#some semblance of coherency

[willows-rambles]

The best thing about the MM franchise is that there's so many ways to interpret everything yanno what i mean i'm kinda a little sick of how polarized the fandom is over canon

no more fighting over what's the correct interpretation or not. celebrate diversity, love wins

[95-6qrsk2rx9uq42069nnnnnjthewolf]

"Princess"

Red Robin has been hanging around Hood like a persistent gnat he can’t swat lately. And sure, they’ve come to an understanding and collaborate frequently on cases. But this isn’t a predetermined meet-up to exchange intel or brainstorm an infiltration. This is Tim dropping in unannounced on a stakeout, or taking out a goon in a brawl that totally wasn’t about to get the drop on him, Hood had it all handled, really. And then the replacement doesn’t leave. Looking over his shoulder while Jason rifles through cargo holds, or ‘tsking’ from some high perch while watching him make a field repair on his gear, all with some vague air of expectancy like he was waiting for Jason to do something.

But he never gives any indication what it is he’s expecting from Jason, or whether or not Jason actually delivered. No rhyme or reason for when he decides he’s done being a nuisance, from what Jason can tell, though he’s sure it's all very precisely timed in Tim's head. 

The thing is, though, that Jason would maybe like to give Tim whatever it is he seems to want. He knows part of it is just how Tim is; the guy would probably have neglected to mention he runs a fortune-500 company if it hadn’t made national news. But he also knows that if you don’t ask for something, nobody can deny you it. He and Tim tend to run their mental gymnastics on a similar course. Probably part of why they get along so well. 

It’s the very same reason why, instead of asking for clear communication, what comes out of his mouth instead is, “You can pout all you like, princess, but that don’t make me any more of a mind reader. The sooner you tell me what you’re after, the sooner I can tell you to fuck off.”

Red Robin pouts even harder and straightens up, and Jason panics for a second that he actually is about to fuck off. A baseless worry though, when there’s still shit for Tim to poke his nose in. His frown only turns into a satisfied smirk as he points out the false wall in the office he’s decided they’re now investigating together.

~~~

Jason’s pretty sure he solves the mystery of what Tim’s after about two weeks later. 

Tim has turned Jason’s couch into a battle station; laptops, photos and files strewn around him. The coffee table is marginally less cluttered thanks to Jason only just having cleared the empty mugs and energy drink cans away. They’d returned from an extremely fruitful bust on a trafficking den that was the product of days worth of prep, and Tim is already picking up where they left off, pulling on the threads that will lead them to the next step up in the operation, not even fully out of his body armor and buzzing off the adrenaline of their success. Jason had barely gotten Tim’s jammed fingers in a splint before a laptop was being booted up and documents updated, dots connected. 

Normally Jason is more than happy to let Tim’s ridiculous brain run ten steps ahead and in five different directions at once; had once watched him solve a different case from the one he was actually working on accidentally. But Tim’s been burning the candle from both ends even more dramatically this week, prepping with him for this bust in the evenings, and dealing with bullshit meetings at his day job (Jason resents being aware of corporate finance calendars). Jason hears the beginning of frustrated grunts and pronounced keyboard clacking as Tim’s fingers start to stumble over one another and he has to delete more words than actually make it into the report he’s writing. 

“Alright, I’m calling it. If you crash here for the night you can get right back to it when you wake up,” Jason offers, like there’s actually any room for debate, sweeping up papers from the couch. And Tim must be even more exhausted than he realized, because he only gets half-hearted grumbling in response.

“You better save whatever you’re working on by the time I come back with blankets or I’m closing that laptop right on your fingers.”

And miracle of miracles, the laptop is already closed and atop the slightly precarious pile on the coffee table when he returns to the living room, Tim horizontal and watching him with pale eyes as piercing as ever, even behind heavy eyelids he can barely keep open.

Jason can’t do anything but drape the sheets over him, make sure he’s fully covered. Can’t help the words out of his mouth, not nearly as teasing as he meant them to be, 

“Sweet dreams, princess.”

And in response he gets the warmest, sleepiest smile he thinks he’s ever gotten from Tim, nuzzling happily into the blanket before he’s fully asleep in seconds flat, leaving Jason to stare and will his heart to not beat out of his chest.  

[fogemorfem]

I live for the fanfic trope of Crowley basically fighting for his life while hearing Aziraphale making "almost pornografic" noises while eating. I have read fics where they eat and Aziraphale just enjoys it and it's not a Thing and Crowley is normal about it, and I'm always disappointed.

[ails-of-ardor-au]

Y’all I just got such a good idea for how to rewrite DOTC,,,

[variousqueerthings]

I note that I don't, and I never, was much of a fan of doctor-and-rose as romance, but that I -- rather than get annoyed at the romantic-coded scenes -- had a tendency to simply read them from a totally different perspective, and really maybe should have been a sign of sooomething different about me, that I continuously felt that the doctor's concepts of connection must be so alien, that to call it romance would be to diminish the actual Thing that they had, which was presented as such onscreen (to my mind then, now I realise what was happening, but I prefer what I had going on), which is basically that the doctor was a shell of a person, hurtling towards destruction (he would have died without rose in ep1), desperately lonely and sad and traumatised, and she retaught nine -- and by extension ten -- how to love the universe, at the same time as nine and ten taught her the same. (I think about the scene in father's day, where while they're arguing, rose says that she knows how sad he is, and he'll just hang around the tardis waiting for her -- she knew!)

and then on top of that with sarah-jane (which, I never watched the classics as a kid, so I didn't have that context for her beyond what the episode presented) it felt like that was sort of confirmed and made even more canon through this idea that the doctor is constantly mourning the inevitable deaths of their companions and would rather simply leave them behind at some point than watch that happen (and they've seen that happen before, although dying for a cause versus just... dying, because you die, while they don't, they just continue on and on, always seeking connection, always knowing that time will take them away, that's a whole other thing)

and then of course there's ten's... I would call it "sex appeal" because it's david tennant and with his performance there's immediately a bit of a focus on oh he's quite pretty and he faints/is knocked unconscious in both of his first episodes, and a lot more flirting, and the people want to see sparks or what have you... but the doctor as portrayed and written is still... not coming at it that way. yes yes girl in the fireplace but also, once again, doesn't work for me, because I find it soooo much more interesting that the doctor would imprint on A Life - and a life that they admire -- and speedrun the exact thing that they're most afraid of with their companions... that she ages and dies and it's the one thing that the doctor simply cannot stop

meanwhile rose is quite young and swept up in this whole massive adventure and very much reads the doctor not as an alien (frequently surprised by their alien-ness) and gets jealous of sarah-jane as if she's an ex, and renette as if she's... a replacement? but really it's more that the doctor met her at the point when she was about to accept her life as it was. not an exciting life, not a bad life, but always having to ignore the idea that there must be more to it than this. and the idea that she might be unceremoniously dumped back in that after seeing just how This the this could be, of course that's terrifying. and of course she's simultaneously taken with the dashing doctor and the jetset life, and worried she could be replaced, because to her the doctor saved her at 19 years old. in some ways the doctor created her (considering who she becomes after dooms day)

contrasted to martha who initially has a similar kind of experience, but the doctor doesn't meet her at the space she's in with them -- ten is leaning on her, like they did with rose, but not giving anything back unless kicking and screaming and traumatising her whole family. martha's trajectory is so so tragic, because she barely gets a taste of the splendor versus the horrors and the latter marks her for life. but she also knows to walk away from those overwhelming feelings, rather than give into them, she knows they'll never be rewarded and she also grows beyond wanting to be a crutch for the doctor (the fact that she then ends up as a soldier, well... ouch)

and then of course donna, who never has those fucking awe-feelings to begin with and whose connection with the doctor is explicitly de-romanticised but never placed on a lesser pedestal as if there's a hierarchy of alloromanticism. topples those pillars, never sees the doctor as anything but what the doctor is. good old donna. (sobs.) (but also... cautious hope for the specials.) (but also sobs.)

my point being. just don't buy alloromantic doctor, they're a near-immortal alien. it's such a dull simplistic way of reading their relationships to other beings. other point being. all those women who were making heart-eyes at ten, wish they'd met thirteen and had a... "yeah, this still works for me," moment. their horizons, too, are broadened by seeing More. (that or they realise they were never actually "in love" but just thought ten was a sexy skinny little snack and it blinded them.) (although jodie whittaker, too, is a snack.)

and lastly lastly ofc, is that if the doctor has a longterm (by doctor time measurement) intense relationship with anyone, whatever that might be called, it's the tardis. and that relationship is also so alien it cannot be quantified by human words for concepts

[feminist-mina-harker]

As a show, TANIS is laughably bad.

The writing is terrible. The storyline is terrible. The characters are 2D at best. The showrunners clearly never had an endgame in mind, and just kept building up wild shit that will never connect in any kind of satisfying way.

But I gotta say, the Vibes it gives off are 10/10. Really wish I could find something with the same energy that isn’t poorly-conceived nonsense.

[a-nybodys]

WHERE is all the anne and mary and ed and jack and izzy as early 20s monsters fics

i need their terrible drama and relationships

[ruairy]

.

[2bu]

OP, I hope this is okay to add - I recently spoke in depth about the topic of AUs where Anya keeps the baby here... more specifically ONE AU where the artist tried to be respectful and realistic.

What I do want to say here is a few things:

We have no idea how Anya really felt about the baby and keeping it. We can infer, but there's little to no evidence or dialogue we get to have about her feelings about this child, though we can use context clues to infer. This is not me defending these AUs inherently, or thinking they're good. I am just trying to gently point out that there were potentially more than just the one reason she ended her life. We don't get her POV or thoughts or feelings thanks to Curly and mainly Jimmy's POVs being the forefront focuses.

This is really important, far more important for me to say because with the current climate surrounding women's rights when it comes to abortions and the real reality of being a victim of SA and experiencing pregnancy as a result... I am begging people to please watch what they say about the topic of Anya keeping the baby period. The reality is: rape victims more often than not, for multiple reasons, DO keep their babies. This doesn't make them or their children bad people. I am speaking from personal experiences and after having spoken to beloved, long term friends who kept their babies after their assaults. I implore a LOT of you to rethink how you've responded to AUs like the one I specifically linked about because the shit you say does have a real impact. You can't say you're speaking for victims or defending victims if you show disdain and disgust about a very real reality for many people IRL. You can't be prochoice and then show disgust when a parent keeps their child.

I do agree with everything else you have said and do not really condone the treatment of Anya in the fandom or just generally speaking. I do believe people lack nuance in many areas when it comes to this game, especially with what I said here.

I genuinely think Mouthwashing fandom is a good example on how real life misogyny is very wired on people brains and influenced how they engage with fictional misogyny.

You have a story about a woman being assaulted and telling a man he trusted but being dismissed because he is friends with the attacker, and people fixate on shipping her with either of those me.

You have a story about how men that downplay their male friends violence, assume neutrality is the safer option, unintentionally help create an environment that's unsafe to vulnerable people, at a risk becoming a victim themselves. And people make it about toxic yaoi.

You have a character kill herself because she didn't want birth the child of her abuser. And people make AUs where she happily keep the baby.

Misogyny isn't just "I hate this women", it's also downplaying their trauma, defending those who caused it, and reducing them to mothers or wives against their wished under this idea of what womanhood is about.

I don't think we can separate fandom misogyny from it's real world influence, not yet.

[gold-onthe-inside]

i watched the songwriter documentary about ed sheeran and i will be obsessed with him for a month, apologies in advance

[queerholmcs]

sgajshskdhd ok i've found the worst hymn in our hymnal.

[hoshifighting]

can't stop thinking about dumbification w wonwoo....he's one cocky mf and I just KNOW he'd be so filthy😩😩

what are your thoughts??

dumbification with wonwoo WARNINGS: smut, dumbification, fingering, squirting, dirty talk.

tbh you never expected this kind of shit to happen with him, least of all. wonwoo—who barely blinks when u flirt or tease, as if he's above it all. but now, fuck, he's got you on your back, legs spread wide and trembling, fingers pressing so deep inside you that your mind is starting to blank out, and all you can think about is how good it feels. you’re already a mess, whining and squirming, trying to catch your breath while he's got that stupid smirk playing on his lips like he’s enjoying every second of watching you fall apart.

“shit, look at the mess youre making of yourself baby girl, so fucking wet f'me” he mutters, voice raspy, fingers pushing in and out of you at a slow, agonizing pace. “can’t even think straight, hm?” you try to form a response, something snarky or witty, but all that comes out is a whimper, hips lifting to meet his touch, desperate for more. he’s dragging this out on purpose, you know it. trying to push you past the point where you can keep that sharp tongue of yours and turn you into nothing but a mess beneath him.

“wonwoo,” you manage to gasp, voice catching as he curls his fingers inside you just right, brushing against that spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. “please—" he chuckles, deep and dark, and you can feel the heat of his breath against your neck as he leans in closer. “please, what?” he taunts, fingers slowing down to a maddening pace, just enough to keep you on the edge but not enough to push you over. “you want more? or are you already too fucked out to handle it?” you shake your head, trying to clear the haze, but it’s impossible. the heat pooling in your belly is making you splash, fever spreading through your limbs and making your mind go blank “answer me,” he commands, his free hand coming up to grip your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his. “use your words, baby. or is that too hard for you now?”

your brain is a foggy mess, but you try to focus, try to form some semblance of thought. “fuck—more, please, i—” your voice cracks, the words barely coherent, but it’s enough for him.

“good girl,” he purrs, and his fingers speed up, pumping into you harder and faster, the wet sounds of your arousal filling the air. “see? you can be good when you try.” it’s embarrassing how fast you lose yourself after that. the pleasure is too much, too intense, and all you can do is lay there, legs twitching, hips bucking, completely at his mercy. you’re babbling now, words that barely make sense falling from your lips as you beg for more, beg for him to let you come, to end this delicious torture. “you like it when i make you stupid, huh?”

you can’t respond. not in any way that matters. the only thing you manage is a broken moan, hands clutching at the sheets like a lifeline as the heat builds inside you, threatening to consume you whole. you’re so close, teetering on the edge, and he knows it. “go on,” he whispers, breath hot against your ear. “show me how dumb i can make you. show me how fucking good i can make you feel.”

t hits you all at once. your vision goes white, body convulsing as the orgasm tears through you, so intense you barely register the flood of wetness soaking his hand and the sheets beneath you. you’re shaking, gasping, unable to form a single coherent thought as the pleasure washes over you. wonwoo watches you fall apart, “fuck, that’s it,” he murmurs. “look at you. didn’t think i’d get you this messy.” u’re still trembling, still trying to catch your breath, and all you can do is nod weakly.

[mariasont]

Sending another thought that I can’t think of a way to elaborate on to your magnificent mind

Aaron Hotchner with his assistant who’s rambling (like every other day) about random stuff and she’s just like “I want kids someday” and Hotch is like “oh yea?” And she’s like “yea! And if I ever have kids I hope they’re just like Jack, he’s such a little angel” blah blah blah and poor Hotch is screaming in his mind like YOU COULD HAVE JACK??? BE HIS STEPMOM????

Sorry I’m absolutely feral for them ily bye

BUSINESS OF MAKING BABIES - A.H

a/n: i took this in a slightlyyyy different direction but ugh same im so feral for these two!!!! thank you for your most amazing request! i <3 you!

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: references to baby making!!!!!!

wc: 0.6k

Aaron needed to get work done, but his focus was more trained on the delicate patch of skin that connected your shoulder to your neck, smooth and glowing like you'd just stepped out of the sun. You smelled delectably good, which was sending his neurons into overdrive. You were saying something, formulating and articulating thoughts from that perfect brain and through your also perfect mouth. 

He was concentrated on making sure you knew he was listening, nodding and humming every so often as you continued on your tangent, hands waving dramatically through the air, heels clanking on the floor in his office as you paced the room. His gaze moved to your thighs, only for a second, he was a gentleman after all. 

"And she's just, you know, popping them out left and right, and I'm over here like, Hello? Can I get a turn? I'm not asking for much, just a sweet guy who's willing to, you know, help me out with the whole baby-making thing."

You stopped dead in front of his desk, placing your hands atop the wood as you let out a melodramatic sigh. This caught his attention, eyes snapping up to meet yours.

"You want kids?" The words left his mouth before he could filter them. "Isn't that a bit premature at your age?"

"Okay, Grandpa," you giggled, plopping yourself down in the chair before him. "And, of course, I want babies. They'd be the cutest, hopefully just like Jack. He's the sweetest, isn't he?"

Hotch felt his heart plummet to his stomach, jaw clenching and unclenching as he rubbed his thumb along the rough edges of his chin. "Yeah, he's pretty great."

You sighed again, a common occurrence in this conversation, as you stood up and moved around the desk before plopping yourself down on it. Your calve grazed accidentally against his thigh. You absentmindedly adjusted a wrist full of charm bracelets, creating a gentle jingling sound that should've annoyed him, but it did anything but.

"Honestly, though, who even needs a boyfriend these days? I could totally just take the whole donor route for the baby thing. Easy-peasy!"

Hotch's response came after a brief, flustered pause, during which he seemed to search for the right words. Clearing his throat, he managed to look anywhere but at you as he carefully said, "Ah, yes, I suppose you could... do that."

In an effort to regain some semblance of control over the situation, Hotch took a deliberate sip of the somewhat stale coffee sitting on his desk. However, before he could swallow, you bounded off the desk, eyes wide with sudden realization.

"You know what? You would be a great donor."

The coffee in Hotch's mouth nearly made a swift exit as he choked, trying to comprehend what you had just said.

Hotch opened his mouth, attempting to form a coherent response, but before he could broker a single word, you had both hands on his shoulders.

Your eyes were sparkling as you took in his face. "Yeah, like, you have great hair--totally not receding--perfect eyes, great skin..."

Your rapid-fire compliments left him momentarily speechless, a rare flush making its way to his cheeks.

"Well, I--" Hotch began, but your excitement had already taken the reins before he could even navigate through his thoughts.

"I can totally see it; we'd have such cute kids!" you gushed, practically dancing towards the door as if your dreams were almost tangible in the air.

Hotch watched you leave, stuck in his chair, dumbfounded and momentarily lost for words. A bemused smile formed on his lips as he realized he didn't hate the idea at all.

No sooner had the door closed behind you than Morgan appeared, looking thoroughly baffled. He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze flicking between Hotch and the door you had just exited through.

"Since when are you and Miss Pretty in Pink in the business of making babies together?"

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[hazelfoureyes]

Luck (Alastor x Reader smut)

Tags/warnings/promises: Alastor x reader, smut, creampie, attempted kidnapping, justified homicide, mention of the the history of women stabbing men with hat pins, biting, breeding kink if you squint, blood, Luci left on read :(, protective Alastor, cervix bullying, possessive Alastor, outside sex, rough sex, fem reader

minors DNI

This was a two part story, this being part two. But part one just isn’t good enough and I’m tired of waiting lol so here’s the standalone smut, written in a way it can be enjoyed solo

Vox’s ever present eyes noticed a reoccurring face around Alastor, and decided you were an easy way to get under his skin. Alastor manages to find you during the kidnapping but how he finds you sends his gentlemanly resolve unraveling. He had wanted to be gentle, he really had. C’est la vie, hm?

It took nearly 2 months of regular run-ins around Cannibal Town, chats over black coffee and deviled eggs, and some behind the scenes magic by Rosie but you finally enjoyed a dinner with the Radio Demon.

He’d never tell you how he awoke nightly in a panicked sweat, dreams of your soft skin under his nails tormenting him. He had done his absolute best to be just a charming southerner, tiptoeing between flirtatious and polite. Something about asking someone out during the night seemed scandalous and … loaded with implications. But ever since his hands felt your body thrumming beside him during a dance at Rosie’s Birthday Bash in the town square, he felt starved for the opportunity to see you again. You were beautiful in the daylight, yes. But something about the night, the way the shadows seemed to blanket the two of you together, it made him feel wild. He could remember the nights on the prowl during his time on earth, and the rush of being so close to you with so few people around felt so similar.

Rarely did he get a rush of adrenaline anymore, but when you’d shoot a witty retort back at him his heart would balloon against his ribs. The way you looked at him while he spoke, like you were drunk on the sound of his voice, made his fingers tremble. He never wanted anyone to know this, and hoped in some way he’d never have to tell. But then he considered, what face would you make if you ever reached over for his hand across the table? What if you rested your delicate head against this chest and heard the frantic beating? How sweetly would you smile? Smile at him, only?

“Alastor?” You broke him from his trance, noticing the ever so subtle way his smile seemed to loosen around the edges when he was lost in thought.

Dinner was long done, and you’d both managed to stall for a bit as he walked you toward the gates to Cannibal Town. He had insisted he escort you, though he was irked you wouldn’t allow him to wait until your ride had arrived.

If he knew you were staying with Lucifer Morningstar, he’d see you differently somehow. You didn’t want Alastor to think you were chasing powerful men, or to know you slept so close to the King of Hell. Something in your gut said he would find it unattractive.

“Yes, dear?”

You gestured to the gates a couple blocks in front of you, “This is good. You should get home.” Before Luci arrives to take me back to his.

“I intended to take you to the gates.” He looked past you, then back to you. You were so … small in front of him. Not your body or form, just, your existence. So delicate compared to his own strength. The way you looked up at him with your large doe eyes, it practically pained him. You looked so innocent, pure— how he wanted to make your eyes roll as your head lost any semblance of coherent thought. He wanted to corrupt you from the inside out.

“It’s just a couple of blocks.” He lifted his hand to begin to argue, but you cut him off at the head. “Alastor” you said it so softly now, your tone startling him with its gentleness. Had anyone, ever, said his name so sweetly? Since his mother, atleast?

“May I?” You tapped your cheek. His eyebrows rose before knitting together in understanding.

He leaned down and turned his cheek to you. You hummed happily and placed a chaste kiss there. Alastor turned his face toward yours, “In the future, You don’t have to ask for permission, darling.” You tried your best to keep your heart in your chest, and nodded. It was well known he wasn’t fond of physical touch, let alone unexpected touch. Is this how it felt to be an overlord? To claim a piece of someone else, a slice of territory not originally yours? “Two blocks is quite a deal of distance in hell.” He didn’t take his eyes off yours. Your attempt to distract him failed. Of course it did, he was nothing if not persistent.

“I have my weapon.” You lifted the hem of your dress to show a small angelic dagger holstered to your thigh.

“Ah, yes. Ha ha! Some kind of hat pin, I see” His eyes rolled, amused, “Who would dare bother you with such a frightening needle?”

With a glare, you mocked him, “Ha, Ha.” But as you turned to leave you stopped yourself. Every encounter with Alastor felt like it could be your last, as if he’d just disappear entirely. “May I see you tomorrow? I was going to get coffee at Hallowed Grounds around 10.”

“My dear, you couldn’t stop me.” He cooed, “Needle and all.”

“Good night, Alastor”

“Good night.” He didn’t move at first, but after you had made it half way to the gates of what he felt was assured safety, he let himself turn and leave.

His grin touched his ears as he hummed to himself. His cheek felt heavier where you’d kissed him. A part of you lingering with him. How he wanted nothing more than to grab you by the throat and -

An appliance store window filled with various sized TVs flickered as he walked past. Alastor stopped, ears turned down as he turned on the heels of his feet to face Vox’s cocky stare plastered on every screen.

“Oh, it’s you. Don’t you have a curfew? No TV after 9pm, they say. Rots the brain.” Alastor lifted his hand to inspect his nails. Vox had a witty intro planned, and launched straight into it. He only stopped when Alastor looked back up, “I’m sorry, were you speaking?”

The screens glitched and filled with static before Vox’s face stretched out across them all.

“It’s not my bed time you should be worried about.” Vox crooned. He couldn’t resist the urge to prod Alastor, “Perhaps your new friend should have gone home earlier.”

Just before you reached the gates, you stopped to see if Lucifer had replied about his ETA. Your phone slipped out of your hands as someone pulled you backwards into the narrow alley behind you.

A hand covered your mouth while the other arm was lifting you up by your waist. You kicked your feet uselessly trying to make contact with any thing that would slow your progress into the shadows.

Another man entered now in front of you, “You’ve got a meeting at Vee Tower, babe.”

The sound of an idling car in the back of the alley came into focus. You grabbed your knife and plunged it into the right thigh of the man holding you. He dropped you and you barely managed to scramble to your feet before his hand grabbed you by the hair and threw you against the wall. The force of the impact stunned you but you’d managed to keep the knife in your grip.

You’d been waiting for this. You had let men get the best of you before on earth, too scared of dying if you failed to defend yourself. You weren’t scared now. When you looked back at the man, he was shouting at his partner but you couldn’t understand a word. Your ears were ringing, a combined effect of hitting the wall and your skyrocketing blood pressure.

Your shoes slipped off easily and you pushed yourself from the wall and back into the attempted kidnapper, shoulder first.

Seeing you launch yourself onto his accomplice, the other man booked it out of the alley. It wasn’t worth it. This was supposed to be easier than this.

If he had maybe turned left, he would have made it to safety. But luck was with Alastor when the brute ran straight into him.

Your phone lay on the ground behind the man, who was already backing up when Alastor set his eyes on him.

“I’m going to enjoy this”, Alastor’s voice cracked with a static sting, eyes flickered to red dials against midnight black eyes as his back and neck broke and stretched. The man tripped over himself, but Alastor’s hands tore the man’s upper torso from his body before his ass had time to hit the sidewalk.

There was no time to savor the death, he tossed the man’s head and shoulders into the street before bounding with unnaturally wide strides into the entry of the side street.

Never had he known fear like this. Not when alive, not even close. Not even when Adam nearly bested him. There was a rock in his stomach threatening to drag his heart into the gutter of the Pride Ring as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the alley. Were you still there? Were you still whole?

You hadn’t noticed him at first, not until his massive, looming shadow shrunk across your body. Even then, you hadn’t stopped to realize it wasn’t the other attacker. You continued stabbing the dagger into the man’s throat with both hands until Alastor’s shoe crushed a piece of wayward glass under his step, breaking your concentration. Wild eyes finally tore themselves from the grey flesh of the demon on the floor up to Alastor, still expecting a fight with the man who’d fled.

“Alastor” was all you could squeak out. You were straddling the man by the chest, his throat so thoroughly decimated his head held on by just a few loosened tendons. The white dress you’d worn specially for your dinner was soaked through with blood. Your hands red to the wrists. Your lips and cheeks splattered. Your feet dirty and bare.

You yelped as you were yanked off of the dead man by your chin, Alastor’s large hand holding you off the ground. You were finally eye to eye with your dinner date. For the second time that night you were thrown against the cold brick wall. Alastor’s free hand grabbed yours that still held the knife and repeatedly bashed your fisted hand against the wall until the knife fell from your grip to the street below you. You hadn’t meant to keep it, never meant to brandish it at Alastor. Your survival instinct had overridden your sense.

Perhaps it would have stayed in control, but when Alastor’s hand slipped to your throat and his lips crashed into yours your mind went blank.

He kissed you clumsily, this wasn’t a man in love, or even a man in lust. This wasn’t a man at all. A demon in need was bruising your lips against his teeth. When you didn’t immediately open to receive him, he used his free hand to push at your cheeks and press inward where your bottom jaw naturally met your top. Your mouth was wrenched open, allowing his long and wide tongue to bully your own.

Alastor felt frenzied, the sight of you manically stabbing the already dead attacker momentarily broke him. His sweet little doe, his innocent and gentle darling brutally murdered a man and he got to witness it with his own eyes. He never believed God ever noticed his existence, but the moment he saw you straddling that corpse he felt sure some higher power delivered you to him. Just for him.

Only for him.

Pretense and facade be damned, you were made for him in such a specifically demented way.

He lifted you up, pressing your body against the wall with his own as your legs wrapped around his hips. He didn’t know where to start, he couldn’t keep his hands from trembling as he smeared the blood over your cheek between hurried kisses. His eyes were aglow, keeping your focus on him and only him as they darted around your face taking in every detail, every errant drop of your attacker’s blood.

Alastor buried his head into your collarbone, sucking bruises and nipping cuts into your exposed skin. You could feel the strained erection in his pants, it helped keep you balanced against him and the wall. He seemed to be mindlessly grinding his clothed cock against your core. Your dress had naturally found its way up and over your hips as he let one of his hands cradle your ass.

He had half a mind to rip the dress off of you but as he took a second to look down at your body he knew he wanted to keep it. The dress his love first killed in. Love— before a word that fell weightless from his tongue now sat heavy in his thoughts. He wanted your blood stained dress stuffed in his mouth as his last meal. An ode to your corruption. Maybe you'd understand him now, better than most. Did you enjoy it when you stabbed that man?

Breathing ragged and uneven, he pressed his forehead against yours. His eyes were glowing red, pupils dark black pins.

Did it scare you, when you killed him?

Were you scared now?

He lurched you upward again, hands coming to either side of your head as he pulled back to look at your face properly.

“If you don’t want this, now is your only opportunity to stop me.” He closed his eyes to try and regain an ounce of composure. Perhaps a small human piece of him not wanting to see your face if you denied him this.

With every breath he seemed to be taking in your scent, his hips still gently pushing into you. Your eyes darted to the well lit street just beyond the dark of the alley. You wrapped your arms around his neck, letting your fingers scratch lightly at his undercut. He violently shuddered at the touch.

You shook your head imperceivably to most, “You don’t have to ask me for permission, darling.”

With that, Alastor came completely undone. As his teeth marked your neck with shallow tears, his hand tore the crotch of your panties entirely off, leaving just the lace waistband to slip up your stomach. With the speed of a starving man to his first meal, his cock was free of his pants and rutting against your exposed slit.

The head of his member was pushing against your clit in unpracticed thrusts, slipping between your lips and pressing at your entrance. With a growl he lifted you up more and angled your hips to him. He didn't wait to feel if he was lined up and he sunk into your heat with a single thrust. You winced, clutching onto his shoulders. His eyes saw the pained expression and for a second, just barely, the southern gentleman who tried to walk you home slipped back to the surface. But as quickly as he came, he was lost again as Alastor saw the way your mouth hung open, tongue hanging over your swollen lip.

A static shock nipped at your wrists where they met his neck, "Such a debauched look, mon cher. I haven't even begun to ruin you yet."

A moan slipped past your lips as he brought his mouth to your ear, tugging with his teeth as he thrust back into you. You could feel he hadn't bottomed out yet, but already he was crushing your stomach into your diaphragm. Your chest began to feel hot, a warmth trickling down to your stomach and pooling beneath your belly button.

Ad his breath ghosted along your neck, you could hear it sharply spike with every slam of his hips against yours. Something about seeing him losing composure, hearing him so vulnerable, spurred you to roll your hips against his cock.

"Mmmm," Alastor groaned, "Don't push your luck, dear. Do you know how precarious of a sit-"

You did it again.

He pulled out of you with one motion and flipped you around. Your hands were yanked behind you, the long fingers of one of his own hands intertwined with your wrists. His other hand lifted your knee up and out as he pushed back into you. The new position allowed him to reach deeper than before, and with a burning stretch you felt him finally bottom out. With each thrust, the head of his dick dragged inside of you. The new angle allowed him to smash into your g-spot with every slam into your heat, his balls tightly slapping against your wet cunt.

"I wanted to be gentler with you", He leaned his head against your shoulder, pace quickening. It felt as if your back would snap in half, "But you looked absolutely sinful covered in his blood." His lips grazed your ear as he let go of your wrists, his antlers now large enough to be scraping against the bricks above your head. The loss of him holding you made you lose you balance. Alastor took the opportunity to find your clit with his middle finger.

Biting down on your lip you broke the skin, trying to suppress the moan rising out of you. His hips kept a bruising pace, your ass smacking against his lower stomach with every thrust. You didn't want anyone, anyone to find you getting railed against a wall just outside of cannibal town.

His fingers forced past your lips, you hadn't noticed he was using a shadow tendril to now lift your knee to nearly touch your elbow. Two fingers pressed down on your tongue as his pace impossibly quickened.

You wanted to lick or suck at his digits, do anything to participate in this alleyway fucking, but it became clear Alastor didn't want you to do anything at all. He was lost in the pleasure of your pussy clamping down on him, pushing back against him with every intrusion. He just needed you to exist there around him. He needed you to take him, for your body to welcome the gentle abuse.

The pressure began to build as the reality set in that the Radio Demon was fucking you raw against a wall. You felt your orgasm winding up. The infamous Alastor, the mighty overlord, balls deep in you. So entranced by your cunt he could only groan and hiss against your ear. You could feel every centimeter of him pulling and pushing inside of you, his head smashing your cervix and uterus into your guts.

Your hands began to slip down the wall as your mind started to go fuzzy around the edges. His middle finger strumming at your sensitive clit with a new fervor, his thrusts becoming shallower. The radio in the assailants idling car roared to life, flitting through stations and static wildly as Alastor spoke to you.

"When you orgasm,” His voice crackled against the nape of your neck, "and your cervix lowers to receive my seed,” your knee was dropped as he fucked you flush against the wall, trapping your body there, "I will drown your needy cunt in my cum, darling." His words echoed through the car's radio and off the walls of the alley, volume peaking with a pop as the speakers blew out.

The tickle of his lips along your spine made you shudder, and you went limp as you let your mind go and allowed your body to spasm around him. As your orgasm hit, your stomach muscles cramped and your body tightened around Alastor's cock. He hissed, his hips losing their rhythm for a second as you almost painfully clamped onto him, cunt trying desperately to pull him deeper into you. He needed to slow down or else he’d be pushed into his own release sooner than he planned. As your orgasm waned and your pussy squeezed softly against him again, he renewed the rhythm. Your body had gone entirely slack, your limbs no longer able to receive messages from your brain.

Within seconds, Alastor thrust against you so forcefully you felt the air pressed out of your lungs. He buried himself in you, holding your hips flush against his as you instinctively tried to squirm away. The way you moved against him, tried to flee from his release, only seemed to make his cock jump more inside you. You thought you heard a pained “mine" against your shoulder as his promised seed jerked into your now pliant womb.

He finally stilled, his dick softening in you. You felt your body slide down the wall, feet touching the ground before giving out entirely. You sat, slumped back, and looked to the scene in front of you. Dead demon behind Alastor, your shoes bloodied and tossed around, and your little knife just within reach.

Alastor quickly composed himself, cock returned to his pants and his suit adjusted precisely. You looked up at him, eyes glazed and tear stained. Your dress was wet and ruined, thighs slick with a mix of fluids. Yet he stood there, clean and pretty. Perhaps some of you had soaked into the front of his pants, but you couldn’t be sure.

"I apologize for underestimating you", He took the dagger, lifting your dress to slide it back into its holster. "And for allowing you to leave my sight." He gathered your shoes and wiped the dirt from them against the leg of his pants before gently slipping them back onto your feet. With two large hands under your arms he pulled you up to your feet, legs trembling still. "I promise you it won't happen again. Can you walk, my doe?"

The new name made your cheeks feel hot, funny given the more embarrassing part of this situation was his cum now sliding down your thighs. You nodded weakly, adding, "But-" and glanced to your lap. You squeezed your knees together and looked back at him.

"I fail to see the problem." His head tilted to the side as he lifted your dress with one of his long fingers and watched the milky white liquid slowly inch down your inner leg. "But, I'll find us a taxi. You won't be going home." He guided you by your hands to step over the corpse and into the light of the street.

You clarified, "I won't be going home tonight?"

He summoned his microphone and brought it down with a crack onto your phone, still discarded on the sidewalk. "INCOMING CALL: LUCI" flashing on the screen before it was shattered. He lifted his hand and waved for a passing taxi, turning to you with a soft grin, "Any night, darling."

༻Masterlist༺

[ddarker-dreams]

It's ovulation week I am begging you to give us more blade crumbs

I'M A BIT LATE BUT !!!!!!!!!! better late than never, ig ??? anyway... here's some not sfw jealous blade. warning for mentions of alcohol and it's implied reader let a dude flirt with her just to fuck around and find out .

(definitely not a bad idea or anything when your bf is an immortal killing machine haha... aha...)

despite your affection for your morose lover, you’ve harbored a secret regarding his eyes. 

those wickedly beautiful vats of crimson can occasionally be too much to bear. staring back at them, you’re reminded of the carnage he’s inflicted. that for some, this was their final sight before they bled out a similar shade. to have those same eyes weighing you down inspired apprehension. not from the belief he’d harm you — simply that he could. 

his gloved hands are cool against your feverish skin. they grope at your bare thighs, desperate and unforgiving. you’ve made his lap your throne. your panties are embarrassingly soaked against his clothed bulge, which you’re made to grind against by his inescapable grip. the friction is exhilarating, depriving your lungs of air and his mind of any coherent thought. he’s acting on base, animalistic instinct, his composure shattered beyond repair. yours isn’t any better. the night is young and he’s made an unapologetic mess of you.

faintly, you wonder if you should apologize. next comes determining what there even is to say. 

i’m sorry i’m so hungry for attention.

i’m sorry that i laughed at his jokes.

i’m sory that i leaned in too close.

“come back to me,” blade demands. his dominant hand finds your jaw, tilting it up, forcing you to stare at your reckoning. “think of no one else.” 

the meaning behind his words doesn’t immediately register. through the haze clouding your senses, a semblance of understanding pierces through. having your body isn’t enough. he wants your mind for himself as well. your most fearsome acolyte, who’d serve as its warden and worshiper. 

his eyebrows pinch together, belying his own inner conflict.

why did you choose me? 

when will you change your mind? 

how do i get you to stay? 

your lips find his. blade’s response is instantaneous, he ravishes you, his tongue likely tasting the cocktail you sipped an hour prior. a deep, guttural growl sounds from his throat. you whimper. his sounds of gratification do something to you, altering your chemistry, making your veins hot with lust. when you part, he chases after you, only stopping once he sees how desperately you need air. 

he’s painfully hard against your cunt. a wet patch has formed from where your anatomies grind together, his precum seeping through the fabric. the constant stimulation to your clit has you breathless. you’re close — teetering on the precipice. he must be able to tell, for he maneuvers you like you weigh nothing, sparing you the physical overexertion. thighs trembling, you bury your face in his neck. his scent is a mix of anise, sweat, and blood. oddly, it makes you feel safe. 

and then he urges you back to look him in the eye. 

“did you want him to do this to you?” the question comes out like a snarl, scarcely human in its timbre. 

you shake your head. 

“would you—” he clenches his teeth, as he’s nearing his own end, “—would you have let him fuck you?”

this time, when you try shaking your head, he slows down. 

“you have a voice, girl. use it.” 

you swallow thickly. 

“i wouldn’t have,” the words stumble out. “m’ sorry.” 

the atmosphere is thick and oppressive. the low light has you squinting to better discern his countenance. as always, it gives little away. in an unexpectedly tender gesture, he brushes his lips against your forehead. he then tucks the hair sticking to your sweaty skin back. your throat feels tight. before you can try to make sense of it all, he returns to his previous ministrations. still sensitive, you gasp, throwing your head back. 

the muscles in your body tighten, threatening to snap— 

“i swear,” he murmurs against your ear, “it’s you who will be the death of me.” 

—and at that, you come undone. 

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Between Fire and Stone

Daemon Targaryen/Strong!female

summary: anxious about her approaching union to Aemond, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen seeks comfort | word count: 2.8k~ | warnings: incest, reader is described with strong features, fingering, p in v sex, arranged marriage, Daemon being a cheeky cunt

A/N: idek what I was on to write this cos I'm not usually a Daemon girlie but here we are besties. Tysm @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for beta-ing 😘 appreciate you

The cold mist nipped at the skin around her ankles, a shiver running up her spine as she struggled through the jagged rock towards the Dragonmont. Her fingers brushed against the stark stone for balance, the other holding the lit torch to light her way before her in the darkness.

It was one of her favourite things, taking a stroll through Dragonstone in the hour of the wolf. Peaceful. Quiet. Something she could have all for herself. Away from the prying of her maidservants and the overbearing boisterous nature of her brothers. Though Jace, now a man grown, still held onto those immaturities.

Yet another thing that set her apart from her siblings.

For she, only a mere year younger than Jace, was considered a woman, ripe for marriage and bearing children, whereas the same hastiness was not pressured upon him. She knew her mother had never intended to bestow such responsibilities on her, but she understood, it was inevitable. As that time loomed ever closer, she found herself roaming her home more often, as if to savour the feeling of once being a child.

Where her brothers could seek adventure with their dragons once they were big enough to saddle, her egg had not hatched in her cradle. She would not inherit the birthright of the blood of Old Valyria, yet another judgement cast upon her that only inflated her sense of belonging at her mother's side. With her moonlit hair and pale lilac eyes, each of her children could not have looked more different.

Before the incident, there existed only one other soul who could truly fathom the depths of her solitude. No dragon. Ceaseless taunts. The notion of isolation, even amongst one’s family. Any semblance of camaraderie had been extinguished the day Lucerys took his eye. That defining moment when Aemond—her uncle—seized his birthright had marked the fracture in their familial bonds. In the aftermath, her mother, alongside her new husband Daemon, orchestrated a grand scheme to mend the shattered relations, a plan that involved her betrothal to him at an opportune moment.

Try as she might, she couldn't conjure the image of herself as his wife. The thought of residing in King's Landing under his roof refused to coalesce into a coherent vision. It remained an elusive spectre, haunting her thoughts with its intangible uncertainty.

Whispers of tradition and duty echoed in the hallowed halls of her childhood, spun by the gentle tongues of Septas who spoke of the sacred rites of marriage. Tales of Lords and Ladies, of the solemn exchange of vows, and the anticipated consummation on the wedding night. Some stories painted a picture of pleasure and intimacy, of unions founded on mutual desire and affection. Others whispered of duty, of sacrifices made for the sake of one's spouse, regardless of personal inclination.

Caught in the web of uncertainty, she pondered which version of Aemond awaited her, a tender partner or a distant lord, bound by duty and tradition. The unknown loomed before her like a shadow, casting doubt upon her heart and stirring a quiet fear within her soul. She knew not what to expect, but the uncertainty itself was enough to unsettle her, to sow the seeds of apprehension in her mind. And as the weight of anticipation hung heavy in the air, she couldn't help but wonder, which path would her marriage tread, and would she have the strength to endure whatever lay ahead?

Amidst the towering peaks of Dragonmont, she sought solace in the embrace of ancient flames and the soothing hum of Vermithor's slumber. Here, amidst the rugged terrain and the ever-watchful gaze of the dragons, she found a fleeting sense of peace.

But it was not the Bronze Fury that sang to her. 

“Hen ñuhā elēnī:

Perzyssy vestretis,

Se gēlȳn irūdaks…

Ānogrose.”

She felt the rush of heat at the nape of her neck. Daemon stood straight, back facing her, his voice near-matching the hum of Vermithor’s deep exhales.

“It is late, Princess.” Unlike her, Daemon remained as he dressed during the day, shown when he turned to face her, with the self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “What troubles you?” he asked.

She tried to raise her chin, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil that stirred within. 

“My fate,” she said, her careful steps drawing ever nearer. "I am to be wed to Aemond, but I fear what awaits me in that union.”

Daemon hummed, as if curiously amused.

She had known no father figure since Laenor. And though she knew sooner than her brothers the truth that lay beneath the careful picture her mother had forged, since she had been wed to Daemon, he had taken practice with his own daughters and become almost a father to her alike.

She felt his eyes sink over her once before returning to her eyes.

"Marriage is a weighty matter," he said. "But is it the marriage itself that troubles you, or something more?”

She did not miss the lilt to his voice. The one, that like his eyes had done many times before, made something squeeze in her gut. A fire burning bright. A feeling that brought her shame.

He was her mother's husband.

“I cannot say exactly,” she confessed. “Perhaps it is leaving Dragonstone. Mother and my brothers. And being alone in the capital with no face I recognise with trust.”

Daemon nodded almost indistinctly, his fingers reaching out to brush a lock of hair back over her shoulder, admiring her hair loose of its usual braids. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, a sensation both familiar and disconcerting. She fought to push aside the conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, the warmth of his touch conflicting with the knowledge of their complicated relationship.

"Leaving behind the familiar can indeed be a daunting prospect," Daemon acknowledged, his voice a velvet caress, “But fret not. Within you resides the same fire that fuels your mother's resolve. Embrace it. You are as much Targaryen as any of them.”

She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze, at the way he seemed to see straight through her defences. She knew she should be wary of his advances, of the way he danced on the edge of propriety with his words and his touch. But there was something undeniably alluring about the way he held her gaze, about the way he made her feel desired and understood.

"Thank you, Daemon," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your support means more to me than you know.”

Daemon's smile was a slow, seductive curve of his lips, his eyes alight with a fire that mirrored the flames of the Dragonmont. 

"Ah, but my dear Princess," he replied, his voice low and husky, "you have yet to discover the true depths of my support.”

She felt her throat close up, the feeling mirroring somewhat what happened between her thighs.

What could he possibly mean?

“Do you fear it?” he asked. “The act of consummation?”

Her cheeks flushed crimson at Daemon's bold question, his words sending a jolt of both arousal and apprehension coursing through her veins. 

“It… is perfectly normal, I would think,” she answered, words failing her.

"Princess," he murmured, his voice a soothing caress against her skin. "There is no shame in feeling uncertain. It is only natural to have doubts, especially when faced with such intimate matters.”

She felt he was circling her, as dragons did their targets. And felt her heart thumping in her chest.

“With Aegon, I dare say, I would join you in your uncertainty. But Aemond, on the other hand… is a different matter entirely.”

“How so?” she asked, breathing out when he disappeared out of her line of sight, his presence at her back, fingers draping past the material of her dress.

“I am afraid he may be less… forthcoming with expressing his desires,” he purred. “He may be cold, or at least that is how it may be interpreted.” Her eyes met his with bated breath as he appeared on her opposite side, closer. “He may not be so adept with the pleasures of a female body.”

She swallowed, a chill settling on her front, her body reacting thus. He remained silent, as if daring her to say what he knew was already on the tip of her tongue. So, she took the plunge. “And…you are?”

Daemon smirked smugly, and she knew she already had her answer., “What do you think?”

Her heart raced. Her mind struggled to contemplate whether she should be honest or not, for she had heard stories and rumours. She knew she was treading dangerous waters, playing with fire in the form of her mother's husband, but there was a part of her that couldn't resist the allure of his confidence, his charm, his undeniable magnetism.

"I... I suppose I never considered such matters," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at the admission.

Daemon's eyes danced with amusement as he stepped closer. "Perhaps it is time you did," he murmured, fingers trailing lightly down the curve of her spine.

Her skin vibrated with anticipation as she fought to maintain her composure in the face of his overwhelming presence. She knew she should pull away, should put an end to this dangerous game they were playing, but the lure of Daemon's charm was too strong to resist.

“Mayhaps I could demonstrate and put your worries to rest,” he suggested, crossing the imaginary but daring line seemingly without fear. “Rest assured, my experience in such matters is... extensive."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to maintain her resolve, her body betraying her with every flutter of her lashes, every quickened breath. “But… you and Mother—”

Her lips clamped shut with the bruising of his grip in the softness of her waist, urging her back to the rocky, hard wall. Only now, when faced with the Rogue Prince, did she realise just how small she truly felt.

“Your mother is preoccupied with her own affairs," he replied, his voice dripping with a dangerous allure. "She won't concern herself with our little... indiscretion.”

The realisation sank in that she was alone with Daemon in the secluded confines of the Dragonmont, far removed from the prying eyes of the world. And yet, she still felt her lips go dry when he hung the torch and trailed his touch upon her skin where he was taking her skirts with it.

She could not hide her nerves, or the beating rush of arousal, “Bu—but… with Aemond, I must—”

The air felt warm as her skirt was rucked around her hips. She squeaked when his calloused fingers swept through her folds, ashamed to find she was affected by what he was doing to her as her slick coated them easily.

Daemon chuckled, a pleased hum in his chest that she was wet and ready, while his other hand busied with the laces of his breeches, “Sweet girl. When my dear nephew has his cock buried inside you on your wedding night, he will not know the difference.”

His words, combined with the tight circles he applied to the forbidden bud tucked between her legs, had white hot pleasure burning in her veins. Her lips were parted, but no sound came out. All she could do was look upon his pleased face with a hedonistic expression, feeling very much like they were doing something deliciously wrong but could find no reasonable excuse to cease.

“Do not look so surprised. I have seen the way you watch me. Are you not ashamed for looking upon your own mother’s husband with lust?” 

The more he touched her, the more arousal he coaxed forth, the sound lewd and forbidden in the raw silence of the Draognmont. She could not answer his question without subjecting herself to further embarrassment. Even so, attempting to concentrate enough to form words as his two forefingers slid within her tight, hot walls, was near impossible. She gasped quietly, the feeling so foreign and yet not unpleasant. And like Daemon in any other scenario, while his motions were forceful, somewhat brutal, they were calculated, without effort. Like it came innately. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, his digits buried deep inside curved towards him, stoking a fire at the hearth of her.

“Answer me.”

She nodded frantically. “Yes—I am ashamed—”

It was all she managed before the feeling began to crest, building and building as if she were climbing some great height and was about to tumble off. But she only exhaled shakily as Daemon withdrew his fingers from her fluttering, sensitive walls, using the moisture to lubricate himself with a careful caress of his manhood.

He chuckled at the wounded expression on her face. “No need for shame, Princess.”

She caught the glint of his ring as he wrung the fabric of her skirts in his fist. Her eyes widened as the head of his cock disappeared easily between her swollen folds, with no real full feeling until he pushed forward, both with hesitation and a sort of evil excitement.

Her back pressed against the jagged stone, her lips only parted to suck in air where it had left her lungs. It was a feeling she could describe very little, the sting of being stretched around him painful and yet once sheathed fully inside her, hips pushing against her own. Daemon wrapped his fingers around her fleshy thigh to tug her leg over his hip, a flash of white hot pleasure creeping up her spine. He only grunted, her slick ridges gripping him greedily without any effort on her part. 

For a few moments, he stayed like that as if waiting for any complaint, but when he found none, began a steady rhythm, fingers creating crescent-moon shaped welts in her skin. He did not share in her reaction. He simply raised one corner of his lips in a pleased manner, watching her face, treating it very much as a lesson in pleasure more than anything else.

She could scarcely think with the violent push of his hips, the notch of his belt stabbing into her each time.

“My nephew does not deserve this perfect. little cunt.” He grunted from the effort. “Tell me, Princess—when he is fucking you with his narrow little prick, will you be thinking of this instead?”

Her eyes slipped shut, her head tipped back and fingers coming to her own mouth to muffle the lewd sound that threatened to come out. Her perceived embarrassment at her own enjoyment of this only seemed to motivate Daemon further, and he widened her hips with a soft nudge of his knee against her leg and groaned at the way she tightened around him.

“You liked that, didn't you?” He breathed against her face, looking briefly down between them to watch how he rooted himself inside her over and over, as if unable to believe this was really happening. “I bet he won't make you this wet. I doubt the little cunt will even know how to make you come.”

Her skirt fell from his hand as it drew down between them, and she resisted the urge to squeal when he began to apply pressure in tight, sure circles around her bud.

“You shall have to teach him those pleasures.”

Her fingers gripped his forearms tight as she climaxed, her tight, hot walls spasming around him uncontrollably. It was so utterly different to the way she had pleasured herself before. This time, the forbidden combination of Daemon stretching her open around him and the pleasure he coaxed from her with his fingers meant that this peak seemed to drain her entire body of energy. Her body feeling boneless in his hold, that if he let go, she would surely lose her balance.

A flash of fear cracked like lightning across her subconscious. Surely he did not intend to spill inside her?

He did not overstimulate her for much longer as he neared his own end. Rather, he savoured the feeling of her warmth sucking him in for just a few moments more before pulling out, stroking himself vigorously to completion, warm ropes of his spend coating her lower stomach.

In the quiet dead of night with only her laboured breathing to echo within it, she felt her eyes could not keep up with her mind as she glanced back up at him. His rapidly cooling seed began to dribble towards her thighs, swiftly covered by her skirts once more as Daemon lowered her clothing back into place. The reality of the dangerous and yet delicious sin she had committed with him began to rise into clarity.

Upon his fingers shone the damning proof of his sordid claim on her, pearly in the glow of torchlight. “What a waste. I’d have liked to see it dripping from you.

But that pleasure… I shall save for my nephew, sweet girl."

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies