doesn't that feel nice?" Melody then let out a little moan at the pleasure she was feeling from having her nipples stimulated.

"Uh huh," I responded truthfully as I felt her run her nails lightly up and down my naked back. Bonding with Melody like this always felt good, but it felt moreso that way at that moment. As emotionally vulnerable as I was, the comfort from the closeness and love I felt with my wife as she held me and allowed me to suckle was like a salve for my soul. With my eyes closed and mouth working rhythmically, I could almost forget about the wet diaper draped around my waist and the indignities I had suffered earlier in the day. After a few minutes, I couldn't even remember why I was fighting doing this at all, let alone so determinedly.

I kept my eyes closed as I continued to suckle. The only noises in the house was the low background noise of the TV, the wet sucking sound of my lips, and the occasional soft moans of pleasure. At some point, Melody pulled her first breast out of my mouth to replace it with the other one. I greedily took it between my lips.

I let my mind wander and thoughts drift away from me. I started to realize how exhausted the events of the day had left me. And, at some point, without really even trying, I fell asleep, wearing a cool wet diaper while nursing in my wife's breast.

As the sound of my suckling was replaced by my light snores, Melody looked down at me and smiled. She ran her fingers through my hair and spoke at a whisper. Her words woke me slightly. I barely registered them in my sleep.

"That's my good boy! Mommy can't wait for everything she has planned for you tomorrow. For know though, Mommy says go to sleep."

And with that, the world grew dark and a drifted of to a land of dreams and nightmares filled with diapers, bottles, pacifiers, and giant stuffed bears.

NEXT CHAPTER

[zzoomacroom]

Last Line Tag Game

Thanks for tagging me @tj-dragonblade! 💗💗💗

I haven't had much time to write lately, and I'm having one of those "everything I write is cringe and I hate it" moments, but hopefully I'll get my groove back soon.

Last thing I wrote was for the next chapter of Rain Is Coming Down. I'm not really happy with how this scene is coming together, so I will most likely be making some big edits.

Context for what's going on in this snippet: Retired Dream is pregnant, and Hob is telling Death about the difficulties he and Morpheus have been facing while trying to find prenatal care. The character mentioned here, Eileithyia, is the Greek goddess of childbirth and midwifery, whom I have adopted as an OC because I decided actually there should be even more mythological figures who have beef with Morpheus.

In the end, the best candidate Hob managed to find had been a veterinarian with a discreet side practice treating human patients. When he had brought it up to Morpheus, well… if looks could kill and Hob could die, he’d have been reduced to a pile of ash on the spot. He’d almost made a joke about the vet being perfect for his angry cat of a husband, but he didn’t fancy sleeping on the sofa for the next decade, so he’d kept his mouth shut. “I suppose,” Morpheus had conceded through gritted teeth, “I would be willing to speak to Eileithyia. If there is truly no better option.” So it worked out brilliantly after all, and Hob couldn’t be prouder of Morpheus—the man’s held grudges for billions of years, so this is big. “Yeah, she’s been a life-saver,” Hob says. “If it weren’t for her, we would’ve had to go with one of my, er… underground contacts. And they’re all either glorified drug dealers or so-called ‘doctors’ with questionable credentials whose usual gigs involve extracting bullets from mobsters. And of course anything through the NHS is out of the question.” “Of course. Can’t have your secret getting out,” Death winks. “Too right,” Hob agrees before downing the last of his tea. It’s a relief talking to someone who understands. “Only it’s a bit frustrating; not like we can tell any of our friends the real reason we’ve got a midwife making house calls instead of going to an obstetrician like normal people living in the 21st century. Suze keeps trying to talk us out of having a home birth. I think now she thinks we’re just artsy-granola-hippie types. What was it she was asking you the other day, darling?” “She was impressing upon me the importance of vaccinating the baby,” Morpheus replies. “And reminding me that there is no shame in getting an epidural,” he adds with an endearingly perplexed frown.

No pressure tags: @ralkana @fleabagoftheendless @linzod @menthol-drops Not sure who has been tagged for this recently, so consider yourself tagged if you see this, and/or feel free to tag me on your post! ✨

[pesterloglog]

Marquise Spinneret Mindfang

Act 5, page 3507-3510

~ On the 14th 8ilunar perigee of the 2nd dim season's equinox ~

The Orphaner poses a caliginous riddle like no other I've met. I am presuming him 8othered 8y jealousy, and it would 8e sickening if it were not so marvelously amusing. 8ut then, who 8ut royalty could have the finned cheek to show disdain for the manner in which his 8lack lover conducts her red conquests? Less has acceler8ted meeker than I to homicide, and the viol8tion would hold me aghast, again, if his misgivings did not complement his so endearing arsenal of qu8nt flaws. It is impossi8le to stifle this grin even now as I write.

He surely understands this as my maritime overlord, a superior while through gritting fangs he would concede the expanse of my plunder makes his seem hardly worthwhile to trou8le a map with good ink over. I know he understands. I will take what I want. I expect nothing less from Dualscar, and truly, less would offend me. Is it the crude 8lood of the suitors from which I have taken enjoyment recently? If his displeasure is with my 8lithe treatment of the social order then he has either not spent enough time in the warm company of my indifference, or is simply very stupid. I saw the look he gave. He's so secure in knowing I can't feel what's in his mind he forgets the tr8torous ways of his own face. His little looks are words to me, interjections in our deliciously 8itter repartee. First a look as I summon a slave from the hold, with such ease 8etween my remarks. Why yes, Dualscar, they were the very slaves in your hold until 8ut this hour. Another ship deployed carelessly, languishing in strategic vulnera8ility. Is this not our routine? Our dance? What is this look, my dear kismesis? Is it shame? Envy? Contempt for what he knows will follow?

I nod her over. She is fearful and it makes her prettier. He scoffs without a movement or sound. I know there is disgust feeding the shadows in his corner of my 8lock. At least prick her in the light, he surely thinks. Determine what vulgar hue she 8leeds 8efore persisting with your a8asement, Marquise. Do try to understand, Orphaner. Not knowing is the point, and if you truly understood this, your crusade against the Gam8lignants would not 8e among our Grand High8lood's most uproarious punchlines. (If only one truly needed to 8e so high to find it amusing!) And so not knowing, I take her will, 8ut leave enough of it to enjoy her response. Her hands are in my service 8ut they still shake. They unfasten the first 8utton at my jacket's waist, clumsily. I have masked the line 8etween my puppeteering and her volition exquisitely, and her uncertainty over her own control fuels her fear. She unfastens the second 8utton, and 8etween the second and third, I make a casual remark to Dualscar, continuing our convers8tion. He does not respond.

I look again at the face of my slave, imagining for a moment her mind is not an unguarded port to her every dread. I imagine I cannot feel her conviction that it's not merely a matter of whether she will 8e put to the irons, 8ut how hot they will 8e if she fails to please. Poor thing. Her horns make attractive shapes and pair themselves pleasantly amidst her violent snarls of hair. Her fingers, which I have lost track of, to my surprise have come 8etween the petticoat and my skin. The heat of her touch tells me the likely range for the color of her 8lood. I wouldn't have guessed it to look at her, not with her sign stripped. Her mouth opens slightly and I squint. Ah! Razor sharp, and none missing. Perfect. How disappointing it is to find quivering lips hiding dull teeth. I pause to consider. What will her fear 8ecome if I choose to show her mercy later? And even, in days, kindness? Will this 8e the red dalliance that 8ecomes fully flushed? Love demands my cunning just as my raids. If it is to 8e, she will never understand how thoroughly she was manipul8ted, her 8ody, her mind, her devotion.

I remem8er Dualscar again. My distraction from our 8anter was momentarily a8solute, and I inquire into the shadows. 8ut he is gone.

Then go, my kismesis. Fume with the indign8tion I gave you. I can only pray it 8lackens our 8ond. I must know such exhi8itions agit8 him and hence why I 8other, otherwise it would 8e easy to dismiss him 8efore I partook. Let it 8e a gift of antagoniz8tion to you, my dear rival, on which you may 8rew pitch for me anew. And if it is true envy, a vermilion yearning I can't a8ide, then though it pains me it will 8e farewell.

Alas, it may 8e that I am too good at spurring h8. Too good, at least, for him. I only hope he is not so foolish as to tread a path of less torrid malice.

For if he does........

~ On the 16th ~

My suspicions have 8een confirmed. I'm not grinning anymore, Dualscar.

Our orderly contention has dissolved right 8efore my vision 8fold. It was once a handsome 8lack, 8ut now sits like good strong tea sullied and cooled 8y unwelcome dairy.

Thus my heart was 8roken twice. I was fond of the slave. There was surely promise in her red investment. He had her assassin8ed.

And so I am visited 8y a 8it of 8ad luck for a change. It's not possi8le to evade it forever, I suppose. I will simply have to endure the misfortune of o8serving his 8ase and artless measures of retali8tion.

He's applied his own resources to increase the 8ounty on my head. I wonder if he intends such a laugha8ly ineffectual gesture as anything more than a formality, a sym8ol of his intent. If not, my smile. How it threatens to revisit. Almost.

I've 8roken laws, yes. 8ut what has there 8een to pay for? If any act I've taken should demand a 8ounty, it was paid up front. I foot the 8ill myself with guile and supremacy.

[splendidnothings]

I think you posted about working on a PeterFel baby fic awhile ago? I was wondering how it's been going! if not no worries I hope you're well :)

Thanks, anon! Admittedly, that fic has been going slowly (life stuff getting in the way and all the jazz) but I have been picking away at it!

Here's a small snippet you might've seen if you follow me on Twitter (or maybe not I can't remember if I posted this on main or priv lol)--

“There is no Felicia Hardy living here,” the concierge said. 

Peter got the distinct impression he was relishing in the fact; with the obvious way in which the man looked at Peter as if he were scrapings at the bottom of his shoe.  Which, okay, Peter could concede the uniquely large mustard stain on his collar wasn’t doing him any favors--but--by the tilt of the concierge’s brow Peter knew it probably had more to do with the fact that said collar wasn’t a threaded mulberry silk but instead bargain bin polyester. 

Peter paused to calm himself. It wouldn’t do to web this man to the wall. 

“I meant,” Peter began again through gritted teeth.  “Felicity Harmon.” 

“And is there a reason you don’t know your girlfriend’s name?” the concierge continued, one hand making the air-quote motion as he said ‘girlfriend’ while his ostentatious handlebar mustache twitched, hiding a smirk. 

Fuck’s sake, Peter thought. Forgive a guy for forgetting one of the many aliases his girlfriend favored. 

“If you would just call her,” Peter tried. “Move those hands and use that fancy ringer you got. She could clear this one right up.”

“Sir, this is an esteemed establishment. We pride ourselves on providing our residents a stress-free and private living experience. If you could please remove yourself from the premises or I am going to have to—”

“Nigel,” a voice cut in. “Let him up.”

Felicia stood there half out of the glass elevator doors. A vision in neon green and black printed leggings with an oversized sweatshirt that read I ♡ NY. The heart, a cartoon version of his own Spider-Man mask staring back at him. Peter took that as a good omen. 

“Yes, Miss Harmon,” Nigel said, suddenly the perfect picture of helpfulness. “Of course.”

Felicia flicked a piece of silver hair over her shoulder and without a word went back into the elevator. 

“Well, Nigel,” Peter said, too brightly. “This has been an absolute displeasure.” He gave Nigel a jaunty salute for good measure. “Adios.”

[cordelianewman]

They all had their weaknesses, they weren't perfect, far from it actually. Flaws were something every human being was made up of, and boy did they both have their own. But they loved each other not despite their flaws, but flaws included. Cage didn't try and change who Cordelia fundamentally was, she didn't try to change who he was, but this seemed to be that first breaking point they had both reached in their marriage that had them at a stalemate. The way she was looking at it now, there was no winner in this. Someone was going to get hurt, or be stressed, or not enjoy something at this rate, and part of her was better at taking it on herself. Her parents had put her through being miserable and she had dealt with it, grown, and been okay, so if that meant that she had to do that here, well, it was that autopilot she went into. When he snapped at her, her head snapped in his direction, daggers glaring at him as her eyes narrowed, tears behind them but never once breaking as she glared at him. "Do not raise your voice to me." her voice shook, anger dripping through it. "You know it but you didn't live it, Cage. So don't sit there and act like I'm not taking care of this family too as if I'm not cooking and cleaning and going to school, and taking the girls to dance classes and gymnastics." Her teeth gritted at the man, because now she was just angry. Did she really think he was saying he was the sole provider in all aspects of the house, no. "You told me to go back to school, you encouraged me, and here's yet another excuse to skirt around the subject again. Don't worry we'll just talk about it next year." Cordelia snapped, the same response she had gotten the last two years in a row, now saying it at him. When he said he was always going to stress about taking care of them she made a noise in her throat as she started to drain the sink, scrubbing at cleaning it up and finishing because well, it wasn't unlike Cordelia to not finish a task regardless of argument or disagreement. "You don't think I know that we had a huge change? That I haven't been broken about losing our friends? Seeing the pain in their son's eyes, I get it. Okay but I'm still allowed to want the things I've always dreamed of, they wouldn't want me to hold in things I've always wanted because of them, and I refuse to use them as some excuse." Really she didn't want to drag their poor friends who had passed into this. "But you can't say it!" she said and she knew it, he knew it. "It's a big thing regardless if we have it out now, and I am not waking those kids upstairs right now. They don't deserve that, they had a good day, it was Rosalyn's day I'm not making it so that they're wondering why we're fighting." she hissed, annoyed that he just assumed she'd call him a prick, but if he pushed she might have some other colorful words for him. "So just -- " she let out a huff. "Forget it, I'll concede, I'll change. We can't come to a conclusion to this after what, three years? I'm not going to keep fighting for it. So I'll make the sacrifice, I'll change what I want." she bit out, going and shoving what was left of the cake into the fridge. "Now look at that, there's nothing left to have out." Really all she wanted to do was go upstairs and cry but she refused out of pure stubbornness to cry in front of Cage right now. "I was the selfish one for bringing it up but I'm telling you now I will never bring this up again." It hurt time and time again to feel like they were finally getting to that place to never hear those words. Even if it had just been I want this baby with you, it would have been something. "And I get your scared but I can't live in fear every single day wondering if this is going to happen or that is going to happen. I lived under my parents control, I won't live under the control of fear." she said, her breathing slightly heavy. "So, I'm the asshole here, I'm going to take a shower." she bit out heading for the stairs. "Don't follow me Newman." As she started ascending the stairs.

One thing that they were both a little too good at was compartmentalizing, tucking their feelings away so that the rest of the world didn't witness their struggles, so that no one knew when they were having a hard time. Cage had seen it in his wife when she had found out about Theo's divorce, she had seen it in him when he struggled with Travis's loss. But they had been there for each other. And Cage knew, that no matter how easy it would be to tuck these things away in a little box, to say that there was no use talking about it, that they simply didn't see eye to eye, it wasn't going to fix anything, wasn't going to lead them to where they needed to be. And so he stood his ground, shaking his head when she spoke. "I don't mean it like that -- hey," he snapped the word out a little more loudly than he meant to, narrowing his eyes with hurt when she said that she hadn't had the privilege to go to school when she was younger. "I know that. I know that, Cordelia, and I have never, ever done anything but encourage you to go back to school, promise you that we would make it work, and we will, but even if you weren't, even if you were still at the high school, or working in real estate, I would still worry about money. I'm your husband, I am their dad," he pointed to the stairs, to the kids on the floors above them, "I am always going to put you guys first and that means that I am always going to stress out about taking care of you. When we said that we would talk about this, we had Colton and we had Rosalyn, and I felt like I would be there, I would be ready, and then this… huge life change happened, and now we have to think about two more kids, Shawn going to college soon, Cienna and Rosalyn starting school, Colton will be driving," there was a wild, almost panicked look to his eyes as the millions of thoughts crossed his mind at once. "I am trying so hard to get to this point where when I think about this, think about having a baby, I don't panic, and I don't know how to make you understand that it's not because I don't want a baby with you," but he cut himself off, because she wasn't entirely wrong, was she? He wasn't saying, 'I want this,' he was saying, 'I don't not want this,' and he knew that until he could say those words to her, she wasn't going to believe him. And could he blame her? Letting out a groan, he brought both hands up to scrub across his face, back into dark blonde hair, graying at the temples, showing age; the years that had passed from when their fights were over who got the last brownie or which party to attend after the game. "No," he shook his head, dropping his arms to his sides, "because if I go upstairs or walk away, then you tuck it all away and pretend this didn't happen and we have this big … thing between us, and we can't do that to each other or the kids, so just be pissed off at me. Yell at me or call me a prick or something. Let's just have this out."

[finniestoncrane]

🔫 (nygmobblepot specifically) 🪑🟧

Name

nygmobblepot/sitting in their lap hooray! the first ship request omg thank you anon minors DNI!! 🔞 500 words, cw: nothing! requests are closed • kofi link • minors DNI • tag: finnie500

Oswald leaned back in the decadent armchair, which resembled more a throne than a regular seat, red, plush velvet cushioning the seat, back and arms, intricate, ornate carvings on the arms and legs. He truly was of ridiculous means and ridiculous displays, and Edward despised him for it, in a way. But if he really considered it, it was perhaps the way he presented himself that caused Ed’s gaze to linger on his friend. Enemy. Colleague? Whatever the word for it, there was a tension that had built between them that led Edward to believe that their relationship might be about to change.

And yet, despite both of them sensing it, lengthening the time they spent staring into each other’s eyes after coming to blows, their arguments ending with their noses pressed together, chests heaving. Had one of them had the bravery, or the notion, or the will to be considered the loser, they might have kissed long ago. But neither of them wanted to concede.

Oswald had already bared his heart. Edward had been hurt at Oswald’s hand. Both of them felt like they were owed something by the other. So the awkward tension lingered, only growing in palpability.

Oswald relished the tension though, and sensing another opportunity to irritate Edward into getting close to him, he made an off-handed remark with regards to his latest endeavour outside of their partnership, pointing to the newspaper, the headline expressing distaste for ‘The Riddler’ and his particular brand of extravagant, and excessively dramatic, criminality.

“Edward Nygma strikes again.”

He read the words dramatically, annunciation perfected. Edward sneered at him.

“It says The Riddler.”

“Hmm…I refuse to say that, friend. We’ve hashed out this argument many times. Let’s not have it spoil another afternoon, shall we?”

“We could avoid arguments if you would be decent enough to refer to me as I want you to.”

Oswald smiled, scoffing, a choked laugh pulsing through his chest as he narrowed his eyes at Edward, who leaned forward, placing his hands on the arm of Oswald’s chair, leaning into him and speaking through gritted teeth.

“Say it.”

Oswald’s smile was smug, pleased with himself that he knew how to press Edward’s buttons so well to get exactly what he wanted.

“Make me.”

As Edward’s mild irritation turned to rage, he noticed the sly grin forming at the corner of Oswald’s mouth, unable to contain his own smile in response. Taking the hint, finally, and willing to settle the tension, and the argument, once and for all, he placed himself on Oswald’s lap, long legs awkwardly on either side of him.

“You’ll regret that, Pengy.”

Whatever modicum of embarrassed arousal he had pulled from Oswald by positioning him against his crotch was fading with the introduction of the nickname.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Make me.”

Edward leaned in to press his lips to Oswald before his friend (enemy? colleague? lover?) had the chance to retaliate.

[pumpkin-stars]

Stalwart

Duke Leto Atreides/Fem!Reader

Kinktober Day 30: Against a wall

Word Count: 595

Warnings/Content: no spoilers, post-workout sex, kinda primal but still loving, Leto’s a softie

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@the-purity-pen‘s full kinktober list is here

Leto is always so well put together. Never a hair out of place, crisp starched uniforms, the image of nobility… Always the perfect representation of his House and his position, he never allows anyone to see him ruffled.

Well… not quite anyone…

His breath hits your neck in hot puffs, the most ruined of his expressions hidden even from you as he pants against you, that surprisingly soft grey-streaked beard brushing your bared skin. His hands are hot on your hips, holding you against the wall of the training room, kneading gently.

Your legs are wrapped around his waist, arms around him, holding his shoulders tightly as his cock fills you and knocks your breath from your lungs.

It’s certainly one way of your Duke not having to concede defeat. Distracting you and grabbing you, pushing you the short distance to the wall before lifting your leg and pressing his clothed core to your own, kissing you before you could even comprehend that your fight was cut short, your knives still clattering on the floor as he shucked his pants down, letting you go briefly to pull your own from you before he pushed you against the wall again.

It was a frenzied scramble to get your pants off over your shoes enough to let you wrap around him, but the adrenaline pumping through you both from your sparring made it easy. And now, where he thrusts his hips and fills you, you’re both still riding an endorphin high, sweaty and hot from more than just sex.

“Leto-” You gasp, “Please-!”

His head moves from your neck, one hand tugging at the neck of your shirt to expose your collarbone. He keeps thrusting as he leans in, kissing over the bone, sucking a small mark near your shoulder where none of your clothes will show it. You have to stay put together too.

No matter how much he pulls you apart now.

“Patience, my darling,” He mumbles into your skin, kissing a path back to your neck, up to your ear, “I don’t have another meeting for an hour.”

You whimper, clenching around him, leaning forward into his softness rather than the harsh unmoving wall at your back, pulling lightly at the soft white linen that covers his form in an effort to get greater purchase on him, to hold yourself up against him while he tries desperately to make you totally boneless.

“Leto…” You gasp as he catches that spot inside you, one of his hands slipping around to your ass to hold you closer, tighter, pulling you onto his perfect length as his other hand moves to toy with your clit.

“Cum for me,” He orders, “I want you to cum.”

You whimper, holding on for dear life as he jolts forward, slamming you back against the wall so he can mouth at your tits through your shirt, pressing kisses over them before lathering his tongue over your nipples and leaving two wet circles in the fabric.

“Cum.” He tells you again, all the power and conviction of a member of the Bene Gesserit using the voice, your body responding to his word as if you have no other choice, wracked with pleasure as you cry his name. He grunts as you spasm around him, managing one two three more thrusts before he releases too, staring at you with gritted teeth as he tries to catch his breath, one long lone curl bouncing over his forehead. “Do you yield?” He asks.

You manage to laugh as you gasp for air, “Best of three?”

Taglist: @astroboots @aurelacrystal @fastandfeminist @fisforfulcrum @foxilayde @galacticgraffiti @princessxkenobi @salome-c @the-little-ewok​ @uncle-kenobi​ @yours-truly-r    

[ddarker-dreams]

Buds of Marigold. Yan Childe x Reader x Yan Scaramouche

Warnings: Implied forced marriage, unhealthy relationships, depictions of anxiety, darling threatening violence against someone, mild not SFW implications.  Word count: 2.5k.

“I never thought the day would come where I’d be so stumped,” Ying’er runs her fingers over glass bottles of essential oils and varying plant nectars. “For such an important customer too… everything needs to be perfect.”

You don’t lift your eyes from the task in your hands, scrubbing valiantly at a stain blemishing an incense pot. To affirm you have been listening, even if you won’t spare her a glance until you’ve finished cleaning, you hum with a rising intonation. Ying’er sinks to the ground with all the grace of a drunken sailor, sniffling in a final attempt to pry out your sympathy.

She hobbles over to where you’re sitting and places her head on your lap. Your body tenses at the sudden touch, but you steady your breathing before it can get noticeable.

“Oh, almighty Yun, the lost Archon of fragrances, have thee no pity for thy devout follower,” Ying’er lifts the back of her hand and presses it against her forehead in a show of unparalleled theatrics. The sight does as she intended, a light giggle leaving your lips at the impromptu melodrama. Her timing lines up well as the stubborn grime you were fighting finally concedes.

You place the incense pot aside and sheepishly pat her head. “Ying’er, how are you going to learn if I give you the answers every time?”

“By your ingenious example!” She exclaims, jutting out her lower lip into a pout. “I’ve already picked out the base, I just need a little nudging in the right direction for the top and mid notes.”

Your eyes soften and your heart is strum with conviction. You soothe your grumbling friend by stroking her hair, humming a soft tune, all the while feeling somewhat baffled by your growth thus far. A few moons ago, you couldn’t have pictured allowing yourself to be touched like this by anyone. It wouldn’t matter how innocent the contact was. The moment someone got too close for comfort, you were willing to reduce them to nothing but a pile of cinders.

You pause your ministrations and sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll help you compose your perfume. This is the last time though, okay?”

Ying’er ailments seemingly vaporize into the air at your begrudging assistance. She shoots up from her kneeling position like her feet were coiled springs, an overflow of gratitude fumbling past her lips.

“You’re the best, Yun,” she praises and pinches your cheek, much to your chagrin. “Now that I’ve won you over with my charms, how about—”

The front door’s chimes ring, alerting you both of someone entering. You two exchange a look of confusion, as Scent of Spring is closed for the day, the oil lanterns extinguished and doors locked. Your finger twitches by your side in anticipation. Ying’er is blissfully ignorant to your Vision and subsequent ability to command forward a blade, a façade you wish to sustain.

“I’ll handle it,” Ying’er says before you can contemplate your options another second. You nod, an unspoken appreciation etched onto your countenance. The details of your circumstances were purposefully murky and she never presses. Whatever conclusions Ying’er has come to, you prefer it stays that way, not wanting to upset the delicate balance that is your current life.

You straighten out her collar which had wrinkled. “Call me if anything’s wrong.”

Ying’er winks reassuringly and presses her hands over yours, the touch featherlight. “I’m a fearsome opponent, no one would dare cross me.”

Let’s hope that’s true, you think. Frowning, you observe her retreating figure, taking caution to remain out of sight. Ying’er steps out of the backroom, the thick wooden door closing loudly behind her. You keen your ears to listen, cursing internally over how the thick walls muffle their voices. Her voice is one you instantly recognize, but the other belongs to someone with a deeper timbre. Your boss is an elderly woman, so that rules her out. A Millieth, perhaps?

You’re not left waiting for long, much to your relief. Ying’er pops her head back in a few minutes later.

“It was just a returning customer who was pleased with his latest commission, the one you helped me with no less. He had nothing but high praises for it!”

Waves of relief crash over you, but your senses remain on high alert.

“I’m happy to hear that. Still, how did he manage to get in? Didn’t you lock up for the night?” You inquire, hoping you don’t sound overly paranoid. In the back of your mind, you can’t fully discount the idea that it’s him, the thought alone enough to have you shaking in place.

“Must’ve forgotten or something,” she shrugs. You let out a breath you were holding in at her nonchalance, it seems plausible given her airheaded nature. “By the way, Yun, can we work on the perfume in the morning? I just realized how tired I am.”

“Of course. It has been a long day... I’ll finish things up here, go home and get some rest.”

Ying’er waves and wishes you a good night.

It’s now your turn to slump onto the ground, grasping your chest when your knees hit the floor. Deep breaths, deep breaths, you tell yourself. Everything is going to be okay.

This peaceful existence that you’ve fought tooth and nail to build for yourself… the only way it could ever get be stolen from your hands is if air no longer filled your lungs. Your fingers travel underneath the foreign fabric of your Liyue garments, the warmth of your pulsating Vision giving you solace. Tending to the last few chores, your subconscious drifts elsewhere, to an island beyond the sea. What is it you would be doing this time of day again? Ironically enough, you realize you’d be working with incense as you are now, but for different reasons. The reason you excel with curating incense to produce the best aroma is because you were trained to do so.

Your work now is your lifeblood, giving you enough to scrape by undetected. Those days, however, were a different story. It constituted survival like now, but to a far more humiliating degree. It was expected of you to perform your duties with grace and discipline. You would retire early to your shared chambers, prepare and burn your husband’s favorite incense, and fuss over your appearance in the vanity. Then you would loosen the sash of your obi, just enough so that if it had been a frustrating day, he could lose himself in your body for a momentary escape. Those customs had been ingrained into your mind. Had you needed to, you’re certain you could’ve done everything with your eyes closed from memory.

You head for the back exit. Surely, your past self would be thrilled to know your meticulous plans had come to fruition. All those smiles through gritted teeth, submissive language, and patience that could rival that of a god… everything was worth it.

Now you’re no longer the number Six of the Fatui's Eleven Harbingers’ spouse. You’ve taken the identity of Yun, a Visionless worker for a perfume shop in Liyue, everyday defined by freedom. To do as you please, go where you please, speak to who you please. The little details that were stolen from you by his hands return like tentative buds in spring.

You’ve yet to fully assimilate with Liyue’s cuisine, but it’s steadily growing on you. Maybe you’ll make an Inazuma-inspired dish tonight? In the months that have passed, you’ve found a taste for your nation’s food coming back. So as not to repeat Ying’er’s mistake, you double-check the backdoor’s locks, finding it is as it should be. Behind the humble shop is an alley which you use to creep back home. It’s best not to risk traveling out in the open if you can avoid it, you never know what eyes might be hiding in plain sight.

“Liyue apparel compliments you very well.”

With the speed of a descending phoenix, you pivot on your heel, summoning your weapon and pressing it to the jugular of whoever spoke just now. Squinting, your eyes take a few long seconds to adjust. Once they do, your body feels like it’s being drug into the underworld, the air in your lungs forced out. This man… you’ve seen him before. He gives you an all teeth grin, azure eyes swirling with delight and face contorting in amusement.

You remain steadfast through your bewilderment. “Try and scream and I’ll slit your throat.”

“I’m not much of a screamer,” Childe replies, laughing as if the situation was comical. “It’s good to see you too, [First]. Never thought I’d happen upon an old face in Liyue. I knew I recognized that unique combination of perfume, looks like I was right.”

It hits you that this is the first time you’ve heard your actual name in months. How Childe says it doesn’t feel right, he utters it with familiarity. Though, from what you remember, he’s never been known for having boundaries. Scaramouche would complain about his conduct for hours if given the opportunity. This would be the first time you’ve spoken with him, not from a lack of trying on his behalf. When Childe paid a visit to your husband’s estate, you were expected to be present at the start of their meetings. They would discuss business together while you stood there and looked easy on the eyes. Occasionally, you would refill their tea, but that was all you were permitted to do.

The look Scaramouche shot Childe when the latter tried speaking with you was enough to give you nightmares for days.

“What… what are you going to do now?” You murmur, anticipating the worst. This isn’t going to end well no matter what. If Fatui are in Liyue, that means Childe’s likely told someone where he was going; meaning that him going missing would be suspicious and warrant an investigation. On the other hand, who is to say he won’t just return you to Scaramouche if you let him live? You doubt your tears and pleading would have any effect on the youngest Harbinger. He’s similar to your husband — acting altruistic and kind — only to show their true colors when it suits them best.

“Right now? I’m trying not to get my throat slit,” he raises an eyebrow like that was the most obvious answer.

You bite your lower lip. “We both know you could get out of this hold if you wanted to.”

“Emphasis on the ‘if I wanted to’ part. As of right now, I don’t believe I do, being held by you is rather enjoyable,” Childe tests the waters by moving forward, humming in contentment when you lessen your grip as not to slice through his skin. “See? You’ve never even killed someone before. Call it intuition, but I don’t think you could.”

He reconsiders the proposition for a second. “Well, maybe if it was him...”

“You’re as insufferable as I remember,” you hiss, imbuing heat into your blade. Childe barely backs off and the unspoken threat. “Everyone who refuses to take me seriously comes to regret it.”

“Don’t worry, I fully agree with that. The Balladeer reduced you to nothing but a pretty little ornament. He underestimated you and this is the consequence.” Childe has an easier time maintaining eye contact than you do. It’s another minute detail that expresses the gap in your experience. You may be adequately trained in combat, but that pales in comparison when faced with a trained killer. This sorry charade will end the moment he wants it to.

Hate floods through your veins like venom. He’s looking down on you, just in a different way than how your husband would. Where Scaramouche was condescending and sadistic, Childe is brutally honest and teasing. It’s a split-second decision on your behalf, one motivated by the desire to prove this smug bastard wrong more than self-preservation. You loosen your grip on him and jump back. It’s not a lot of space, however, it should be enough to allow you room to react when he strikes.

He goes silent. It’s painfully obvious that he’s trying to get a read on you, now that you’re veering into unexpected territory.

“You were waiting for an opening, weren’t you?” Your words come out with more strength than you thought possible, deep from the chest and guttural. “Well, here you go. It’s the best you’re going to get.”

Childe blinks. Once, twice. His shoulders start to tremble, his chest following soon after, and he lifts his gloved hand to cover his mouth. Hearty laughter leaves his lips and pierces your self-esteem. You don’t understand what’s so humorous to him — though you’re well aware these Harbingers hold no humanity — repulsion flooding your system. This feels nostalgic in the worst ways possible. Early on in your marriage, Scaramouche would regard your resistance with a similar air of blatant dismissal, like your protests were nothing but a tantrum.

“You were wasted with him,” Childe’s loathsome cackling dies down, a maniacal grin splitting his face ear to ear. “Now I understand… the way you’re looking at me now is chilling. Exciting. In what ways have you evolved to survive? I love the fight in you, unlike him. Your adaptability is remarkable, like that of the most cunning prey. ” 

Prey. The dehumanizing word makes you frown, yet you remain firm in your stance. This is the best chance, you think, now that you’ve managed to surprise him once. There’s plenty more where that came from. Tendrils of molten flames, like they were stolen from the sun itself, would make for a considerable challenge. Harbinger or not, he should know better than to charge in without thinking twice when you hold a Pyro Vision.

His face returns to a more casual visage and he waves his hand. “I never had any intention of bringing you back to Inazuma. You think a Mora reward would be a good enough motivator for me to do that?”

“T-then why are you here?” You challenge, ever the skeptic. Childe can weave a tale of lies as much as he wants. That doesn’t mean you’ll allow yourself to be ensnared in it.

“I wanted to see how you’d react,” his nonchalant admission leaves you speechless. “Needless to say, you didn’t disappoint. A pretty face with the feist to match. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

“Oh, fuck off with that,” you snarl, your vision almost going red from the fury holding you hostage. Now that you no longer need to play the subservient partner, vulgarities come to you with ease, and you have no shortage of them for this blight in the flesh.

Childe’s smile widens. “No can do, I’m afraid. My curiosity has gotten the better of me this time. Could I tame you? Break your spirit better than he did? So show me your resolve to be free, sweet [First].”

He readies himself and you do as well. It’s in the dull illumination of the overhead lanterns that you realize there is no light in his eyes. How fitting, you think. That even his body has come to accept his lack of humanity.

“Go on. I’ll give you a ten second head start. After that... well, you’ll just have to find out, won’t you?” 

[constantcrisis19]

More Than Meets The Eye

Dean Winchester x GN S/O

AN: Bobby Singer's POV

Word Count: 1,206

"I'm telling you, it's a ghost. Look at the reports!" You defended, shoving a newspaper into Dean's face like that alone proved you correct.

The elder Winchester scoffed, swatting the offending article away, making it abundantly clear that he didn't agree. Instead, he rapped his knuckles against a grotesque picture in one of the many books that Bobby owned.

"You're wrong. It's obviously Ghouls, there's a graveyard right behind the supposedly 'haunted' house. It's the perfect cover, kids who go in there have no idea they're about to become dinner." Dean leaned back, crossing his arms with a smug raise of his brow.

You pointed at the book like you could set it on fire with the shaking digit alone, still very much in vehement denial.

"No way, we have multiple eyewitnesses accounting for a silhouette that vanishes like a mirage."

Dean grit his teeth, and you knew that you had him. He postponed his response by swallowing the last of his beer, your grin widening with every second he remained silent until it reached shit-eating levels.

Dean rolled his eyes, kicking his feet up onto the cluttered coffee table like the barbarian he was.

"Still think it's Ghouls." He snipped and you rebuffed his rankled mutter with an exasperated snort.

You leaned forward in order to leaf through the pages of the book, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt and looking for what he might've seen that had him so damn adamant on the Ghoul angle.

Your brows furrowed together as your finger traced the words, the digit hovering over a particular passage that'd caught your eye.

You pushed Dean's boots off the table and snatched up the paper to flip through it for the tenth time, gaining the elder Winchester's full attention within seconds.

"What is it? What did you find?"

You held up a finger to implore him to wait, eyes scanning over the text. There weren't any reports of a haunting until just a few weeks ago, and the police had searched the premises for any sign that it was just a prank or hoax.

Instead of clues, they'd found a grave that'd caved in, but they didn't think anything of it though. But in the world you lived in as an esteemed hunter that knew better, nothing was just purely coincidence.

Your head tilted curiously before you decided to voice your thoughts on the matter to Dean, who looked puzzled.

"What if the ghost is haunting the grounds because of the Ghouls? I know I'd be less than happy if someone disturbed my grave. Read this." You eagerly handed Dean the paper as you spoke, tapping a finger against the article that he should scrutinize.

Dean whistled, absently nodding his head to show he agreed with your new theory. Neither of you had seen the bigger picture until you had combined the pieces of information you gathered separately. 

You hid a grin behind your hand as you watched him mouth the words under his breath as he read them, you were sure that this easy teamwork you had was just one of the numerous reasons why you hunted so well together.

"Well son of a bitch, we got two monsters going at each other." Dean finally conceded and you smiled, pulling the book back into your lap. 

You compared known Ghoul and Ghost behavior to what was happening at the abandoned house, bouncing ideas on how to handle it off each other in order to come up with a viable game plan. Though you hesitated when Dean insisted on finding -then salting and burning- the bones of the ghost, lips pressed into an uncertain line.

"With this new information, it seems that the ghost is chasing humans away so that no one gets hurt. Maybe he'll pass over on his own if we take care of the Ghouls?"

You wanted to avoid brute force unless absolutely necessary since the ghost had done nothing but chase idiots and adrenaline-junkies out of danger. 

"I'm tempted to argue otherwise, but that seems to be the case here." Dean agreed without much fuss, leaning to look over your shoulder as you continued to highlight the relevant information in the article that you deemed important.

Dean's hand bumped against yours when he pointed to the text, offering his own input. You took each suggestion seriously, either accepting or constructively opposing his thoughts on the matter.

The both of you were practically pressed together on the couch without even noticing the development and neither of you seemed to notice how Bobby lurked in the doorway.

The older hunter had watched you and Dean for some time with a warm smile. 

It'd been a good long while since he'd seen Dean so comfortable in the presence of another person, let alone voice his opinion to them instead of stubbornly taking charge. And better yet, you were actually listening to him, the conversation a clear equal exchange.

Bobby had another beer for Dean in one hand and a sandwich for you in the other since you never failed to ask for one when you stopped by, whether it be for a social visit or a job.

"Seems you two are seeing eye to eye now." Bobby stepped in, raising an amused brow when both of your heads jerked up from the local paper.

You saw the sandwich and smiled, bright and grateful.

And if the thought of receiving that kind grin was the major reason Bobby went out of his way to make sure that he had your favorite sandwich fixings on hand just on the off chance that you came over...well, no one needed to know but him.

Dean, on the other hand, merely eyed the beer, lips quirking in silent thanks as he reached out to collect the cool bottle.

Dean was still getting used to voicing his gratitude, but you were helping the elder Winchester work on it.

"Thanks Bobby, I was getting peckish." You took the plate with careful hands, Dean echoing your chipper words with his own mumbled recognition as he downed a mouthful of the alcohol.

"You're welcome kiddo, just keep this idjit out of trouble will you?" Bobby gruffly teased, ignoring the offended look that Dean sent his way.

You laughed, the sound akin to wind chimes that swayed in a warm breeze and playfully saluted Bobby, sandwich plate balanced on one knee since the coffee table was covered in important documents and fragile books. 

You jolted with a yelp when Dean pinched your side with a half-hearted scowl, growling something about how he didn't need a babysitter.

The older hunter merely huffed at the elder Winchester’s antics, lips quirking when you ruthlessly grabbed a fistful of Dean's hair and firmly yanked as payback. 

You didn't use much force, just enough to pull his neck taut before you were forced to release him and defend your ticklish spots when the brunette attacked.

Bobby noted how you both looked like carefree brats to him at that moment, the weight of a hunter's life sliding off your strong shoulders as the two of you cackled like madmen.

The rare sight made Bobby wish he had a camera to capture it.

[singtotheskiies]

dried blood on smooth skin // five hargreeves x reader

summary: five hargreeves really needs patching up—in more ways than one.

words: 1655

warnings: brief language, descriptions of blood, otherwise just that sweet touch-starved fluff we all crave

a/n: i’m a klaus kinda girl, but this is me working through why i find five so goddamn attractive

✖️✖️✖️

Normally, when Five Hargreeves blinks into your room, it’s because he wants to escape from the stifling presence of his father or because you’ve begged for his help with your math homework (the man has no right being so smart). He always manages to sneak out on your birthday and bring you a donut from Griddy’s and something you value even more—his companionship, even if only for a few minutes. Sometimes, you tell him he should be more careful—his father has eyes all over the house; he must suspect that something’s going on. Five always dismisses your protests, telling you not to worry about it—he’s got it under control.

He comes to you because you’re a constant for him, a sense of normalcy. Whenever he needs an escape from the constant hierarchy and trauma of his house (which is often), he can come to you and relish in your laughter and friendship and caring aura. Of course, he’s never said all of this to you outright, but you understand anyway. You know Five well enough to know that underneath all his bluster and know-it-all attitude, he appreciates you—the only person he can really call his friend.

Today is different, though. When the blue flash of light materializes in your bedroom, you jump, dropping your book to the ground. “Christ, Five, didn’t we talk about—“ You trail off as you see the state he’s in. His clothes are torn and disheveled, something he would normally never allow. The parts of his face not covered in blood are stark white, matching his knuckles as they clench up at his sides. God, there’s blood everywhere. Is it his? There’s so much—there’s no way his body could produce that much, right?—and it’s thick and clotted onto his normally pristine skin and suit, concentrated especially on a spot on his right side. You notice he’s barely moved in the several seconds you’ve been gaping at him, merely swaying side to side weakly.

“What the fuck happened?” you begin, but are cut off by his knees buckling. You catch him just in time, guiding him to your desk chair before he can ruin your carpet.

“Mission—gone wr-wrong,” he pants, barely able to get the words out.

“Why didn’t you stay with your siblings? They know how to handle this st—“

“I don’t want their help.” He cuts you off, managing to instill an incredible amount of venom in his words as they stutter past his gritted teeth. “Their fault.”

“Okay, well, why didn’t you jump to a hospital, or your mom, or someone who could actually help!? Jesus, Five, you could—“

“I—I did come to someone who can help. It would be really—nice—if you started,” he breathes, brow drawn tight in pain. Sweat and dried blood mix together in the furrows of his dusky skin, and something about that sight kicks you into action.

“Okay, I need to get this jacket off you. Can you lift your arms?” He grunts in what you take to be an affirmative response, and you manage to wrestle the piece of clothing off him without jarring him too much. You’re left with the sight of blood pouring out of him, staining the weave of his bright white dress shirt, and you tighten your jaw as realization sets in. “Uh, Five? I need to—um—take your shirt off,” you almost whisper, trying to ignore the rising flush in your cheeks. He barely summons a weak nod, and you take that as your go-ahead.

Hands shaking, you start at his neck, working your way down. With each button unfastened, more and more tanned, smooth skin becomes visible. After what seems like an eternity, you reach the last button, sliding your hands back up to his shoulders to ease his sleeves off. You take in the expanse of freckled, smooth skin now exposed to the air. You wonder how he hasn’t got more scars on missions—every inch and plane of skin you can see is soft-looking and somehow catches the light as he breathes in and out laboriously. But then your eyes land on the bullet wound spilling blood onto his side and let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “Shit,” you curse. “I’ll be right back.”

You run into your bathroom, grabbing the first-aid kit you have for emergencies. Your breath is coming quickly—you know that every second is crucial to Five’s wellbeing. Coming back into the room, you grab gauze and disinfectant. “This is gonna sting,” you warn, and he merely rests his head back onto your desk, clenching his jaw.

There’s far too much blood to wipe off completely, so you focus on cleaning the area around the wound quickly. You can’t see the bullet, and a quick question to Five confirms that it’s not lodged inside—just scraped up against some things and went on its way. You grab a few gauze pads, placing them securely against his torso with medical tape. The softness of his skin makes your heart soar and drop simultaneously, but you push the thought out of your head. You need to get him feeling better.

Once the gauze is on, you focus on cleaning up the rest of his bloodied torso. After a few minutes, Five feels the strength to sit up and take ginger sips of the water bottle you’ve offered him. The water seems to do him some good, and you sit back from cleaning his skin for a moment, relieved at the sight of some light returning to his eyes.

“Better?” you ask, sliding his shirt back on gently. He merely nods in response, lips pursed in a half-smile. His dimple is covered in sticky dried blood, and that sets you on your next mission.

“I’m gonna clean up your face, okay? You don’t want anything getting in your eyes or mouth,” you say. Five tries to protest, but you cut him off. “If you came to me for help, then you’re going to sit there and get it,” you say sternly.

“Fine,” he concedes. “Guess I brought it upon myself.” You shoot him a look and get busy.

There’s quite a bit of blood at his hairline, and you clean up the series of cuts there. His normally perfect, shiny hair is sweaty and slightly matted in spots. Before you can stop yourself, you bring a cool hand to his forehead and sweep some of the dark strands off his forehead. He makes a soft noise in response, green eyes fluttering halfway closed in relief. Your heart clenches at the sound. You take in the weary and touch-starved boy before you, all dusky skin and stirring limbs. Bending closer, you press a feather-soft, lingering kiss to his hairline before you can think better of it. His eyes shoot back open and he regards you with a look so intense you can barely decipher what’s going on.

“Okay?” you ask in a whisper.

“Please—“ he mumbles hoarsely. “Don’t—don’t stop.” Your brows draw together in both pity and overwhelming affection, and you begin to softly clean up another cut on his cheek. After the blood is soaked up by the disinfectant, you place your lips on the small wound. You give the same treatment to a spot on his chin, then to a bruise under his eye, and then to his dimple—the dimple that’s tugged at your heart every single time he’s smiled at you in the past. As your lips leave the freckled spot, you meet his eyes again.

His lids are hooded, tired. They barely close when he blinks, his eyelashes dipping down to brush the freckled apples of his cheeks. His eyes, though, are less drowsy and more intense. They regard you with something akin to both sorrow and want. You blush under their gaze, wanting to look away from their intensity but finding yourself unable to. Your hand reaches up, your middle three fingers tracing an impossibly soft line from the shell of his ear to the corner of his lips. Your fingertips pause, hovering just over where the tip of his mouth is curving into the smallest of smiles. Five’s hand comes slowly up to meet yours, his fingers enveloping yours splayed over his cheek. He breathes in, once, and the look in his eyes breathes with him. Then, the space between you is filled and your mind is narrowed down to two things: the overlapping of your fingers and lips.

He’s soft, and so so warm—almost feverish, but it just adds to the potency of every tiny movement. His mouth is both quiet and everywhere, filling up the backs of your closed eyes. You change the angle slightly, nosing his cheek as you reconnect your mouths with gentle hunger. He smiles softly, and you pull away a fraction to kiss at his dimple as it imprints itself on his cheek. His hands come up on either side of your head, softly combing through your hair before stilling at your jaw. He rests his forehead against yours, and you can feel his eyelashes brush against your cheeks as he kisses the bridge of your nose. His lips are lingering and filled with so much love it makes you want to cry.

“Thanks for patching me up,” he whispers, voice husky due to the quiet volume.

“If that’s what’s waiting for me every time you get hurt, I’d almost tell you to get in trouble more often,” you manage.

“We’ll see about that,” he says, and you straighten his unbuttoned collar before going in again. He moans this time, soft and low, and you smirk at his exhalation.

“That good, huh?” you quip. He grimaces, indicating where you’ve accidentally pressed on the bloody gauze. Giggling an apology, you reposition yourself so that your hands are around his strong, wiry arms.

“Guess I’ll have to take another look at that,” you say.

“If you must.”

And his eyes regain their roguish light.

[thunderthighs77]

Aizawa’s Assistant Part 2

**Part 3** **Part 1** IF THE LINKS DO NOT WORK, PLEASE LET KNOW. PART 1 & 3 CAN BE FOUND ON MY PAGE RIGHT NOW ANYWAY

Hello, my cherubs! Aizawa and his pet play kink (as well as piss kink) self is indulging in some public humiliation. Please enjoy!

CW/TW: Fem Reader x Aizawa, Face-fucking, PISSING, pet names (kitty, sex kitten), mentions of exhibitionism, pet play

The summer streets were empty tonight. Everyone in Aizawa’s city was out by the river, a fireworks show. No one was in his neighborhood right now. But, you did not know that. Be it that you lived an hour and half away from his city, you were not familiar with the little neighborhood tradition. Perfect for Aizawa’s little mischievous game that he wanted to play with you. 

He tugs on your leash that’s around your neck, taking you down the steps of his apartment building and onto the street. A giant street lamp was above you, and below in its shining light was a bench. Aizawa sat down and tied his shoes, while you stood, trembling. 

You had on a skimpy thong and bikini top, completely exposing your breasts, butt, and thighs. It was barely fitting. You had a collar with a bell and a vibrator in your pussy. The same one from early, with the battery box taped on your inner thigh. You stood and crossed your legs, trying to maintain your ecstasy.

“What’s the matter, Y/N?”, Aizawa teased. He stood up and dropped the leash to circle around you. You closed your eyes and bit your lip as you felt his eyes scan your body. 

“Gotta pee?”, he whispered in your ear which sent a shiver down your whole body. Your full bladder from the diuretic and wine from earlier was pushing on your G-spot, your inner walls, everywhere down there. You just needed to pee. 

“Please, sir,” you beg. Aizawa smirked and completed his predatory walk around you. He finally stood before and leaned it to your face. “No,” he said plainly. 

Aizawa loves blow jobs, like fucking loves them. He pushes on your shoulders to push you down to your knees and you sit on the ground and look up at him. He had a playfully poutful look on his face as he stroked yours. It was a lie. He was so fucking hard and loved this. 

You on the other hand were panicking. “What if someone sees?”, you ask while looking around. The vibrators weren’t helping, making you completely weak and nervous. The lights were out in the windows of the buildings, but who knows who was home or not. It freaked you out, and you were constantly looking over your shoulders every few seconds as Aizawa unzipped his pants and cupped the underside of your head. 

“Relax, baby.” He bends down to your face where he had an evil smile and said, “If someone sees, they’ll probably jerk off to your sexy ass choking on my dick.” Your eyes widened, as adrenaline ran through your system at that thought.

Aizawa pulled out his dick and it hit the left side of your face. Thick as ever, and heavy. “Come on, kitty. If you wanna cum, you better open up.” 

Cum. Oh yeah. That. No, fuck cumming. You just wanted to fucking pee. 

While his balls slapped against your chin harshly, your drooling spit had fell down your face and onto your chin, where it hooked onto his balls and created a string every time he thrusted in and out of your mouth. It was sticky and itchy. As he fucked your face, you couldn't help but rub your clit, letting out tiny drops of urine fall to the ground because of your nearing orgasm. "Is kitty coming from just my cock being down her throat? Huhh?” Aizawa teased. He was holding on to the back of your head, holding it in place as he thrusted inside and out. 

Your mouth was his cocksleeve. He couldn't help but tease you about your desperate attempts to orgasm without his dick even being in your pussy. "A little slut like you could definitely cum from just being face fucked." You moan and whimper as he hit the back of your throat, trying to signal you needed to pause.  

You felt like you were going to throw up and tapped on his thigh, causing him to pull out and what you thought was vomit was really just a pool of spit that you coughed up. You moaned at the vibrators and tried to catch your breath from the sudden urge of vomiting. Your mind felt high. 

Aizawa pulled you by the hair at the top of your head and you tilt your head up to look at him again. His wet dick, still laced with your spit, slapped your face again. It was wet and sticky, the spit making your face feel sticky. It felt so good. You were so close to peeing and cumming.   

You couldn't hold it in. Your full bladder was painfully pushing against your walls, and the vibrator wasn't helping. He stuck his cock back in your mouth and thrusted very hard and fast for a good few seconds, then he slowed down as he heard you choke and he continued his regular bobbing pace. You caught your breath and wriggled as you touched your sensitive clit.

“You're taking that cock so good baby. Yeah? Oooh fuuuck,” he groans above you. You look up at him with your eyes and he looks down and says, “You’re such a pretty kitty for me, baby.” He pulls out and a string of your saliva connects his tip with your lips. He bends down to grip your cheeks and speak in faltered articulation; "Who's such a good girl for me, huh? Yeah, you are. You're such a good girl." His words were gritted through his teeth, in a voice you would talk to a pet in. You transcend, completely in another state of mind as your tongue falls out of your mouth and something drips out. It’s not necessarily saliva, but much runnier; drool. It leaves the bubbles of your spit behind and the shiny clear liquid drips out on the street. He finally shoved it in one more time, thrusting way too deep in your throat and at last, painted your esophagus white and saturated your throat in his cum. He left his dick inside your mouth for a good few seconds, followed by a series of groans and a few muffled curses.

You didn’t know where the fuck you were. “Use me, please use me" was all that you could think of as Aizawa cums inside your mouth and holds your head down. "My good little kit-ooooh what's this?", he says as he interrupts his own sentence and looks down to hear a trickling noise. Your eyes roll back as you continue to hold your mouth open for his dick, in a complete trance, as you release yourself on the vibrator and let out little mewls and whines. A pool of yellow liquid forms on the ground. The pressure on your bladder had finally conceded. You pissed yourself as you came. 

Shock, embarrassment, relaxation, shame, humiliation, all these feelings were running through you. You didn't know where to look. You just backed off of his dick and hyperventilated and moaned into the air as Aizawa held you upright tilted chin with his index finger and smiled at you as you finished your orgasm and clenched your thighs close. And after you finally finished relieving yourself, you started to get a slight sense of reality. 

"Did kitty just pee herself? Such a naughty kitty", he teases. You whimper and moan at his sweet nothings. 

And after he recovered from his orgasm, he gripped your cheeks, and said "Who’s such a good kitty?" 

You, having swallowed his cum, look up at him, barely seeing his figure under the shining light from the street lamp and through your teary eyes, "Me" you said, smiling through your tears, spit, and cum all over you. Oh, and your piss on your thighs. 

“Feels good to go after a while from holding it in, huh?" You sigh and smile. Aizawa petted your head and commented on how good you were and how proud he was of his sex kitten. "Such a good kitty," he purred. "Who’s such a good kitty for me?", he cooed as he stroked your hair and your cheeks. "Me, Sir," you said in your playful kitty tone. 

"Mmm cupcake. Open wide for me", he says. You smile and open, closing your eyes thinking it was going to be his dick in your mouth again. Instead, a stream of something warm hits your tongue, your reflexes take over immediately and you close your mouth, instead letting his piss fall down to your thighs. It soaked your breasts and ran down like a stream.

You could hear Aizawa sigh in relief and you imagined he was throwing his head back. You wouldn't dare open your eyes and you instead just sat there and waited until he finished

The stream finally ended and you gently opened your eyes. Aizawa held your chin up with his index finger to look up at him, "What does kitty say?" 

You loved it. You loved the humiliation, the shame. 

"Thank you, sir." You look up at him with sultry eyes, almost like you were begging for more. You were just face fucked, forced to pee, had cum poured down your throat, and pissed on, and you still batted your eyelashes like you wanted more. Aizawa was ready to lose his mind.

"Such a good fucking kitty."

[pomegranates-and-blood]

As soft as silk, as strong as iron

My Masterlist  

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: I (kind of) put together two requests, “Sub Ivar but in a modern setting” and “Something vulnerable/fluffy with Ivar. It can be about anything, but I love seeing those few moments when his walls break down.”

Word Count: 4.5k (me going overboard doesn’t surprise you anymore, does it?)

Warnings: 18+. Smut, D/s dynamics (sub!Ivar), bondage, orgasm control/denial, sensory deprivation (just a blindfold tho). Fluff, a little bit of angst. This is probably OOC. If I missed anything, please let me know.

A/N: I’m so sorry it took me this long to get this request(s) out! I am still trying to find my way through writing smut, and I tried my best but idk if this is any good lol. Hope you enjoy and thank you!

Your body still trembles in the aftershocks as you come down from your high, and your hands grip tightly at Ivar’s still, fingers intertwined.

You open your eyes, and the first thing you see is the contrast of his hand on yours, and the red silk wrapped tightly around his wrists, keeping his arms tied to the headboard.

The sight is enough to send another little shock of heat through you.

And when you lower your gaze, find him licking his lips chasing the taste of you, the same red silk covering his eyes and leaving him vulnerable to you and whatever you want to do to him; it only makes you want him even more, even if he just made you come with his skillful mouth.

You move further down his body, putting your hands instead of your thighs on either side of his head.

To see him like this, surrendering and yours, it will never cease to amaze you, to send a pang of pride and heat through you, to leave you dazed and content.

Because…Gods, he was made for this, for submission. The perfect angle of his jaw as he tilts his head back surrendering to the pleasure you give him, the curve of his throat under your hand as he chokes back a moan at the feel of you, the strength of his chest rising and falling in shaky breaths as you make him yours over and over.

The soft little sounds he lets out even at the softest of kisses, the way his perfect lips form around please, the hoarse and desperate sound of his voice as he calls out your name in ecstasy.

Perfect, all of him. And made for this, for you.

You turn your head to press yet another kiss to the heated skin under your cheek, smiling up at Ivar from your place laying on his chest.

There’s still the faint redness on his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, and you still find it disarmingly adorable.

“Still blushing, love?” You tease softly, and Ivar offers a smile that is still part embarrassed and part overwhelmed.

He swallows thickly before answering, “I…It was…interesting, fun, how you…”

“Took charge?” You supply, tilting your head to the side, “You like it when I order you around, love?” You tease, but in the way his eyes widen just a fraction, in the way they fall from yours and his lips part looking for an answer before he fails to give voice to any, you realize the truth. Excited, overjoyed, you whisper, “Oh, you do.”

Ivar frowns slightly, apprehension making his body -previously relaxed and pliant under your touch- tense up.

There’s a slight tremble in his brows, the tell of gritted teeth, when he questions, “Is that…wrong?”

“What? No, of course not,” A small nervous laugh leaves your lips, because Gods, it is not wrong at all, it is so, so right. Your fingers trace the side of his face as you continue, “Ivar, I-…remember what you told me when we went on that first date?”

“The Gods made us to fit together.” He tells you quietly, not missing a beat. You smile.

“Well, in more ways than one it seems.”

“What do you mean?”

Throwing caution to the wind, you sit up and follow the path of your fingers as they go over the marks you left on his neck and collarbones, a small smile on your lips as you ask, “How do you feel about letting me tie you up?”

Perfect lips part in a small little ‘o’, and a gasp leaves him. Ivar’s eyes search yours, looking for the lie, the trick. When he finds none, he smiles, eager and happy.

Being intimate with him, sharing your body with Ivar and, more importantly, maybe, having him share his body with you, has always been something you both had to work for. It took months for him to even let you see him naked without anything covering his legs, it took even longer for him to feel comfortable letting you touch them, or keep him from touching you, or take his sight from him.

It took time, and trials and fails, a lot of talking and honesty, and a lot of adjustments and a lot of trust; but getting here, to this point where he can surrender and offer himself completely to you, you wouldn’t trade this for anything in the world.

“You were so good, love,” You coo softly, though there’s a deviousness in your smile as you move down his body, straddling him and keeping both of your hands on each side of his head. “And you look so perfect like this, tied up and helpless and mine.”

It is at the last word that he makes this soft little sound, tilting his head back and baring his throat to you. Oh, and you want to give in to that siren song, and mark his neck with bites and kisses, and put your hand over his throat tight enough to make him let out the most delectable sighs and moans.

But you resist, keeping your hands off him for the time being.

“If you want me to touch you, Ivar,” You start, a pointed roll of your hips over him. At the feel of his hard cock dragging between your folds a shiver runs down your spine, but it is nothing compared to the tremble you draw out of him, and that is what you focus on. So you do it again, and again, coating his cock in the same wetness that you could still taste on his lips. A whine of your name, and you concede with a light chuckle. Leaning closer, you continue, “You have to beg. You were so good for me, you deserve to feel good, you deserve to come for me, but you have to ask.”

“Th-Thank you.”

“So polite,” You coo, giving in for a slight second and lifting one hand off the mattress to run through his loose hair. He leans into the touch, and you melt. “Now beg, love.”

A barely-there second where you think he will fight, resist. Uselessly as it always ends up being, sometimes he likes pretending he wasn’t made for this, for submitting.

But Ivar’s lips part, and his chest rises and falls in a couple of sharp breaths, before he starts, voice hoarse, “Please, touch me. Please.”

Hearing that simple little word on his voice will never cease to make you lose focus for a moment, and you grind against him again, making Ivar let out a choked shout that once would have been your name.

Deciding to indulge, since he has been so good after all, you let your hands trail over his shoulders, his chest, his sides, greedily taking in the way his breath quickens and his skin flushes at the solace of your touch.

Your mouth trails over his exposed skin too, switching between soft kisses and sharp bites, as you move down his body.

One of your hands stays on him -an old ritual of the two of you by now- as the other grips onto his thigh, and moves his leg to make room for you between them. You always keep watchful eyes on him when you have him like this and decide to touch his legs, for it is still something he struggles with, especially when he can’t see or touch you.

There are days when the pain is worse, and you don’t mean the ache in his bones. And in those days he can’t stand to have you touch them, or even look at them; maybe because he can’t.

You always keep a watchful eye, cautious of those days.

But today isn’t one of those days, and there’s barely any tell in Ivar’s body that shows you he notices -or is bothered- by it.

You settle between his legs, not able to keep yourself from giving the faintest of licks over the tip of his cock, feeling the knot in your core tighten at the salty taste of him.

With your hand wrapped around the base of him, you wait patiently, knowing you don’t need to give him a command now. You do hate repeating yourself, and he knows better by now.

“Please,” He asks, voice hoarse and head falling back against the pillows. You hum, and lean forward the few inches you need to. Your tongue traces the underside of his cock, from base to tip, drawing the most wretched moan out of him. “Gods!”

“I want your words, love.” You insist, letting him feel your faint breaths on his sensitive skin.

Ivar swallows thickly, licking his lips and opening his mouth a few times before he manages any words.

“Please…take me in your mouth, please, please, I-…”

His words die in a hoarse shout, and Ivar’s back arches off the bed when you finally take his cock in your mouth.

The red silk is striking against his wrists, and it keeps him in place dutifully. Still, as a reminder, your hand travels from his hip to the center of his chest, and you push him back with as little strength as you need.

Ivar falls back obediently, breaths fast and desperate, chest rising and falling so quickly under your hand you feel a pang of heat go through you.

And now you don’t bother teasing him, your head moving up and down expertly, drawing pleas and moans and whimpers from him. Your jaw aches a bit, but you continue, trying your best to take all of him; and you go on for long enough that his head lolls to the side and he can only tremble with each expert move of your head, lips parted and a broken litany of hurried breaths leaving him.

Another drag of your nails over the sensitive skin of his chest, and he complies with your wordless command.

“Please…”

You hum around him, and Ivar threatens to rise off the bed with the arch of his back, and he shouts your name. He is getting close.

But you pull away.

“No!” His head turns, searching blindly for you, and he tugs helplessly at the bindings on his wrists, “No, no, no, please, I-I want to come.”

“And you will,” You promise, biting your lip as you take him in. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his hands are curved into helpless fists and still kept immobile by the red silk, his perfect lips are parted and gasping. You don’t bother resisting the urge, and as you crawl your way back up his body you kiss and bite at the skin you find, before claiming his mouth, tasting yourself and letting Ivar taste himself too. He surrenders so easily, so pliantly, so obediently to your kiss, that it makes the knot of heat at your core tighten. When you pull away, you finish, “But after I’ve had my fun.”

“Please,” He intones, head falling once again back against the pillows. And as your hand settles comfortably at the base of his throat, Ivar only swallows, and his breathing becomes more labored, if possible. And you delight yourself in moments like these, where the only words he can remember are please and your name, where he surrenders completely to you, when you have him completely yours, mindless and overwhelmed and desperate. “Please, I-…please, love.”

You cannot help yourself, and you lean forward and kiss him, sealing his pleas against your lips. Ivar moans against your mouth, and it sends a pang of heat through you to hear him wordlessly beg, to hear how desperate he is for the pleasure only you can give him.

There’s still the taste of you in his mouth, and you taste it when your tongue demands entrance to his mouth, that he freely gives, as freely as he gives all of himself to you.

You part from the kiss, and he tilts his head as if trying to chase the feel of your mouth. You chuckle, and decide to take pity -or torture him further, you don’t think there’s much of a difference between them right now- and trail your mouth over his skin.

You trail down his jaw as your hand settles on his chest that rises and falls sharply, and stop near his heart, feeling its quickened beat with a dark pride surging through you. You did this, you make him feel like this.

You bite down softly at the sensitive skin of his neck as two words ring in your head, sounding like Ivar’s own hoarse and pleading voice: only you.

Still, you had a point to make, and after letting your tongue run a slow path up towards that spot under his ear that makes him shiver, you whisper, “Slow down, love, I am nowhere near done with you. You need to calm that breathing of yours.”

Ivar huffs, somewhere in between a laugh and a whine.

“You’re not making it easy,” He quips. Your previously soft touch turns sharper, and you drag your nails down his chest, making sure to get close enough to his nipple to make him arch off the bed, “Ah!”

“Don’t talk back,” You warn sternly, but you betray a smile at the way he swallows thickly, a choked moan kept at bay by stubborn lips that press together. You grab his chin in your hand, and force his lips to part. “And don’t keep any of those pretty sounds of yours from me, Ivar. I want to hear you.”

After a tremulous breath, he asks, voice quiet, “Why?”

You know him well enough to know when he is not-so-subtly asking for praise, and while at any other time you would make him use clear words -and pretty pleas- to earn that praise, tonight you indulge.

“Because I love the sound of your voice,” You tell him softly by his ear, taking his earlobe between your teeth for just long enough to make him shiver, “All those lovely sounds you make for me, they make me so wet, make me want you so much.

You notice his breathing slowed down a bit, and the smile that curves his lips is almost bashful, almost boyish. The gentle warmth of being praised, of being reminded of how wanted and loved and desired he is.

So, you continue, softly, lowly,

“You’re so perfect, love, and you sound so good when you beg, when you moan my name,” As if compelled, as if under a spell, Ivar says your name, a prayer leaving his lips in a low sigh. “I always want to hear you.”

He takes in your words, parted lips that still sport the faintest of smiles.

“I…I want you,” He tells you, and your eyes are drawn to his arms where they strain faintly against the bindings that keep him from touching you. Ivar insists, “Closer. Please.”

“How close, love?” You tease, even as you move to straddle him again, feeling the insistent press of his cock against you. His breathing starts becoming labored again, and you smile, “You want to make me come, Ivar? You think you can?”

“Fuck,” He groans through gritted teeth as you hold yourself over him, one hand low on his stomach, aching to grab a hold of him and guide him inside you. “Y-Yes, I can. I…I want to.”

You offer no words, but with painful slowness, that tortures both you and him, you take him inside you. Feeling the satisfying stretch of his cock inside you, you start moving, slowly at first.

Before long the pleasure builds, and as you move faster and faster above him, you lift one hand from his chest to use your fingers where you’re connected to bring yourself closer to the edge.

Even though he can’t see you, knowing you’re touching yourself as you ride him makes Ivar strin agains the silk bindings, and his breathing shakes and trembles as it leaves his lips.

“T-Tell me, what you’re doing, I-…please.” He begs, one last whisper of please following the low moan of his name you let out before answering.

“You like knowing I can make use of you to make myself feel good, don’t you?” You taunt, your words interrupted by a moan of your own. Your breathing is fast, and your thighs tremble, but you still talk, voice rough and low, “You like it when I have you helpless underneath me, and I make myself come using your body however I want,” Muttered curses and low moans of affirmation are his answer, and you continue, “Hmm, and I like having you for me to do as I please, mine.”

Ivar’s voice raises with a mix of pleas and desperate calls of your name, and seeing him lose himself in you, in the pleasure only you give him, makes you go higher, higher, until you lose yourself.

The aftershocks that travel through you like electricity leave you frozen in time for a few breaths, heart beating fast in your ears and your head tilted back, still feeling him deep inside you, desperate for release.

You start moving again slowly, but before long you pick up the pace, and your hands that previously soothed and caressed now are the sharp but still gentle drag of your nails over his skin, making him shiver and whimper.

“Come for me, Ivar,” You order, a sharp movement of your hips, a conscious tightening of your muscles around him. He gasps, “I want you to come for me.”

His body is pulled tight, a show of restraint in more ways than one, and he still has it in him for one last plea,

“Kiss me.”

The moment your lips press against his, a desperate moan rumbles its way through his chest, and you tighten further around him.

Your mouth moves softly over his, the sharp contrast of your fast movements above him, and with a sharp cry of your name he parts from your kiss, brow pressed against yours, breaths almost one.

Greedy eyes rake over his features as Ivar’s face contorts in pleasure, as perfect, kiss-bitten lips form around the shape of your name over and over as he lets go.

And it is in this, in the way he gives all of himself to you, in the way he surrenders, in the way he becomes yours, in the way he gives in to the pull of the current ant trusts you to take him safely to shore; that you lose your breath, your thought, your heart.

One of your hands stays intertwined with his, the other finding purchase on his chest to keep you moving. And your movements slow down as he comes down, your kisses become more reverent as his body relaxes further and further.

In between soft presses of your lips, you whisper your praise, your reassurance of how well he did, of how happy he made you.

He offers half-formed responses and smiles that look a little mad, but he still sighs your name when you promise I love you against his lips, and that is enough reassurance for you.

Keeping as much of you pressed against him as possible, you reach up and tug on the fastening of red silk, his arm falling limply to the bed, now that there’s no bindings keeping it up. You smile, and reach for the other one, repeating the same steps.

One of your hands runs back and forth over his upper arm as you press a few kisses to the side of his jaw and under his ear.

Ivar hums, happy and content, and you smile against his skin.

“You good, love?”

He hums again, blindly turning to you and tilting his head, expecting the kiss you readily give. You kiss him, softly and lovingly, your hand still absently running over his skin, touching him wherever you can reach, a comfort for him as much as for you.

You tell him quietly that you are going to remove the blindfold, and Ivar nods, a small mumble of thanks to your warning.

“I want to see you,” He demands, and this time when his voice trembles it only makes you cold. You freeze and lift your hands off of him. He sucks in a sharp breath when he doesn’t feel you against him anymore though, “D-Don’t, don’t l-leave me here, don’t-…love, I-…”

Your hands cup his face, and you quieten his panicked words with your touch. Your heart beats wildly in your chest and you hope he doesn’t notice how your hands tremble.

“Ivar, I’m here. Not going anywhere,” You promise, fingers reaching up to skim over the edge of the blindfold, “Do you want me to take this off?”

He nods, a little frantically, “I want to see you. I don’t…I-I can’t know what you’re thinking. You can see me and I, uh, I can’t know what you’re-…”

“Shh, it’s okay.” You whisper, your hand reaching for the back of his head only to be stopped by his own hand gripping onto your wrist.

Wide eyes look at his hand and find only reddened skin, the rope dangling uselessly from the headboard. Ivar’s grip on you is not too tight, but it still speaks of urgency, and you choose not to focus on how easily he broke past your bindings, instead leaning forward and pressing a kiss to the back of the hand that now holds on to you.

“Tell me you love me.” He asks, voice trembling even as he grits his teeth.

Your heart lurches in your chest, and past the need to reassure him, past the instinct to soothe and keep safe you feel a dreaded seed of fear at the tip of your stomach.

“I love you, Ivar, of course I do,” You whisper vehemently, a caress of your free hand on the side of his face, “Nothing changed since I put this on you, sweetheart. Let me look into your eyes and prove it to you.”

You take off the blindfold, and there’s the faint trace of moisture on the corners of his eyes, and your chest pulls tight. But you hold your ground, soft touches as you bring him back to you, back to the certainty and the steadiness of just the two of you.

Pale blue eyes blink a few times before focusing on you, and you cannot stop yourself from making them fall shut once again by leaning close and kissing him, softly and slowly.

A small sound leaves Ivar’s lips as you pull away, somewhere between a complaint and a moan.

“You did so well,” You tell him, a kiss over the corner of his mouth, “This was so fun,” Another kiss, this time on the old scar on his cheekbone. Leaning a bit further back, enough to meet his eyes and smile at him, you tell him, “I’ll be right back.”

A quick trip to the bathroom to get everything in order, and on the way back you grab a bottle of water, taking a few grateful sips as you walk back to the bed. You hand it to Ivar when you return, and he thanks you with a tilt of his head.

You allow yourself to relax against him after he discards the bottle on the nightstand, sighing against his still heated skin.

A small hum of contentment, his hand falling over the arm you draped over his chest, in the barely-there tightening of his grip on you a request for you to get closer.

When you do, Ivar closes the distance and kisses you again, intensity behind the press of his lips on yours even if there’s the undercurrent of being satiated and too-tired to start over in each of his movements. And yours, if you’re honest.

“Thank you.” He tells you quietly, and it is for more than it seems, so you only smile and shake your head.

“Thank you, love.”

He huffs a laugh, turning on his side and you do the same. Ivar lifts one hand to move your hair away from your face, and your eyes are drawn to the faint marks the silk left on his skin, seeing them as yours as the bite marks on his neck and chest, as the trails of pink your nails left on his skin.

“I love you.” He tells you, quietly. It always is a secret, the way the three words leave his lips. Thankfully, long gone is the fear of rejection that used to coat the admission at the beginning, but there’s still a hesitation to it, a shakiness.

And so he always says it like the last words before a dream is to shatter, like the unwavering promise that still carries the irrational fear of happiness is nothing.

“And I love you.” You tell him, moving even closer and accepting the request his hand at the back of your head insists on, tilting your head back and meeting his kiss again.

You lose yourself in the soft and languid feel of Ivar’s kiss, quiet and content and finding solace in the simple feeling of each other’s skin. When you part you are on your back, and he holds himself above you on his elbow.

With one last kiss and a soft press of his brow against yours, Ivar leans his weight on you, moving so that his head rests against your chest, his arm secure around your waist.

With one hand absently tracing his back and the other going up and down the arm that he wrapped around you, you lose track of time.

“You are…” He stops, adjusts himself on his place, before trying again, “You are the best thing that ever happened to me, you know? And I don’t mean because of this, I mean…” Ivar sighs, a barely-there moment where his arm holds you to him a little tighter, and confesses, “I had never known what it was like to feel…safe, loved, before you.”

“Ivar…”

He lifts his head slightly, looks at you, offers you a smile that is a little crooked, as if he isn’t making your heart tremble in your chest.

“You know this already, it shouldn’t surprise you. And you know me, and you love me,” There’s an edge of wonder in his voice when he says that. He looks into your eyes, and promises quietly, “I thank the Gods for you, ever since that first day,” His smile turns surer, a little mad, “I’ll spend the rest of my life with you, woman.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“And what about what I want?” You tease, fingers running through his loose hair.

He goes along with your game, and there’s a shine in his eyes that speaks of familiar defiance.

“Contrary to what you seem to think, princess, I don’t like being denied.”

“I never deny you,” You retort, a light chuckle on your lips, “I just…delay.”

“Hm, I don’t like delays either.”

“I know, you’re too impatient. That’s why I have those.” You motion with your head to the red silk ribbons that hang from the headboard.

Ivar chuckles quietly, but says nothing against it, dropping his head against your chest again and sighing.

Your smile doesn’t dim, even if it becomes softer, move lovesick. You press a kiss over his hair, and with the solid but comfortable weight of him against you, you close your eyes.

____ ____ ____

Hi, thank you for reading! I hope this was okay! Would love to hear your thoughts on this one! Love ya!

Btw, the title is in reference to Fenrir’s Binding with Gleipnir, which is supposed to  be “soft and smooth as a silken ribbon, but (..) sure and strong” (Gylfaginning). I took it to mean the underlying aspects of submission, especially with a gentler domme (how when you tie him up with something he can break easily, it is something stronger than that silk what’s keeping him from breaking free. Same thing with any act of submission, it doesn’t necessarily have to involve bondage of course), and also to refer to the Ivar himself when in that submissive position. Anyway, yes, for that heretic take the Gods probably frown down upon me.

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