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tociminna · 3 months ago

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Pent

This is the first time I've posted a fic in its entirety on Tumblr, so naturally it is ~*dirty*~

Summary: Now that the orb has been temporarily silenced, Gale finds himself in a bit of a dilemma. A man cannot wander the Shadow-Cursed Lands in a constant haze of arousal, can he? No, quite impractical. Possibly unsafe.

He retreats to the privacy of his tent to... address the problem.

(This oneshot takes place between chapters 19-20 of my longfic, The Loom of Fate , but you don't need to have read it for this to be enjoyable. Niamh (mentioned) is my Tav, but I've left her undescribed.)

Rating: E (18+)

Word Count: 2,539

Pairing(s): Gale/his imagination/a custom Mage Hand 🥵😇

Tags: Masturbation, Fantasizing, Inappropriate Use of Mage Hand, Inappropriate Use of Grease Spell (I think they're completely appropriate uses tbh)

AO3 link: Pent (comments much appreciated!)

Story is under the cut! I hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!!

He had walked for the better part of an hour, making several circuits of camp, the graveyard, the inn, with the goal of calming the wayward urges that insisted on rising in him. Scratch had followed, for the first lap, until he realized there would be no throwing of the ball and retired in disgust.

The dog was wiser than he was, Gale thought, returning. The walk had done very little good - the exuberant lovemaking still happening in the little room over the forge could be heard for a considerable distance. The entrance to his tent closed behind him with a faint swish, hardly audible over the crackle of torchlight. Camp, at least, was silent - Karlach was with Dammon in said room over the forge, Halsin was with his patient in the inn, and everyone else was asleep or in reverie.

He dropped to sit on his bedroll, running his hands through his hair, removing the tie that held it back. This was getting ridiculous, he thought, glancing down at the barely visible ripple of light emanating from the orb mark. He had always spent a rather outsized portion of his free time thinking of Niamh, looking at her - perfectly normal for one's romantic interest, he reasoned - but since the orb had been quelled his impulses had become quite absurd.

It was beyond time to do something about it. His plans would take a few days to complete; he would not approach her empty-handed. But he could not walk around in a perpetual fog of lust in the meantime. It was a distraction none of them could afford.

He lay back, head on his arm, his other hand lying on his stomach. There was the obvious route, of course. An old method, tried and true, inelegant, a bit messy, but effective. He had alternatives, as well - there were charms that could soothe desire, or remove it entirely. That… didn't feel right, somehow. At some point in the next few days he would declare himself. He would tell her how he felt, and if she felt the same then they might…

Oh no. They might… but he hadn't. Not since before Mystra, and that had been what, four years ago? Five? He'd be lucky to last thirty seconds, if he didn't fall apart and embarrass himself entirely. No, that would not do. That would not be nearly good enough for Niamh. There was only one way to prevent it.

Gale laughed at himself, under his breath. He'd always been very good at rationalizing the things he wanted to do. And he wanted to do this. For the last year he hadn't even been able to think about it without the threat of death and destruction. It had taken every scrap of magical creativity and willpower he'd had. Now all he had to do was… take the matter in hand, as it were.

He was already half-hard as he moved to undo the laces to his pants. He was slow, deliberate - now that he'd committed to it he had all night, after all. The laces came loose easily, and with a lift of his hips and a brief push he was free. The orb mark glowed steadily, with that strange underwater dimness he’d noticed in the last day or two. It wasn’t bright enough to be seen through his tent; that would have to do.

He found himself nearly trembling as he traced his fingertips between his ribs, down the skin of his side, across a hipbone, slowly getting to know his body again. The hair on his stomach was soft; he followed the trail of it down, to gently encircle his forefinger and thumb around the base of his cock.

He hissed in a breath, and brought that circle up, slowly up, as he hardened, barely making contact with the sensitive skin of his shaft. This was not a grip; it was a guide, and when he reached the head he was fully rigid, cock standing at attention.

It leaked, already, drops beading on the slit. He worked those drops in with his thumb and gasped as a spike of familiar pleasure went through him.

Too much, too fast. Gale took his hand away, and swiftly removed his clothes. Might as well get fully reacquainted, he figured. The light in the tent was dim, but enough to see by, and suddenly he wondered what Niamh was doing, alone in her tent. Was she asleep?

He had a sudden vision of her, lying on her bedroll, fully clothed but disheveled and flushed as she worked a hand between her legs, into the half-open front of her pants. What if, he thought, stroking an open palm down his chest, his stomach. His cock stood stiff on its own, angled up toward his navel, bobbing lightly with his heartbeat.

What if she was as overcome with desire as he was? He knew she felt it - she’d said so, more than once. Sweetheart , she’d called him. Tease . Shameless, he’d called her, delighted with her lack of inhibition. His hand wandered, past his hip. What if she tore those pants off in her frustration, ran her hands down her waist, her thighs… he stifled a moan as he pictured her spreading her legs, sliding her fingers inside herself, visibly glistening with the evidence of her arousal.

His hand moved, both hands, now moving up and down his own thighs. What if she took that lovely wetness and slid her fingers over her clit, he wondered, and gently cupped his balls in one hand. A low moan escaped him at this and he clapped his free hand over his mouth.

Quiet, you ass, he thought. He'd spent years living in a dormitory. He could do this silently if he had to. Had done many times.

Gale closed his eyes and gave himself to visions of her. He rolled his balls lightly in his palm - gods it felt good, it felt incredible - and ran the fingers of his other hand up his shaft, finally taking his erection in a firm grip.

He stroked, slow, as he thought of her, thought of how she might bite her lip in pleasure, thought of how she would raise those lovely hips to meet her hands, both hands now. The mark brightened, dimmed, brightened again, following the rhythm of his accelerating pulse.

He stroked faster, panting a little, wondering what sounds she would make. Wondering what sounds might he pull from her with his hands and his tongue and his cock - and in no time he was pumping in earnest, rocking his hips as he fucked his hand. He should slow down, he should, this was too fast, but gods it felt good. Too soon, almost immediately, a white curtain fell over his vision and he came, the spasms nearly folding him in half. He propped himself on an elbow, gasping ragged breaths as his spend shot freely, painting his chest and stomach and the bedroll.

Gale fell onto his back, breathless and a little disappointed. He dragged his fingers through the come on his chest - goodness, but there was a lot of it - before vanishing it with a gesture. That had been far too quick. He supposed it was to be expected, after more than a year of enforced abstinence.

His thoughts wandered again… would she finish too soon, as well? She had not been constrained as he had. Gale felt a grin spreading across his face as he thought of her in the last month or so, in her tent in the Underdark, suppressing moans of pleasure as she touched herself and thought of him.

If she had done so she'd been very quiet about it - he was a light sleeper, since the orb. But it was a pleasant fantasy, to be sure, and he followed the thread of it for several sweetly enticing minutes until he found himself stirring again.

He had not been quite sure he'd get a second pass at this so soon - he was not a young man, not any longer. But it had been a long time, and gods did he want her. He couldn't remember ever being this consumed by desire, with any other partner. She was different - the way he felt about her was different - and it added a depth and savor to every thought, every moment.

This time he did mean to make it last, at least for longer than a few minutes. He concentrated for a moment, entwining a pair of disparate spells, compressing here and extending there, and… there it was.

A Mage Hand hovered over his thigh, barely visible. He'd found while developing this spell that a glowing spectral hand was not much of a mood enhancer, at least not for him. Thankfully he'd recovered enough of his talents to make this work again.

Gale relaxed, fully, throwing an arm behind his head. He meant to enjoy this, to recover some stamina, to remember what it was like to have a body that was a pleasure to live in. The mage hand stroked his thigh, gripping lightly, and he eased his legs apart enough to give it some access.

It was tempting to throw caution to the wind and let the hand take him in every possible way. It had been an even longer time since he had received, outside the Weave, and he had always loved it. He imagined the hand opening him up, slipping inside him, stroking and working against that hidden sweet spot - best not. That would stretch even his ability to keep quiet.

Instead, the hand stroked him softly from knee to hip, alternating legs, until he was fully hard again. It avoided his cock, still, for the moment, squeezing the meat of his inner thigh, brushing lightly against his balls so that he arched slightly. It teased, played, and he closed his eyes and thought of Niamh again.

She was kneeling next to him, now, naked and splendid with her hair down, her eyes wide with arousal and her lips sweetly parted around the syllable of his name. It was her hand that touched him - her hand that stroked and petted, her hand that wandered over the planes of his chest and stomach, her hand that finally closed around his achingly hard length.

This hand was a special one. He'd designed it to self-lubricate, and it did now, a warm welling of oil that let the hand slide perfectly up and down his shaft. His mouth opened in a silent moan as the heat of it took over his senses, calling an answering fire from within.

His eyes were still closed. It was her hand that glided so smoothly… wait, no, even better - not her hand. In his mind's eye now she rode him, those plush, muscled thighs flush against him, the perfect curve of her hips rolling as she slowly lifted herself and sank again onto his hard cock.

“Oh gods,” he whispered, falling into the fantasy, the hand working, shifting its grip to match the images in his mind. She rocked against him a little faster now, almost too tight, so incredibly wet. Rivulets of warm oil pooled, his balls and the hair on his stomach damp with it, and he put a hand over his mouth again to catch the groan rumbling out of his throat.

If only he could feel the weight of her on him, feel the heat of her skin, see the little frown of concentration on her face as she rode him. Oh, if only he could hear her, put his hands on her, put his mouth on her… the hand sped in its strokes, audible now with a faint squelching sound, incredibly lewd for how quiet it was.

His breath was coming in irregular gasps as the hand worked, varying its grip, tight at the base and a looser, swirling pull at the head. His hips were moving now of their own volition and he let go a helpless whimper at the thought of her sitting on his face while the hand pumped his cock, imagining her luscious scent and taste as he licked her until she begged for release.

He was close now, close, hands clutching the fabric of the bedroll as his hips bucked, the hand motionless now as he thrust upward into it. A coil of heat wound itself inside him, little shocks of intense pleasure coursing down every nerve to feed the tension until he thought he might snap with it.

The coil wound in him, tighter, as he thought of tasting her, his beard soaked as she ground against his tongue and his chin, as her thighs tensed around his face and she called his name, hips convulsing.

The coil snapped and he came, his back arching entirely off the bedroll, letting loose a sharp cry as he spilled into the hand’s pistoning grasp. He managed to muffle any further sound into his closed fist as the hand slowed its strokes, grip still firm, easing him through the deep shudders of his aftershocks.

A moment later and he sank back into the ground, breathing heavily, dismissing the hand. The chill in the air reasserted itself, stealing the heat of his body through the light sheen of sweat that covered him.

Well. That had been… educational, he thought, cleaning the mess and pulling his sleep clothes on. The stamina improvement had been quite satisfactory; if time allowed he’d have to continue, to stay in practice.

He laughed at himself again, at this transparent attempt at justification. It had felt good, so good, in a way that probably had much to do with his year-long deprivation. It was natural to want to do it again.

Gale rolled onto his side, pulling the covers with him, thinking. It had been more than a year, if he thought purely in terms of the physical. During his time with Mystra he had forsworn all corporeal forms of sex, including any self-satisfaction. She had not preferred it and therefore it was not preferable - or that was what he’d told himself.

It could not be that way with Niamh. He would give her all he had - in the Weave or out of it - body, mind and soul, if only she would take it. A tremor of uncertainty went through him. If only she would take it.

Another tremor, deeper, of self-doubt, as he wondered whether it was right to even try. He didn't want to leave her, to leave any of them, but if he had to… would he be the author of unnecessary pain, by drawing closer to her before dying? The thought of hurting her was painful, nearly intolerable.

He remembered what Karlach had said: have you asked her what she wants? It had been a straightforward bit of insight, upending all his useless speculation and rationalizing, all his attempts to anticipate every possible outcome. Moreover, it had been correct. He would abide by his original intention and ask.

Sleep passed by his tent for the next several hours, ignored, as he thought and planned and prepared. It had to be right for her. It had to be perfect. He could not give her less.

#gale smut #gale dekarios #bg3 fanfic #gale fanfic #gale of waterdeep #smut #bg3 smut

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chantsdemarins · 1 year ago

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😅Real Villain Training [Tom Hiddleston circa 2012 X Fem.Reader]

Chapter three of Breath of the Æsir is almost here. I’m SO sorry for the wait! In the meantime, I hope you enjoy a very brief Tom story...

Honestly, I pledged to myself, no more Tom stories just focus on Loki. But I think I just can't help it. Especially when slutty inspiration like this photo comes my way (@lokischambermaid and @lokisgoodgirl 😳)

I am humbled by this era of Tom. In 2024 he is a husband/father/seasoned iconic actor in perpetual good cheer, but in 2012, he was a bad boy. As always please reblog and comment if you feel inspired!

Summary: Tom is hanging out with some real jerks for a new role, and he runs into you, literally. Your depression has caused your life to turn a little black and white, could this handsome stranger possibly add some color back? (at least to your cheeks🥵).

Smut factor: I hope...HOT 🔥

(Authors note: I have no concrete proof he was in fact a bad boy so please don't take seriously my young Tom plot themes of drugs and sex, which once again appear here. I could be totally wrong about him. It's art! It's a fabrication! Also, this story does involve mental health!)

I also don't know who would want to be on a tag list for a Tom fic these days! These are a few people who might be interested?? @lokischambermaid @mochie85 @mischief2sarawr @lokisgoodgirl @wheredafandomat @sailorholly @mrs-illyrian-baby @superficialdomina @gigglingtiggerv2 @fictive-sl0th @muddyorbs @tbhiddlestan83 @huntress-artemiss @smolvenger @kikster606 @mjsthrillernp @hiroyukinasukawa

Los Angeles, 2012

That afternoon, the rooftop pool at the Saint Avalon was a pink swirl of bathing beauties in early spring. Tom tried to focus on his deadpan conversation with his agent, but polka dots and silly cocktails danced around him. He pushed his Ray-Bans back into place, his sweat—or perhaps nervousness—causing them to slowly slide off his nose.

"Serious British actor succumbs to being typecast as a Norse sociopath. That's where this is headed, Tom, if we don’t do something, get you something else.” “Do you really want to be known only for Marvel?” he repeated his plea. The words just weren’t sinking in.

Tom laughed and inadvertently tried to change the subject. "Have you been to the La Brea Tar Pits yet, John? It’s wild—10,000 years' worth of dire wolf bones.”

His stare remained galvanized by the poolside girls. They just didn't look like that in London. Number one, the sunshine. Number two, the tans. Number three, well, his girlfriend—or ex-girlfriend, rather—made it hard to look too long at anyone else. So had he ever found himself at a rooftop pool party, he wouldn't have had the chance he was having now.

“Tom, are you paying attention? This is important. You're only here for a week, and we need to move on this role. I need to know if you're a yes.” The truth was, Tom was suddenly filthy rich with his own money for the first time in his life. He really loved being a Norse sociopath and already had big ideas for Loki’s eventual character arc into becoming an anti-hero someday. He had filled three journals on his bedside stand with his ideas for Loki.

His agent tried again, “Just hang out with Giorgio. It’s less than a month. Then the movie should be a very easy shoot. You get to embed yourself with some real hedge fund cats.” Tom’s attention snapped back. “Wait, I like that.” “Right? It’s like if Loki worked on Wall Street.” “Well…” Tom hesitated. He didn’t think Loki would actually ever bore himself that way. Those guys were boring to Tom and to Loki.

His poor agent was right, though. He did need another role. Things had gone so well; filming for the next Avengers movie was starting this summer. If he could find another gig, a time filler, a totally different genre, it really would be the best for his career. “Then a play next,” the agent mused, taking a sip of his own cocktail. “Shakespeare, or something 70s.” “70s? As in the 1570s? Or the 1970s?” “Tom.” “How should I know?” Tom laughed to himself, eyes still canvassing the poolside display around him. His agent leaned across his lawn chair and placed his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “So, you’ll do it?”

Two Weeks Later

Deep down, he knew he didn’t have the dissociation required for the job. He was too corporeal, too embodied. Years of being a long-distance runner and a trained athlete had fastened his mind, heart, and soul firmly into his muscles. He clearly wouldn’t be able to hide his feelings in his highly emotive, sensitive body. That was the first thing he noticed about the guys he was forced to hang out with for this role. They were covered up with their suits and sexist jokes. It was like they had Hadrian’s Wall around them. Which was, in fact, what exactly led to his sudden departure from the bar at Rue 23.

He had been embedded with short and loud Glen, buzz-cut Ellis, and the tall and lanky, just like him, Brad Nelson. There were a few others, but they were too milquetoast to be memorable. Role be damned. He left so fast the thick glass door almost hit a nice young couple as he bolted into the cold Los Angeles spring night.

He wasn’t dressed right; in his haste to leave London, he didn’t remember that California got into the 40s after the sun went down. He didn’t even pack a suit coat. Thank God he remembered to grab his leather pack from under the bar. It contained exactly five cigarettes, a finicky Zippo, his aftershave, a white t-shirt, and a travel toothbrush. There might also be a rolled-up Popular Mechanics magazine from the Burbank airport, something he never would be caught dead reading at Heathrow.

He also hadn’t done so much coke since he was in college. Why was LA always so incredibly cliché? He couldn’t blame Luke. He couldn’t blame anyone but himself for this role. He said yes when he was distracted. He was in over his head. They had hired these real blokes to make sure Tom looked authentic when they started filming next month, and given his intense drive for perfection, he had agreed that it was “brilliant” of the casting director to force the eight of them to spend these weeks in Los Angeles and one week in Manhattan, in a true immersive centrifuge of shallow materiality.

The night spun around him, a neon ball of yarn, teasing open his pupils until his eyes were black and not at all blue. As he walked, he ran his large hands down the surface of his body, the material of his shirt feeling like a fancy pillowcase from a boutique hotel.

One finger lingered over his jawline, tracing it as he brought his hands back up to his face. Engrossed in the comfort of his form a moment too long, he was distracted once again. This part of LA seemed to always be full of clusters of locals and tourists, laughing and talking. He was unfortunately moving against the flow of the crowd, a wayward salmon when he almost ran straight into you.

“Watch where you're going!” you yelled, dropping your purse onto the dirty LA sidewalk. It opened enough for your things to tumble out. Tom immediately stopped and bent down to help you, but you batted his hands away. “What the hell? I can pick up my own damn Chapstick,” you scolded. “Ma’am, I am so sorry, I am obviously not from here, and I am a little overwhelmed,” he rattled off. “Why is that obvious?” “My accent, of course.” “I didn’t honestly notice,” you spoke as you inspected the tall man’s face with squinting eyes.

You, of course, did immediately notice the timbre of his voice, his height, and the buttons on his tight shirt which looked like they were in the process of unbuttoning themselves. “Would you believe I’ve been doing coke all night with a bunch of Wall Street assholes at the Rue 23, and I had to get the fuck out of there,” he continued, not sure if you were listening, but you were definitely looking at him, so he continued.

“So now I am wandering the streets of Beverly Hills, and I haven’t the foggiest how the rest of my night will go.” You shuffled your feet for a moment before speaking. You had been heading home after a long day at work. You felt genuinely unprepared for navigating a handsome foreigner in the right direction. Yet there was a certain appeal to a man suddenly without his ship or his crew, so to speak. So you didn’t immediately walk away.

He had been shuffled from the airport to the bar in a hired car, he tried to explain, and his sense of direction bordered on problematic. Further, his flip phone was really only good for texting, and that even took way too long most days. He really did seem high, overwhelmed, and a little lost. He also seemed the type unable to handle any silence in a conversation.

“Do you live far?” he said after suffering through 30 seconds of no discourse. “It’s LA, everything is far.” “Fair enough,” Tom muttered sheepishly, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, which were still somehow unbuttoning themselves. He thought he had bought the right size shirt. Maybe not.

You realized that if you were to ask this too-high, too-hot British man back to your apartment, you would inevitably cave and end up sleeping with him just because he caught you in this particular moment of your life. It was an in-between time. You weren't quite your old self and your new self that you'd been working so hard on, hadn't emerged yet.

“Want to grab something to eat?” You finally offered a neutral segue. That seemed to be just what the man needed to hear. His demeanor calmed. “Oh sure, yes, I could go for a big American cheeseburger, honestly.” “Okay then, let’s go to Patty’s on Vine, we can walk,” you said as you pulled at his shirt to turn him toward the right direction. He bristled at the feeling of your touch.

His whole body was even more sensitive than usual. You looked like the queen of the ancient British Iceni to him. In truth, he didn’t much care for the California look. He loved that you appeared out of nowhere and you looked like Boudica, not like Gwyneth Paltrow. Even though he was sure he heard she was nice. RDJ seemed to really love her.

The diner where you were headed was the second-tier after-hours hang, so it wasn’t populated with the usual crowd, not yet at least. You had some time before you would be inundated, and perhaps before someone would recognize him, which you still did not. You could ask him, of course. Although, sometimes in Los Angeles, the worst part is knowing who someone is.

Although Tom being Tom was unable to resist personal questions. “Tell me a little bit about yourself, just a little,” he had to ask as the night air propelled him quickly down the sidewalk. You considered telling him about your job, but it was just how you paid the bills. Your passions were your passions and not for a stranger. So you decided to be a little goth. It couldn't hurt.

“I have something like anhedonia, I suppose,” you finally said. Tom seemed to know what you meant right away. “The inability to feel?” He spoke. “More classically refined, which results in numbness, making capturing interior somatic sensations nearly impossible,” you clarified. “Sounds like you are depressed,” Tom flattened out your creative retelling of your current state. “Maybe,” although you weren't sure of his simple label. "You think it will pass?" Tom continued, ever the optimist.

You considered one way to try and test if this state you'd been in could possibly change, would be to see if he could provoke feelings of passion or at least some kind of low-grade horniness. You’d been feeling functionally blank for a while now.

He was stunning, after all.

He seemed game for anything, his amphetamine grin taking up the majority of his handsome face. He looked so lovely under the hanging light in your dingy booth. You ate the two-egg special you ordered and watched him devour his American cheeseburger with genuine joy.

“So, you're here to practice for a new part?” You sincerely tried to keep the conversation flowing despite the growing desire to test your theory. “Yes, they want me to branch out. In my career, there’s the fear I am already 'type-casted,' I guess you could say.” “Type-casted? So early on?”

He looked young to you. Possibly younger than you actually. “Yes, I had a big role as a villain, it really blew up, but, he's like a mythological comic book one. I am misunderstood mostly. I mean my character, not me.” "Sure." You nodded in understanding and agreed even if you didn’t quite pick up what he was putting down. You wondered if he had ever seen 'The Last Starfighter.' A favorite movie of yours, you rarely shared with anyone else. Or had he been in that? Your mind wandered. You really didn't recognize him, but you also didn't want to offend him by this fact.

“So how would this role be redefining your abilities? If you are playing a heartless hedge fund dude, isn’t that also a kind of villain? Maybe that is why you got this part.” Tom pondered your insight. He again fell into overthinking and was only a text away from bailing on the entire endeavor. He was becoming that kind of guy, emotionally uneven under his elite veneer.

“I guess they feel like I don’t have the chops to be a 'real world' baddie.” “I needed more practice.” “You don’t?” you said very timidly, suddenly you weren’t hungry anymore. You gently pushed your plate aside so you could focus.

You realized his bromance compadres would find him eventually. Another LA truth: it was hard to get truly lost for long. You had been studying his face during the conversation. His pale complexion was slowly becoming flushed in small increments. Was it shyness or a hidden boldness he was bursting to demonstrate, you couldn't tell.

You had worn your espadrilles today, maybe it wasn’t the right season yet, but they always went so well with your outfit-a flowery dress from H&M. Gently and playfully, you kicked one of them off your foot, making a soft thud. Tom dipped his eyes beneath the table for only a moment and brought them back to you, a new flash of crimson emerging. Why were you taking off your shoes? Maybe your feet hurt from the walk?

He picked up his water and chugged almost all of it.

Your right leg lifted up and found purchase exactly between his, landing on the soft seat. Tom chuckled nervously and grabbed your foot. “Just what are you doing?” “I thought you were in training to be a real villain. Or did I misunderstand that?” You teased. Tom’s sincerity and earnestness were effulgent. “Oh no, I am, I really want the part, I need this role.” Suddenly when the idea of something illicit going on beneath the table loomed, he was not reticent about this new role. “Then you better continue to practice.” You laughed, your own smile forming across your face. “How long do we have until they find you?” You inched your foot closer to his crotch.

Tom took a deep breath in and pulled out his flip phone eyes squinting, trying to see the rectangle text banner across the tiny screen. He held the phone up to you. “Can you read this at all?” You grabbed it from him, feeling his hand shaking a little. It was charming. He was nervous.

You read the tiny screen aloud, “Not really, something about where are you at…you wanker, we are about to call your agent." It did say exactly that, and you wondered if possibly Tom was throwing away this role. Were you watching him collapse his career before your eyes? “Are you one for self-sabotage Tom?” The question seemed to catch him off guard. Maybe no one had asked him so bluntly. “Maybe,” he said after a long minute of typing something on the seemingly minute phone with his long fingers and even larger hands. “Just like I am possibly depressed," you offered. He looked up and sat his phone down. “Yes, I think so. Just like that.”

Incoming

Just then the waitress came by filled your water glasses and gave you another quick refill of coffee. Your chosen sobriety was a strange foil to Tom’s imbibed stimulant cocktail which showed no sign of waning. “So, are we on?” He finally said after biting his bottom lip, for what seemed like a year, until it was slightly puffy.

“For what? A staring contest?” You offered, laughing nervously too, your foot still stationed between his thighs. You wondered what you could accomplish at this hour with the looming threat of an incursion at any moment.

The glimmer in his dilated orbs registered that Tom was now aligned in a mission of testing the perpetuity of your anhedonic state. Suddenly under the table, you felt his long legs spread yours apart, like opening a long-closed window that had been painted over.

You gasped but didn’t say anything. He laughed and widened his legs further. You moved your eyes to watch him under the table, his hand reaching down to adjust his cock, which was obviously becoming hard.

At that moment you wanted to jump over to his side of the booth, you wanted to concede and take him to your far away apartment in embarrassing Marina Del Rey.

Tom went silent and finally let go of your bare foot, he had been holding it so hard with his other hand, that you were sure it would be bruised. You immediately placed it on his now impossibly hard cock, tenting his pants obscenely. Honestly, you’d never given a “foot job” before and only seen something like this in a French film once. You had no idea what you were doing.

You slowly began to move your foot up and down his length, which was quite impressive and required more force than you had anticipated. You curled your toes around him to try and create more friction, dragging your heel just at the base.

You placed your hands on the edge of the diner seat so you could put some real weight into getting him off. That seemed to work, and Tom let out a guttural moan. He quickly grabbed your water glass and drank it in addition to his own.

“Should I stop?” You let yourself wonder out loud. “Are you crazy? No.” Was Tom’s quick reply. “Does this feel good?” “Fuck yes.” His voice was breathy, and he shifted in his seat, daring to look around at the customers, but none showed any sign of noticing anything other than themselves. “But this isn’t fair,” he spoke again softly, panting. “How so?” “Because I am um, I am receiving.” “Aren’t you supposed to be a selfish cold surface-level junior business asshole?” “Yes.” “Then this is what they do, they get foot jobs in diners, amongst other perks of course,” you laughed. “Shit, you’re right,” Tom barely squeaked out.

Just then the diner door opened, and you could see the dim faces of the guys he had been partying with. They finally found him. “Don’t look now but your Republican friends have arrived.” Tom’s flush became pale. “Should I stop?” You checked in again. “No.” His response was as clear as mid-day.

So, you increased your speed, you took a deep breath. You were so turned on at this point. You were positive there would be a wet spot on the cracked vinyl seat. You lifted your skirt up further. Tom noticed and peered beneath the table again. He saw your hand brush past your underwear and a finger curl inside the lace trim. You matched his erratic breathing to your motions as you fucked yourself intently. His eyes were glued to you, his fists almost punching into the flimsy placemats. You laughed to yourself about the chances of you both coming in public, surely, he wouldn’t, or you couldn’t.

You were about to mention that perhaps you should stop. When suddenly Tom let out a muffled cry. His breath hitched. You could feel moisture beneath the bottom of your toes as you brought your foot back to the tip of his generous cock once more. “Ah, I see,” you laughed. "Well looks like we are done here." There was no more time to discuss what just happened. The bros had spotted him and you and made their way to your back corner.

Tom closed his eyes in what looked like a silent prayer. He had just had one of the best orgasms of his life. The short blond one with cropped hair spoke up, “Hiddleston, where the fuck have you been, your agency was about to call the cops, which would have been lame.”

“Hiddleston,” you said his surname out loud. Realizing you never got his last name. Tom looked at you with both lust and remorse. Then turned back to the assholes. “You found me, good work,” he said assuredly. “Well we gotta go dick we have a strip club that closes at 3am and it’s in the contract that we take you there.”

Tom slowly got up and used one of his long fingers to expertly untuck that white button-down shirt to conceal the mess you had both made. He looked your way, the pale blue of his eyes returning.

You exchanged numbers for the pleasantry of it, as the assholes looked on impatiently, probably wondering why Tom was wasting his time on a girl who looked like Boudica, but that's just what assholes do you remembered. Although you really didn’t expect to hear from him again. To your surprise right before dawn, perhaps as he was leaving said strip club, a text came over your Blackberry.

“I hope you felt something, I know I did.” Shit.

You did feel something, a lot of things actually. Tom had brought something back to the solemnly plain bagel of your life. You quickly wrote back.

"Don't let the bros see you texting me Tom, you laughed knowing he was probably squinting and barely able to see your words. You picture all of them looking over his shoulder.

"They went home. Can I come over? I feel like we aren't done quite yet. My asshole-in-training self expires at sunrise and I turn back into the real me. Is that okay?" You blinked a few times just to make sure you saw that correctly. "So you're actually Cinderella," you laughed nervously.

You managed to type your address and push send before pulling your covers over your head and screaming quietly enough to not wake up your still-slumbering roommates. You then looked around your room in quiet delightful horror, you had about 30 minutes to hide all your dirty clothes from the past three months under your bed...

#Tom Hiddleston #Tom Hiddleston x Reader #Tom Hiddleston fan fic #foot lover #meet cute

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starrysnowdrop · 11 months ago

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A little Hali question, if I may?

Sharlayan is obviously a little bit chilly and Northern and, post-Calamity, Ishgard is locked into a perpetual frozen winter (although growing up under the artificial warmth of the "sun" in Labyrinthos might have been a little bit warmer...)

What did she make of hotter climates, such as Thanalan or Thavnair? Did she have a wardrobe suitable for the heat already prepared? Or did she have to quickly obtain some more suitable outfits once she arrived? Did she find any aspects of life in tropical climates surprising or startling?

Is she feeling prepared for adventuring in the New World? Hopefully she has some outfits planned that are elegant, but also practical for the range of climates she might encounter?

Yay another Mimble ask!!! 🎉 I’m sorry that it took me a while to respond, but I very much have been seriously lacking in spoons lately and I finally have the time and energy to write out all my thoughts on this well thought out question. So let’s get into it!!

As you mentioned before, yes, Hali is Sharlayan, but she was born and raised in Labyrinthos, not Old Sharlayan proper. As Labyrinthos was designed to be a temperate climate, it was always warm and comfortable, as Hali never had to wear a coat or anything of the sort unless she ventured up to the surface. Usually her grandparents would visit Hali in Labyrinthos, so her visits to the surface were few and far between. She wouldn’t be exposed to the cold for extended periods of time until she attended the Studium, and by that point, her body was acclimated to the warm climate simulated in Labyrinthos.

Therefore, Hali doesn’t do well with either extreme, neither heat nor cold. In Old Sharlayan and later on in Ishgard, Hali would never go outside without her coat or her heavier Astrologian robes, and you can ask Aymeric how cold her hands and feet can get. 🥶

When Hali left Sharlayan to become an adventurer, she first came to Ul’dah, the birthplace of her maternal grandmother. She bought and packed some lighter weight clothing, but she was still not prepared for the heat, and whenever outside, she was suffering. She hates sweating and she stayed inside as much as possible. Over the years, Hali was gotten a bit better with the heat, but she still hates being sweaty. 🥵

Currently Hali and Aymeric are awaiting their voyage to Tural, and because Hali has been informed that there are some warmer climes, she has planned accordingly, as she will initially be wearing the Night’s Blessed robes that were gifted to her by Runar. The top is lightweight fabric and the skirt is made from a breathable cotton, so she hopes that will be appropriate for traveling in Tural.

I believe that’s all I’ve got for now! Once again, thank you so much @mimble-sparklepudding for the well thought out ask!!! It’s always a pleasure to answer your questions my friend!! 🥰💖

#asks and replies #mimble asks

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eldritch-spouse · 1 year ago

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Smash or Pass, traces of Sylvian from fear and hunger.

The og milf

Girl let me crawl in that ribcage. 🥵

Smash. I wish we could see more of the world when Sylvian had a good hold on it, you know? Some of the descriptions of there just being writhing masses perpetually undulating in pleasure are so good...

#smash pass game

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punishtickledish · 29 days ago

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No more punishments! She cried out.

Hope she doesn't forget she owns us a full bare chested photo on her favorite hiking trail.

Oh! And also, don't forget she's permanently punished on my blog!

Gmgmgmgmg!!! Noooo!!

That's why I'm waiting out here for a little bit before I return to my main blog. I have even bigger punishments waiting for me there. 🥵

And nooooo stop reminding people!! It's like a perpetual punishment!!! 😫

#tickle punishment

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thegamingcatmom · 2 years ago

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Good afternoon, darling Cat Mom! 💖 I hope that today is treating you well.

I am here to take up space in your ask box again with more questions about your version of our lovely Maggot Mommy. 🥰

In the film, Ellie’s physical body dies in the process of the possession taking hold, and is at least dead for a short period of time. ( Whilst she’s tucked up in bed. ) This is why she has the delightful blueish-grey tint to her skin. 😻

So, for your own personal version of Maggot Mommy.. Do you see her physical body to still be completely dead, or is her body alive again now that she is possessed? Or perhaps you see her as undead.. in the way that zombies are both dead but alive?

Does your Momma have a beating heart? Circulating blood? Does she have any specific bodily functions that still work? Or any bodily functions that still require use / attention? ( For example, eating / drinking? Going to the bathroom? Getting wet? 😏 )

Is your Momma warm to the touch, or does she feel cold? Perhaps certain parts of her feel warm, and other parts feel cold? For example, her skin may be icy cold like a corpse, but her mouth / tongue is still hot? Or maybe rather than feeling cold, Momma is actually hot to the touch,? Like a perpetual fever, from being inhabited by a demonic entity?

I am an absolute sucker for details, so I want to know everything that there possibly is to know. 🙊

Sending love and clawed Momma hair strokes your way x 🖤

Well hello there lovely! 🥰💕 I´m doing quite well, thanks for asking. 🥰

Hbu dear? You better stay hydrated in this weather! ☝🏼🫗

Oh please DO feel free to take up as much space as you wanna with all your delicious, detailed questions. Details are my weakness! 🥵🥵🥵

Ohhh, these are some questions indeed ALNALSDNFASDNLFÖ. My brain´s already tingling, lemme tell ya. Love them! 😍

AIGHT SO,

...damn, that´s actually quite complicated lmao. Like, Momma´s dead but at the same time she´s not.

I like to think that a part of Momma - the Ellie part - is defo dead, rotten, has ceased to exist because otherwise that demonic entity wouldn´t have been able to take over. A body can´t have two residents, two souls (even if one of them is rotten to the core) and while split personality actually does exist irl that is a whole other topic and has nothing to do with demonic entities taking over (and I, in no way, mean to downplay that disorder or make fun of it).

So, when I say Ellie I´m talking about the very soul, the spirit.

Ellie had to die in order for that demon to take full control over mind and body. But, at the same time, while It doesn´t require vital functions like respiration, digestion, excretion or a beating heart to simply be, the (Ellie) shell It inhabits does. And, as with any housing, you gotta take care of it and do some maintenance so it doesn´t start falling apart over time.

So if that entity plans on getting comfy then It gotta keep the "house" in shape, lest it starts rotting.

So yes, that body IS still alive and kicking in a way because It makes it so in order to be up and about in actual, physical form. It´s like a parasite latching onto and taking over another life form to be able to thrive which is only possible if the parasite doesn´t kill its host.

Now, as for your deliciously detailed questions about Momma´s inner workings as well as her body´s temperature...I think it´s not a matter of if it happens but when. Because that body is still active in some way but, at the same time, not active enough to pass as a real human being. Meaning, the body being "alive" is not a permanent state but rather...it´s remaining on standby until the situation requires for it to "wake up". Or until it´s starting to protest because Momma keeps neglecting it because she doesn´t know how to human, at all.

So, Momma can be warm to the touch and can have a beating heart and circulating blood and she can have bodily functions that still require use...if the entity wills it or the situation requires/triggers it. My latest post is actually a good example of what a trigger might look like because her darling Drama Queen getting manhandled like that surely triggered quite a bit in Momma, made her boiling with rage and if someone were to (be foolish enough to) touch her in that moment they might actually hear a hiss! because Momma is literally boiling. Overcome with a fury you do not wanna witness.

(Btw, I absolutely love your idea of Momma being quite hot to the touch because of the fever she might´ve been suffering ever since that parasite took over. 👌)

Sometimes a situation requires certain bodily functions though and now the aforementioned maintenance comes into play. Like, yknow, making sure the facade hasn´t got any cracks and frequently unclogging any drains that require it and mowing the lawn and-

So, at some point, the body will give out these signals when something ain´t right. Be it dehydration, starvation or near passing out from a lack of oxygen because Momma does tend to forget us meek humans kinda need that stuff to survive - wimps.

However, as I´ve said before, it´s not permanent but more like a refill, like someone refueling their car - enabling them to continue driving over a longer period of time before the next refill is needed. Momma´s filling her tanks, so to speak.

However...given the right motivation...if SOMEONE desired her to...demanding her to get all hot and bothered there´d be no hesitation, Momma´s on it - body heating up in milliseconds - and you actually start to sweat a bit already-

(I also feel it necessary to mention that Momma can heat up any part of that body...separately. The choice is all yours... 😏🔥)

I´d say she´s rather cold to the touch by nature though because that body has died already and runs on standby most of the time now.

So, to summarize:

It - the evil entity - is the main source of power that keeps everything running, the brain if you will. In order to exist in physical form It needs a host though. Enter Ellie shell (I´m sorry girl 💔).

Ellie shell needs constant maintenance to be able to run smoothly though. So It better take good care of Shellie because no body = no hands or tongue or anything to smother her darling Drama Queen with, climb into her and be one now and forever-

(It has to be said though, it does help with the maintenance that Maggot Momma´s got a rather excellent wound healing.)

Oh! One thing I´ve been wanting to mention as well is the fact this demonic entity knows stuff only human!Ellie could´ve known. Like the fact she calls aunty Beth "Bethy Boo" or "groupie (slut)" or just being quite maternal in general, albeit in a very deranged way. All signs that there´s a connection and Ellie is still there somewhere but not really present, it´s more like an echo.

(And now I´ve actually made myself fucking sad - mourning Ellie and thinking about how she deserved so much better. 😭💔)

But yeah, I like to imagine the whole process of being half dead and coming back to life again, systems booting up only if necessary, works similar to someone bridging their car because I asked Google because I´m a nerd and this is what it says:

"...where two channels are combined to produce one channel with maximum output power."

I think this hits the nail right on the head. ☝️

Tysm for your ask. I hope I was able to answer your deliciously detailed questions equally as delicious and detailed. 🥰🥰🥰

#evil dead rise #maggot mommy #deadites #evil dead rise...but gayer #alyssa sutherland #ellie bixler

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