#so like. SOFT FACES AMIRITE

[tadbitfooled]

friend got done with the fight and I was talking about the romance scene...But like. Soft faces?? love them. I just love the expressions in this game in general.

[thatgoddamngingerundercut]

‘Butter’ Jacket Shoot Sketch Day Three - Suga

[webdollzz]

a/n: a big thank you to @starfxkrinc for letting me use tp!jj for kinktober! kicking off with a bang amirite. i hope i did him justice <33 happy halloween month!! 🎃

warnings: trailerpark!jj x fem!reader. bdsm? large age gap (legal doooeee), pnv, punishment, dacryphilla, dubcon??? tp!jj being his mean self as allwayysss. don���t like don’t read! you’ve been warned!

as you usually did, you thought you could get away with being a brat unscathed. being bitchy and rude towards jj all day, then teasing him at work — all in all, you were begging for it to happen. it being jj pounding into your pussy and ruining it.

he ignored your cries — tried to anyway, — his eyes never straying from where you’re connected, watching the way your tight cunt has to stretch to accommodate him. your nails drag down his chest as you bitch and whine at him, making him huff through his nose with frustration.

“shut the fuck up sweetpea, ‘kay? you were askin’ for this.” he growled, making you screw your face up at him.

“n-nuh uh! you’re a fuckin’ liar.” you half complained, half moaned.

he glared at you, his fingers leaving a bruising grip onto your hips as he fucked your cunt like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

one hand left your hip, wrapping firmly around your throat and squeezing hard enough that your moans are now limited to little strained squeaks.

he put almost all his weight into that arm, the other forcing your hips still to the bed so that he could use your cunt until he was done.

your hands pushed and clawed at his wrists, lip wobbling as you tried to gasp for air — tears streaming down your face and mascara staining your cheeks.

“quit fuckin’ scratching me!” he tightened his hand around your neck, making your eyes roll back and a hardly there sob fall from you.

his eyes flickered back down to your pussy swallowing him whole, dripping down onto the old, used sheets. he looked back up to your hands pushing at his chest and clawing at him, letting out an frustrated grunt as he slowed his thrusts.

he released you, and just for a moment, you thought he was going to stop — until you fluttered your eyes open and saw him leaning over to grab something from one of his dingy shelves above his bed. duct tape.

you made a pitiful attempt of pulling away, shaking your head with a whine but he shoved you back down, using one large hand on your chest to keep you down.

taking the edge between his teeth, the hiss of the tape accompanied your whimpers and little “no”’s and “i’m sorry”’s.

he grabbed your wrists, his hand fitting both, and wrapped the tape around them so you couldn’t push him away. you continued to whine and complain, making him rip off another piece with his teeth and putting it over your mouth, slapping it gently to make sure it was stuck nicely. you cried, looking up at him through your wet lashes as he stared down at you.

he doesn’t think he’d ever get tired of making you cry.

he tucked a hair behind your ear, thrusts picking up very slowly, merely a grind.

“you’re makin’ me do this, sweetpea, y’understand that?” he asked, voice surprisingly quiet and soft for what he is. you gave a pathetic nod, sniffling as you whined muffedly. he leaned down, kissing your lips through the tape as he began ruining your perfect pussy once more.

“such a good little girl.”

[my-name-is-apollo]

So, Apollo and jewellery!!

I want to start off by saying that Apollo (or any male god, really) wearing jewellery is not a common occurrence in the ancient greco-roman art forms. So there's not a lot you can get, but I've put together whatever I've found so far.

On the vase paintings, you'll find body chains across his chest and there's bracelets too:

^ He also has a leg bracelet in this one

In this painting, along with a body chain and a bracelet, there's a thigh band and a finger ring as well.

Then we have waist belts. I did entertain the possibility of this being an embroidered belt. However in the first image, the belt is gilded with gold, so imo it's meant to be a belt with gilded gold, if not made entirely of gold.

In this Etruscan painting representing Apollo going to/coming back from Hyperborea on a swan, he's wearing necklaces.

Apollo wearing a necklace and an arm band seems to be a fairly common sight in the Etruscan art (so Aplu, technically ig), as seen in these two statuettes:

and some Etruscan mirror arts:

Now moving onto the diadems! A diadem referred to something you could tie your hair with - it could be a ribbon, a wreath of fresh leaves, or a jewelled wreath/head piece - it's the last one that I'm counting as jewellery. Diadems like the one Apollo is wearing below were usually worn by noblewomen.

You can also find depictions of Apollo with a jewelled wreath on his head. They resemble a laurel wreath, but they're made of gold, and have gems embedded. Here's a statue for example:

There are also Roman frescos and mosaics that show you what it actually looks like in color.

And here, you can see not just a gold diadem, but also bracelets on both his hands as well as anklets on his legs:

And there's what seems to be earrings as well? But honestly I'm not that sure, it could just be a damage on the fresco (even if that's the case, we can still appreciate the winged eyeliner amirite)

There's also this fresco of Apollo judging a beauty contest between Venus and Hesperus. Here he is not wearing a gold wreath, but there is a gold band upon his head:

And unlike other pieces of jewellery, you'll find literary references as well for Apollo's diadem:

"When Apollo was born, Zeus equipped him with golden headband and lyre and gave him also a chariot of swans to drive" – Alcaeus, Hymn to Apollo (trans. David A. Campbell)

"Apollo puts his hair in order by shaping his flowing locks with soft foliage and braiding it with a golden diadem." – Virgil, Aeneid 4 (trans. Ingo Gildenhard)

"...he fastens bay about his lyre and the woven brilliance of his coronet, and ungirds his breast of the pictured girdle..." – Statius, Thebaid 6 (trans. J. H. Mozley)

"But you will say, Phoibos has a goldgleaming diadem." – Nonnus, Dionysiaca 4 (trans. William Henry Denham Rouse)

[Inscription]: "Apollo the mighty, Lord incomparable of the Diadem, who hath set up statues of the Gods in this kingdom" – Ammianus Marcellinus, History 17 (trans. John Carew Rolfe)

[Inscription]: "Mighty Apollo, seated upon truth, Lord of the Diadem, who hath gloriously honoured Egypt as his peculiar possession" – Ammianus Marcellinus, History 17 (trans. John Carew Rolfe)

And that's pretty much everything I've come across so far. I was a bit surprised at the lack of literary references for the effeminate gods. Not just Apollo, even Dionysus' effeminacy is described by his fair face and long hair and perfumed garments, and there are no mentions of jewellery afaik. But of course, just like with Apollo, you can find jewellery on Dionysus in the visual arts.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Observant

Being the Hand's young, second wife came with a lot of responsibilities, one of which was mellowing the frustrations of your husband.

Otto Hightower x Reader | 1k+ | cw: fem!reader, wife!reader, age difference/age gap, smut (piv, slight dub con, degradation kink, breeding kink, overstimulation, anal fingering, dacryphilia, sadism, praise kink) fluff I guess, typos, etc.

A/N: so i made a poll on what to write and fluff won and this is literally pwp but it has a fluffy ending (???) so it counts HAHAHAH IDK OTTO BRAIN ROT. LOBOTOMY ME IDC I HAVE TO GO TO WORK NOW BYE. A great day to be an otto fucker amirite HAHAHAH cross posted on ao3

You take in a breath the moment you reach the Hand's office. A chill runs down your spine as the night air seeps through your robe and night dress.

In truth, you figured your husband would have appreciated not being interrupted by you, though his pointed instruction otherwise, but there was another truth you answered to: that is, the ache between your legs that your fingers could not quell.

Even now, there was a heat that spread, which only intensified at the thoughts you knew would come to life the moment you knocked on your husband's office door. So you do.

"Who is it?" the deep voice snapped with as much intensity as a rabid dog.

Your belly instantly rolls. You rub is as you tighten your robe with one hand. The other, which was holding your lamp, shivers under its weight. You weakly manage to muster, "tis I, my lord."

A beat of silence.

You stiffen at the sound of heavy footsteps marching your way. A soft gasp leaves your lips when the door swings open and the face of the Lord Hand was glares at you.

"What is it, girl?" Otto hisses, both his hands resting on the sides of the door opening. His frame overwhelms you. His eyes are tired and his jaw is tense. 

Yes, you did always feel like some petulant little girl under the scrutiny of your much older husband. You lick your lips and exhale deeply to calm yourself. Simply, you remind him of his own words from earlier today, "tis the hour of the owl."

Lord Hightower is unmoved.

"I've come to fetch you."

A vein at the side of his neck threatens to pop. He pulls away and heads to his desk, "I have much to do, thanks to the fucking king."

You purse your lips at his words, thinking about the said man. Aegon was around your age, if not a bit younger, and at some point you had been friends, until you were promised to his grandfather.

You walk up to Otto's side and he rather instantly makes a spectacle of his abundant papers. He rants heatedly about it for a good moment, before turning to you. His face is worn and his shoulders squared, "I will not waste my time further by explaining this to you. Leave."

Otto places a hand on your bum and pushes you off. You budge, for after all, he was a man much bigger than you, even if no longer in his prime. Your hand darts to his desk to keep yourself upright, and the hand holding your lamp grips it firmly so that it would not slip. You return to your previous position as the man continues with his work.

"L e a v e," he drags out with audible vexation, "now."

"No."

He freezes.

"You will leave," you correct "—this room. Tis the hour of the owl."

Otto turns to you, offended, "you command me?"

You clench you jaw, "you command yourself. I am simply your obedient servant, lord husband."

Your lord husband stands. He towers over you and presses close, so close that he takes your lamp and puts it out, leaving it ignored on his desk, "am I not commanding you now?"

Your heart races when he takes your neck, thumb pressing on your throat as he rubs it. He can feel your raging pulse and it excites him, but not as much as your next words do, "you are you unkind when you are exhausted."

"To whom?" 

"To everyone," you mutter, "you must retire."

Otto releases your neck and heads for the door, "I will not."

Your brows furrow as you watch him storm off.

You realize only what he meant after following him into your shared chambers.

He grabs you from behind and sinks his face into your neck. You feel his beard against your skin and his hands eagerly clawing down your body. He pushes you into bed and you manage to look over your shoulder for the few seconds as he undoes his breeches. Not a second later, he pushes you on the sheets and pulls your skirt up.

You whimper into the cushion, bringing your face to the side as he rests his weight between your shoulders. He clenches his jaw as he grabs your hip. You obediently shift on your knees and gasp when he rubs his groin into yours. He sighs out a string of profanities when he feels your wetness. He pulls back and looks at the softness of your thighs, inspecting the pooling lust on your cunt. He rubs your clit, "my cherubic wife, so ready to be taken by her aged husband."

Your belly trembles as he uses your warm slick to flick your sensitive nub, leaving you to do nothing but curl your toes and whine into the sheets.

"Body so eager to be molded by my cock," he mutters. He slowly sinks two fingers into your weeping folds. He stretches you with his fingers and sinks deep, relishing the warm stickiness coating his digits, "so pretty like this. More so with my seed mixed with your arousal, dripping down your puckered cunt."

He continues to serve you with his fingers until pressure builds in your stomach. Then, with no warning and little care, Otto replaces his fingers with his hardened cock and fucks you thoroughly from behind. The hand he hand by your shoulder blades tingle into your hair. His other hand tirelessly works on your clit, expertly rubbing them that your body writhes under his weight.

You are trapped beneath him, however. He need only push on your head and lock your legs with his; you can do nothing else to do but take his cock and his fingers.

The sound of wet slapping skin and your uncontrollable whimpers dampen out the creaking and thudding of your bed against the stone wall. Quickly, your breathing began to grow strained and Otto gave no indication of slowing, especially not when he merited a scream from your lips from the pleasure building hotly in your stomach.

"Otto, Otto-" you begin to whine, nails ripping into the sheets, "w-wait— I-"

He furrows his brows at your words, offended that you would instruct him grant your reprieve. Just as he felt your slick building against his clothes? Even if he wanted to stop to catch his breath, he would not.

Alas, mortal man still was he, and his plowing had to slow. Slow, not stop. Though his arm began to tire, his fingers did not relent their assault on your swollen clit. He made up for any delays with slower but harsh flicks of his hip.

Your peak caught both of you off guard, and you came around his cock with a ghastly noise that made him stab your womb roughly in surprise. He stops moving altogether soon after.

Upon realizing the absolute bliss that seized your form, he puts all of his focus on your clit, wanting nothing but to make you shake and tighten around his wet cock as much as he possibly can.

The wind is knocked out if your lungs and your eyes water at the intensity of it all. And soon, it was all too much for you. It was all far too much, and yet he did not stop.

"Otto," your voice is hoarse as you sob into the dampened sheets, dampened with your tears and saliva.

He does not acknowledge you at all. He continues rubbing your pulsing clit with his fingers no matter how much your belly shook or your thighs trembled. He adores your mousy noises. He pulls your head back by your hair bit and slowly begins to thrust into you until the bed begins to creak at the intensity again.

It's too much, and the noise that rips out of you is nothing but further indication of this.

Your body struggles beneath him, your parted thighs that turned to putty were now shifting frantically in the hope to be free of this overwhelming sensation. You clench and unclench around him, hips pushing forward and back in an attempt to break away, but it, in fact, only makes your heady husband double down on his efforts to keep you in place.

His fingers only then finally leave your abused clit, but any form of recuperation you could get is stolen by the way both his veiny hands grip your hips and his manhood invades your cunny, intent on staking its claim.

He grunts as he looks down at your helpless form. He does nothing but use you for his pleasure and he cares little of whether or not your pretty pussy will tighten and quiver around him again.

Otto rubs your bum then coats his thumb with your slick before pushing it into your vacant rear, enough to hook into you and to make you squeal.

Soon enough, he can feel his legs ache and his belly burn. He ignores the former and his energy is sustained by the promise of filling his shaking bride with his come and watching it drip out of her.

Otto is silent while you noisily protest beneath him. Just as he begins to feel his balls tighten, he feels your cunt squeeze him again. Your neck strains as he bends down to lean into you, "take it, come slut. You know want you want to."

"S't-too much," you whine, tears rolling down your face.

Otto could not care less and begins to rub your clit again. You scream out in response and it's enough to make him reach his peak.

He slams into you with no steady tempo. He cares only for the pleasure raging on his cock and wants only to empty his balls into his warm, raggedly bride. As he does just that, feeling come and sweat drip from your garment to the sheet, he takes a few more thrusts, shallow ones where he does not move out of you very much, to ensure he thoroughly stuff all his heated lust into you.

And ever the dutiful husband, he plays with your clit for as long as it takes to make you scream and spasm into another pretty peak

Your nose is running as you sob, but the twist of your expression tells him that you were enjoying every second of it. He laughs, deeply, contentedly, pinning you against him and the bed. He doesn't listen to you until he is more than assured every bit of pleasure is wrung out of your darling body.

You begin to whine again like the tearful babe you were. You whisper an exhausted plea, "please, no more, Otto. Please."

He shushes you and pinches your clit, just to see you flinch and hear you beg some more. And beg you do, "n-no more, please," through sniffles.

He grips your jaw and kisses your salty cheek. He pulls you both to your sides, unwilling to pull out just yet. He has to ascertain his seed catches in your snug womb. He massages your breasts, imagining them get bigger for the babe he fucked into you. He pinches your nipples, making you whine again.

"O-Otto-"

"All is well, wife," he mutters, releasing his hold, only because you pushed his hand away. You lean into him as he rubs your belly. He rubs your nape with his nose, "good girl."

[silentglassbreak]

I know. I know. I have other projects I need to work on. I have about 1000 things I need to do. I need to edit my novel. Write CYFMH2. Edit my podcast. Work on my last 2 fic requests, and write the one that’s been swirling around in my brain. I know. And I will…

And my best friend (I know you’re reading this, Big Daddy) will roll her eyes when she sees I’m posting on here instead of getting my shit together.

But…

NSFW under the cut

I keep having this thought in my head about Noah. I’ve let my mind drift off of him for a couple weeks. It’s so hard to live in the real - cruel - world when he floats around my brain like TV static making me frothy. But I just can’t fucking help it, you know?

Once in a while��I can’t help but imagine…

What if you can’t sleep?

What if you and Noah were already together? An item. Life is good. The man of all of our dreams - and he’s all yours. Laying in bed next to you. You’re happy. You’re successful in whichever venture you choose to pursue. Your life couldn’t be any better.

So why the fuck do you have such bad insomnia?!

His bed is the perfect texture. His blankets are so cool, but keep you wrapped in a cozy cocoon next to his large frame. His soft snores aren’t bothersome, but so soothing. You’ve learned that without the sound of his breathing, your sleeping habits are even worse. His body radiates heat, but he keeps his room so cold, it makes it easy to draw into his side, his arm draped loosely over the front of your body while his mind is off dancing in whatever dreams he’s having that night.

You’re jealous. You’d kill to be dreaming. Or even just dozing. Because you have to get up early in the morning, and you just remembered there’s no coffee creamer in the fridge downstairs, so having caffeine when you first wake up is out of the question. You’ll have to drive to Starbucks, or order it in. That just sounds like medieval torture to you. First world problems, amirite?

And it’s not without you trying. The room is pitch black save from one shred of moonlight casting in from the window. The white noise of Noah’s sleep behind you. Your brain feels fuzzy enough, but you’re still squirming and frustrated.

You just don’t get it.

After about your third readjustment, the arm around your waist tightens, pulling you tighter against his chest.

His voice is right at your ear, thick with sleep. “Struggling tonight, baby?”

All you can do is whine in response, defeated, wriggling under his tight grip, and pressing your face into the pillow.

“I don’t know why I can’t sleep. I’m so fucking tired.” Your voice was cracking. You were so desperate.

A soft kiss pressed to the fabric of the shirt over your shoulder.

“No good, love. You comfortable? Need me to adjust the AC?”

Noah never touched the AC. Noah never adjusted the room temperature - unless it was for you.

But that wouldn’t help.

“I’m comfortable. I’m relaxed. I’m exhausted. So what the fuck?! Why can’t I sleep?”

His arm snaked all the way around your waist, pressing your back hard into his chest, his legs intertwining with yours.

His lips spoke into the hair next to your temple. “I don’t know, beautiful.”

You let out a frustrated sigh, melting into him.

“Need me to put you to sleep?”

And you froze, suddenly cemented in your exact spot.

And yeah, it was real hot in the room, out of nowhere.

“What?”

His palm flattened over your abdomen, sliding up beneath your t-shirt, calloused fingers tracing over your skin.

“You heard me.”

Did you really need to answer him? No. He would’ve done whatever you needed with a silent plea, but - as was mentioned before - you were desperate.

“If you think you can…”

And you knew what you were doing, didn’t you?

To challenge him like that…

Which is why you found yourself face down in the pillow, hips up in the air, eyes rolling back in your skull while Noah pounded into you, his fingers bruising the skin of your ass with each hard slap that landed. His deep, vicious groans mixed with the skin on skin of his cock sliding in and out of you over and over.

His hand reached down to tangle in your hair, pulling you up so he could wrap his long fingers over your throat, crushing your windpipe in the process.

The tears leaked from your eyes, his voice venomous in your ear.

“Don’t think I can wear you out, baby?” Your hands gripped his arm that pressed on your throat, begging for more pressure. “Just for that, I’m fucking you into a coma tonight.”

His fingers loosened enough so you could crane your neck, his lips crashing into yours, tongue licking sloppily into your mouth.

When he pushed you back down, his length slipped all the way out before railing back into you, pressing hard against your cervix, making you bite down on your bottom lip.

“Tired yet, love? Want me to stop?”

You cried out hard, begging him not to. This elicited a dark, humorless laugh out of him.

“Didn’t think so.”

This went on forever, until you crested up to the edge, his fingers slipping under you to press against your clit while you writhed against him.

“Finally going to come for me, sweetheart?”

You could only nod helplessly, begging him to give you the release you needed.

“C’mon baby. Wake the house up. Let’em hear you.”

And you did. The screams that left your lungs when your orgasm slapped you shook the walls of the bedroom, the pillows having no prayer of muffling the shrieks.

“There you go, love.” His hands released you, hips falling back into a smooth rhythm while he chased his own release. You could only let your body naturally respond, pressing back into him instinctively. Your brain was buzzing, each added thrust just comfortably settling you into your own euphoria.

He finished with a hard, loud sigh, his chest pressed to your back and fingers lacing with yours.

You collapsed down onto the sheets while he peppered kisses over your shoulders, soothing you into a soft lull.

After a moment, he retreated into the bathroom to clean up, grabbing a soft, damp towel. You felt him clean you, purring at his gentle touch.

“I’m going to grab some water. Need anything from downstairs?”

You grunted in response, and you heard him chuckle softly. “Be right back, baby.”

Once the door closed, shutting the rest of the light out, your mind fell away, tossing you into the abyss.

He was only gone a moment, sinking back onto the mattress next to you, arms encircling you.

You had no idea, though. You were gone. Finally letting your own comfortable dreams take over.

You barely even heard him speak, his voice like a background noise of your thoughts.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

Sorry I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

[worksby-d]

Could you write something about dad's bestfriend!Andy comforting reader after telling her parents they're together didn't go well?

YEP 🫡

Pairing: dad’s best friend!Andy Barber x fem!Reader

Summary: Exactly what the request says ✨

Warnings: Age gap, comfort sex, 18+

Word count: ~1,300

a/n: Look at me sloooowly clearing out my inbox recently 🤭 Two years late, but dbf!Andy never goes out of style amirite girlies! Not sure if this was maybe supposed to tie in with a series back then, it could probably be read as part of A Great Mentor if so ☝️ 

─── ✧

Andy has tried his best to keep you in good spirits throughout the past week. And it’s worked for the most part. You’ve been grateful to be able to spend so much time with him, finally free of the weight keeping your relationship a secret was beginning to put on you. 

But as soon as you have a moment alone or a second without Andy purposely distracting you, you feel like shit deep down, unable to think about anything but the fact that your parents still aren’t talking to you or him.

You've been waiting for a call, or at least a text... Anything.

He has you cuddled next to him tonight as you watch a movie together, but your mind is racing, causing your heart to do the same, panic beginning to set in from dwelling on your negative thoughts.

You lean closer against his side, closing your eyes as you try to relax, but you need to be even closer.

Mustering some energy, you gently and wordlessly move so you’re straddling him, wrapping your arms around him like a koala. His arms hug around you tightly without any questions, and you melt against him, nestling your face against his neck. 

He knows you’ve had a hard couple days. He’s pressing soft kisses to the side of your face and your shoulder, and rubbing your back. 

“I love you,” he whispers, not missing the chance to reassure you. 

“You still love me?” You ask, almost inaudibly, voice muffled as you speak against the fabric of his shirt covering his shoulder. 

“I love you extra,” he says, knowing you need it. “I know this week was hard for you. I’m sorry.”

“After everything?” You continue to press.

“Of course…” His heart breaks. “You didn’t do anything wrong, angel.”

You’d beg to differ right now.

“I feel like I did everything wrong and dragged you with me while I did it.”

He does his best not to laugh at your dramatics. “No one did anything wrong. If I could fix everything right now, I would. But it’ll just take time.”

“I know,” you murmur. You have no choice, your voice would crack if you spoke any louder. “I love you, too.”

He does what he’s best at – Holding you and quieting the nerves that were overtaking you moments ago. 

“I wish I would have been there with you,” he speaks up softly. 

You insisted on breaking it to your parents alone. 

“I don’t,” you assure him with a faint scoff. You find it in you to joke a little bit. “My dad was so angry. I don’t know if you would have lived to tell about it.”

“I know,” he chuckles. “I just...” His voice trails off. He lets it go for now, no use in focusing on what ifs. “Are you ready for bed? We can go upstairs.”

“Not yet,” you say quickly. “Can you just hold me here for a little longer?” You add more quietly, comfortable in his embrace like this. “Please.”

“Yeah, baby.”

─── ✧

When he senses you falling asleep in his arms, he makes the decision for you. The calmest you’ve been the last couple days is when you’re sleeping, so he knows your slow breathing and relaxed weight on top of him means you’ve dozed off. 

He hates to do it, but he carefully pushes off the couch to sit up straighter. He holds you tighter as you begin to wake back up, not wanting you to have forgotten where you are and nearly fall out of his arms. 

“You fell asleep,” he whispers. “Let’s go upstairs.”

Letting out a yawn, you nod sleepily and climb off him. He keeps an arm around your waist to help you up the steps and toward his bedroom.

As he lays you on the bed, you hold your arms around his neck, bringing him down with you. 

“Andy,” you whisper, brushing your nose against his.

Your breath is warm against his lips and he can never resist you. His lips press against yours in a slow kiss, climbing into bed with you. A content sigh escapes him as he gives in completely.

Sharing deep and languid kisses, you subtly roll your body against his, once again plagued by the feeling of needing to be even closer. He doesn’t notice until your hands begin to wander, slipping down to the bottom of his shirt to untuck it from his pants. 

He pauses, reluctantly pulling away from you, just enough to peer down at you. 

“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” he says quietly. 

If it’s possible to be too considerate, that’s what Andy Barber is. 

You refrain from rolling your eyes. “It’s not taking advantage if I’m asking for it,” you joke, but there’s desperation in your voice. 

“I know,” he chuckles. “But I know you’re upset–”

“Stop, please,” you ask. Your voice barely reaches a whisper, eyes falling shut to put your all into not letting the thoughts back in your head. “I don’t want to think about it anymore tonight. Help me forget.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, studying your face, waiting for you to look back up at him. 

You don’t answer with words, instead pulling him back down, nodding softly before kissing him again. 

The way your hands roam each other’s bodies is slow, but not calculated. He finally lets you tug his shirt off of him, and his fingers fumble helping you out of your own clothes. 

When he moves down your body, he trails kisses along every inch of your skin, eliciting soft gasps from you, fingers digging into his skin as you grasp onto him. 

He situates himself between your legs, but you reach for his hands to get his attention. 

“Need you closer.” You shake your head, only wanting him on top of you. “Please.” 

He listens, coming back up so you’re face to face again. Your arms wrap back around him, as if you’re scared of him leaving. 

“Relax, pretty girl.” 

His voice is soft and comforting, contradicting the shot of pleasure that courses through you as his cock presses against your center, igniting a wave of warmth that washes over your body. 

You rest your cheek against the palm of his hand that’s cupping your face, letting out a moan, one in unison with him as he sets a steady rhythm. 

He knows your body better than you do, you think sometimes, knowing exactly how to make you come undone, make your eyes roll back, make you see stars. 

His lovemaking is mind numbing. 

You swear you don’t regain your senses until you feel him trying to gently push off of you, but you glide your hands from his sides to rest on his back, silently asking him to stay where he is, needing to feel him close to you longer, while you catch your breath. 

Resting his forehead against yours, he does the same before rolling over carefully, bringing you with him to lay on top of him. 

His chest is definitely up there on the list of most comfortable places to lay your head. Your heartbeat continues to go back to normal as you listen to his against your ear. 

“I love you so much. I never want you questioning that,” he whispers, rubbing your back. He knows you wanted to be done with that for the night, but he needs to do his part in continuing to reassure you. “Okay?”

Tears roll down your cheek and he can feel them wetting his skin as you nod. He’d like to hear you say you believe him, but he’ll take it for tonight.

─── ✧

Tag list: @patzammit @denisemarieangelina @thummbelina @pppsssyyyccchhhiiiccc @astheskycries @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @la-cey @turtoix @katiew1973 @harrysthiccthighss @tvckerlance @rocketrhap3000 @mrspeacem1nusone @murdcox @geminievans1 @doozywoozy @americasass91 @dwights-new-plague @wwwmarissa92 @redhairedfeistynerd @whxre4cevans @aubreeskailynn @white-wolf1940 @melchills-j @xoxabs88xox @before-we-get-started @chrissquares @christowhore @ice-dtae @mariestark @justile @rogersbarber @dilfbarber @livstilinski @payperhearts @vintagestarlight @gitasor @chaeycunty @miss-ariella @bemysugarbean @t-stark35 @seitmai @reginaphalange2403 @raelorns21 @mrsgweasley @pandaxnienke @brandycranby

[catboydogma]

'til our hell is a good life

codywan week 2024 sol master list (solsterlist)

codywan week 2024 day 1 prompts, sol edition: no/different order 66, lightsaber/lightsaber training

notes: title from our hell by emily haines & the soft skeleton. i've been having a comically disastrous week/month (it's only the 4th? jesus christ) but god willing i will post for all 7 prompts (+ bonus anniversary prompt?). im not gonna lie i had to pop out the soju to finish this beast and i think that did set the tone for the rest of the week's writing. BETTER LATE THAN NEVER AMIRITE FELLAS

wc: 3,099

cross-posted to ao3

Obi-Wan supposed it might have all started because someone gave Cody a lightsaber. No, it had not been Obi-Wan, and even if it might have been, he knew to always cover his own ass. Qui-Gon had been an excellent teacher, for the most part, and there was one thing he had drilled into Obi-Wan above (almost) all else: never drop plausible deniability.

No, he’d no idea where the lightsaber had come from. No, Cody could keep it now. He wasn’t going to take the damn thing away from Cody when the good Commander had, evidently, come across it fair and square. Obi-Wan knew his Commander; it wasn’t like there was some fresh-faced thirteen year old Padawan wandering around somewhere sans ‘saber. If he had to take a stab at the quandary, he supposed it probably would have happened the time Cody’d dogpiled Grievous with the rest of his Command Corps. No, not that time. The time after that one, perhaps.

Regardless, there came a time when Cody’s tac belt had two lightsaber clips, not just one for when Obi-Wan strategically left his lightsaber in a secure place for safekeeping. The two of them never discussed the fact that Cody was likely Force sensitive. It didn’t seem something Cody was at all interested in; given the givens, Obi-Wan was predisposed to let him take the lead on the topic. Or not, as it happened.

But Obi-Wan couldn’t let that stop him in the face of something so egregious as this, even if Cody seemed determined to duck out of the conversation at every turn.

“I am not a Jedi, sir,” Cody told him for the fifth time that day. “I fail to see what tactical advantage there would be in meditating with a weapon.”

“It isn’t entirely a tactical advantage, per se,” Obi-Wan demurred. “But it can be. It’s difficult to articulate.” Especially when most resources for teaching lightsaber forms and meditations were meant for Initiates first starting out, or struggling Padawans; not outsiders to the Order, and certainly not ones that hadn’t grown up in the Temple. If they’d had the time—if not for this bloody war—Obi-Wan might have taken Cody to Jedha for insight. “Would you learn to fight with a particular blaster even when you haven’t familiarized yourself with its base components, or haven’t learnt how to disassemble and repair it?”

Cody frowned. It was a minute thing, barely a twitch of the corner of his mouth and a slight tilt of his head.

Aha. Obi-Wan pressed his advantage, absently touching Cody’s elbow to direct him around a group of techs as they walked through the halls of the Negotiator. “It’s the same for a lightsaber. The kyber—or heart of the lightsaber—is not just a power source; a strong connection between oneself and one’s kyber is paramount to maintaining a good working relationship with the lightsaber itself. And a good working relationship leads to better results in a fight; not just anyone can pick up any old lightsaber and start swinging it around and expect good results, you know. That’s why the black market money is mainly to be made in the raw kyber itself, not in the weapons.” Obi-Wan made eyebrows at Cody over this, who simply glared at him. Ah, well. A man had to find his fun somehow.

“You have me there, sir,” Cody sighed. He was graceful in his concession, at least. Unlike some others Obi-Wan could name upon learning that, yes, meditation with a new lightsaber was practically required…

“We can clear up an evening for it,” Obi-Wan said, magnanimous even in victory. As ever. “And perhaps I can show you what I mean, rather than trying to talk in circles around it.”

“But you do so love talking in circles around things, sir,” Cody said, dry as anything. Obi-Wan mimed shocked outrage at him, and they passed the next few hours in good humor.

“This can be done anywhere, really, but for your first time I thought to make it somewhat more formal,” Obi-Wan told Cody. He’d somewhere unearthed a spare meditation mat to set in between the cramped space between his ‘fresher and desk. Incense in a lump-shaped holder wafted smoke into the air; one of his last good joss sticks. But this was a special occasion. “Many Jedi like to do it in the salles, and many Consulars perfect it in the field.” There had been the especially memorable time during Obi-Wan’s own Padawanship in that nest of gilloms…

Cody inspected his new outfitting and seemed satisfied, though it was hard to tell. He sat on the mat with no complaints and suffered through Obi-Wan running a hand across his shoulders, then nudging Cody’s legs with his own into something more closely approximating a meditative pose.

“The floating is optional, then,” Cody remarked.

“Well, yes. It’s up to personal preference,” Obi-Wan told him, resolutely not letting his flush creep above the collar of his tunics. It was Obi-Wan’s personal preference, really, and usually something more commonly found in the creche than not. “You can hold your lightsaber, or set it in front of you, or in your lap. Many Jedi like to hold themselves in the Force with the lightsaber, hence why this is often accompanied by one’s lightsaber floating in front of oneself. For today, do whatever feels right to you.”

Cody nodded, then opted to hold his lightsaber loosely in his lap. After a moment of consideration, he mirrored Obi-Wan’s own pose: one hand folded atop the other in his lap, thumbs pressed to each other, lightsaber cradled in his palms and just under the arch of his thumbs.

Obi-Wan guided Cody through the preliminary steps of a light meditation, discarding many of the more Force-oriented aspects and focusing on the connecting to one’s lightsaber, on opening oneself up and letting the kyber reach out in turn. When he felt Cody slip deeper, into a state simultaneously more introspective and more concentrated on his lightsaber, Obi-Wan turned his own attention to his kyber.

The heart of a lightsaber could be a curious thing. This wasn’t all completely altruistic; Obi-Wan had left out the bit about also needing to meditate with his ‘saber, because then Cody might have given him one of those looks. But it was good to refamiliarize himself with his kyber, in a ritual both utterly familiar and yet somehow foreign. He just hadn’t done it in so long, or at least not as thoroughly as he might have liked. They had changed, the both of them. The war, Anakin’s Knighting, Obi-Wan’s own views of the galaxy at large and perspective of self… such was the nature of having a malleable brain and being subject to the rigors of time.

Some interminable time later, the soft beeping of a timer brought Obi-Wan up out of the depths of his meditation. He cracked his eyes open and took a moment to settle himself back down onto his mat, still feeling like a great river was still carving its way through his skull in vast, sweeping currents.

“Don’t give me that face,” was the first thing Cody said when he finally deigned to open his eyes.

Obi-Wan, caught mid-insufferable-smirk, quickly arranged his face into something with less smug. “I shall endeavor to do nothing of the sort. So?”

“I see what you mean,” Cody grudgingly allowed. He looked like he was still chewing something over, so Obi-Wan let him stew in silence while he packed up the remains of the incense and their mats. They shared a quiet dinner over formwork together, as well as a quick update sent to Mace when they dropped out of hyperspace to shift to another lane.

They continued to meditate together. Over time, not always with their lightsabers; Obi-Wan didn’t say anything about it, because a Commander Cody was—at times, very rarely—a creature easily spooked, and Obi-Wan had to be careful in his approach to certain things. But it was—good. To have someone else to share time and space together like this. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it until it became a regularity in their schedules; oh, he meditated plenty with Ahsoka, when the 501st and 212th was berthed together or they were sharing missions, and sporadically with Anakin in these same instances, but it… was somewhat another thing, to come to look forward to meditation with another.

Now it wasn’t just Obi-Wan—by himself, in his silent quarters—but it was Cody-and-Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan was also realizing how much he had missed teaching. It wasn’t the same flavor of interaction as between a Master and Padawan, but Obi-Wan enjoyed that Cody was an excellent listener and genuinely enjoyed hearing Obi-Wan ramble on about whatever topic of the day it was. Or topic of the hour, as it sometimes happened. Not only that, but he was the most delightfully clever conversationalist—something that Obi-Wan had always known, at heart, yes, but was coming to explore more and more, as of late.

And then there was the other side of Cody’s learning how to wield a lightsaber.

“You’ve been holding out on me, darling.” Obi-Wan reset and swiped his hair out of his eyes with his shoulder, sweaty fringe just flopping right back over his brow. Of course. He needed a trim was what he needed, but first… he had this to sort.

“I bet you say that to all the men who try that shoulder lock on you.” Cody snorted and readjusted his grip with a quick twirl of his lightsaber. Obi-Wan felt something molten and shivery slide through him, because he had taught Cody that. He manfully ignored the quiet whisper in the back of his head that Cody’s fighting style, after this, would have the hallmark of Obi-Wan’s hands all over him.

The good Commander took Obi-Wan’s split second of distraction as his cue. Bastard. He’d probably been doing it on purpose. Obi-Wan very carefully ignored the frisson of feeling that thought gave him, focused on defense, and then, when Cody had settled into a rhythm, pressing the attack.

“Only you, my Commander,” Obi-Wan said warmly. He ducked under Cody’s guard when his step faltered at that little exchange and the quick twist of the wrist Obi-Wan gave his ‘saber, but didn’t quite press his advantage. This match wasn’t about beating Cody into the ground, though Obi-Wan had no doubt that his Commander would give him a run for his money even if that were the case; no, this was about teaching Cody, and drilling the muscle memory into him.

Cody had taken to lightsaber fighting like a quacta to slime. They’d rotated through each form, but Cody had returned to the first they had drilled for a strong foundation, and Obi-Wan had to say that it quite suited him. This variant of Shii-Cho focused more on lethality than disarming, something which might have given pause to the Jedi Obi-Wan of five years ago had been—but Obi-Wan of now couldn’t argue with results, if those results were what kept Ghost Company alive and well and the Sith from overtaking them. His Commander fought with a combination of focus and brutality, utterly utilitarian but almost elegant in its most efficient economy of motion. Obi-Wan found himself almost comparing Cody’s style to that of a Nabooan ballet dancer’s, famed for their relentless discipline and endurance.

The bout ended when Cody broke through Obi-Wan’s guard with a clever bit of bladework and bashed the crown of his head into Obi-Wan’s face, narrowly missing breaking his teeth in.

Obi-Wan laughed through the blinding pain—literally, his vision was still sprinkled with bright lights and strange afterimages—and said, lying on the floor, “I was right.”

Cody narrowed his eyes at Obi-Wan, lightsaber—now off—imperiously leveled at Obi-Wan’s chest.

“You have gotten better, now that you’ve been meditating with it.”

So, yes. It might have started when Cody found that lightsaber—and held onto it—and learnt to wield it properly. Obi-Wan had a suspicion—well, he had a number of suspicions. This primary suspicion, however, was how it ended.

It was supposed to be a routine inspection; rote, trivial, something necessary but not a thing anyone truly looked forward to. But a gaggle—or perhaps drove—of senators had decided to invite themselves along, some kind of publicity stunt, Obi-Wan didn’t know. Usually Adi handled these sorts of things, or else one of the other PR- or legal-inclined Masters. Thus, of course, Chancellor Palpatine had to say some words at the landing pad—some inane drivel about whatever the hell sentiment Palpatine was using to drive through his bill of the week. Obi-Wan tried not to grimace too obviously at the thinly-veiled warmongering the Chancellor was using to drum up support and inclined his head toward his Commander, about to comment on the daring sartorial choices of one bold politician, when Cody tilted his head towards Obi-Wan and nearly knocked him on the temple.

“I didn’t know the Chancellor used to be a Jedi,” Cody said.

Obi-Wan’s comment died halfway up his throat. He blinked at Palpatine, then at Cody. “Pardon?”

Cody shifted infinitesimally backwards on his heels, allowing Obi-Wan a better view of where Palpatine stood on the other side of Cody, with Anakin flanking the Chancellor’s left.

“He’s got a lightsaber in one of those concealed carry holsters at his back,” Cody told him, eyes still forward, settled in a textbook-perfect parade rest. “I was.” His eyes shifted to Obi-Wan and then back forward in a rare—and unsettling—display of trepidation. “Doing a bit of meditation. As it were. Haven’t had the chance to get the ‘saber out in too long with all these… press tours. So I felt it. First.”

Obi-Wan gaped, forgetting all about the attendant senators and cam droids and the battalion of clone troopers at his back. There were… well, very few reasons he could think of to explain why Senator Palpatine, of all people, had a lightsaber. In a concealed carry holster meant to hide it away even from the eyes of Jedi, of all things. Because—“He most certainly is not, and never has been, a member of the Order,” Obi-Wan said. In fact, he had never been a part of any Force sensitive sect. In fact, Obi-Wan had it on good authority and as a matter of public record that the Chancellor was as Force sensitive as a brick.

Allegedly.

Well. This would either be very, very funny, or disastrous for all of them. Obi-Wan held out a hand and yanked, not letting himself think of any other outcome. A cylinder of cool metal slapped into his hand, stinging his palm and sending an unpleasant shock down his arm. If not for his long history of battling Sith, Obi-Wan might have dropped it on the spot for how it reeked of the Dark, now out from Palpatine’s immediate sphere of control.

Mas Amedda’s blathering stuttered to a halt. Obi-Wan stared at the hilt in his hand, then at Cody’s expression slack with surprise. He thought he knew what the color of the blade would be even before his thumb hit the switch; it was almost like a dream, or a barely-remembered dreg of an old nightmare.

A venomous scarlet light sprang forth.

“Well,” Obi-Wan said after a moment. “I suppose now you can say that Sith lords are our specialty.”

Palpatine shrieked something hysterical and reached out, fingers curling into hooked claws and expression contorting from that of a kindly grandfather into a spitting tyrant. Obi-Wan braced himself for something—he didn’t even know what—and—

Brilliant green light split the morning. Cody caught Palpatine’s chain of Dark lightning on his blade and bared his teeth in a fierce challenge. The stark shock on Palpatine’s face was almost enough to make Obi-Wan laugh. Instead—he leapt forward with his own lightsaber raised in a cross with Palpatine’s—cutting off whatever poison Palpatine had been about to spit at his Commander.

In the end, it came down to the timely and swift intervention of the Coruscant Guard. Anakin had been too busy torn between shouting at Obi-Wan that there must be some mistake, and being goaded by Palpatine into drawing on Cody. Palpatine kept trying to say something to Cody, or else to the nearest officer—Gregor, taking potshots at the Chancellor or else keeping the other senators away from harm—but every time, Obi-Wan or Cody drove him back to the edge of the landing pad and parried another round of lightning or dodged Force shoves.

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” Fox said to Cody, after, as the scene was taped off and various senators’ statements were taken. He’d shot Palpatine just under the heart, giving Cody the chance to take Palpatine’s head off. Obi-Wan would have been shiningly proud, except he was currently trying to keep his ribs from puncturing his lungs and steering Anakin away from going into histrionics.

“Er, Cody,” Obi-Wan said, tugging on the sleeve of Cody’s blood- and char-spattered greys. There was something very pressing he had to do, right before Mace got here, and his ribs were as supported as they were going to get until a medic got to see to him.

Cody turned, resplendent in his sweaty flush and still breathing hard. Fighting with him in a duel like that had been exhilarating; just as on the battlefield, they worked together like a well-oiled machine, and if not for the circumstances of it all, Obi-Wan would have been enjoying himself immensely.

“I’m tendering my resignation as an officer, effective immediately,” Obi-Wan told him, watching the way the Coruscant sun limned Cody’s tight curls from behind and gilded the edge of his cheek. With that out of the way, he fisted a hand in the front of Cody’s stiff uniform and pulled him down to kiss him soundly on the mouth. Quite a few troopers whooped at the sight; that was likely Gregor who was wolf whistling in a truly obnoxious manner.

“You had to do this in the most dramatic way possible,” Cody said, but he sounded fond, despite it all. He pulled back, cast a critical look at the way Obi-Wan was holding his ribs, then ducked back down for another—more chaste—kiss. “As long as you’ll take me with you when you go, my General.”

From just beside Obi-Wan, Anakin let out a sound previously only heard from gravely ill massiffs and tipped right over his breaking point.

[zepskies]

Hey Zepskies! I'm a small writer but I'm starting on my ficlet about an oc x ben (soldier boy). I've read so much of your work and just think you are a very talented writer. Do you have any tips on writing ben? it can be vague and I know you're busy so I don't expect a response. :)

Hey there!

First off, welcome and thank you for reading my stories (and for that lovely compliment). 💕

As for your question, writing Soldier Boy (Ben) can be very tricky. It took me a while to fully figure out how to write the character, and I will say, it's a challenge every time I do dive back into this (loveable) asshole.

😂 That said, here are 3 main tips I have for writing his character:

1. Comparable archetypes:

When I started trying to do a character analysis of this guy, I started with who he would've likely looked up to and tried to emulate: Frank Sinatra, Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant, John Wayne, Indiana Jones, John Winchester, and even Dean Winchester to an extent -- the strong, stoic, man of action archetype.

AKA: The Big Swinging Dick™�� in the Room.

These men are leaders, a "man's man," show no pain, weakness, or vulnerability. (So shove those "soft" emotions down your gullet as much as humanly possible. Real men don't cry, amirite? 🙄)

But the fun thing I find about guys like this is, even though they have a hard shell, being able to pierce the armor somehow and get to the creamy center of their heart can be a very rewarding story indeed.

2. The balance of SB's personality:

Based on what we got in season 3 of The Boys, I find that Soldier Boy's personality is a delicate balance of a few key things:

Arrogant Narcissist: He's a massive ego, selfish with a conflated sense of his own importance. Especially before his capture, he's reached the pinnacle of fame. He's bought into his own hype and the backstory Vought created for him, and he assumes that everyone in his life loves him for it.

As Jensen said of his character in Supes Ain't Always Heroes (check out my review of the book here if you like):

“He’s so fragile and his ego is fragile. Just like Homelander. These bigger-than-life powerful heroes really have a glass jaw… “And everyone walks on eggshells around him [Soldier Boy], and they tell him that they love him, and it’s the same with Homelander. Then when all of a sudden he faces his old team and Crimson Countess says we never loved you, we hated you—that’s a gut punch for him. Because even though on some level he may have known that, he never thought he would hear it. “And he probably propped himself up around trying to believe otherwise, because how can you walk around knowing everyone you’ve ever cared about hates you? It’s too painful.” (191)

Womanizing Misogynist: That entire scene with SB and Grace in Nicaragua tells you all you need to know about how Soldier Boy talks to, treats, and views women. 🙄 Again, he's a narcissist, so he assumes women are going to be into him because he's the world's biggest superhero, because he's handsome, because he's that guy.

The problem is, he is devastatingly handsome and impressive as a superhero. And my headcanon is he can be very charming when he wants to be. Again, using his skills as an actor and channelling that old-world debonair charm to get what he wants. (i.e. Cary Grant, etc.)

Violent and Indifferent to Collateral Damage: This is a key one, because this is part of what makes him different from Homelander. SB is not a psychopath. He doesn't necessarily enjoy hurting people. He just doesn't care about the collateral damage.

He also can't tolerate a perceived slight to his masculinity or status, like when Black Noir tried to rise up in the ranks and come into his own as a movie star. Soldier Boy, in his selfishness, saw that as Noir trying to come for his crown, in a sense, which is why he ultimately showed his mean streak through violence.

When he gets back to the U.S. after escaping Russia, he's on a warpath of vengeance against his team who sold him out, and anyone who gets in his way.

"If they have it coming," he tells Hughie.

3. Soldier Boy is both less and more than what he represents: (AKA: His insecurities)

As we know, Soldier Boy didn't really storm Normandy or fight the Nazis. He falls short of every definition of a hero. However, he's also not just a caricature of toxic masculinity.

Ben has deep-seated insecurities that he buries under all the bravado and the Soldier Boy persona. He was also emotionally abused by his father, who set exacting standards for what it meant to be a man.

It drives Ben to try and prove his worth to his father, though he’s never able to. It fosters the lack of self-worth he feels as he seeks validation through fame and what he believes power to be.

He won’t be one to easily admit he’s wrong, or need help, or express emotions he deems are “soft.” He doesn’t want to look weak or demean himself, let alone be genuinely vulnerable, despite likely wanting that connection with someone.

He uses coping mechanisms like drugs to mask and dull his PTSD, but even in his heyday, I think he drugs and parties hard just to pass the time, and to mask how actually empty he is inside. He has no real love in his life, and no family. It's why he admits to Hughie that he wanted kids. Deep down, he wants a family to fill that void that fame, booze, drugs, and meaningless sex can't fill in his life.

So with all of that flawed, internal mess that is Soldier Boy, the biggest challenge I find as a romance writer is trying to keep all of these aspects of his character, while trying to show the glimmers of the humanity in Ben -- the chink in his armor showing just enough softness to the one person who's brave enough to "try" with him.

That said, I hope all of this helps! 💚

[what-have-you-contained]

────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆── WINTER JACKET ────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

🔥 // 🍁

☆ pairing: QPR Color & Killer 🌈🔪

☆ summary: Color has something to show Killer.

☆ word count: 586 words

☆ a/n: Kinda short and rushed, so sorry in advance >_< Fluff be upon you!

“Killer, can you come here for a sec?”

Killer perks up from his seat on the couch where he’s idly watching a gameshow on the living room TV. Color is standing at the doorway, his hand holding something green. Killer recognizes it as his puffy jacket for the winter that Color insisted on buying for him last month when the first breeze of winter came. Killer didn’t turn down the offer, but he still thought it was a bit excessive from Color – skeletons can’t feel the cold after all, so a jacket wouldn’t make much of a difference.

Anyway, it was all pointless – that jacket only got to be used for two weeks before some jerks ripped a hole in it, right at the waist area too. Killer doesn’t mind much, since he still has one perfectly functional jacket that he’s been wearing ever since his life in his universe. The jacket isn’t too shabby either – it still holds up well despite all the battles he’s been through in it.

Killer realizes he might have sat on the couch for too long without answering, so he stands up, making sure not to disturb the sleeping cats at his feet before walking towards Color. His flame smiles before holding out the unfortunate winter jacket.

“Can you try this on?” Color says, and Killer shrugs off his signature blue jacket and takes the offered green one.

As he slots his arms into the jacket, Killer notices that the damaged area has been fixed up with a colorful patch that he can’t decipher yet. Whatever. After he dons on the jacket, he feels a bit warmer, not significantly, but he can tell the care that Color has put into the piece of clothing.

“How does it feel?” Color asks next to him, to which he gives a genuine smile.

“Pretty cozy, habibi.”

“Yeah…” Color looks down a bit before looking back up at him with a soft glint in his eyelights. “Sorry for letting those guys stab you back there. I should have noticed.”

“Nah, it’s cool. Better you than me, amirite?”

Color doesn’t reply, only giving him that quick, sad glance again. Killer feels as if he has made a misstep, but he can’t tell what it is. Another error he should look into and iron out later, as usual.

Not knowing what to do, Killer puts his hands in the pockets and looks down to stare at his shoes. Only then does he notice what the patch looks like. It’s a tabby cat with a mischievous look, covered in a banner that says, “never stop believing”. Killer feels his smile involuntarily widen at the silliness of it all.

“Ha, no one likes outdated cat memes anymore, Color,” he tells Color, whose flames shift in that distinct embarrassed expression.

“It’s the only one I could find, okay?” Color huffs. His face must have been as hot as the flames burning in his skull.

Killer grins. After a second of hesitation, he brings his hand up to cup the side of Color’s cheek and leans in, admiring the kaleidoscope that is blooming in front of him.

“I like it,” he murmurs, the words unfamiliar on his tongue. But he’s been trying to say them more and more often now. “Thank you.”

Color beams back at him, nuzzling into Killer’s touch. His hand holds Killer’s own, warm and secure. Killer’s SOUL feels as if it has been expanded tenfold by the affectionate gesture.

“No problems, Killz. I’ll always have you.”

[quarterlifecrisis-activated]

I find it interesting that Stede is the unintentional cause of all 3 deaths of characters that represent toxic masculinity. Symbolically and thematically it’s just *chefs kiss*.

First take the Badminton twins. Stede is the opposite of toxic masculinity, he’s soft and picks flowers and cries and creates a safe space for meaningful male (for the most part) friendships. When Nigel and Chauncey die it’s because they were berating and attacking Stede and this form of masculinity. They also die by their own weapons unintentionally killing themselves. Toxic masculinity will always destroy itself because it’s hollow. If Stede and the crew are family and joy and connection the British navy is the system. There is nothing there to actually help people. But it’s so pervasive, one falls and someone else steps up. Same face, different name (literally). OFMD says that attacking this new way of life is meaningless because it is built on something more and trying to combat it will only turn inward. The Badmintons die alone and no one notices or cares.

Which brings me to Izzy Hands. I have a soft spot for that little nightmare (affectionate), he’s the character that I still haven’t pulled apart fully. Yes it’s Stede’s plan that leads to Izzy’s death but I don’t think Stede’s involvement is the same like for the Badmintons. It’s Ricky that’s important in the thematic meaning of Izzy’s death. Izzy is the toxic masculinity of the pirate world. It’s pretty clear that Izzy is the stand in for piracy and the old way of doing things. And he hates Stede! He also wins at the end of season 1. He removes everything touched by Stede from the Revenge and boy does it backfire. Raids for the sake of raids and no interpersonal connection sucks. And it was everything Izzy fought for in season 1. Continuing the idea of self destruction, I find it interesting that Izzy tries and fails to shoot himself. By his own hand and all alone. I believe it was Con who said that that moment was the death of Izzy Hands as we new him. Upholding a system just for the sake of upholding the system costs you everything and leaves you with nothing. And Izzy sees that and he changes!

If someone had told season 1 Izzy that he’d lose his leg that man wouldn’t bat an eye. But if you told him his new leg would be a gold painted unicorn hoof he’d go into cardiac arrest. But it’s his acceptance of what the crew made him that brings him into community. It’s a visual representation of what is going on internally and it culminates is his full look during Calypso’s birthday. He’s fully turned away from what was and put on this softness and femininity that makes him part of the crew. And I think that’s such a beautiful sentiment and I tear up every time I watch that scene.

Which brings me to Ricky. I mean, fuck that guy amirite?! He’s the worst and I wish we would have seen more of him. I think his conversation with Izzy is also so fascinating. It parallels nicely with Izzy meeting Chauncey in season 1. Izzy could’ve saved his own skin if he worked with Ricky like he did with Chauncey, if he upheld the system and played along. But he doesn’t and I love it. It’s so impactful to give Izzy that speech because every other member of the crew was already with the program. Having a character that was on the other side go actually fuck you you’re wrong is amazing storytelling. Izzy has learned his lesson and while he’s far from perfect he’s doing better every day. And that’s profound especially when you talk about trying to change people who upheld these toxic ideals. But it’s because of this rejection of toxic masculinity that Izzy dies. There’s no loyalty in the system; just because you helped them once doesn’t mean that it won’t spit you out and discard you. Even the people who have power in the system (white men) are not valued by it. But true community gives value. Izzy dies this time not alone but surrounded by people who care about him. The people around him when he dies pretty much all wanted him dead in season 1 and now they mourn and remember him fondly.

Izzy’s arc with crew is wonderful because it’s the shows thesis on unconditional love and the willingness to be kind even to those who don’t deserve it. Because look at how it helped everyone. To be loved is to be changed and it’s no surprise that the last shot of season 2 had Izzy and Buttons together changed.

[wxnheart]

After that mission with König and Horangi technically the three of you are not officially together but someone these two bastards have scared off any potential one night stands.

And Horangi has been subtle with his claim and affection towards a soft touch across your lower back, a gentle hand grab to pull you away from bumping into people.

König oh dear, he call king for a reason. Stares down anyone from a far when the speak to you, him casually press again you against the wall touches your face, and kissing you under his mask. Saying between kisses mine, pretty girl. Growls when you play at his neck.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐕𝐨𝐥. 𝟐, 𝐓𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐄𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

König whose anxiety goes right out the window when he sees someone getting a little too close to his Schatz.

Horangi who doesn't hesitate to make you flush in the presence of others because why not? They do know who you belong to, right? Right?

König who, if he had his way, would shadow you whenever and wherever he can. A king has to protect his valuables after all.

Horangi who does shadow you and keeps his distance. Simultaneously. For reasons. Reasons that involve keeping you on your toes and in a heightened state of pure fucking want.

You're no better, doing everything in your power to tempt these two men, to urge and make them claim what's rightfully theirs. And so you encourage the banter, you encourage this... thing that smolders between you.

You feel their eyes on you, even if you don't acknowledge them, even if you don't say anything. You just continue talking to... hell, it doesn't matter. All that matters is purposely ignoring König's steely gaze and Horangi's... everything.

Horangi who makes it his priority to press your buttons, find what makes you tick, and use it to his advantage. Ah, so you do like his hands, eh? Horangi who surprises you by running a finger lightly over your lips and it's all you can do to keep from sucking on it.

König who finds out just what his size does to you. And once again, anxiety be damned, he shamelessly shows a side of himself that leaves you wanting more. König who corners you one day and presses against you, hardened muscle taut with self-restraint. You press yourself against him with equal vigor and for the first time (of many), you shiver in response to the deep rumble of his growl. Oh, König...

Horangi and König are now tired of the fucking games and are ready to claim their prize. About damn time.

Horangi and König manage to get you alone. You're sandwiched tightly in between the two of them and fuck yes—

You're enveloped in arms and roving hands who can't get enough of you, and finally, fucking finally, you beat Horangi at his own game. He bites down on his lip to keep from groaning because if your mouth feels this fucking good around his finger, just imagine how good it would feel in other places. Goddamn.

Just TigerKing things, amirite?

[demonvibez]

Bloodlust

Characters: Barbatos x F! Reader Word Count: 5k+ Rating: Mature [MDNI] Tags: vampire barb, accidental injury (small cut), blood drinking, biting, fangs, tail play, fingering, penetration, reader has female body parts, lil fluff ending A/N: Had a ton of fun writing this! It was supposed to be out for Barb's birthday but...eh, life in the Devildom, amirite? Anyways, who doesn't like a belated birthday gift? Happy Belated Birthday, Barbatos! ♡

There you sit on a balcony of the Demon Lord's Castle, a cup of Hellfire Rose Tea cradled between your hands, as Lord Diavolo sits across from you. He had invited you over for tea in order to thank you for your help in curing the brothers' vampiritis, as well as just catch up with each other through conversation. The two of you sip your tea and exchange stories and laughs as you await the return of Barbatos with a tray of his famous sweets. As you look out upon the Devildom's skyline, the twin moons shining down on you both, you can't help but to smile as you feel a soft breeze lightly caressing your face. The doors leading into Lord Diavolo's room are wide open, the breeze flowing through the room and back out again, the various scents of teas and baked goods intermingling with one another - much to your pleasure, for you had enough of the scent of garlic for the next millennia.  As you listen intently to the Prince's anecdote, you hear the door gently click open.

Barbatos is on the way back from the Castle's kitchen with a tray of his freshly baked sweets. Of course, the demon had made his famous Signature Cake that was all the rage of anyone that visits the Castle, but he also made sure to make a special batch of Spider's Web Cream Puffs just for you, as he knows how much you favor them. He'll never forget the way your eyes lit up like the Devildom sky when you first took a bite into one, a simple memory he is sure to cherish forever. It didn't take him long to grow fond of that smile of yours, and he's eager to draw it out of you whenever you're around - however stoic he may present himself. Much like himself, you're always doing things for everyone else - even if it's to your own detriment, even if it's not safe for you. Even this past week, you put your own life on the line in order to cure the Devildom of vampiritis, using every ounce of your available power in order to thwart a huge catastrophe - something they're unsure how to even repay you for. 

As Barbatos continues to make his way up the steps and towards the Young Master's room, he couldn't help but to feel as though something may be slightly...off with him. As he pauses at the top of the stairway, he uses the back of his glove to wipe off his forehead, furrowing his eyebrows as he stares down at his hand. Sweat? Why in the Devildom would he possibly be sweating? More strenuous tasks never seem to phase the Butler, so why would carrying a tray of desserts be able to break his refined exterior? He brushes it off, attributing it to the steam of the pastries - despite knowing deep within himself that he had, in fact, cooled the desserts completely as he was supposed to. As he glided through the hallways and towards his Young Master's door, he couldn't help but to feel a slight tingle and burning sensation at the back of his throat. He was sure that whatever was going on had nothing to do with vampiritis - the strain only infected fallen angels, after all. He figures it must be another Devildom cold, and pushes the thought to the back of his mind, refusing to deign something so preposterous as himself being sick. 

He pushes the door open with a gloved hand, a soft zephyr of the Devildom's cool night air brushing past him, and a faintly sweet scent tickling his nostrils that he finds unfamiliar. The further he continues into the room, the stronger the scent becomes, calling out to him with an intensity that rivals the thirst of a man dying in a desert. His throat dries up even more with a thirst so unbearable, it almost makes him want to claw out his own throat. Trying his best to swallow down the feeling, he marches onward with the tray of sweets, determined to see out his duties and deal with his affliction afterward. As he finally makes his way to the balcony door, another gust of wind brushes past you, and it is at that moment in which Barbatos realizes exactly what ails him.

You look up from your tea to lock eyes with Barbatos, a sweet smile displayed across your lips. He has seen you many times under the light of the Devildom moons, but tonight there is something different about you. It's not just the way the crimson moonlight paints your features, or the way your soul shines like a rare Celestial gemstone - no, you definitely look different to him. Your skin looks softer than usual, so tempting to touch and to taste. The way the wind blows your hair back, exposing your neck to him as it pulsates with the one thing he's craving more than anything in all three realms. Your blood...oh how he thirsts for your blood. He can practically see the way it dances around in your veins, calling out to him like a siren's song meant to lure him into the abyss. 

As he stands there with the tray in hands, intently staring you down with a ravenous look in his eyes, your eyebrows furrow - you knew something was wrong with Barbatos just from his demeanor alone, and looking over at Diavolo, you can tell he senses it too. 

"Barbatos, is everything alright?" the Young Prince asks the butler as he stands from his chair, his tone both equally serious and concerned. He doesn't miss the look in the butler's eyes, as if he were ready to consume you whole. Barbatos quickly shakes his head, essentially snapping himself out of the trance, and sets the tray down on the table. 

"My apologies, My Lord. It appears that I have contracted a minor cold," he explains, trying his best to minimize the situation. Diavolo narrows his eyes at Barbatos, knowing the demon isn't being entirely truthful with him, but he crosses his arms and waits for his butler to finish his explanation. "No need to worry, once I finish my duties here, I will retire to my quarters and begin treating myself immediately," the butler continued, avoiding eye contact with either of you. Somewhat satisfied with his answer, Diavolo returns to his seat, his expression softening slightly. 

"Aww, well, I hope you feel better soon Barbatos! Thank you so much for preparing all of this for us," you say, still smiling and oblivious to the subtleties of the demons around you. You pick up one of the cream puffs, placing it on your plate, before eyeing one of the Midnight Scones. Your smile grows even wider as you pick one up with one hand, grabbing your knife with the other, stabbing into the scone so that you may spread some delicious blood strawberry jam onto it. Accidently stabbing through the scone and into your finger, you instantly drop everything onto the table as you wince in pain, a droplet of blood accumulating on your skin. 

The scent of your bare blood in the Devildom air sets off a war within Barbatos' mind, causing him to freeze in place and stare at you with a certain darkness in his eyes. His bloodlust for you is currently at ineffable heights, only made slightly evident to him by the sudden growth in his fangs and the way his heart races, mind spinning with the all consuming need to just have a little taste of you. 

Diavolo is immediately on high alert, standing back up from his seat once again when he sees that look return to Barbatos' eyes. He can practically see the ancient demon salivating over you and your blood, confirming his original suspicions that his butler may have contracted vampiritis. He knew Barbatos, his ever loyal and stoic butler, would do his best to push through and carry out his duties as he normally would when he is ill - but Diavolo draws the line when it comes to endangering his students, especially you. He steps out from where he was sitting, moving to stand between yourself and Barbatos. The look in the Future King's golden eyes was one you hadn't seen before - sure, you had seen Diavolo be serious before, but nothing quite like this.

"Barbatos, you are hereby relieved of your duties. Return to your quarters at once and await my next orders," he says, his voice stern and authoritative. Barbatos continues to stand there frozen, staring at you and the droplets of blood that he wants so badly to taste. He doesn't acknowledge the Prince's orders - it's as if he didn't even hear him. Instead, he takes a step towards you, causing Diavolo to transform into his demon form and put a hand on Barbatos' chest. 

"Barbatos. Return to your room now," Diavolo declares, with a certain bass in his voice that could shake all three realms. He will physically remove the Butler if need be, anything to protect everything that he holds dear to him - including Barbatos himself. An incident like this could ruin the peace he's been working so hard towards - and of course, he would never want anything to happen to you. Not only are you his sweet little exchange student, but you're the Chosen One - the human that stands to help unite all three realms. If harm were to come to you, he doesn't even want to think of the massive consequences that will follow. Additionally, he cannot stand the thought of anything happening to Barbatos either. Barbatos has always been Diavolo's one true family member, having been by his side since the Little Prince had tricked him all those centuries ago. No, he can't let anything happen to either of you - he needs to take control of the situation, and he needs to do it immediately. Diavolo flairs out his wings, essentially hiding you from view behind the enormity of his crimson and gold wingspan. He begins to walk forward, pushing Barbatos backwards towards the door, a low growl emitting from his throat as he bares his own demonic fangs at the butler. 

Barbatos snaps out of the trance once again as he stumbles backwards, his emerald green eyes widening in horror at the realization of what has just transpired. Sure, he hadn't actually attacked you, but he couldn't deny to himself that all he could think about was how ravenous he was for your blood. His resolve is faltering, and he can't help but be overcome with shame at that fact.

"I...I..." Barbatos continues to walk backwards, his mind still racing as he fumbles over his words, unable to make eye contact with his Master. He turns and makes a break for the door. "My deepest apologies," he mutters as he exits, slamming the door shut. Diavolo stands there for a few more moments, his arms crossed, waiting to be sure the bloodthirsty butler doesn't return while you're here. When he is sure Barbatos won't return, he drops his arms and lets out a sigh, turning about face to return to you on the balcony. When he returns, he sees you still sat in your seat, holding a cloth napkin over your finger with a bewildered look on your face.

"Sorry about that," he says in his normal cheerful tone, a fake smile plastered across his face. You can still see the concern in his eyes though. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut our evening together a little short." Before you could even protest, Diavolo has picked his DDD up off of the table, making a call to Lucifer to come and escort you back to the House of Lamentation for safekeeping.

Lucifer had been prompt in arriving at the Castle to pick you up, having been filled in on the details of the incident during his phone call with Lord Diavolo. You were brought home with haste and a curfew was set in place for the entire House. You honestly had no idea what the fuss was all about - you weren't in danger being around all seven of the brothers when they were infected, why would Barbatos be any different? He's the most refined demon you've ever met, you'd have been just fine around him, you were sure of it. Ready to call it a day, you make your way to your room and get ready for bed.

The hour is late, and you are safely tucked away beneath your sheets as you peacefully slumber the rest of the night away. A loud clatter awakes you from your sleep, jolting you from your dreams. You recognize that the noise is coming from the kitchen, pushing yourself up out of bed to go monitor (who you assume is) Beelzebub in his midnight snack binge - it was a nightly routine for you, so making your way to the kitchen at this hour is almost a reflex at this point. Poking your head into the doorframe, the sight you see before you is a surprising one - it's not Beelzebub that you find, but instead it's Barbatos making all of the commotion, having ransacked the entirety of the kitchen. There he stands across the room, staring at you intently once again, for he could smell your sweet scent the second you crossed the threshold of your own bedroom door. When he says your name, you can tell there is a slight tremble to his voice.

"What are you doing here," he asks, a certain darkness to his tone. You finish making your way into the room, standing across the kitchen island with your arms crossed and your eyebrows furrowed.

"Uhh, you're in my house. I should be the one asking you that - what are you doing here," you respond, tilting your head to the side. You can tell there is a slight agitation that Barbatos is trying to hide as he lets out an annoyed huff and nervously fidgets with his hands, which you've never seen him do before. He stands there unresponsive, yet again, causing you to call out his name once more. 

"My apologies...I...came to see if you had any of the last ingredients I need to make the remedy for my ailment. We are all out of garlic at the Castle and I-"

"Really? You came here for garlic?" You move out from behind your side of the counter, and walk around to make your way towards Barbatos, causing him to step backwards a few paces. "Seems unlikely you'd come here of all places for that. You know we used it all to make the last batch of serum. If you really 'just needed garlic' then it seems to me you would have popped over to the 24 hour DevilMart up the street from here," you say as you continue forward, effectively backing him against the wall. You hadn't feared these demons before, and you weren't about to start tonight. You stop a few feet in front of him, a hand on your hip and a sadistic smile on your face. "So why don't you go ahead and be honest with the both of us and admit the real reason you're here." Before Barbatos could fathom a reply, you take the last step forward, reaching out to push his hair back out of his face and tuck it behind his ear. You caress his cheek with your hand before running your fingers over his lips, your eyes shining with an unmistakable lust. "Then again, I think we both know why you're really here tonight." 

Both his mind and his pulse are in a frenzy as you literally have him in the palm of your hand. You both know you are playing with fire but you don't care - you know what you want, and you're going to take it. The look in Barbatos' eyes is one of uncertainty. Between the bulge in his pants and the way his mouth is salivating, he knows for a fact that he returns that feeling of lust for you. He would love nothing more than to taste you, in more ways than one, but he's not sure if he possesses the restraint needed to take you to bed with him tonight. What if he loses himself in your essence? What if he gets a taste and finds himself unable to stop? His throat burns with an uncontrollable thirst that he is dying to quench, and the longer you linger, the intensity exacerbates.

"This is dangerous," he barely whispers as he leans into your touch. He should be telling you no - he should be opening up a portal and going back to the Castle where he belongs. But he can't find it within himself to resist you. Besides, this is what you want, isn't it? No, this is a huge risk that neither of you should be taking. You let out a soft chuckle and shake your head.

"Have you met me? Don't worry, I trust you. It'll be fine." Your hand drops from his face to grab his hand, gently pulling him towards the door. He lets out a few halfhearted protests, causing you to shush him as you guide him towards your bedroom. You push the door open and pull him inside, locking the door behind you both and leaving the lights dim. You bring him over to your bed and turn to him, grabbing his lapels with your hands. "Let's get you comfortable," you say with a smirk as you begin to unbutton his jacket.

"Are you sure about this?" You throw his jacket over onto the floor, at which he didn't even react. He just continued to stare at you, the uncertainty in his emerald eyes replaced with pure lust.  Instead of replying, you press your lips to his, which was more than enough of a final answer for him. With the remaining distance between the two of you closed, he grabs you by the hips and pulls you closer to him, before pulling you down onto the bed with him. You straddle his lap, deepening the kiss by playfully nibbling on his bottom lip, your tongues colliding in a passionate dance. He breaks away from your lips to begin trailing kisses down to your neck, letting out a moan as his lips finally caress the one spot he's been obsessing over all night. "You're all I've been able to think about," he mumbles against your skin, before pressing a few more kisses against your pulse. 

He extends his vampiric fangs, gently grazing them up your neck, before leaning back down and sinking them right above where your neck meets your shoulder. As you let out a gasp at the sharp pain, he retracts his fangs and begins to lap at your blood, letting out a moan as he tastes just how delectable you truly are. Your eyes roll into the back of your head at the sensation, your hands sliding into his scalp and caressing his horns - you hadn't noticed him slip into his demon form the second he tasted your blood. No, both of you are having such an intimate experience, you can only seem to focus on your senses and the way you're making each other feel. As he feels your sweet crimson nectar dripping down his throat, he feels revitalized in a way he hasn't felt in several millennia. All of his senses are heightened, his power growing as he consumes your essence.

You feel a rush, a certain lightheadedness as you feel him gently sucking on the flesh of your neck. You grind on his lap as you lean into him, his hardness stimulating you and eliciting tiny moans whispered into his ear. He presses one last kiss onto his bite mark before pulling away to meet your lips with his once more, the taste of your own blood meeting your tongue. As he passionately kisses you, he begins to peel off his gloves. After tossing them on the floor, he begins to make quick work of your clothes with his hands as his tails work on undoing his own.

After tossing the clothes aside, Barbatos lays you down on your bed, continuing to kiss you as his hands slide down your body. His hands stop momentarily to feel your breasts, before one of them makes its way further downward. He slips a finger in between your lips and finds your clit - you both let out a tiny moan as he feels how wet you already are for him. He begins to slowly massage you as he kisses down your jawline, briefly pausing to press a kiss onto his bite mark, and then continuing down to your breasts. You can't help but to arch into his touch, the sensations of his nimble fingers sending you closer to the edge with each stroke, the feel of him teasing your nipples driving you wild. The sounds of your moans and whispered swears reverberate off the walls as he drives you closer to the edge of your first orgasm. The effects of having your blood drawn, paired with the pleasure Barbatos is giving you, makes you feel a high you've never felt before. He breaks away from your breasts, his other hand moving down to slide two fingers slowly inside of you as he continues to rub you. His pace quickens, and he can feel the precum beading on the head of his cock as he watches you fall apart on his fingers. Your first orgasm feels amazing - but you both need more. It's almost there's an instinct within both of you that you need to become apart of each other. He pulls his fingers out of you, putting them in his mouth to taste you. He lightly moans as he savors the taste. He wants nothing more than to fill all of his senses with only you. 

He moves back on his knees, lining himself up with you and pushing the head of his cock into your tight little hole. You let out a high pitched squeal as he enters you, feeling more and more full as he slowly slides himself into you further. Once he finally pushes himself all the way, completely buried within you, he lets out a strangled moan and begins to thrust in and out of you. You feel so good wrapped around his throbbing cock, he never wants to pull out of you. The way you squeeze him, so tight and so snug, it almost feels as though you never want him to pull out either. Perhaps if he made you his familiar, he'd be able to make love to you like this constantly - but one thing is for certain tonight; you belong to him. 

He reaches down to grab your breasts, teasing your nipples as he continues at a steady pace. The sounds falling from your lips are like music to his ears, a symphony he'd love to forever hear on repeat. Your brain is flooded with pleasure, each thrust sending electricity through your body. Just when you swear to yourself that you'd never felt this good before, you feel his tails slide between your lips and start massaging your clit as he passionately fucks you. Your eyes roll back once again, your hands clutching tightly at the sheets as he pounds you to your second orgasm, your body being set ablaze as pure ecstasy washes over you. 

He briefly pulls out of you, but only for a moment. He lays down beside you and props himself up on one arm, turning you so you're on your side in the same position. He pulls your top leg up, firmly grasping your thigh, before repositioning his cock and sliding it back into you. Throwing your head back as you feel him bottom out once again, you both begin to grind against each other, the sounds of your skin slapping together punctuating the melody of moans filling the room. He spots his bite mark dripping near the base of your neck, and leans down for another taste, his pace quickening the moment your blood touches his tongue once again. You make the refined butler want to go absolutely feral, a side of himself that even he was unaware. He wants you to feel just as good as you make him feel - the way you rapture his senses and take him over completely. His tails return to your clit, rapidly rubbing the sensitive spot in circles, as he continues his unrelenting pace. Your mind is racing as it makes its way back up the crescendo to your next orgasm, your vision blurred by tears of pleasure as you chant his name in praise. A few more thrusts, and Barbatos sends you over the edge once again, your brain flooded with pure euphoria. He feels you clench around him, your pussy squeezing him beautifully tight, his own orgasm erupting mere seconds after yours. His pace slows down, but he continues to pump his cock in and out of you slowly, both of you riding the high of your climaxes all the way back down to the bottom. 

As you both lay there and try to catch your breaths, Barbatos wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his chest, your heartbeats pulsing at an increased rate. His other hand moves to push the hair out of your face, having to do so with several strokes as it is drenched with sweat and clinging to your face. He looks down at you, eyes filled with love and admiration, before pressing a kiss to your forehead. He murmurs your name, unable to stop the smile that reaches his eyes.

"You truly are a remarkable human," he says as you look up at him, leaning in to press his lips to yours. You deepen the kiss, your hand moving up to cup his cheek as your tongue enter his mouth. His free hand slides down your body, lightly grabbing at your hip, causing you to wince a little. His eyes suddenly snap open at the sound, and he immediately pulls away, his brows furrowing and eyes wide with concern. "Are you okay? Have I hurt you," he asks as he checks you over for injury. Other than the bruising bite mark at the base of your neck, he spots several other bruises on your hips and thighs. "I apologize for any of the unintentional markings I may have left on you. I was unaware that your blood would give me such vitality," he says as he stands up off the bed, starting to make his way towards your bathroom. "I assure you I will bring you back to full health, and it will no-" the butler's lamentation is cut off by the sound of your giggles. 

"Barbatos, listen to me when I say that I assure you that I enjoyed myself, and am just fine," you say, pushing yourself so that you're sitting up in bed. "Well, other than, you know." You gesture towards your neck with another giggle. "Which I also really enjoyed, by the way. But there's no need to worry, just grab me the healing potion from the bathroom, if you could? It's the red vial on the right side of my sink." You stretch your legs as you wait for Barbatos to return with the potion, your muscles feeling weak and sore in all of the best ways. A moment or two later, and he re-enters the room, handing you the vial and sitting next to you on the bed. You chug down the potion, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and setting the empty glass vial on your nightstand as Barbatos gets situated in bed behind you, pulling you back into his embrace. 

You let out a happy sigh as you lay your head to rest on his chest, your eyes fluttering closed at the sound of his heartbeat below. Tonight was a night that neither of you would ever be able to forget, a memory that Barbatos will be fond of for centuries to come - his heart begins to fill with sorrow at the thought of the night ending. Almost as if you could read his mind, you begin to whisper to him a similar sentiment.

"Wish tonight didn't have to end...wish it could last forever," you murmur as the hand resting on his chest absentmindedly traces shapes on his skin. His heart swells as he hears your words, his own hand cupping your cheek and tilting your head up to meet his gaze. 

"The night may not last an eternity, but our time together does not have to end. My feelings for you are so deeply profound, I simply cannot imagine myself without you. You are a part of me now, as well as I am a part of you." He closes what little distance is left between the two of you, the kiss shared between you both filled such passion, that neither of you could deny the love you share for one another. 

"I love you so much, Barbatos," you whisper, after pulling away to gaze into his gorgeous lush green eyes. Even after everything you just experienced together, you can't help the blush that lightly spreads across your cheeks. You didn't really know how Barbatos felt about you, until now. 

"I love you too, my darling human. And I always will," he pledges to you, giving you one more chaste kiss before settling back down. You let out a tiny yawn, nuzzling the crook of his neck affectionately before drifting off to sleep. As his own eyelids grow heavier, he thinks over the events of the day fondly. What at first he thought was an unfortunate fate in turn brought the two of you closer together - something he will always feel lucky and thankful for. One quick little turn of fate, and now the two of you are inseparably entwined, the blood ritual and love-making the two of you shared having stricken an unbreakable bond. The refined butler usually isn't fond of losing his resolve - unless he's with you. You always bring out new aspects of himself he's never seen before - even when he's infected with an mutated strain of vampiritis. You bring excitement when his life is mundane, and he's eager to see how the two of you spend the rest of time together - with or without his newly acquired bloodlust.

· demonvibez ♡ 2023 · do not copy, repost or modify · · likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated! ♡ ·

[eddiestightywhities]

SNIPPET SUNDAY

so there i was minding my own business working away on my s08e08 coda when BAM! charlie @playinginthunderstorms goes and drops THIS SHOW-STOPPING FIC and completely derails my efforts by inspiring me to write a completely different fic that is also a coda for s08e08 lmao. having writer friends is never, ever boring, amirite?!

anyways here's an excerpt seeing as i thought i'd get it finished tonight but didn't and need the motivation to keep going with it asfhjhsk

ps pls be kind as it's completely unedited xp

.

“Take it off.”

Buck looks up to where Eddie is standing in the door jam, big hands on slim hips and pink lips pinched.

“Huh?” he replies.

Because huh?

Eddie gives him The Look; his patented Buck look.

“Buck,” he says in the exact same way Buck just heard it in his head.

Then Eddie's eyebrows shoot up in the way Buck knows to mean you know what I mean, and although most of the time Buck knows precisely what Eddie means with just one pointed eyebrow-raise, right now he has zero clue of whatever it is Eddie is trying to tell him.

“What?” he says, his own brows asking half the question for him.

Eddie sighs, and it's kind of pained and long-suffering, which—fair.

“The hoodie, lover-boy. Take it off.”

The penny-drop is immediate.

For some reason, Buck blushes a little under Eddie's gaze—and maybe a little at his use of the weirdly alluring moniker.

Buck is wearing one of Tommy's hoodies.

He doesn't pout, but it's a close thing.

“But it's—Eds, it's the only thing I have left of him,” he protests, voice pathetically brittle and small.

Eddie's eyes go so soft you could top hot chocolate with them and cover them in squirty cream.

“Look, Buck, keeping it is bad enough. But wearing it? That's some pretty solid self-sabotaging behaviour, man. Trust me; I should know.” His words are cleanly direct, as they always are, only his mouth treats them with such gentleness, and such care, that Buck kind of wants to cry.

Eddie always looks after him. Always works hard to keep Buck's heart safe from harm.

Buck pictures it now, his heart laying uselessly in his friend's cupped hands as it continues to pump Buck's blood out of its floppy ventricles, even though there's nowhere left for it to go.

Tommy left him.

They all leave, eventually. Because everybody leaves Buck, he should know that by now.

Everyone except Eddie.

Adversely, though, it was only yesterday that Eddie had told Buck about his absolutely batshit crazy idea of moving back to El Paso, after which Buck's brain had consequently stopped sending messages to his body to tell it how to breathe.

He remembers picturing Yesterday Eddie crushing Buck's heart in a tight fist, blood and viscera oozing out from between his fingers and dripping down over his knuckles, right onto the sparkling white kitchen tiles. Then, rounding the table and chairs to step on the pedal bin pedal, he'd proceeded to throw Buck's heart away into the trash bag along with the rest of the trash.

Somehow though, in the space between the last of Buck's now-crushed heartbeats and him blinking back to reality, Buck had managed to snap out of the fucked-up vision to remind his body to keep working in the way that it's supposed to.

He'd then forced a plastic smile onto his face and painted it with as much selfless understanding as he could muster, before coming out with, “Well, we should move this party to the couch,” and offering himself up as a Realtor Virtual Meeting Wingman like a certified insane person.

Buck loved Eddie—he was his best friend in all the world—so what the fuck was he doing helping the guy turn his life into a living hell?

But helping being his first instinct was what made him realise he loved Eddie and Christopher enough to give them up, if that's what it was going to take to facilitate them getting their happiness back.

…Or so he thought.

As much as he had tried—and by god, he had really, really tried—Buck just couldn't keep up the Supportive Best Friend charade for very long.

That's when all hell had broken loose.

.

tags are under the cut, play or nay:

@inell @rosieposiepuddingnpie @sortasirius @angela-feelstoomuch @woodchoc-magnum @kitteneddiediaz @buddiebeginz @watchyourbuck @treasurehuntbuck @daffi-990 @colonoscopys @shitouttabuck @lamardeuse @idealuk @veronae-buddie @isaacthedruid @team-118 @wildehacked @playinginthunderstorms @kyoteugly @hotshotsxyz

[just-some-random-blogger]

Hi! I came across your page and I love your fanfics of HOTD and I was wondering if you could make a fanfic with Daemon Targaryen and a Velaryon/Targaryen reader who is the daughter of King Viserys and his first wife who was Lord Corlys unnamed sister🤭.

I want her to have a close relationship with her half sister rhaenrya at first then as the years slowly go by that love for her sister deteriorates seeing what her sister has become 👀 a little angst never hurt anybody 😝

I want the reader to be a combination of Visenya and Rhaenys ( aegon the conquers sister wives )

Wish I Was Her

Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader

Summary: Daemon was your sun, your moon, your earth, your sky. He was all you ever wanted to be like growing up... all you ever learned to want when you came of age. But true to his nature, he liked things difficult, he liked things messy, he liked to hurt, and so he made you watch his admirations toward your sister.

Word Count: 3k+

Warnings: Canon and additional Targaryen incest bonk 🤠 as per request, Daemon x Rhaenyra, fem!reader, made up characters, some descriptions of reader as per request, pining, fluff, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: this was a TALL order and I stared at this ask endlessly wondering what I could possibly do for it asdf;asf;asf which is why it took so long. I hope you like it my love. It really be your own sister, amirite YUCK. Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda

"Pretty," I note, reaching out to the necklace on my sister's neck.

Rhaenyra turns to what my hand touched and smiled to herself as I smiled back at her, "who gifted it?"

"Uncle," she says with an excited tone.

The smile on my face begins to fade as hers sparkle. She chuckles, caressing the jewelry on her neck, "he must have known how I eye the endless gifts you get from suitors far and wide."

I snort before breaking into a laugh. Seems like something he would do.

"If you wanted to wear them," I turn and grab her arm as we continue walking through the gardens, "you should have made it known to me. You know I care little for them. They hold the same value as rocks to me."

Rhaenyra leans into my touch, sharing a laugh with me, "you truly are a heartbreaker, sister."

"You'll understand soon enough," I huff, pulling away from her to grab her face, "you are only 5 and 10. Once you are my age of 20, you will have had much more suitors than I ever will."

Rhaenyra places her hands on mine as I tuck her straight hair behind her ears. She mimics me, brushing my curly hair back, as I smile at her.

"That is impossible," she notes with a soft smile, "there is no man that is immune to your charms."

I roll my eyes, "do you want a bet?"

She huffs as we continue walking off, "I am not in the business of betting on things that I know I will lose."

We both break into a laugh as we make our way to the tree where Alicent was waiting for us. Well, Alicent and-

"Uncle," Rhaenyra beams, pulling away from me to rush over to Daemon.

Daemon smirks, turning to my sister just as Alicent does beside him. He nods, "princess," then at me, "princess."

I nod back, "uncle," I turn to the auburn haired lady, "Alicent."

Alicent smiles back at me as Rhaenyra mutters, "what are you doing here?"

Daemon shifts in his spot, "I came to see if you were wearing the necklace I gifted you," he lightly touches the center of the necklace, "now that I have," he turns to me, "I will not hold you ladies any further."

Alicent looks between us. I push past Daemon once he strides off, and get the hands of the two girls. "Now, that that's over with," I look between them. Alicent watches Rhaenyra, who looks off to the distance. I clench my jaw and shake her hand, "Rhaenyra."

"Yes?" she pipes up turning to me.

Alicent watches her. I diffuse the atmosphere by breaking into a chuckle, "a true dragon rider-- head stuck in the clouds."

Later that day, we found ourselves in the hall, as it seems I found myself another caller.

"It is apparent to me that you either have a wicked sense of humor, my lord," I coo as I rock the small cat in my hand, "or you are genuinely clueless that felines do not take kindly to dragons," I turn to the lord in front of me. His smile begins to fade as I continue, "and vice versa."

I chuckle as I stroke the creature's soft fur, impressed by how docile she was. I steal a glance at my sister's amused expression, as well as Alicent's, before turning to my father, who was sat beside me. I raise the cat towards him and he recoils on his iron throne.

I break into giggles as I pull the cat away, "it seems even the king himself is repelled."

Viserys says my name breathily.

"Perhaps I shall keep this one," I turn to Rhaenyra, "what say you, sister?"

"A splendid idea, sister," she responds.

"Oh, bugger off, the lot of you," our father chides, releasing a breath as we laugh once again.

It seems the man before me finds his spirits again in our familial bickering. I press my lips, hoping to crush it in my palm, "now, where are your gifts for my sisters, Lord Baratheon?"

The man a little older than I knits his dark brows, shaking his head, making his dark hair bounce.

"Surely, Christopher," I step forward, narrowing my eyes, "may I call you that?"

"You may address me however you like, princess."

I chuckle, "surely, boy-"

Viserys chuckles.

"-you wish to set yourself apart from the other endless suitors," I turn to Rhaenyra, "as my sister puts it-"

She purses her lips, holding back a laugh.

"-by offering tidings to my sisters as well."

Christopher Baratheon is once again rendered speechless.

"And by sisters, I mean, by blood, Rhaenyra, and by choice of companionship, Alicient."

The sisters turn to each other and share a chuckle at the sentiment.

I tilt my head to the man, "so?"

"I-" he starts, but does not continue.

I smile then shuffle the cat in my arms, "then," I hand the feline to him, "I shall, in fact, not keep this-"

"Aw," Rhaenyra sounds.

"-much to my sister's disappointment," I offer her a look as the lord gets the cat from me.

The look upon his face makes me feel utterly empowered.

"That will be all then," my father calls from behind.

I cannot help but snort as I turn to the impatient look on the King's face. I turn back to Lord Christopher and offer him fake hope, "if you find something you can give all three of us at the feast later tonight, you know where to find me."

The man perks up.

Alicent could not conceal her laughter, which makes everyone turn to her. Rhaenyra and I chuckle at the sight of her growing red cheeks.

"That will be all then," I repeat, offering him one last smile, before turning to my father, "I will be off on dragon back if you need me."

He promptly nods and I walk past Lord Baratheon.

"Take me with you!" Rhaenyra calls as I near.

"You," I start, rubbing her jaw with my thumb once I am close enough. I nearly freeze when I catch sight her necklace. I force a small smile on my face, "have classes to attend to."

She grabs my arm, "please."

I shake my head and lean down to whisper, "if I had to suffer through them, so do you."

I smirk at her as I pull away. She gives me a scornful look.

It is apparent that I was not the only one who thought to take advantage of the clear weather and take to the skies today.

"Uncle," I call as I make my way into the dragon pit. Both him and his ride turn to me when I near them. I extend my hand out carefully, "Caraxes."

Daemon watches as I caress his dragon's snout. He side steps closer to me, up until his hand is on my own. His other pulls me close to him by my waist, "princess."

Caraxes leans into us. I take this as a reason to mask my need to pull away. I ignore how my body reacts to him. I ignore how I feel annoyed by the image of my sister's neck that flashes in my mind.

I step away from him and pull a smile, turning to the dragon keeper behind him to ask that he release my dragon as well.

Daemon watches my hair flutter as Caraxes huffs, "will you be joining us today?"

I link my hands together, "as you've noticed, I prefer the hemispheres opposite to the ones you and Caraxes do."

"Hmm," he steps closer to me, "I oft wondered whether it was by sheer preference, or out of spite."

My face is blank as he smirks down at me, "why would I spite you, uncle?"

"Why would you?" he repeats, "you grew up wishing to be me when you were a child." He pulls away from his dragon as to lead him off once he hears my own stirring from the back of the place, "you told me you wanted to be a man-"

"Because I understood what it meant to be a woman," I retort as I follow him to the side, "how your worth is equal how many heirs your birth. How both mine and Rhaenyra's mothers were rendered worthless because of their... incapabilities."

I turn away from Daemon as I see my dragon get lead out, "they both died for it-- for nothing."

Daemon watches as I make my way to my dragon.

I am surprised that his own hand darts to my beloved creature's face the same time mine does.

I turn to him in surprise. I feel my pulse quicken even more when he fiddles with the large gems on my ears, "there was once a time where you did not allow anyone to dress you in skirts. I would have laughed at the notion of you wearing jewelry."

He pulls away from me and my dragon, "now you parade even your boyish exploits on your skin."

I scoff at him as his tone, "except these were my mother's."

Daemon stills. I find annoyance and ridicule rise up my throat when he looks as though he was not expecting that.

"Between the two of us, uncle," I walk away from him, readying to ride my mount, "it is only you who is clearly still caught up in their childishness."

Daemon could only watch and move away as I command my dragon to exit the chamber

Later that night, I am ensnared in dance after dance after dance, with men whose names I no longer kept track of.

Rhaenyra, the devil she was, kept agreeing on dances on my behalf, and at some point, I managed to trick the idiots with dancing with her first, as a condition to dance with me.

Currently, I was watching her spin with this unsightly Lord while she offered me the most disdainful expression yet. I snorted about it with our father.

"You must be kinder to your sister, child," he says after releasing a chuckle.

The two of us could not hold back on our laughter when the man steps on her foot and profusely breaks out in apologies.

Viserys hides his laugh in his hand when his second daughter shoots him a dirty look. I, however, openly ridicule her and even point a finger, "oh let me enjoy it, father. I have to dance with him after torturing my sister."

He releases an amused snort. He leans against his seat, "you do know that she only wishes to be more like you."

I avert my attention to him, not expecting the solemn words amidst this current atmosphere.

"Why would she want to be me when she is her?"

"She looks up to you, as any sibling would their elder," the king speaks, finally turning to me.

In that moment, my eyes instinctively find Daemon in the room. It is easy, plain like breathing. I watch how he watches Rhaenyra, how his lips curve at the sight of her. I turn away and mutter, "I don't suppose you fooled yourself into believing the same of uncle."

Viserys snorts, throwing his arms around me, "my, my daughter has grown to have a silver tongue to pair her silver hair."

I chuckle once then I lean against him affectionately.

In the next instant, Rhaenyra is upon me, eyes dark, lips curved in a grin, "your turn, sister."

I watch her come up to me as the man she was dancing with looks upon me eagerly. By the time Rhaenyra takes her seat on my own, shoving me with her hip, giving me no choice but to stand, I dramatically place my hand on my forehead and huff, "actually, I am feeling quite faint."

Both my father and sister turns to me when I say this. The former turns back, unfazed, and the latter gives me a dirty look.

My sister's most recent dance partner, who was none the wiser, flashes a look of concern as I say, "I should go outside and get some fresh air."

"I should accompany you, princess."

"Oh, no need. I will come back for our dance soon enough, my lord," I lie with my teeth, "you needn't worry."

Rhaenyra cannot stop me as I walk away. I manage to catch her annoyed look when she mouths, 'bitch' to me. I grin at her and throw a flying kiss at her direction.

I release a huff once I am free. I find comfort in the silence outside the hall.

Whatever peace I found, however, is interrupted by the person who comes up next to me.

I turn to my shoulder and find myself pulling a soft smile, "Cregan."

Cregan Stark says my name and nods in regard.

"I did not know you answered to your invitation."

"And why wouldn't I take the opportunity to bask in your fierce beauty," he smiles, eyes darting down, "did you not receive the necklaces I sent?"

I involuntarily bring my hand up to my bare collarbones as he explains, "I did not know what color you preferred, so I sent all that I could think of."

I shake my head. Against myself, I begin to think of Rhaenyra again. I think of her own gifted necklace, and think it was not nearly as ornate as the ones Cregan sent me. I envy her. I envy her still.

"I did, my lord," I straighten up, "but I could not bare to offend my many suitors by favoring one over the other."

Cregan huffs in amusement.

I smirk at him, "not when I clearly do not favor one over the other."

"You wound me, princess," he narrows his eyes as his lips quirk upward, "I thought we had something."

I snort, "then you might like my uncle, Stark," I state with a hint of venom, "he feels he is just as entitled to my attentions as you are."

"You would slander me to an outsider, niece?"

We both turn to the smirking Daemon as he walks over to us. I do not greet him like Cregan does, I do not nod at him or say his title in regard. Instead I turn to the dark haired man when I reply to his words, "he is hardly a stranger when he has come to my side bearing gifts in exchange for my time more than once."

I watch as Cregan's eyes twinkle at the acknowledgement where Daemon's jaw tightens.

"Will you allow my niece and I some privacy," Daemon asks, though it is not really question.

I stare at the prince idly.

Both of us turn to Cregan when he does not move a muscle.

"I should only leave at the command of the princess, my prince," Cregan nods at me.

I cannot hold back my chuckle.

Daemon does not take kindly to it and makes it clear when he turns to the large Stark.

I huff at his bravado, "it is alright, Cregan. We may continue our conversation inside after I talk to my uncle."

Without another word, Cregan nods at me and walks away.

Daemon watches him with contempt. His eyes dart to me, "Cregan?"

"Well, that is his name, is it not?" I raise my brows and cross my arms.

"And you are familiar with the wolf-boy?"

I scoff, rolling my eyes, "I do not see how that concerns you, uncle."

"It concerns me," he steps forward, "because it's you."

My hands fall to the side as he presses forward.

He leans his face close to mine, "I know everything about you. I know your first word, your wildest dreams, your worst nightmares," he grabs my chin, "the way you sound when you're heartbroken," he leans his forehead down on mine, "and when you lie to me."

My pulse quickens when his hands land on my shoulders. They make their way down, leaving goosebumps on their trail. He brushes his nose against my cheek as he sucks in a deep breath, "the way you smell," his hands pull me against him by my waist.

Daemon lifts his face. I cannot bare to look at him so I close my eyes. He closes his own before he presses his lips on the object of his desire.

I hold in my breath when he kisses me. He feels juxtaposed to his ruggedness. He is soft against me and it makes me burn. I can hold my breath no longer. I breathe heavily when he pulls away.

"The way you taste."

I jolt away from him when I hear quick footsteps. They were running away from us. My heart drops when I catch a flash of blonde hair along with a color of a dress, same as mine.

"Rhaenyra!" I call, pushing Daemon away from me.

I am halted when he grabs my wrist. I don't have time for him. I shove him away.

I pick up my skirt as I run down the hallway, ignoring everyone and everything, only to get to my sister. I catch her just before we both enter the hall again entirely.

"Rhaenyra," I gasp as I catch her arm just by the entrance, relatively safe from the view of others.

She swats me away, the same way I just did our uncle. But unlike me, she turns to give me a hurt look. My feelings eat at me when I see the tears in her eyes, "Rhaenyra."

"Must you have him as well?!"

I recoil at the harshness of her voice. It is foreign to my ears. She has never addressed me like this before. She never looked at me like this either.

"You," she steps forward, "can have anyone, anything, and yet you still want him?"

"Rhaenyra," I whisper helplessly.

"You know of my feelings!" she whisper-yells, "you are as cunning as you are astute, or do you simply choose to turn a blind eye to it out of your own want?"

I move to grab her cheeks, "he is not what you think he is, my love. Daemon is-"

"I DON'T CARE!" she quips, pulling away from me. She begins to heave exactly as though she just stabbed my beating heart, "I have watched as you wanted him, as he wanted you-"

I knit my brows at the sight of her.

"-and now your tricks have finally bored him."

My jaw slacks at her words.

"There is no man that is immune to your charms," Rhaenyra recites, clenching her jaw tightly as she evens her breath, "I want him, because he no longer wants you."

A chill runs down my spine.

I could not believe what I was hearing.

I turn to my side, catching sight of the bored look on my father's face, as his words from earlier echo in my mind. She wants to be like me?

I release a breath as I turn back to Rhaenyra. I feel my own tears threaten to spill, "if you think you can keep his attention," I scoff, "if you think he truly wants you," I chuckle darkly, "then you can have him, sister."

Rhaenyra was like him in this sense. She liked the burn of the flames. Perhaps this was what drew them to each other.

Perhaps they deserves each other.

In that moment, Daemon walks in, shoving past the doors in haste. He stills when he sees us.

I spare neither of them my attention when I pull away. I immediately put on appearances as the man who had been waiting for me to dance with him comes up to me.

Rhaenyra walks over to Daemon as he nears. Daemon all but ignores her. He does not see her. He is hot o my trail.

I watched this play out in real time. My chest contricts at the sight of my sister. I furrow my brows deeply in thought. I clench my jaw tightly as I am spun around by this stranger.

When I am facing him again, my façade is broken.

"Is everything alright, princess?" he asks me in concern.

I turn to him and cannot find it in myself to fake a response, "I feel going outside did not help me at all."

He does not get to sympathize.

The next thing I know, our dance is quickly ended when I am pulled out of the man's arms. This, of course, not only alerts my partner, but everyone who was dancing, and everyone who was watching the dancing; everyone was alerted.

I turn to the man who had my wrist in his grip, I look at Daemon. I look at my sister not too far off in the background.

I hear him call my name. I release a sigh.

"What is happening?" Viserys calls from the end of the room.

I give Daemon a hard expression as I pull away. I force myself to smile as I call, "it is nothing, father," I turn to him, "though I think I will retire for the night."

I ignore Daemon as he watches me turn to my dance partner, "would you like to accompany me on my way to my chambers? I feel I am too faint to walk on my own."

"The honor would be mine, my princess," he readily responds, offering me his hand.

I watch Rhaenyra as I exit the room. I watch her watch Daemon-- Daemon, who was watching me.

I release a breath as I turn to the man on my side, "thank you for your kindness."

"You are welcome, your grace."

[marginofthought]

happy wincest wednesday! what kinks do you think sam and dean would have for each other? ❤️

I'll preface this by saying that I am quite vanilla-y in my opinions. I hope this is what you meant with your question :)

I think for Dean:

He'd love to feminize Sam. Calling him his good girl, his baby girl. Telling him how sweet and soft Sam is, how he squirts for him, how nice his tits feel. He'd probably motorboat him before trying to squish his pecs together.

Along the same lines: panty kink. I think Dean's brain short circuts the first time Sam wears a pair of pretty panties for him. After that every Christmas present includes a new pair.

Pet names: Dean would call Sam all the feminine pet names, his favourite is sweetheart

Loves to eat Sam out, could spent hours rimming him, honestly that man has an oral fixation. In return he loves to face fuck Sam, see Sam swallow him hole, his balls bumping against Sam's chin, saliva running all down Sam's chin.

In the bunker Dean would love to roleplay husband and wife, call Sam his wifey, how well he was taking care of their home. Dean would have a list of every possible surface they could fuck on in the bunker and he would make sure they ticked each one off the list

He also has a list for every way they could possibly have sex in or on the impala. Sam would get a cramp half the time but it doesn't matter.

Outdoor. Not public, because I don't think that either brother would be okay with sharing, but outdoor. He'd pull the impala off the road in the middle of nowhere and Sam would get on the hood and well...

For Sam:

Praise kink and dirty talk: Sam loves hearing Dean talk when they fuck, loves hearing all the dirty things his brother was going to do to him. All he wants to be is good for and to Dean and so whenever Dean praises him, it would get him so hard and leaking. Dean could probably talk him to an orgasm if Sam would let him.

I think Sam would enjoy all the things that aren't penetrative as well, like getting eaten out or having his nipples played with. Basically a lot of foreplay, he'd loved to drag their sex out.

He's a brat, acts extra bratty if he wants more of Dean's attention, even in public. He would make comments or flirt with other people in hopes that Dean would later on show him who was in charge, a good spank or two wouldn't hurt either. (though i personally don't think that it would escalate above a few playful spanks, no impact play for me)

Even if Sam is more submissive usually, I think every once in a while he'd love to take charge. He'd ride Dean, tie his hands up and not let him touch. The surprise on Dean's face and the way he would slowly give in to Sam being in charge would make it worth it when Dean shows him how it's done in the second round.

Monogamy. I think it would turn Sam on so badly to see Dean dismiss or decline offers, to know that Dean could but won't. That he only wanted Sam in his bed.

Size queen. (My headcanon is, that while Sam might be proportional, Dean is bigger or at least thicker. (Bowlegs amirite)) Sam loves to compare them, hold their dicks next to each other and compliment Dean on how he was bigger than his little brother, how he could stretch him open so well.

I think they both enjoy playing into the older brother/younger brother roles and stereotypes. Dean would make sure that Sam knows that he's the older one, the dominant one and Sam would equally play his part. They'd also both love how filthy and dirty and wrong their whole relationship is, calling each other brother and shit.