#what the FUCK is he wearing. what is that fucking OIL SPILL

[lotus-pear]

he's so crazy we can't take him anywhere 😭🤣

[bloomseishiro]

itoshi rin x fem!reader. suggestive content, implied smut, not explicit but still mature???, mdni, timekskip!rin, rin loves thighs :), just a lil drabble of rin drooling over how u look in his shirt

Rin has never seen anyone wear his clothes before today. 

Other than his parents accidentally switching his and Sae’s shirts around as children, Rin has never willingly shared his clothing with anyone. 

Even now, it was done out of necessity. 

The two of you have only been dating for a few weeks and he brought you to his place for a baking date after you begged and pleaded with him to have one the moment you got together. Little did Rin know, right when the date finally started, you would spill his bottle of cooking oil all over your pretty dress. 

Your eyes were wide as you looked at him in shock and he wordlessly gestured for you to follow him into his room and change into one of his shirts while he washes your ruined outfit. He had always known you were a clumsy one, it’s one of the things he liked about you, so he can’t say he’s too surprised that something like this happened.

Rin is fully prepared to tease you endlessly about your ungraceful accident, but the moment you step out of his room, his throat dries up and all thoughts leave his brain. 

The sleep shirt he lended you engulfs the frame of your body, landing softly at your supple upper thighs. It hits the perfect length— One that covers your underwear when you are in a neutral standing position, but the second you make any strained movements, you would give Rin a front row peek at your lacy garments. 

He forces himself to look away from the smoothness of your skin, drawing his gaze up to meet your amused one. 

“Like what you see?” you tease, toying with the hem of your shirt. 

Rin can’t help but notice how a hint of your baby pink underwear is exposed at your endless twiddling. He wets his lower lip at the sight. 

“I’m beginning to think you meant to spill all over your dress,” he manages. “You’re putting this show on for me too well.”

You shake your head with a giggle. “It wasn’t on purpose, but what can I say? I always make the most of a bad situation.” 

As you walk past him and head to the kitchen, you grin and motion for him to follow along. For once in his life, Rin was perfectly happy being behind someone. 

“What else do we need for the cake? Just the dry ingredients left, right?” you ask, skimming through the printed recipe. 

Rin nods, gesturing towards his pantry. “I have the flour in there.”

Dutifully, you nod and open the door of his cupboard. The bag of flour sits near the top shelf, high enough that you have to stand on your tip-toes to be able to reach it. 

You stretch your arms over your head and your shirt lifts in unison. The hem glides from your thighs to your hips, exposing the curves of your ass along with your thong—oh, fuck, your thong—that it was so scantily clad in. The small strip of fabric that Rin did see was silky and pink and inviting. 

The moment ends too soon as you swiftly bring the flour down from its shelf. Rin doesn’t bother to hide the dejected look on his face as you spin around. 

“Got it!” you chirp. 

Rin huffs in annoyance. 

“What’s the matter now, Mr. Grouchy-Pants?”

“I don’t want to bake right now,” he states. No, Rin would much rather be doing other things with you at this very moment. 

Your eyes widen as you pout, “But our cake…”

“You already have enough, we don’t need to make some,” he says dismissively. “I’d rather have yours, actually.”

“M-mine?” you stammer in surprise, but a pleased look graces your features. “Well, perhaps you can have just an appetizer before we bake.”

Placing the bag of flour down, you walk over to him, granting his wishes as you slowly wrap your arms behind his neck. Instinctively, Rin’s own hands rest along the small of your back, pulling your body closer to his. 

As he leans in to kiss you, you pull away.

Rin frowns. 

“After this, we have to finish baking though! Promise?” you ask sweetly. 

He nods. In this moment, Rin could be persuaded to do whatever you have ever wanted. 

[loveanddeepdick]

nerd!nanami halloween edition

batman & catwoman

nerd!nanami who helps you into your costume. it was supposed to be a surprise but there was so much tight latex you had no choice but to ask him for help. gojo had invited you to his annual halloween party in his penthouse and nanami reluctantly accepted the invitation.

“honey.. are you sure this thing is made for.. humans? it looks like a medieval torture method,” nanami grunts as he pulls the latex up your legs, “are you in any pain—shit! are you in any pain, dear?”

“no, no, kenny! just get it on my arms and we’re all done!”

“i might have to oil you up, dear..” he chuckles wholeheartedly before he pauses, realizing his innuendo.

“… okay ken,” you giggle, slapping his arm.

nerd!nanami who finally gets the whole costume on you after another hour while his batman costume only took a max of five minutes to pull on.

“i think i look silly, dear,” he runs his hands over his hair before putting on the black mask, his face dwarfing the spirit halloween accessory. he was just ginormous in all ways.

“you don’t look silly! i think you look very handsome,” you smile, rubbing a hand over his biceps under the black shirt. he refused to wear anything too silly, opting for a black batman shirt and black sweats along with the mask.

you two stood before your bathroom mirror as you giggle excitedly at the sight. you whipped out your phone, taking what seemed like a thousand photos of him before you two left for gojo’s halloween party.

nerd!nanami who tries his hardest to hide his boner at the party. he was a reasonable man, of course he let you go have fun and party with your friends. but that didn’t stop him from keeping a possessive eye on you.

he couldn’t believe it. his girlfriend. his catwoman. he used to pray for a day like this to come. he had to pinch himself to realize it wasn’t a dream and that you were indeed real, a goddess in his eyes.

nerd!nanami who doesn’t last for another thirty minutes seeing you in that costume, pulling you to a guest bedroom in gojo’s penthouse where you two usually stayed if you crashed there.

you gasped as he pressed you down against the bed.

“hold on, kenny i’ll just—“

you try to take off the panted pants yourself until your hear a loud stretch and a rubbery rip. you shriek, eyes widen as you look back and he’s got the spandex in two pieces, baring your thighs and pussy to him.

“please, honey.. i need you now,” nanami groaned, pushing his hand along your back to guide you back onto your stomach.

gojo’s sheets were always cotton, thank god. they’d be easy to wash after this.

nerd!nanami who has your head pushed into the pillows as he plows your pussy from the back, spanking your ass to watch them move like water.

“fffuck, baby.. you feel so good”

nanami groaned as he leaned forward, angling deeper inside you as his cock reached what seemed like you stomach.

“kennnn.. so big!”

“shh, shh i know, i know, baby, just take it,” he grunted as he felt you clench at his words, reaching down to rub your clit as he watched you drool onto the pillow.

“i-im gonna—ah! i’m gonna!”

“you’re gonna what, honey? use your words”

“i’m gonna cum, kennnn”

he was never the one to tease you or enjoy watching you like this, but something inside him snapped when he watched you stumble over your words, whining to try to find your sense of mind when you went dumb on his cock.

“cum for me, baby, c’mon, i know you”

“fffuck! ken!”

your pussy held his cock like a vice and shit, thank god he wasn’t batman cause he would never be saving the world since he has you waiting at home.

he shot thick, creamy ropes of cum deep into your pussy, warmth filling you up as you sighed contently. he pulled out, admiring you for a minute, watching as his cum spilled out. he was about to get up to clean you until he saw you subtly wiggle your hips, the sight of your plump ass, your ruined pussy, your legs only half covered in spandex, fuck it only made him hard again.

he leaned in, spreading you open, watching your gaping, twitching holes before licking a stripe over them as you shivered

“honey, how about i clean you up, hm?”

[ditzydoe444]

MDNI 18+

jason todd’s controversially younger girlfriend part 2 — part 1

—ㅤ꒰ྀིㅤ jason todd x reader ಿৎ

▐ age gap reader in early 20’s and jason late 30’s, vaginal sex, mentions of anal, mentions of cream pie, oral ( m and f receiving ), jason is a pervert and has a beard cause i said so teehee

there was just something about a having a pretty thing like you on his lap in front of his friends who stared at the two of you in shock. “don’t you think she’s a bit young?” roy nudged him when you went to grab a drink, your hips swaying as you walked, wearing the tiniest shorts that barely covered your cheeks. jason brushed the comment off, shrugging with a sly grin, “she’s a full consenting adult don’t know what you are going on about.” though he clearly knew what roy meant.

but how could jason refuse a pretty thing like you with the highest sex drive? you pathetically humping his face, your inner thighs slightly pink and irritated from his beard, as your cum coats it making the hairs stick together. though he couldn’t complain, you tasted divine. “excited aren’t ya?” jason chuckled his voice slightly hoarse as he gripped your thighs, his tongue in between your cunt.

jason had no shame in making his friends slightly uncomfortable with his affection towards you. perched up on his lap as he big hands gently caressed your stomach, rubbing your thighs before they cupped your clothed cunt, gently patting it.

he also had no shame in you sucking him off in the garage when he worked, the lewd noises of you slobbering all over his cock filling up the room. he fucked your mouth like it was your cunt, grabbing a handful of your hair as he forced your mouth down, your nose nestled into his pubes, brushing against them. “atta girl, just take it like that alright? give your old man something.” he grunted as you gagged, his fat tip abusing the back of your throat.

jason was a little bit of a pervert, he loved the way you wore the tiniest dresses and tops that hugged your figure. the way your boobs bounced as you ran towards him, sometimes even spilling out but you were just to ditzy you didn’t even notice. occasionally he would give you a wedgie, watching the material bunch up around your cheeks.

you had a habit of not wearing panties, so it was a game of chance for jason. everytime you visited he would lift your dress up, either seeing your skimpy cotton panties with a bow, or your bare glistening cunt. if he got what he wanted, he would fuck you and fill you up in both of your holes, watching his cum spill out and drip into the oil and greased stained floor. jason was animalistic when he fucked you, his fat cock splitting you apart as you drooled on the table he bent you over, his heavy balls slapping against your cunt. you were his pretty little plaything and he couldn’t be gentle with you.

[ceilidho]

hound dog

prompt: You pick up Ghost from a bar for a one night stand. Too bad Ghost isn't interested in a casual hook up. (nsfw, 6.7k) [based on this old post] [on ao3 here]

-

Rare is the day when a stupid girl doesn’t do stupid things.

This is just one of many such occurrences. Stepping into the dimly lit dive bar—the one miles from your place, reeking of tobacco and leather and motor oil, the noxious perfume of week old sweat and weed stinking up the joint, pardon the pun—with too much eyeliner and mascara on, and a skirt too short for you—and would you just stop fiddling with it? But you can’t because that would mean admitting that it barely fits over your ass, that putting on a skirt so short was a choice, an invite, a teasing little taunt to the men in the bar saying, what are you waiting for? I’m asking for it, aren’t I—

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

It’s why you’re planted at the bat some six weeks after being dumped, two weeks after being ghosted for the third time in a row, a smile on your face despite your crumbling self-esteem. Pride hanging in tatters. Grimacing when you find the bartop sticky with congealed liquor, the residue sticking to your skin when you quickly lift your elbows off. But there’s a time for self-pity and a time for getting it the fuck togther. This just happens to be one of the latter times.

“What’m I gettin’ you?” the bartender in front of you asks, barely impressed with your get-up. Not even attempting to conceal his distaste when he eyes you up and down, lingering on the way your tits are practically spilling out of your top. 

“Do you have any cocktails?” you ask. Wrong question. The eye roll isn’t even suppressed for your benefit when he makes it clear to you, in no uncertain terms, that it’s whatever he can pour straight from a bottle or the fancy bar for cityfolk down the road. He says it like that, the word practically sneered out. Cityfolk. 

Nerves shaken, you sip at your red wine after he leaves you to your own devices, your glass poured straight from the box. It could function passably as lighter fluid if the circumstances called for it. Still, you swallow it with a positive attitude, emboldened by the knowledge that you’re here for one thing and one thing only:

to get fucked within an inch of your life by one of the greasy-haired, cut-wearing, cigarette-smoking men lining the bar. 

Even the thought sends a thrill down your spine. 

It’s an age old question, isn’t it? What’s a girl to do (when her love life’s falling apart / when her credit score just bottomed out because her ex-boyfriend ran up her credit cards behind her back / when her job’s steadily becoming unbearable but quitting would mean scrambling to find a job that’ll pay anywhere near to what this one’s paying her) to get a drink around here? 

Evidently, the answer isn’t to use a dating app; you can say that confidently after waiting around in fancier bars than this for several no-show dates. 

You’re feeling appropriately over the whole thing. Ready to call it quits. Uninstall all of the apps on your phone and hire a matchmaker or ask a friend to set you up with a coworker of theirs. But that’ll be later, down the line when you aren’t dealing with the issue at hand.

The issue being that—

you’re really fucking horny. 

Embarrassingly so. Enough that you were willing to travel miles away from home to avoid accidentally hooking up with anyone you might run into later on while out getting groceries or on a morning run. 

It’s just better to play things close to your chest. Keep your romantic life and your sexual exploits far apart (not that you’d know much about keeping things separate; you’ve never had much of a sex life to keep hidden) lest you get mired in a stickier situation than you’re comfortable being in. 

Despite the rough start, the bar you chose seems promising. There’s a man at the other side of the bar that keeps drawing your eye. It’s the hulking size of him at first, then the grime clinging to the folds of his skin, worn in from years of hard labor. He looks like a man fresh off a fourteen-hour shift or a fortnight spent on an oil rig in the middle of the Baltic sea, freshly washed ashore, kelp and barnacles still fused to his skin, not yet pried off. 

Rough is the only word you’d use to describe him. A face covered in nicks and old scars, his upper lip slightly puckered and scarred from cleft lip surgery. When he turns his head to say something to the bartender, you catch a glimpse of a cauliflower ear, the cartilage of his tragus and antihelix swollen and deformed. 

He’s exactly what you’ve been looking for. If you’d given it more thought, you think you could’ve conjured up an image of the man across the bar all by yourself. It’s like someone plucked him straight out of your head. Big and brawny, broad shoulders that you can imagine dangling your ankles off, and well-muscled arms that you can imagine digging your nails into. It would take both of your hands and extra to wrap around his bicep. The thought makes you shiver.

You try to catch his attention subtly. Looking over at him from under your lashes, quick, smoldering glances meant to draw his attention to you, so that he approaches you first. You keep waiting for the moment when he’ll notice your stare and hold your gaze, a question being asked and answered between your eyes before reeling him in with a coy little smile. 

But when a half hour goes by without a single glance your way, your hope begins to wane. 

He doesn’t look up no matter how many times you glance over at him. It’s frustrating; you know he feels the weight of your stare. His disregard is purposeful, deliberate; like he knows your attention is fixed on him but he can’t be bothered to so much as return your stare. You wonder if that means he’s got a lady at home, a little bird cooped up in his house that he’s more eager to get back to after he’s had a drink to take off the edge than flirt with some trussed up floozy at the bar.

That makes you squirm, self-consciousness rearing its ugly head again. Maybe you made a mistake coming here. 

It’s not as though you’re being completely ignored, it’s just that the caliber of men that have approached you so far haven’t really inspired much, carnally speaking. You’ve sent the few braver ones away, a half-hearted thanks but no thanks when they offer to buy you a drink. Most leave without a word, though a few mutter obscenities under their breath before shoving their hands in their pockets and stalking away. Bitch. Dumb cunt. 

Calling it a night feels like a natural next step. With the attitude you keep getting from the bartender and the way the only man you’re remotely attracted to refuses to so much as glance your way, it doesn’t feel right to stay out any longer. Embarrassment heats you like a low grade fever, warm in your belly. Wine sloshes around in your stomach when you slip off the stool, hunger now another pressing concern. 

You’ll ask him on your way back from the bathroom. If he turns you down after that, you’ll slink off into the night with your tail tucked between your legs. There’ll always be next weekend to try again. You promise yourself that because the alternative is acknowledging how defeated this entire experience has left you, no less disappointing than going on the same boring first date with a guy from Tinder. 

In the bathroom, you dab your face with water and stare at your reflection in the dirty mirror. It looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years; finger smudges and white strains streaked across the glass. You wonder how many strangers have fucked in this bathroom over the years. The thought makes you grimace even more when you notice that the floor is slightly sticky, the ground sounding tacky beneath your shoes. 

When you come out, the man from across the bar is waiting by the door, so close that you flinch, eyes widening. The narrow hallway means that he’s barely three feet from you when you stand in the doorframe. 

“We leavin’ or what?” he growls, voice as deep as you thought it might be, gruff and husky. 

He’s just as imposing in front of you as he was from across the bar. Maybe more so. You’re forced to crane your neck to look up at him this close, lips parting on an inaudible exhale. There’s something about a brutish man that’s always taken your breath away; everything from the blunt chin to the pronounced brow. His face is flecked with pale, keloidal skin; rubbery nodules from old injuries. 

Dumbstruck, you can only nod, following behind him when he turns away from you, headed towards the parking lot out back where his truck is parked. 

You’re really doing this. You’re really doing this. That’s the only thought in your head when he unlocks his truck and pops the door open for you, waiting until you’re buckled in before slamming the door shut. 

He’s quiet on the car ride back to his place, unconcerned with getting to know you or defusing the tension in the truck. You can’t say you blame him. There’s a reason you chose a bar so far from home as a hunting ground. If you wanted to get to know someone, you would’ve met someone at a coffee shop. 

When you ask his name, he grunts it out like it’s an inconvenience. Simon. He doesn’t give you more than that, even when you awkwardly ask him what he does for work. Blatantly ignores your questions. The rebuff smarts for some reason, makes you frown and duck your chin to your chest, shoulders hunched.

His demeanor is so off-putting that halfway through the drive, you wonder if you misunderstood him somehow, if he means to drive you home instead of taking you back to his place (but that can’t be right, otherwise wouldn’t he have asked for your address?). It’s just hard to reconcile his churlish attitude towards you with his ostensible invitation to fuck. 

Maybe he doesn’t intend to fuck you at all. Maybe you managed to pick up the one serial killer in a twenty mile radius and stupidly followed him back to his truck without telling anyone who you planned to go home with. Your blood curdles at the thought, hackles raised when you imagine him sizing you up from across the bar, all prettied up and doe-eyed, easy prey. 

Your breathing picks up. “I, um…actually, c-could you…could you just drop me off at my place?”

Simon rolls his eyes so hard that it’s almost audible. “Not gonna kill ya, bird.” 

That doesn’t go a long way towards reassuring you, but you don’t dig your heels in and demand he take you home either. 

“Do you live nearby?” you ask, suddenly chatty. Why, oh why.

Simon looks over at you, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shift. He drives a manual, you notice. A few too many seconds go by in silence. You wish somebody would just staple your mouth shut already. 

“Yeah,” he says finally, turning back to watch the road, taking a left turn up ahead without using his signal. So it’s that kind of drive.

You keep your mouth shut for the rest of it lest he decide you’re too much of a hassle and turn back. You’re poised right on the edge of something new and exciting, and the thought of that slipping through your fingers makes you feel a bit crazy. So many men before have shown you that same snap dislike. Like you’re tolerable over text or as a dimensionless photo, but not as a flesh and blood person, the real mechanics of you all wrong. It’s an intolerable thought—that people can only like you when you smile and keep your mouth shut.

Still, you’ll do it now, for a price. 

Part of you expects him to pull you into his lap when he pulls into his driveway and puts the truck in park. It’s what you’ve seen in movies. The rest of the night plays out in your head in piecemeal flashes; ravenous passion, hands tearing clothes off each other’s bodies, a shoe left on the porch in your hurry to get inside. Hungry, devouring; slick mouths parting for barely long enough to breathe.

Then Simon cuts the engine and gets out of the truck without so much as a glance your way, like you aren’t even there.

He still comes around to open the door for you. You frown at him through the window, affronted. Baffled at his continued nonchalance. Like even keeping your mouth shut isn’t enough to keep a man’s interest. Where you expected passion and fervor, you’re met with cool indifference. 

Simon pops the door open. “Get out.”

The house itself is nothing special. A two-story cookie-cutter house built in the seventies; weathered, beige-coloured vinyl siding and a neatly trimmed lawn, with a few patches of overgrown grass and weeds. There’s a trailer parked in front of the closed garage, a few planks of wood strapped down in the bed. When you follow him up the walkway, you notice how quiet the neighborhood is, and for some reason that makes you even more jittery. 

You stop in the doorway, frustration breaking your timidity like snapping an ampoule. “Do you even want to—” fuck me, goes unsaid. Too humiliating to even ask. But you ask anyway, the question itself implicit even in so few words. 

Dark eyes stare down at you, impenetrable. You’re struck by the sense of something primordial slithering under his skin. His expression is hard, his face carved from granite; when his expression shifts, it’s like watching tectonic plates create mountains, plates pushed upward by mantle plumes.

He fits a big paw under your chin, fingers pressing into the fat of your cheeks hard enough to make your lips purse. Your heart skips a beat when he angles your head from side to side, looking you over like a pet he’s considering bringing home. You almost go cross-eyed when he bends down, his forehead nearly brushing yours, so close that you can smell the scent of cigarettes clinging to his clothes, see the grease smudged on his face and the folds around his eyes. 

A grin flickers across his lips, gone as it came. “Yeah. I do.”

And doesn’t that tie your stomach in a knot? Your nerves in a pretty bow? 

Inside, his house is just as unremarkable. You’d know in a single glance that a single man lived here; a functional, no-frills living space. Nothing more than a worn couch, a TV, and a few pieces of obvious hand-me-down furniture. It’s hard to glean anything from the minimal decoration around his place, but he doesn’t give you much of a chance to look around. That’s not the point of why you’re in his house. 

“Eat anything yet, bird?” Simon asks from the kitchen, opening the fridge without purpose. It looks like more of a reflex than anything, the first thing he does the second he gets home for the night and the last thing he does before going to bed. From the size of him, it makes sense; his body is muscle on muscle, covered by a healthy layer of fat, just a surface layer over the bulk beneath. 

You shake your head. “No.”

“Have a bite, then.”

“I’m not, uh, hungry though,” you deflect rather than saying the obvious, which is, I came to your house to have sex, not make sandwiches at the kitchen counter together. 

He shuts the fridge door, pinning you with his stare. “Your call. Could’ve used the energy though.”

You swallow. 

The first thing you do after he herds you into the bedroom is try to pull him into a kiss, cupping his cheeks and standing up on your tiptoes. Before your eyelids flutter shut, you catch a glimpse of a cocked brow. Then you press your lips to a slack mouth that doesn’t move no matter how much passion you infuse in your kiss and feel embarrassment flare up in your guts. 

Bastard. You should’ve expected that he wouldn’t kiss you back. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, breaking the facsimile of a kiss and dropping back down onto your heels. 

You flinch when he grabs you by the back of the neck and reels you back in, forcing you back onto your tiptoes, “Don’t be,” grunted against your mouth before fusing your lips together. A pathetic keen climbs up your throat, eyelids slipping shut. 

His greed leaks from him like tar, his kiss so messy and violent that you’re almost too jarred to do anything apart from hang on. Teeth clack against yours, a horrid sensation, the lust in your belly abating long enough for the real world to slink back in and you get flashes of it: hands winding around a thick neck, a scratchy cheek against your lip when he twists his head to angle your noses better, a tongue shoving into your mouth unceremoniously, no finesse at all. Straight to the main point. 

A shudder wracks you from head to toe when you try to break the kiss only to find the hand on your neck firm, holding you in place. The subtle reminder that he can do whatever he wants with you, that you willingly went home with a man big and strong enough to pin you down and fuck you however rough he wants. 

“Simon,” you whine, squirming against him, gasping a breath and his name again when he wrestles you back into the kiss. “No—Simon—”

“Stay fuckin’ still,” he snarls against your lips, and you freeze, knees going weak when his fingers dig into your jaw to hold you in place.

The endorphin rush nearly makes your vision white out. A sudden winter storm, the blood rushing to your cheeks and the tip of your nose, your breath coming out quick and choppy. Lungs barely filling up with each inhale. 

“Get this off,” Simon growls, tugging on your skirt when you don’t move fast enough. He doesn’t wait for you to catch up, content to wrench your skirt off himself instead, your panties along with it. 

It takes your breath away, how fast you go from clothed to partially nude. Trying to match his fervor is a losing game, so you just try to keep up. Your hands tug at his belt, desperately trying to undo it, and he chuckles when he notices; big hands paw at your ass while you shakily pop the buckle out of the first loop. 

He takes over after that, popping the button on his jeans one-handed. 

“Wanna handle the rest?” he prompts, an eyebrow jutting up, expectant. Lazy with his arrogance; oozing rugged masculinity. It’d infuriate you if it didn’t get you so hot. 

Your fingers are numb by the time you pull his jeans down, kneeling at his feet and gazing up at him with wide eyed devotion as he kicks off his boots and shakes the pants off his legs, nothing under his jeans. His pale white thighs are dusted in fine blond hairs, mottled with burns and scars and old, faded cigarette marks, like someone used his legs as an ashtray. The thought makes your throat close up.  

He shucks off his shirt while you stare at the shaft heavy with blood hanging between his legs, drooping with its own weight. Flushed red at the head and streaked with dark veins, leaking a steady drip of precum. The hair at the base of his dick is of a darker shade, gold like straw. 

Your stomach swoops at the sight, dropping to the pits of you. You swallow. Maybe you’ve bit off a little more than you can chew. A lot more.

As if sensing your unease, a wide hand is suddenly firm on the back of your head, urging you closer. “Gonna give it a kiss?”

It’s not a question. You know that and you know that you’re way out of your league; that if you panic now you’ll flounder. So instead of fighting it, you lean forward and press a shy kiss to the weeping head of his dick. 

You lick your lips instinctively when you draw back, lapping up the precum smeared across them. The taste makes you wrinkle your nose. It’s salty; bitter. Not altogether pleasant. 

Simon wraps a hand around his dick and holds it to your lips. “Open your mouth, bird. Get me nice ‘n wet.”

A shudder rolls through you, but there’s little else you can do except part your lips and squeeze your eyes shut. It’s a struggle to fit more than just the head in your mouth, his dick too wide to take more than that. Your eyes water at the stretch, the musky taste of his cum overwhelming. 

Any experience you’ve had before this pales in comparison. It’s like the first time all over again. His cock is heavy on your tongue, instantly making your eyes water. The grip he still has on the base of his cock tells you that he doesn’t expect you to swallow the whole length (an impossible task; you go cold with dread at even the thought), but Simon doesn’t hesitate to grip your head firmer when he feels you falter, forcing you to take as much as you can.

When you gag, he shushes you. “Keep at it—you’re fine.”

You wonder if he thinks by saying it, it makes it true. You’re very much not fine, struggling to breathe through your nose and suck him off without scraping his cock with your teeth.

Your exhale when he pulls you off his cock by your hair is full of both relief and trepidation. Your lips feel swollen and tender when you touch them with your fingers. 

“Can we please have sex now?” you ask, dazed enough to be bold. 

Simon cracks a smile at that, endeared somehow. “Gotta get up for that, bird.”

You have to brace your hands against his chest when you get to your feet, the blood that rushes to your head making you wobbly. Even on your feet, he’s so much taller than you, a behemoth. Men like him have always been your type, but Simon is really in a league of his own. 

Glancing up at him from under your lashes, you bite your lip. You’ve seen that in movies before, starlettes bringing men to their knees with just a look. Coquette; demure. It’s harder to replicate than you thought, but you’ve never rehearsed this before. This is a one-time, live performance. The culmination of everything you’ve ever read or watched or studied. 

You keep up the ruse of being sexy by crawling onto his bed on your hands and knees, dropping down onto your elbows once situated in the middle of the mattress. The debauchery of wiggling your ass back at the man who took you home from the bar would overwhelm you if you weren’t playing a part right now. Role playing. This isn’t who you usually are, but if it’s only for one night, you can force out the self-scrutiny and timidity. 

Silence hangs in the air like a bubble, waiting to be burst. You fight the urge to look over your shoulder at him. 

Then Simon exhales, breaking the silence. Goosebumps ripple down your arms. 

The mattress dips under his weight when he settles behind you, hands immediately sinking into the flesh of your ass and pulling your cheeks apart. No preamble. You open your mouth to say something, but thick, coarse fingers are already dipping between your thighs and playing with your hole, sinking a finger in up to the first knuckle. 

You breathe out shakily, shoulders tensing. The sheets reek of him, musky and ripe; you concentrate on that instead of the fingers penetrating you, getting you ready for his dick. Your walls squeeze tight around his fingers when he forces another one in. 

When he finally feeds his cock into you, the stretch is nearly unbearable. The sharp stab of pain that accompanies it almost makes you flinch away, but Simon drags you back by your hips.

“You’re not going anywhere, bird,” he rumbles. “Relax. It’s going in.”

What can you say to something like that? 

His whole frame presses you into the mattress, the breath forced from your lungs. Bigger now that he’s got you on your belly. Suddenly making two hundred pounds seem less abstract, more real. He bullies as much of his cock into you as he can, paying no mind to the way you squeal and kick your legs. 

“Real tight cunt,” Simon grunts, humming with his pleasure when his hips punch forward and your pussy squelches around his length. So lewd.

His knees on either side of you keep you trapped in place, nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. All you can do is lie under him and let him rut between your thighs, gasping for breath with every thrust. The sweat is slick down your back, half yours and half his. 

“Ya let other men fuck this cunt, bird?” he asks. It sounds hypothetical, like it’s said half to rile himself up, and though it prickles at your nerves, you don’t complain too much because he fucks you rougher after the words slip out of his mouth. 

When you don’t answer him though, concentrating more on filling your lungs and not biting your tongue off, he grabs your face and twists your head until you’re looking over your shoulder at him, neck aching with the strain. 

“Answer me,” he demands, sounding almost pissed off. 

“N-no—”

“Good,” he grunts. Satisfied.

His words should piss you off. How dare he ask you about fucking other men as if he were your husband or boyfriend. You have half a mind to cuss him out, but then he pumps his hips forward and your face goes numb from pleasure. Electric impulses zip up and down your skin, sizzling your nerves. 

Besides, maybe it’s hot that he’s acting like you belong to him. Like you’re his; his girl that he picked up from the bar after a long shift, eager to go home and lay her out on the bed so he could fuck his pretty girl into a tongue-tied stupor. It certainly does it for you, a thin filigree of pleasure winding its way down your spine. 

It’s an intoxicating fantasy—being wanted by a man in a real, visceral way. It’s one you’ve never gotten close to before, never even grazed with the tips of your fingers, no matter how far you stretched out your arms. You don’t know what men see when they look at you, but it can’t be anything worth keeping. 

He fucks you like he wants to pry you open and leave a piece of him inside. A big hand fits around your neck and tightens; a collar, a manacle. 

Hard to feel anything but grateful though. It’s everything you wanted but never thought you’d get out of this experience. You expected to feel like a body on a butcher’s block, hacked limb from limb. Marble ribbing on the inside. Brought to a high only to be left out in the cold after. 

You never expected apotheosis. You never expected the filth murmured into your ear, the lurid, coarse diatribe in surround sound, all perfect fuckin’ pussy, can’t wait to shove my tongue inside, gonna make you suck my cock while I eat that perfect cunt out—

All—

Perfect fuckin’ girl; you don’t give this to anyone else, do ya? Knew you were gaggin’ for it back in the bar, but wanted to wait ‘n see; turned the rest of ‘em down, didn’t ya? Not a fuckin’ slut. Jus’ for me—only hungry for my cock—

It’s too rough, too much. Overpowering. Musk and body heat and raw strength, his forearms planted on the mattress on either side of your head. The scent of him suffocating, smothering. Heady. In your pores, on the back of your tongue, in your belly. He’s everywhere.

If only you could put it into words. The fire in your belly growing so wild, so out of control, that it threatens to incinerate you. Thinking dangerous thoughts—that you could be his, that he wants you so bad he can’t stand the idea of anyone having you before him, that he’ll kill anyone that touched you before, rip them apart with his bare hands, cut out their hearts and slice it ‘em up real thin so he could feed you the strips with his hands—

“Fuck—” Simon pants in your ear, pulling his cock out of your cunt. You whine, clenching down on nothing, suddenly empty, until he turns you roughly over onto your back and grabs one of your flailing ankles, hooking it over a burly shoulder. “Cunt this good oughta be locked down. Should just chain your leg to the bed so I can wake up to this pussy every day. Would’ya like that, bird?”

Like it? You think wildly—

Keep me, keep me, keep me, pleasepleaseplease.

The leg not hooked over Simon’s shoulder gets pulled around his hip, spreading your legs wider to accommodate the width of him between them. The scour of his voice threatens to erode you, smash you to pieces. There won’t be anything left after he’s done with you. 

He’s just so big. Built like an ox, broad and solid. When he braces his forearms on either side of you, his biceps bulge, skin pulling taut over the muscle. The dark hair of his pits is stark against pale flesh. 

Blood roars in your ears and over you, he moves like a wave, filling you up again and again. You’re swimming in uncharted waters now; gazing out into an unfamiliar and dangerous sea. A swell this big might take you right under. 

Too bad for you, the hazy adumbration of danger in his words is pitted against the maw in your soul, the deep, cavernous hole that yawns wider with each passing year. 

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: overlooking a sea of evergreen peaks illuminated by a silky moonlight hue, winding a long, narrow road darkened on both sides by tightly clustered trees, your arms wrapped around your chest. Cold layered like a skin, sinking deep into your bones, cold wet like a damp hate; trees clustered around your wandering soul, spurned into wandering like a little undead ghost with teeth clattering in Morse code, saying: so many wrongs done, it is almost incomprehensible.

Is it too much to ask to be wanted? 

You need it like air. 

The issue is that—

more than horny, you’re really, really fucking lonely. 

For years now, you’ve had the same dream: a dream of being a lighthouse keeper, skin saltwater slick, seafoam on the backs of your knuckles, slathering over frozen fingers clutching at the gallery railing. Beckoning something to you.

What it is, you do not know.

“Look at tha’,” Simon says wonderingly, grabbing your face and yanking it towards him, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “Just needed to get turned out on a fat cock, didn’t ya?”

“Yeah,” you gasp. “So good, Simon, ohmygod—”

“Only this needy for me, right?” The glint in his eye is terrifying.

“Only you, only you—”

“That’s right,” he growls, bearing all of his weight down on you, forehead to forehead. His sweat-slick chest slides against yours, cock buried so deep that you can taste him at the back of your throat. Dark eyes stare down at you with an intensity that steals the breath from you, glossy like he’s rapidly losing the ability to be consciously present, but ever attentive to the pleasure rippling across your face. 

When his cock grinds into the soft plug of your womb, his eyes narrow when yours bulge, and he batters that spot until you seize up and spasm around him. His buzz cut gives you nothing to hold onto, so you dig your nails into the bulky planes of his back instead. 

“Fuck—hold on, Christ, fuck; here it comes,” he spits, the veins in his neck protruding when he grits his teeth. 

Your blood goes red hot when he rams deep into you, each thrust deliberate. Hips losing their rhythm. You don’t notice the first spurt of cum, too preoccupied with the smell and weight of him blanketing you, infiltrating every crevice of your body, but the second is hot. Scorching. You ignore the screaming alarm at the back of your head, barely coherent enough to parse out its meaning. All you can focus on is the warmth spreading inside you and your own walls pulsing around his cock, milking his release out of him. 

Time blurs. You lose some of it. 

You don’t come back until Simon rolls over onto his back, taking you with him. His cock is still buried inside of you, his cum running out in rivulets, pooling at the base of his dick lodged at your entrance. You’re going to be messy when he finally pulls out. 

Despite the ache already setting in, you feel reborn. Renewed. The old, dead skin flayed off. You can’t imagine how you’ll feel when you’ve got your energy back, when even tracing your eyes across the other side of his room doesn’t take tremendous effort. The traces of him littered around the room make you curious. A half empty glass. Steel-toed boots sticking out of a half-opened closet. A damp towel crumpled into a ball on the floor. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. There’s no use trying to fill the gaps in. Whoever Simon is won’t matter in the light of day. You repeat this to yourself until it sticks. 

When you try to get up, planting both hands on his chest, he pulls you back down, forcing your head onto the pillow of his chest. “Simon, the sheets are wet—”

“I’ll deal with it later,” Simon says, eyes already shut, on the verge of falling asleep. “Now shut up. You’re ruining the fucking afterglow.” 

You wake up the next morning covered in bruises and bite marks and dried cum between your thighs and on your belly, so sore that even twitching your finger hurts.

It takes awhile for everything to come back to you. When it finally does, consciousness snaps back into you, discomfort giving way to quiet self-satisfaction. You managed to do it. Your first one-night stand. A real milestone. The tacky sheets beneath you are proof enough of your accomplishment. 

The sadness slithers in when you realize that it’s over. One and done. In a half hour or so, the man plastered against your back and breathing heavily on the crown of your head will wake up, groggy and bleary eyed, and side-eye you until you put back on your clothes from the night before and slink out, tail tucked between your legs. A few hours delayed from when you were planning to throw in the towel at the bar, but still. In the end, it always comes around. 

A gruff voice at your side tells you to quiet, bird—s'too early for your bitchin’ before manhandling you onto your stomach and shoving his raw cock into your cunt and it’s only now that it dawns on you that you were too horny last night to remember to ask him to use protection. 

The thought is wiped from your head when he bucks his hips forward, impaling you on his swollen length. You lose track of time after that. 

Breakfast is an informal affair. Cereal from a box and a bit too much milk, and a cup of instant coffee. You wince when you sit down across from Simon at the kitchen table, your inner thighs still tender and pussy sore from the battering it just took. If it strokes his ego to see how gingerly you sit down, he doesn’t show it. 

It’s weird sitting across the table from him after last night. Hard to just leave it unaddressed, the truth simmering in the air. The red marks across his back make you wince, cheeks heating. Thin crescent marks and scored nails. It’s hard to reconcile yourself with the girl from last night. 

He eats in silence for the most part though, ravenous after the night before. Doesn’t comment on the state of his shoulders or the way you shift on your chair. Not even bothering to make eye contact with you. Your appetite takes a bit of a hit watching him shovel food into his mouth, hardly even pausing long enough to breathe, but you’ve seen plenty of hungry men eat before. 

Still though, silence has always had a way of getting under your skin. You’re not comfortable around it, prone to chattering. So you can’t help the way your mouth opens and the words come out involuntarily. 

“Do you do this a lot?”

“I don’t shit where I eat,” Simon grunts dismissively.

The expression makes you grimace. “So do you usually pick up girls elsewhere or—”

The look he gives you could melt the flesh off your bones. You realize your misstep, interrogating the man you just fucked about his other hookups. Best not to ask questions. It’s not like you’ll see him again after this. 

These last few moments are bittersweet. There won’t be many opportunities like this in the future, mainly because you don’t think you’re cut out for one-night stands. Last night proved that. As good as it was—and for as many times as you came, another time in the wee hours of the morning when Simon rolled over on top of you and shoved your legs apart to eat you out (a midnight snack)—in the light of day, you feel world weary. Like something monumental happened and passed you by. 

You almost want to thank him for making it special, but the anxiety around finally pissing him off is more than you can bear. You want to leave on a good note. It’s better this way. You’ll never have confirmation about whether he’d eventually grow tired of you like everyone else. Never know if he’d one day manage to lose interest in the real you, not the made up sex kitten from the bar. 

It’s better this way.

You tell yourself that when you push your chair out and stand up, hands fisting in the oversized shirt Simon made you wear before leaving the bedroom. “I should get going.”

He stops eating, staring up at you. His eyes are inscrutable, and the longer he stares, the less you understand his look. 

You shift from foot to foot. “Thanks for… I had a good time.”

Simon doesn’t say anything, but when he drops his spoon into the bowl, the metal clang makes you flinch. 

His silence leaves you off balance, like you’ve overstepped somehow. All motion stills under his scrutiny. 

“Got somewhere ya need to be?” he asks, a vague, almost menacing undercurrent in his voice. It’s said like a warning. There shouldn’t be anywhere else you need to be. 

“I…—don’t you want me to leave?”

He looks distinctly unimpressed. “You gonna walk home like that?” His words make you tug at his shirt, pulling it down to cover your thighs.

Your whole life has been made up of misunderstandings. Missed opportunities. Men who you thought loved you vanishing into thin air. You’re a poem often lost in translation. A long game of hide and seek; people run towards you then feign right, leaving you in the dust. 

Whatever this is, you don’t recognize it. 

You swallow on a dry throat. “…No?”

Simon searches your expression for something before he nods, satisfied. “Then sit the fuck back down. Finish your damn breakfast.”

You sit back down (wincing when you do) because the alternative is admitting that you don’t know what’s next. That you’re out of step again, but this time without that sinking feeling in your belly. A wild fluttering instead. That thought again that maybe you’ve bit off more than you can chew. 

What’s that saying again?

Ah, yes. Choices made in anger cannot be undone.

[sturniqlo]

SPILLED WATER- MATT STURN

summary: where pregnant!reader films a video with the triplets and her water breaks and matt is freaking out. BLURB

cw: cursing, panicking(?)

an: lowercase intended

masterlist | join my taglist

-----------------------------------------------

"no! the cooking oil! that's y/n's coconut oil!" nick, wearing a chef hat and a white apron, snatches the small mason jar from chris' hands. "what is my coconut oil even doing here?" y/n waddles to nick to grab it. "i went to grab it from your bathroom, i thought nick had said coconut oil." chris explains.

"how'd you hear- nevermind." nick sighs and returns to the mixing bowl. "i don't know where their stuff is!" both nick and chris had came over to matt and y/n's apartment as y/n was nearing the end of her pregnancy and matt didn't want her to be alone in case she went into labor.

"the oil is in the kitchen, genius." matt says, and turns to the cabinet where the oil sits behind. "okay, guys, today we are making a cake from scratch!" nick holds up the empty mixing bowl and talks to the camera. "usually we bake boxed cakes, so we decided to switch it up for todays video. and don't worry, we have the expert here, y/n!" she shyly waves to the camera.

she's been in a couple of their videos and the fans adored her. "guys, y/n makes these really good chocolate croissants, but the boss man nick wanted a fucking cake." chris crosses his arms. "hey, what's wrong with cake? we," y/n points to her face and her swollen belly. "also wanted cake." matt laughs. "thank you, y/n and baby. see, chris, i'm not the only one who wanted cake."

"alright, enough about who wanted cake. let's get this show on the road." matt drapes his arm around his pregnant girlfriends shoulders. "okay, chris, pour in two cups of flour." nick reads off of his phone. "where are the measuring cups?" chris looks around. "ugh! motherfucker look around!"

"don't be mean to chris." y/n walks away from matt's hold and opens the drawer to grab the measuring cups. "thank you-" chris starts off. "it's not our fault he's a little bit different." y/n breaks out into a laugh and nick and matt follow her. "okay, okay stop it! i think i peed a little. she's pressing on my bladder."

"alright now that we have all of our dry ingredients mixed together, we're going to add in our wet ingredients." matt says. "how many cups of water do we need?" y/n asks, a bit in discomfort. she's been having a bit of braxton hicks lately, but her doctor said to not worry. however, these were a bit different but, she didn't really pay too much attention to it.

nick tells her how much and she walks towards the sink and pours it. as she walks back nick gasps. "y/n, you spilled the water on yourself." he points to her stained grey sweatpants. "what? no i didn't, look." she holds up the cup that holds the water.

"babe, your water broke!" matt says with widened eyes. "oh my god!" she sets down the cup on the counter and looks down, sure enough her water did break. "i- i don't know how i didn't feel it." she giggles. "chris go- go grab the baby bag it's in the- in the- fuck- the closet by the uh- the door." matt stumbles over his words. chris doesn't do anything but nod and hurry off to get the bag.

"oh my gosh, she's coming? like now?" nick says, y/n laughs as she can't take him seriously with the chef hat on. "y/n, come on, we need to take you to the hospital!" matt places a hand on the small of her back and leads her to the door.

"matt, baby, wait. i need to change my pants." she turns and walks into their shared room. "what? no, you're fine like this! you're in labor." matt says, running a hand through his hair. "hey, calm down, okay." y/n reassures him and holds his face in her hands. "i'm feeling fine as of now, i think we still have some time until i start getting contractions."

"okay, are- are you sure?" she nods. "i'm sure."

"oh!" y/n shrieks, putting a hand on her back as she stands in front of the bathroom counter. she was brushing her hair until she got her very first contraction. "matt, get the car ready!" she take a deep breath and tries to ignore the pain. "come on, come on! chris has the bag, is it okay if they come?"

"i don't care if- fuck." she gets a strong one. "it's okay, you're okay." he kisses her forehead and walks her out the room. "chris lock the door. her keys are on the table." matt tells chris as nick now holds her and walks her out the door. "how are you feeling?" nick says. "like im about to give birth."

"wait! what about the cake?" chris says.

[lokisgoodgirl]

A Royal Audience: The Rite

Chapter 1 Masterlist for The Rite is here A link to my full Masterlist is here Summary: (1) You, an Asgardian court nobody, fall asleep in the palace baths and have an unconventional introduction to the elusive Loki Odinson. (w/c 3.7k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Loki x female reader. Smut. Language. Voyeurism.

Water splashes and your legs fly up, floating out into the murk of torchlit water. Bracing against the stone edge, you glance over your shoulder with a blossoming horror. The curved arch reveals the glittering lights of Asgard below; mountains which had glowed with low-afternoon light when you’d settled in the palace baths now cloaked in darkness. Why did no one wake me? It's forbidden for anyone but the Royal family to be in the baths after sundown. And the penalties are severe.

Surely more of a guideline than a rule, you think optimistically as you get your bearings. Panic twists in your chest. Surely Odin can’t imprison every member of the court who dozes off in the hot springs.

Heaving yourself onto the side, you shiver in the immediate chill. The loss of warmth is like the absence of a lover’s touch; leaving their bed on a winter night. You’re surprised you can remember what that feels like. A breeze blows through the atrium as you grasp for the robe you discarded earlier. It sticks to clammy skin, thick droplets seeping though the fabric as you gaze longingly at the towels lined up at the side. No time. But as you flick soggy tendrils of hair from beneath the collar, your ears prick. No. Footsteps. There’s only one doorway to the baths. A security thing. One hallway – in and out. Your eyes dart frantically at limited options. Tall, imposing pillars encircle the room. One of them will have to do. All you can do is pray the guards just take a quick peek around the door. The squeak of your bare feet on the floor fades just as your wet skin meets marble. You cover your mouth, eyes screwing shut. The door swings open, creaking on ancient hinges. “Prepare the oils,” someone commands. A dark, enunciated order which seems to settle in the steam.

A shudder runs down your spine. That voice. Another one replies in hushed reverence, flopping sandals scooting over the marble floor while bottles rattle. “Haste,” the first growls.

You clutch the flimsy robe tighter to your chest. The first time, you might have been mistaken. But as the irritated syllables of that solitary word settle, there’s no mistaking it. Prince Loki. If you were asked to swear in front of the Norns that you’d never envisioned the dark prince as you touched yourself in the dead of night, thought of his forbidden curls twisting through your hair as you rode him, the timbre of his moans as you choked on his cock – you’d be a fucking liar. I mean, who hasn't? But this? This is beyond the pale. Even conjured from your sickest fantasies. This is wrong. This is...a death sentence.

And yet, you find yourself edging closer to the side of the pillar.

Should you announce yourself? Grovel? Retreat out the door with garbled apologies, bowing with your face lowered and begging for your life? Probably.

But it’s too late now. Far too late. And if you’re going to end up in the dungeons, as on some level you always suspected you would, at least this image will sustain you.

Loki Odinson stands all limbs and and length at the edge of the baths. From emerald-encrusted slippers to the crown of dark waves spilling over his shoulders – he’s perfect; unmistakeably royalty even in his lounge-wear. What little there is of it.

White steam rolls above the water, as sheer and flawless as the chiffon robe that moulds to his body. The faint hue of his skin shows through the forest-green material, fingers toying with the tie circling his hips as he casts a scathing glance to the servant whirling a phial of oil between his fingers. “Tis’ ready, my lord” the servant says. The prince grunts, letting the sash fall open.

You hold a breath as the garb falls down the sinewy bulge of his shoulders, deep carves of tricep muscle illuminated in torchlight. You’ve never seen him so close; never had time to admire the stark beauty emanating from every angled inch of him. Without the distracting glint of his armour it’s almost enough to make your eyes water. Glimpses of him had been in passing, a stolen gawk before you bowed you head and he moved quickly through the great hall past the other courtly nobodies.

The luxuriously weaved material slides over his skin, folding and rippling as it drips from his fingertips. It shimmers in low flamelight and he rolls his shoulders back as it drops, abdominals clenching. You clench along with them as the robe pools around his ankles. Your palms sweat against the pillar, fingers beginning to claw as Loki steps into the water. He rakes his hair back, tilting his chin to the ceiling as he puts one foot ceremonially in front of the other. Making an entrance, even without an audience. Or so he thinks.

The servant stands obediently by the bath’s edge, staring ahead as the prince’s thighs flex with each effortless step, liquid lapping around his knees.

As much as you try not to look, sort of, to preserve some sliver of dignity for the god, saliva wells under your tongue. His perfect cock bobs between his legs. It’s true what they say, you think in a daze. His pubic hair is an immaculate shadow. Even his balls are perfect.

Loki sinks down, dipping long hair back in the water before seating himself in the opposite spot you’d occupied minutes ago. Jet hair plasters to his skin like tar, droplets of water clinging to his torso. “Begin,” he mutters with an air of annoyance. The servant complies, pouring the rose-tinted phial into his hand and beginning to massage the god’s scalp.

You watch in utter beguilement as Loki’s head is nudged from side to side, indecent moans of pleasure snaking from his throat as the favoured servant carries out his work. Thin drips of oil roll down the prince’s brow, catching the light. He tips his head back, jawline pointed to the ceiling like the blade of an axe. He lets out a whimper of pleasure.

You press your lips together so hard it hurts as a crease appears in the god’s brow, his eyes shut as the man kneeling behind turns the attention to his shoulders. The oil spreads down the thick of his neck, to the crevices of his collarbone; glistening. “Oh-h, yes…there-” the god growls, a gnawing groan shaking the air. For the first time, you notice the unmistakable heat of arousal sliding between your thighs. Squirming, you think briefly about looking away. You decide against it. In the blink of an eye, Loki’s mood changes like a winter wind. He leans forward, an abrupt tsk punctuated by the wave of a hand. “Leave me,” he demands. The servant looks visibly confused, fingers poised in the air above tense muscle. Loki turns expectantly over his shoulder. “Need I say it again?” he purrs menacingly. It was quietly brutal. You smirk in spite of yourself. Classic Prince Loki, you muse. You never dreamed you’d get to see it in person.

The man shakes his head, shuffling to his feet. He shuffles out the room with little bows and letting the ancient latch clunk into place. Your breaths quicken and the sudden gravity of the situation settles like a boulder in your throat. Frozen, you watch Loki eye the door a moment longer before resting back against the stone with a lazy sigh.

Long fingers run through the slick of his hair while water slops around his nipples. Gods, how you want to pull one between your teeth as you pump his- “Aren’t you cold?” His voice was an arrow. Sharp, targeted, tipped with venom. It’s hit spreads through your body, white noise filling your brain, blood thundering in your ears.

“Aren’t you cold?” he repeats, sterner this time. You realise with horrifying clarity that Prince Loki of Asgard, as eusive and unknowable as faraway galaxies to a mouse, is talking to you. And he’s naked. And you’re definitely spending the next decade in the dungeons. If you’re lucky.

With shaking hands, you step out from behind the pillar. The game is up. But to your credit, you have closed your eyes, one palm shielding them in a last ditch attempt at salvation. “Your Majesty I apologise I...fell asleep in the water, and woke up after sundown- the laws, and you came in...I didn’t know where to go- what to do-please have mercy...” You squint between parted fingers to gauge his reaction, hoping that the last threads of your long-gone innocence are believable. The prince curls a finger to his lips, covering a smirk. “I did not look upon your majesty...” you lie. The god’s eyes run from your ankles to your face, a devious smile playing at one side of his mouth. His lips part, chin tilting upwards, tongue resting behind his upper teeth before the perfect enunciation of, “Liar.”

“I did not look upon-” you stammer, lowering your hand and staring at the floor.

“-Oh, stop it.” Loki says. It’s followed by a melodic chuckle ricocheting around the marble walls. You glance up. One elbow rests on the stone behind him, water rippling against his chest. He tilts his head, raising the other arm out the water. “Never let it be said the God of Mischief is not merciful,” he rumbles coyly. A solitary finger beckons. “You must be cold,” he repeats for the third time, softer. “I assure you the baths are warmer than the dungeon, if that was your intent for the remainder of the evening.”

Each step feels like an eternity as you let yourself be drawn forward by weak flesh. You can’t take your eyes off his, thundering silently into your soul like a sexual storm. “I am not to the dungeons, then?” you ask cautiously. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

He winks, a perfectly timed droplet of oil falling from his chin to the water below with a thick plop. It makes your stomach flip. He stiffens suddenly, raising his palm in a ‘stop’.

“You may leave now...if you wish,” he says. An aura of stiff formality settles on his expression.

This is the Loki you recognise from feast days and speeches which ring around the towering cloisters of the great hall. The palm held upright softens to gesture to the other side of the pool. “Or you may stay, if you wish. Either way, sending such a flower to the dungeons to wilt and wither would surely be a greater crime than the one you have committed.”

He pauses. There’s a flash of pink as his tongue runs over his lips. His gaze drops to your fingers fidgeting nervously with the sash of your robe, still stained with watermarks from its hasty assembly. “Curiosity is only natural, one supposes,” he says.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” you reply quietly.

Loki’s eyes meet yours, one eyebrow rising. “Ah, but you did.” His voice is deeper, wisps of intrigue catching in every syllable. “In my experience, the path paved with mistakes leads to better stories. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You bite your lip. “Your Majesty are you...sure? I’m-” you glance towards the door, hesitating before you met the prince’s waiting stare, “-naked, under this.” Loki’s long index finger dips teasingly into the water, feigned surprise making his brows rise as he watches it sink beneath the surface. The lip twitches again as his digit skims, slow ripples pulsing out from his body. “Egalitarian, wouldn’t you say? Considering your recent education on my own state of undress.” Heat rises in your cheeks, matching the inexplicable confidence beginning to blossom in your belly. Loki smiles expectantly, resting both elbows casually on the ledge.

His lips form a soft o as your robe falls around your feet. You feel his stare roaming your body as keenly as though its his hands. Can he see the translucent sheen of arousal smeared down your inner thighs as you step into the pool? Possibly. Probably.

It’s true what they say about his body, about his temper, about his cock, after all. Why not his powers of perception?

The water licks against your skin, the thrill of this forbidden meeting making every hair on your body stand to attention. Pores tingle against the embrace of heat as you sink beneath the surface, perching on the flat stone seat beneath. The curve of your mounds bob above gently lapping water.

The same spot you’d been in earlier. But now, the view is entirely different.

You imagine that the archway behind you is a beautiful scene. Asgard’s moons would be shining, their light halo’ing your wetted hair against a blanket of stars. And yet, Prince Loki’s eyes never leave yours.

Although ten meters stretch between you, the whisper of his breath seemed to curl against your ear. You widen your legs beneath the water, immediately squeezing them closed again. Your lips purse, stifling a whine. “Your first royal audience, I gather?” Loki asks politely. You nod. This is madness.

Slowly, he shifts. One arm slips beneath the water, then two. His chin dips, observing you seductively from half-lidded eyes. “Why have I never seen you before?” The question hangs amidst the steam rolling over soft ripples.

“I find myself new at court, your Majesty” you hear yourself answer. It isn’t true. But it's better than the embarrassing reality. You're an invisible cog. “Liar,” he murmurs seductively. The corners of his eyes crease with mirth, a wet curl falling down to the side of his cheek. Somehow, your fingers find their way to your clit; hidden beneath the sweet-smelling veil of the baths.

“How can I have overlooked such a jewel in the midst of this grey wasteland?” “Wasteland?!” you scoff. It's bold, a peal of laughter escaping in spite of yourself. “Hardly.” The god cocks an eyebrow. “Despite my hyperbole, the sentiment remains. How did I miss you?”

There’s a moment of silence; anticipation choking the air. A suspicious disturbance begins to swell at the water by Loki’s mid-section and a chill of desire makes you shiver despite the temperate water; imagining those long, elegant fingers wrapping around that long, elegant cock. You began to toy with yourself, sparks of pleasure thrumming through your veins. Your shoulders began to roll in time with the pressure of your fingers. Unmistakeable. Breaths rise and fall in your chest, breasts bouncing lightly at the surface.

He grits, throat working as the straight lower line of his perfectly white teeth flash into view. The swell of water above his groin crests to a flurry; his deep, filthy exhales wrapping around your inhibitions and choking them. All pretence gone, you release the moan you’ve been holding.

Loki breaths out hard, a low ragged breath that seemed to part the steam caressing the water’s surface. “Mmm,” he grunts, neck stiffening. A vein at his throat stands hard and thick, straining as water began to splash against him from his abuse beneath. This is a scandal. You are a scandal. If anyone finds out, you’re finished...and yet. As the prince’s chin points to his glistening chest, wet from the splashback from fucking himself beneath the surface, you find you care not one jot.

His eyes darken, long lashes curled up to knitted brows. Loki’s lips are parted, tongue hovering and forming senseless words between laboured breaths. His cheekbones flash in the low light, soaking hair strewn over his milky skin. And always, his gaze is on you. The lofty, untouchable, inscrutable god that you’ve fantasised about is looking at you as he pleasures himself. Thinking about you as he sits across the water tugging his flawless cock. And if this is the shining, glorious moment which would burn out in a blaze of reputation-ruining glory to ash then so be it. Worth it. His dulcet moans of onanism grow louder, timing with your own. Only once do you tip your head back as you feel climax rear, a growled command of ‘look at me,’ through gritted teeth snapping you forward again.

If you’re ever deigned worthy to feel the prince inside you, have his marble body flush to your own in the throes of passion, feel his lustful praise hot in your ear– just once – you would die happy. But this? This could be enough. “S-so dutiful,” the prince moans, his shoulders juddering as he strangled the words. “B-brave,” he gasps. His brow furrows deeper with one last longing stare at your glistening neck and shoulders as you cum hard, a quiet mewl of his name echoing around the baths. It’s all you can do not to scream. “G-gods,” Loki chokes. Every muscle you can see in his body seems to tense, a thundering roar like ripping leather cascading from his throat. His mouth hangs open, grimacing to the atrium above. In the death of his cry, there’s silence but for the splash of water as the two of you compose yourself. Still flushed from orgasm, you push your hair back. The prince raises the hand that had been pleasuring himself out the water, inspecting a thick, white string that clings to his fingertips. He turns his gaze to you as he sucks the cum from his digits. God he’s fucking filthy, you think. I knew it. It takes every piece of willpower not to wade across the baths and lick it from his mouth. You bite your lip, matching his sultry demeanour and the prince’s eyebrow twitches. Your reaction is clearly to his satisfaction. “This has been amusing.”

He stands abruptly, breath stealing from your lungs as his entire body comes into view again. You aren’t prepared. The god’s cock is still hard. Long and perfectly formed, it’s earlier fairness now replaced with the blush of his work. Above, his abdomen glistens; pearled droplets of oily water running leisurely over muscled ridges. You open your mouth and close it again. Loki smiles. He turns and the toned meat of his ass shifts on his ascent up the short steps out the baths. With a click of his fingers, the robe and slippers he’d discarded are upon him once more. Your stomach drops.

“I didn’t tell you my name,” you blurt as he approaches the door. Prince Loki’s profile slices into view, the perfect arc of his bone structure lined over one broad shoulder in dancing torchlight. His eyes cast down and move to yours with theatrical precision.

“Your name?!” he purrs incredulously. “We must keep some mystery, surely.” And with the swirl of his robe and a thud of the ancient latch, he’s gone.

Loki’s stomach churns, emerald slippers feeling heavier with every step. He feels along the wall, blinking away the dizziness growing behind his eyes. Risky. Even for me. He pauses at the end of the corridor, steadying his breaths. There was something about her. Something which shattered any semblance of decorum he usually clung to in the presence of the court, however strange the situation. Her audacity. Gods, the look in her eyes as she brought herself to climax; pinning him under her gaze like a starving wretch at a feast. He stares at his feet, jewels throwing prisms from torchlight. “Brother?” Loki looks up, immediately rolling his eyes. “Spying on me? Truly you need to find something more wholesome to occupy your time, brother.” “Of course not. I intended to join you.” Loki’s stomach lurches as he notes the robe hanging off his brother’s shoulders, the plush red towels stacked in his glowering manservant’s arms. “No,” he snaps as Thor attempts to pass. The hand pressing against his brother’s chest is still wet, and he has a sudden hope it’s only water. “The temperature is not pleasing tonight. Tepid, at best. Trust me, brother.” “Is that so?” Thor asks, eyebrow rising. If he finds her in there, she’ll be punished. He won’t think twice before running to father like a dog. The thought wouldn’t usually cause him alarm but there it was again, that niggling feeling that greater fates were at play. He studies Thor’s face. "Trust me," Loki says. His brother sighs. “I trust you with very few things, Loki, but the temperature of bathwater is verily one of them.” He waves a hand and the servant scuttles away into the gloom. “In truth, brother, I hoped to speak to you about the Rite.” A hiss blows between Loki’s teeth, eyes darting to the side. “In my own time.” “Your own time?!” Thor stomps forward, making the torches rattle. “You’ve had five hundred years to find someone, Loki. Nine moons; that’s all you have until you must wait another five centuries for the alignment. Don’t you want to secure yourself in the succession? What if something were to happen to father? To me? The people of Asgard must be assured of your suitability.” “The entire thing is a farce. The fact that you succeeded, proves it.” Thor’s face darkens. “Don't speak of our sacred traditions that way. You know they’re in place for a reason.” A snort steals from Loki’s nostrils. “I have no doubts of my skill, I know I could rule Asgard’s people selflessly and with great enthusiasm; why must it be paraded in an inane peacocking which will make the high-lords wilt with inferiority?”

Silence hangs thick in the narrow corridor.

“A fact which makes your refusal to participate even more perplexing," Thor says, narrowing his eyes and yanking the sash at his waist in a way Loki assumes he thinks to be dramatic. "Nine moons, brother.”

As Thor's footsteps die away; he listens for splashing, for movement, for sneaking. But there’s nothing. He steps out the emerald slippers and pads back to the door, turning the handle with a final, furtive glance behind him.

He expects to see you draped nude over the chaise in the corner, or perhaps spread for him at the edge of the baths with hungry longing in your sharp eyes...but you’re gone. Loki frowns and stalks to the pillar which concealed you before. “Borr’s blood,” he hisses under his breath, scanning the room.

And then he sees it; something silken and knotted loops around the balcony pillars, glimmering in moonlight. He realises suddenly that the draping which normally billows in the evening breeze is gone. Loki smirks as he paces to the balcony and casts a cursory look over the edge. The makeshift ladder hangs to the level below. The royal laundry, if he’s not mistaken; the same hot spring source. “Nine moons,” he repeats quietly to the silence, rapping his knuckles against the marble twice before turning away with a smile.

💖Thanks for joining me for this lil journey! 🕯️Tags in comments x Read Chapter Two, Successional Pleasure HERE

[madschiavelique]

miguel must have some severe neck pain due him being 6’9 and needing to bend to speak with everyone. so i suggest reader to lay him on his back and ride the shit out of his face till his neck is properly straightened and he is drunk dumb on your juices 😇

oMG anon you're a genius !?!? this is SO creative i'm kissing ur brain

summary : you ride miguel's face until it fixes his neck

content warning : SMUT (18+) minors dni, oral sex (reader receiving), miguel eats you out, overstimulation, no use of Y/N, fem!reader, miguel is pussy drunk word count : 888

Miguel's days always seemed to end with a particularly unpleasant muscle ache forming in the back of his neck. The cause and sole reason for this? His height.

It's quite simple, Miguel was huge, 6'9 to be exact, and few people in the Spider Society were anywhere near his height nor width.

He lowered his neck to look at everyone, feeling like a tower trying to talk to passers-by in the street. He couldn't shake off this feeling, but he was always standing up, rare were the moments of his day where he was sitting anywhere.

One minute he was talking to a smaller spider, making him bend his head to maintain conversation politely enough. In another, he had to whisper to discuss confidential matters in public, making him bend the rest of his body as well. And now he'd just come back from a meeting where he'd spent most of his time talking to members smaller than himself.

And he'd already tried so many things to fix his situation: putting essential oil on the back of his neck and massaging it until he relaxed, putting a hot water bottle under his pillow when he was lying on his bed, or even putting on a neck brace, even though he felt profoundly ridiculous when he was wearing it and kept it on just for when he was in his quarters. He'd even asked you to massage the back of his neck at times, but you weren't always available to help him with that.

It was then, as he was returning once again to his quarters where you were staying, complaining and massaging his neck from his long day, that you came up with a little idea. You told him what you had in mind, and he raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued.

And that's how you found yourself on top of him, his head on the mattress revelling in your cunt while his face was pressed against your thighs. His saliva mixed with the succulent juices you were spilling for him dripped down his cheeks, and you were breathless.

"Miguel," you protested, "please-" your breath was ragged, your thighs trembling around his face, "it's too much."

Four, Miguel had given you four orgasms in this position alone by now, returning each time, never, oh never, tiring of your taste and warmth. At first you'd ridden him proudly, your pelvis undulating fluidly against his mouth and clutching your fingers in his hair. But now it was he who held your pelvis, preventing you from withdrawing from him as your own hands rested on his.

He seemed unstoppable, but on your side, every sensation seemed to be heightened tenfold as his fingers ran gently over your thigh sending an extra wave of heat through your lower belly. He was parting your folds with his toungue, fucking you with it relentlessly.

"Once more, por favor, nena," he mumbled, the sensation of his voice vibrating against you like that sending electric shocks through your body, a cry escaping you as you tilted your head to the side, disorientated, hoping you'd even be able to stand until your next orgasm.

You were always worried that you'd suffocate him, that your whole weight resting on his face would make him choke or that your thighs pressing against his cheeks would hurt, but to be honest, that's all Miguel wanted.

He wanted to cram himself between your thighs, you crushing him made him feel light after all, so he gripped your thighs and hips, holding you firmly against him as he nestled himself further against you.

He was drunk on you, drunk on your essence, your skin that he could grip, and he was proud to make you come so many times. Your weight was pressing down on his head superbly, and he didn't care if he ended up smothered under you.

His tongue worked wonders, his lips sometimes sucking on your clit, wrapping it in saliva and then kissing it afterwards. Sometimes you could even feel him graze your flesh with the tip of his fang. He hardened his tongue, stretching it out to penetrate you as far as he could, kissing your lips from time to time, and all these gestures again began to tighten the knot that had formed in your lower stomach.

"Miguel-" you whimpered, feeling as if all the words you wanted to say were going to come out pre-chewed and unintelligible.

Your fingers snaked through his hair, gripping it hard to anchor yourself, and he let out a moan against your pussy that vibrated through your entire being. He was pulling the strings of your body and you were singing for him.

The orgasm swept through you and fireworks went off inside you like a supernova, your whole body shaking as your moan rippled through your throat. You suddenly folded in half like a wilting flower, jolting as Miguel laid you back against him, stroking your hair and gently kissing your forehead as he whispered soft, tender words of praise.

However, your suggestion had indeed worked, because just after this pleasant experience, there was no longer any pain in the back of his neck. And from now on, when the accumulation of pain and aches began to make him feel too exhausted, he knew what he had to do.

[thekinslayed]

Wandering Eyes

summary | Aemond and his girl visit Saltburn, where a pair of curious eyes watch fascinatingly from the sides. (requested)

pairing | saltburn au: modern!aemond targaryen x girlfriend!reader (+ voyeur!oliver quick, mentions of modern!aegon targaryen x venetia catton)

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! blowjob, voyeurism, oliver quick is a warning alone

wordcount | 2.5k

note | u guys asked for more saltburn aem, and i shall provide! rly happy with how this one came out hehe thank you for the love on the previous parts, which you can find here if you are interested! (1, 2) <3 if you haven't read the first two, no worries! this can still be a standalone fic :)

likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated! <3

(divider by @starzyyy1)

The sweat beaded on Aemond’s warm, reddening flesh under the sweltering sun. They lounged on lawn chairs overlooking the expanse of land the Catton manor sat upon, clad in only their shorts and sunglasses, too weary from the heat to be wearing any more clothing. There was a slight throb deep within his temples. Perhaps it was from the heat, or the warm liquor they kept passing around, or the puffs of cigarette smoke that stayed like a cloud above their heads from the lack of wind, he wasn’t sure. What he was sure of, however, was that the idiotic banter coming from Felix and Aegon wasn’t of any help in alleviating his headache. They were arguing about some dumb blonde who managed to play them both like a fiddle at the same time, which wasn’t the first time, laying claim on who had her first, who fucked her better. God, why don’t they just pull out a ruler and measure their dicks while they’re at it? Aemond let out an annoyed sigh, turning his eye to something more worth his attention, you. 

You were laid on your stomach on the grass with Venetia, passing a bottle of rosé between the two of you. Both girls were only clad in their bikinis, skin glistening with tanning oil. You stood out like a blooming tulip in the middle of the wide span of grass at Saltburn, the sight of your exposed flesh beckoning Aemond’s eye hypnotically. You turned to lay on your back, your hair spilling around you like a nymph on the forest floor. There was a warm tinge in Aemond’s belly, one not from the liquor, nor the heat.

This was your second summer together, and like the previous year, you paid visits to your respective homes. This time, however, Aemond took you with him and Aegon on a little visit to Saltburn at the Catton’s invitation. The younger Targaryen always thought the manor was a little too empty for his liking, echoing with the whispers of secrets the walls harbored. Albeit, Dragonstone was much bigger and more grand, the boisterous presence of his much larger family left no room for hidden corners filled with the unknown. The Catton was a much smaller family, quite an odd bunch, and perhaps even more fucked in the head than the Targaryens. 

Aemond’s attention returned to the group when Felix passed him the bottle of vodka, taking a small swig of the clear liquid. His gaze passed the sight of Oliver Quick, who was also staring at the two girls laid out on the grass. It was safe to say Aemond didn’t like him, rather suspicious of the mousy little twat. The silver-headed man was wary of the calculating look Oliver always seemed to have, could practically see the gears turning in his head as if he was planning his next step carefully. It was too obvious, maybe not to an idiot like Felix, but it was to Aemond, and from what Michael told him about their short-lived ‘friendship’, Oliver had a desire to get a leg up in Oxford society, and blend in with the elites. It was pathetic, but the Targaryen could care less if he did so, as long as he kept his grubby hands out of Aemond’s business, and he stopped fucking staring at his girl. 

“How, uh, how’s Helaena?” Felix asked, tearing Aemond’s burning stare away from Oliver. Both Targaryens snickered at the question, making Felix shift insecurely in his seat.

“Not single, if that’s what you’re fucking asking,” Aegon responded, cackling when their childhood companion visibly deflated at his words. A smirk lifted the corners of Aemond’s thin lips, huffing a dark chuckle under his breath before taking a puff of his cigarette. 

“She’s in Hawaii with Cregan,” the younger Targaryen informed, smoke billowing out his lips and nostrils as he exhaled. Felix’s jaw dropped in disbelief, his head quickly turning to the silverheads on either side of him to find any sign that they were playing him.

“Wha– Stark?” Both brothers only nodded, sharing an amused look when Felix groaned, slamming his head backward into the cushion in defeat. 

“Aw, come on, pretty boy. Y’know she was never into you like that! Either way, you won’t ever get to try anything on Hel, not unless you want Aemond to knock out some of your teeth again,” the older Targaryen remarked, flashing Felix a bright grin. A pair of blue eyes quickly shifted between the three men, the newcomer listening intently into the conversation he found no part in. Aemond caught the way Oliver stared at a pouting Felix with a strange glint in his eye. Perhaps it was jealousy, something akin to the same look Aemond had when his pretty girl first started bringing Gavey around. 

As Aegon continued to poke fun at the tall man, Aemond tuned out the conversation when you and Venetia approached the group. Your skin glimmered with a mix of sweat and oil, and as you approached where he sat, he could feel the heat emanating from your warm flesh. You cupped his jaw, before taking the cigarette dangling from his lips into your fingertips and bringing it to your lips. Your boyfriend raised an eyebrow at you, silently asking where you were off to, seeing as you made no move to settle down on his lap when he beckoned you to. 

“Bathroom,” was all you said before walking away. Like a moth to a flame, Aemond quickly followed suit, his cigarette haphazardly stubbed into the ashtray. His good eye trained on the sight of your plump ass as you walked through the halls of the vast mansion, entranced by the inviting sight.

“That guy’s fuckin’ whipped,” Felix commented once Aemond had disappeared after your tail. He took another swig of liquor, before passing it to Aegon, who let out a grunt in agreement.

“You know Aemond, he’s always been too serious… already asked for our grandmother’s ring and everything,” Aegon disclosed, before offering the half-empty bottle of vodka to Venetia. Their eyes stayed on each other like magnets as her lips covered the bottle’s opening, taking a swig of the warm liquor. A droplet spilled over the side of her glossy lips, and a glitter polish-painted thumb wiped off the liquid, before shooting Aegon a seductive smirk.

“No shit?” Felix asked, surprised. A pair of curious eyes watched Venetia and Aegon, Oliver in disbelief at the blatant display in front of her brother. It seemed that Felix didn’t even mind the way they were a second away from devouring each other right then and there, or he just simply was turning a blind eye. 

Oliver quickly learned that the Targaryens had the power to turn the exuberant, bright Felix Catton small. They held an air of authority that would make the tide split for their path, an innate confidence that was as regal as their silver hair and pale flesh. It was a level of eliteness one could not possibly climb to, untouchable to a common man like him. He was in awe, yet intimated, and soon he found himself quietly padding through Saltburn’s guest wing. It took him little effort to find the rooms you were occupying, given away by a muffled groan heard in the quiet, deserted halls. Oliver crouched outside your door, peering into the keyhole. It reminded him of one of his first nights here when he had peeked into Felix’s bathroom. The memory made his skin tingle, even more so at the sight of you kneeling before Aemond’s seated form. Your back was facing the door, and your sheened skin glowed under the light that streamed through the old windows. You were topless, your bikini top strewn carelessly somewhere in the room, while Aemond’s shorts were dropped to his ankles. His long, silver mane cascaded over the edge of the lounge chair with his tilted back, soft grunts of pleasure escaping his lips. His large palm rested on the back of your head as it bobbed up and down at a languid pace. Oliver couldn’t see much, but it was clear what you were up to, given away by the sound of your mouth taking Aemond’s cock. A string of curses left the Targaryen’s lips in low mutters, followed by words of praise.

“Good girl,” Oliver heard him say, to which you responded with a moan. Your pace was steady and unrushed, taking your sweet time. You were clearly well aware of what pleased the silver-haired man before you, evident in the way you fondled his balls in one hand, while the other stroked the base of his cock. 

Oliver gulped, palming his own hardening length in his shorts at the erotic sight. From his point of view, it seemed that you were enjoying this just as much as Aemond was, with the way you freely moaned around his length. You pulled your mouth off your boyfriend’s cock with a pop, replacing its warmth with steady strokes of your hand. Your attention was shifted to his stones, which you sucked on eagerly. Aemond grunted loudly, his voice bouncing against the walls of the spacious room.

“Feel good?” you said, barely audible to Oliver’s ear with your mouth still buried in Aemond’s sacks. His cock jumped in his palm at your sweet voice, prompting him to slip his hand into his shorts to stroke it instead. 

“So good, baby, so fucking perfect,” Aemond groaned. Oliver’s eyes trailed from his muscular chest, littered with light hair, down to his abdomen, which glistened with sweat from the summer heat. He watched as his brows furrowed in pleasure, while his jaw remained slack, his moans falling freely from his lips. His hand picked up its pace while he studied Aemond’s features, from his sculptured jaw, and his aquiline nose. Oliver watched, and he stroked his cock.

Aemond was close, evident in the way his hips subtly thrust into your hand. The hand that was resting on the back of your head gathered all your hair into a ponytail, which urged you to return your lips to his length. You let him set the pace, let him push your head up and down his cock to his liking. Your hands clutched his firm thighs to steady yourself, breathing deep through your nose. You hollowed out your cheeks and pressed your tongue to the underside of his cock to spur Aemond further to his release. His grip on your hair tightened painfully, much to your liking, his pace growing rhythmless and desperate, which Oliver mimicked with his hand. The unknown voyeur outside your room bit his lip to suppress his moans, his own release drawing near. 

Oliver watched Aemond use your mouth to his liking, like nothing but a whore on her knees. He watched you allow him to do so, finding your own pleasure with the way one of your hands crept into your bottoms. After one harsh thrust into your mouth, then another, Aemond pulled your mouth off his cock. He stroked his length furiously, while you presented your bare tits to him. Oliver couldn’t see the spurts of cum that painted your chest, but it was seeing Aemond’s face contort in pleasure that made him spill into his hand. He is reminded of watching Felix in that tub many nights ago, and how he enjoyed slurping up the remnants of his seed. It was depraved, horrific, yet the most cathartic thing he had ever done. He imagined himself doing the same with Aemond’s cum, perhaps even licking it off your plump tits. 

The familiar sound of Venetia’s giggles pulled Oliver from his thoughts, which was followed by a deep chuckle from down the hall. His feet pulled him away from Aemond’s door, following where he heard another laugh before a door slammed shut from around the corner. In his post-orgasmic daze, Oliver’s elbow collided with a stone ornament, one of the hundreds displayed in the Catton’s home, falling on the carpet with a loud thud. He scrambled to pick up the figurine and return it to its place, silently praying no one heard him. His prayers were unanswered when he heard a door behind him open, making him freeze in his place. 

“Oliver,” Aemond said, his smooth voice booming through the empty hall. Oliver turned to face the younger Targaryen, who had one hand leaning above the doorframe. The icy blue of his good eye was sharp as he stared, making the smaller man’s skin prickle under the weight of his gaze. “Are you looking for something?” Oliver’s face burned with the humiliation of being caught, his mouth turning dry as he approached the silver-haired man. His hand rubbed the back of his neck, before letting out an awkward chuckle. “Yeah, no, mate, I-I think I just got lost again.”

Aemond only hummed in response, crossing his arms in front of his bare chest. He stared down at Oliver through his eyelashes, making the man before him fight the urge to cower in fear. Behind Aemond, your voice echoed though Oliver didn’t dare to peek over his shoulder. You seemed farther away, your soft tone covered by the sound of running water. Leaning on the door frame, Aemond turned his head to you.

“Get the bath started, baby, I’ll be right there, yeah?” he called out to you. With a response from you that Oliver couldn’t catch, Aemond turned back to Oliver. “Still getting lost after three weeks of being here?”

Oliver gulped, nodding his head pathetically. He scrambled for a response, muttering something about not being good with directions, to which Aemond only responded with another hum. His pulse thrummed thunderously in his ears, and the longer the Targaryen stared at him with his scrutinizing gaze he felt himself being peeled layer by layer. After a couple of beats of silence, Aemond spoke.

“You’re by Felix’s room, aren’t you? That’s on the other wing of the house. Should’ve taken a left from the staircase.”

The relief washed over Oliver like a warm breeze. He stuttered some sort of thanks, before turning away from Aemond. As he walked away, he didn’t hear the sound of a door closing, which meant Aemond was still watching him. All of a sudden, his walk felt funny, the front of his shorts uncomfortably damp, only aggravated with every step he took. When he finally heard the door close shut, his shoulders visibly relaxed. That was close, too close. Aemond was much too perceptive, much smarter than all of the Cattons combined. Oliver couldn’t afford to be caught by him, so he thought it best to keep his motives far from the Targaryens as much as possible. He made his way through the halls with his tail stuck in between his legs, only stopping when he heard Venetia’s voice again. Like deja vu, he peeked through another keyhole again, spotting Felix’s sister lost in a bundle of sheets, a head of short silver-hair buried in between her thighs.

[danosrosegarden]

I’m still think about nashton going ape on a flesh light. Give us the whiplash baybee!!!

wear me out, turn me on - edward nashton x gn!reader headcanons (NSFW) ౨ৎ ˙⋆.˚♡

{contents ♡ bit of fluff, male masturbation, toy usage}

{word count ♡ ~700}

♡ a hot sheen of shame was already sizzling like oil in a pan on his reddened cheeks before he even took it out of the package. it was almost as if he'd already used it. his trembling hands. the skipping of his heart.

♡ edward really wasn't one for porn. the videos smelled like plastic. they felt thin and easy to break through. cellophane. it just wasn't appealing. he'd much rather think of you.

♡ a good roommate in gotham was his biggest, brightest blessing. work peeled his skin away and his thunderstorm brain ripped out the exposed guts. he was so used to life washing out any droplets of happiness that ran through his blood, he assumed joy just wasn't for him. but then there was you.

♡ you brewed him coffee early in the morning. you sat with him in warm, thick, comfortable silence when he came home deflated from another exhausting workday. you even helped him work through the tough clues on his crosswords. he knew the answers already, but it was cute to see the cogs turn in your brain as you sifted through possible options.

♡ your friendship was something he held gently in his cupped hands as if it would shatter into pieces if he squeezed too hard. it was wholesome. it was sweetness. it had also been his masturbation material ever since you moved in together.

♡ it was your fault, really. it's not like he was sending out requests for a gorgeous roommate with twinkling eyes and a beautifully beaming smile with a wonderful sense of humor and a soft heart of kindness. it just happened.

♡ the littlest things set him off. you breezed by him and he caught a whooshing slash of your scent? suddenly he needs the bathroom for a few minutes. you were doing laundry and he saw a peek of your underwear hanging out from your basket? he needs to get something from his room real quick. he'll be right back.

♡ he'd never used something besides his hand to help out before. so he takes his time. he runs his finger along the silky smooth silicone. he wonders what it would be like if it was his fingers on you right now. how you might shiver at his gentle touch, how you might bite at your lip when he gets close to brushing against a sensitive spot.

♡ it's a good thing he's home alone right now, because he's loud when he finally gets his new toy wrapped around his flushed cock, already lubed from the dribbles of precum running down. the squeeze is warm and tight, and he thinks of you, you, only you, as he drags his hips back and forth.

♡ he can't help the quivering words that climb from his throat. they spill out between high, breathy whimpers. god, that feels so fucking good. you feel so good. please, please, please.

♡ he's trying to hold back, trying to wipe the light dusting of sweat that's causing his glasses to slip, but it's difficult when he finally has something to help him imagine what you'd feel like if it was you around him. he feels it brewing and bubbling up in his gut. his hips stutter and shake, his breathing is loud and jagged, and the groans pouring from his mouth are just pathetic. if it was really you, he'd try harder to last. he'd be good for you. but now, in this moment, he didn't give a fuck about any of that. he wanted to be selfish, chasing his pleasure with a bounding, sweat-soaked sprint.

♡ he tries to bite down on his lip, but the whining cry comes tumbling out anyway as his orgasm engulfs him. he doesn't care if anyone in the complex heard his muffles moans. he doesn't care that he probably looks wrecked. he doesn't even care that thick streaks of cum are dripping down the opening of the toy and onto his hand. it felt good to be greedy.

♡ in that moment, it didn't matter to him that he may never work up the courage to make his filthy dreams turn into truth. now he had something to at least help him pretend, and he couldn't wait to cook up more fantasies to play with.

[cherbii]

KILL BILL | Toji Fushiguro

synapses -> Toji Fushiguro was the water to your oil, the gasoline to your fire. He was the one to break your heart and ruin your make up in one breath. Toji Fushiguro is also your ex you swore you wouldn’t go back to, but, he’d crawling back to you.

warnings -> (frat)TOXIC!EX!Toji x TOXIC!BITCHY!Reader, alcohol use, cheating, fingering, bathroom sexual activities mdni

You didn’t even want to come, but you showed up anyway. If there was one thing about you, it’s that you never missed the opportunity to remind people who the fuck you were. That, and you were bored.

The second you walked into the frat house, it hit you. Cheap beer, bad decisions, and the same recycled playlist blasting in every room. Someone already spilled a drink. Some girl was crying in the hallway. Nothing changed.

You looked perfect. Short black dress, heels that clicked loud when you walked, lip gloss so shiny it looked weaponized. Every girl glanced at you. Every guy stared too long. You knew. You didn’t care. You were already sick of the attention and you’d been there five minutes.

Keisuke—your plaything, was behind you, trailing like a lost dog. He had one hand on your lower back and the other holding two drinks. One for him, one for you, like you couldn’t have gotten it yourself.

“Hey, babe,” he said in your ear, already too close. “I missed you today.”

You blinked at him. “Okay.”

He laughed like it was cute. It wasn’t. You took the drink, barely nodded, and walked deeper into the house. The living room was packed, bodies everywhere, and someone already started beer pong. Same tired game. Same loser frat boys thinking a trick shot meant they deserved head.

You leaned against the wall and sipped. Weak drink. Tasted like juice and regret. Keisuke tried to pull you closer, arm around your waist. You slipped out of it easily. “Don’t get clingy. It’s embarrassing.”

His smile faltered, just for a second. You liked that. You didn’t come here to be coddled. You came here to be seen.

You scanned the room with disinterest. Recognized a few girls you hated. One was wearing your dress from two months ago. You smirked. She didn’t fill it out like you did.

“Wanna go say hi to Jiro and them?” Keisuke asked. He was trying again. He was always trying.

You didn’t even look at him. “No.”

“Oh… okay.”

“I’m gonna get a real drink.” You walked away without waiting for him to follow. You could already feel him getting insecure. Good. He was boring anyway.

In the kitchen, someone handed you vodka straight from the bottle. You took a swig like it was nothing. It burned a little. You didn’t react. You turned around to lean on the counter, cup in hand, heels crossed at the ankle, bored out of your mind. Some guy tried to talk to you. You shut it down with a glance.

Then you felt it.

Not the drink. Not the music. Not even the high from knowing every girl in the room wished they were you.

You felt him.

Your eyes flicked up. You didn’t react. You didn’t have to. You already knew what you were about to see.

Toji.

Same spot as always. Leaning against the doorway like he owned it. Fitted black shirt stretched across his chest. Chain visible. Arms crossed. That face. Same cocky mouth. Same look like nothing surprised him, except maybe the fact that you looked better than ever.

He had no right looking that good.

You held his stare for half a second then looked away, like he wasn’t worth the energy. You sipped again. Slowly. Like you didn’t feel the heat in your chest start to creep.

He was already walking towards you. You didn’t even get annoyed. You expected it. He stopped in front of you. Close. Too close. Like he forgot what space was. Or maybe he knew you’d never really asked for it.

“You come here with that pretty little boy?” he asked, voice low.

You didn’t even blink. “You still stalking me?”

He smiled. That smug, hot-ass smile. “Didn’t need to. You always show up when I stop thinking about you.”

“Funny. I don’t think about you at all.”

“That why you wore my favorite dress?”

You laughed. “You think this is about you? That’s cute.”

“It’s always about me.”

You looked him up and down, slow and obvious. He looked good. Too good. You hated him for it. “You really haven’t changed,” you said.

He stepped in closer. You didn’t move. “Why would I?” he said. “Shit worked for you.”

“It didn’t.”

He leaned in like he wanted to say something in your ear. You leaned back just slightly. He noticed. Smiled again. “You still get wet when I look at you like that?”

You sipped your drink. Unbothered. “No. But I dry up fast when you open your mouth.”

Toji laughed, low and rough. Like you were the funniest fucking thing in the world. “Still sharp, ma.”

“Still desperate, Toji.”

He tilted his head. “If I’m desperate, what’s that make you? You’re the one with some soft little boyfriend and you still showed up here looking for a reaction.”

“I showed up because I was bored.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “You showed up because no one fucks you like I did.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re not special.”

“I was the best you ever had.”

“And I’ve had better since.”

“Lying doesn’t suit you.” He reached for your chin, gentle but cocky, like he still thought he had the right. You slapped his hand away hard enough to make a few heads turn. He smiled like you kissed him. “Still a brat,” he said.

“Still a bitch,” you shot back.

The tension sat between you, heavy but familiar. You both liked it there. You wouldn’t admit it, but this was what you missed. The push, the bite, the feeling of being matched.

“Go back to your little girlfriend,” you said. “I’m not playing this game with you.”

He leaned in one last time, his breath hot against your cheek. “She’s not you,” he said. “That’s the problem.”

You turned away before he could see you react. Your chest was tight, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not now. Not ever.

You left the kitchen like nothing happened. Made your way back to Keisuke. He looked relieved to see you. Like he thought you were gonna ditch him.

“You okay?” He asked.

“Fine.”

“You look mad.”

“I’m fine.”

“Wanna dance or something?”

You stared at him. “No.”

He tried to laugh it off. You didn’t. You finished your drink in one go, grabbed his hand, and pulled him toward the stairs.

“Let’s go upstairs,” you said.

He stumbled behind you, eager like always. You didn’t care. You weren’t thinking about him. You weren’t even thinking about what you were about to do.

You were thinking about Toji.

You didn’t even close the door all the way. Keisuke fumbled behind you, breathless, already acting like he couldn’t believe his luck. He had that look, like he thought he finally won something, like he’d unlocked the golden fucking prize. You rolled your eyes. Guys like him were always easy. Always too eager. Too available. You never had to chase him, and that was the problem.

He sat on the edge of the bed like he was waiting for instructions. You let your dress ride higher up your thighs as you walked toward the window, pretending to be interested in the view outside. It was dark. Loud. You could hear people yelling downstairs. Your eyes scanned the yard for a second. You didn’t know what you were looking for. Or maybe you did.

Keisuke’s voice broke through. “You okay?”

You turned around slowly. “Do I look not okay?”

He blinked. “No, no—you just seem… distracted.”

You stepped forward, close enough to stand between his knees. “Then focus me.”

His hands landed on your waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. You didn’t move. Just stared down at him, waiting to feel anything. You didn’t.

You tilted your head when he leaned up to kiss you, let it happen because you were already here. His lips were soft, almost unsure, and his hands were too polite. Like he thought he was handling something breakable. It made your skin crawl.

You pushed him down against the mattress and climbed over him, straddling his lap. He let out this shaky little breath like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was. You bit back a laugh. His hands slid down your hips. Too slow. Too hesitant.

“You’re stiff,” you said, bored.

“I—I’m just nervous.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“I dunno. You’re just… hot.”

You stared at him, completely unimpressed. “That’s the best you’ve got?”

“I didn’t mean it like that—.”

You leaned forward, your lips almost brushing his ear. “Relax. It’s not that deep. You don’t have to pretend like you know what you’re doing.”

That shut him up.

You rolled your hips against his lap, slowly. His hands tightened on your waist and his breath stuttered. He was hard already. Of course he was. You could get a guy hard just by breathing. That’s how easy they were.

But your mind was somewhere else. You hated that it was, but it was. Because no matter how deep you sank into Keisuke’s lap, no matter how many compliments he whispered, you kept thinking about the way Toji looked at you downstairs. Like he already knew no one would ever compare.

And the worst part? He was right.

Toji wasn’t just the best you ever had. He was the only one who ever knew how to really handle you. You didn’t need someone who treated you like you were soft. You needed someone who matched your energy, who pushed back, who didn’t care how pretty you looked when you were pissed.

Keisuke couldn’t do that. He couldn’t even touch you like he meant it.

You pulled back suddenly and sat on the edge of the bed, fixing your dress. Keisuke looked dazed.

“You okay?” He asked again.

“I’m over it,” you said, flat.

“What?”

You stood up and checked your reflection in the mirror across the room. Your lip gloss was still perfect. Hair still fine. Not a smudge out of place. “I said I’m over it,” you repeated. “I’m bored. This isn’t fun.”

His face dropped. “Wait. What the hell?”

“You’re sweet,” you said, adjusting your straps. “Just not what I need.”

He stood up too fast. “Are you serious?”

You didn’t even look at him. “Dead serious.”

“You dragged me up here—.”

“You followed,” you cut in. “Don’t act like I begged you.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but you weren’t listening anymore. You already had your hand on the door.

“You should go,” you said, opening it. “Before I get really mean.”

And you left.

You didn’t go back downstairs right away. You leaned against the wall in the hallway, scrolling through your phone like nothing happened. You knew what this looked like. Your walk of shame. You didn’t care. You looked good. Your dress was still tight, still short. Your face was still beat. Your legs still smooth and crossed at the ankle.

Girls gave you looks when you passed. You smirked at them. Guys stared. You didn’t stop.

Back in the kitchen, the music was louder. The crowd had changed. More people. More chaos. You pushed past some drunk couple making out against the counter and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge.

Then you felt him again. That stupid pull. That tension that settled right between your shoulder blades when he was nearby.

You turned your head.

Toji was leaning against the same doorway. Alone this time. No girl on his arm. Just a red cup in hand and that smirk like he already knew what happened upstairs.

“Back so soon, ma?” He asked.

You rolled your eyes and took a sip of your water. “Don’t call me that.”

“You used to love it.”

“I used to love a lot of things that make me cringe now.”

He pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, just slow enough to piss you off. “He couldn’t fuck you right, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Your silence said more than words ever could.

Toji chuckled, low and smug. “You always come back.”

“I didn’t come back. I was never with you.”

“You were,” he said. “Every damn night for months.”

“And now I’m not.”

He stepped even closer, close enough that you had to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. “You miss me.”

You scoffed. “I miss the dick. That’s it.”

“That’s what I meant.”

You hated him for being right. You hated him for still smelling good. For standing too close. For looking at you like he’d already won and you hadn’t even decided if you were playing yet.

He brushed a strand of hair off your shoulder. You let him. “You know he can’t fuck you like I did.”

You tilted your head. “You think that’s all I care about?”

“It’s the only thing that ever shut you up.”

You laughed. “That’s rich coming from the man who used to blow my phone up every time I ghosted him.”

He smiled. “Yeah, but you always came back.”

Your breath hitched just slightly. Not enough for him to catch it. But you felt it. That slip. You looked at him, face unreadable. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You don’t need to say it, ma. I see it all over your face.”

He leaned in, real close, and for a second you didn’t move.

Then you did. You stepped back.He raised a brow.

“Don’t get cocky,” you said. “I’m not letting you touch me again.”

He smiled. “You will.”

And then he walked away like he knew you were watching.

Because you were.

After that, you got blackout drunk.

You woke up with your makeup still on and your heels still by the door. The sun leaking through your blinds was too fucking loud. Your throat was dry, your phone was blowing up, and someone had definitely taken a video of you storming out of that frat house last night. You didn’t bother checking.

You didn’t dream, or maybe you did, but it didn’t matter. You’d been running on autopilot lately. Party. Pose. Play the part. The high never lasted but you liked the attention. You liked walking in and making bitches uncomfortable just by existing. You liked knowing everyone in the room either wanted you or wanted to be you.

But today your body felt sore in that useless way, tight from irritation, not pleasure. You dragged yourself to the bathroom and stared in the mirror. Lip gloss smudged. Lashes crooked. Still hot.

You tied your hair back, brushed your teeth, and threw on a tiny crop top with some low-rise jeans you knew would piss someone off. You were already twenty minutes late for brunch with the girls but you didn’t care. They’d wait.

You Ubered with sunglasses on and your phone in your hand. Two missed calls from Keisuke. One long text. You didn’t even read it. He was lucky you didn’t block him. He bored you.

The brunch spot was one of those places that tried too hard to be “cool.” Faux vintage decor. Neon signs. Pink drinks. Trendy for the sake of being trendy. You hated it. But it was perfect for pretending everything was fine.

You walked in and saw them right away.

Mika. Yuna. Reina. All overdressed like usual. All sipping mimosas like they weren’t already on their third round. They lit up when they saw you, like the star of the show had finally arrived.

“There she is,” Reina said, sliding over. “We were about to order for you.”

“Cute of you to think I trust your taste,” you said, sliding into the booth and taking Mika’s drink right out of her hand.

“You look hot,” Yuna said, chewing on ice.

“You look tired,” you said, sipping.

They laughed. You didn’t.

“So,” Mika said, leaning forward. “Spill. What the fuck happened last night?”

You raised a brow. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb. You left with Keisuke. Then came down looking like you wanted to commit murder. And then Toji started acting weird as hell. Did you see him? He looked like he was about to beat the shit out of someone.”

You kept sipping.

“I mean I know he’s always a little possessive,” Reina added, “but that was different. He looked pissed.”

“Maybe because she reminded him what he lost,” Yuna said with a smirk.

You glanced at her, slow. “You say that like I’m something you can lose.”

They giggled like they weren’t scared of you. Like you wouldn’t rip someone apart over a shared look. Maybe they’d gotten comfortable. Maybe you’d been too quiet lately.

You leaned back and stretched your arms, eyes scanning the table. Everyone was watching you. Waiting. You were the center, as usual. You gave them a lazy smile. “Toji’s just mad because I don’t care anymore.”

Mika tilted her head. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t be dumb,” you said. “I’ve moved on.”

Yuna raised her glass. “To moving on.”

You didn’t toast. You just downed the rest of the mimosa and flagged the waiter for another.

But deep down, your stomach tightened.

You hadn’t told them about the conversation in the kitchen. About how close Toji got. About the way he still smelled like heat and bad decisions. About the way your heart spiked when he called you ma, like nothing had changed. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just habit. That he was just doing what he always did, getting in your head.

Still, your phone burned in your pocket. You hadn’t blocked his number. You hadn’t even muted it. If you opened your messages, you knew you’d see his name. But you didn’t. You weren’t giving him that.

“You should come out tonight,” Reina said, refilling her glass. “It’s that rooftop party downtown. Super exclusive.”

You yawned. “Sounds exhausting.”

“You love exclusive.”

“I love attention. That’s different.”

“We’ll get you drunk,” Mika said.

“I was drunk last night,” you replied. “Didn’t help.”

They all stared for a beat too long. Like they were waiting for the real you to show up. The one who didn’t care. The one who laughed at her own chaos and made it look good.

So you smiled. Sharp and fake. “Fine. I’ll come.” They cheered like you just saved the night. But inside, your thoughts were still stuck on one thing. One person.

You hated that he still got to you. Hated that your body remembered him. Hated that no one else had ever made you feel like a fire waiting to go off.

Keisuke was sweet. Soft. Predictable. Toji was everything he wasn’t. Messy. Toxic. Addictive. And you? You were built for destruction. Built to ruin and be ruined. You were never meant to be good. That’s why it worked. That’s why it still haunted you.

You felt your phone buzz in your back pocket. You pulled it out. One new message.

Toji (DNI)

You looked good last night. Like you wanted me to ruin you again.

You stared at the screen.

Mika leaned in. “Who is it?”

“No one,” you said, locking it.

But your hand stayed on the phone, thumb brushing the side like it might burn if you held it too long.

Reina noticed. “Is it him?”

“No.”

Yuna raised a brow. “Liar.” You didn’t say anything. The silence stretched long enough to feel real. Then you smiled again. “So what are we wearing tonight?”

And just like that, the topic shifted. Clothes. Nails. Boys. Plans.

But Toji was still there, in the pit of your stomach, in the back of your mind, in the memory of his hands and the way he said your name like it belonged to him.

You didn’t want to want him.

But you did.

And that was the problem.

The evening came around.

The rooftop was packed. Bodies everywhere. Loud music, soft lighting, girls taking videos they’d pretend not to care about tomorrow. It smelled like perfume and champagne and everyone trying too hard. You didn’t have to try. You just walked in and eyes turned. You didn’t bother hiding the smirk on your face. Let them stare. Let them talk. That’s what they were going to do either way.

You were in something light blue and tight. It hugged your body and stopped right below your ass. Thin straps. Chest out. Back bare. Soft makeup, lips glossed up, hair loose over your shoulders. You weren’t overdressed. Everyone else was just under you.

Mika spotted you first. She waved you over to the table they claimed near the DJ booth. Reina and Yuna were already there, drinks in hand, looking way too eager. You gave them a quick once-over and then sat without saying a word.

“You look insane,” Yuna said, her voice already two drinks in.

You sipped the champagne someone handed you and crossed your legs. “I know.”

Mika leaned forward. “He’s here.”

You didn’t even look up. “Okay?”

“You don’t care?”

You licked gloss from your bottom lip, slow. “Why would I?”

Reina looked past your shoulder toward the bar. “He’s with the frat guys. Hasn’t looked over yet.”

You didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. You didn’t come for him. You didn’t need to. He’d come to you. He always did.

“Last night wasn’t enough for him?” Yuna asked, nudging you with her shoulder.

You raised a brow. “We talked.”

Mika snorted. “Yeah. We saw the way he was looking at you. That was not just talking.”

“He can look all he wants. That’s all he gets.”

But that wasn’t exactly true. Not with how your skin still burned from the way he said your name last night. Not with how your thighs clenched a little just remembering the way he stared at your mouth when you weren’t even speaking. You hadn’t touched. Hadn’t kissed. He didn’t even get close enough to breathe on you. But it lingered. Still did.

And he knew it.

Your phone buzzed. You didn’t check it. You already knew who it was.

Instead, you stood. “I’m getting a drink.”

“You still have one,” Reina said.

“Not cold enough.”

You didn’t wait for a reply. You walked across the floor with your head high, hips swaying just enough. You didn’t look to see if he was watching. You didn’t need to. He was.

The bar was crowded. You pushed between two girls who were too busy giggling over their tabs to notice. The bartender moved toward you immediately.

“Vodka soda. Tall. No lime.” You said it clean. Loud enough to be heard. Calm enough to sound bored. It took exactly three seconds before a shadow slid up beside you.

“Blue looks good on you.”

You turned your head slightly. “Toji.”

He smirked. “Didn’t think you’d show.”

“I didn’t show for you.”

“No?”

“Get over yourself.”

He looked at you like he wanted to laugh. “Can’t. You made sure of that.”

You grabbed your drink when it came, took a slow sip, eyes still on his. He looked good. White tee. Jeans slung low on his hips. Chain against his skin. Hair messy like he didn’t even try. He probably didn’t. He didn’t have to.

“You ignoring my texts now?” He asked.

“You bored?”

He stepped in closer. “You’re the one who said never again. Just making sure you meant it.”

You leaned against the bar, your dress tightening at the waist as you shifted. “I did.”

His eyes dropped once, quick, sharp, then dragged back up to your mouth. “Shame. You’re still acting like mine.”

You laughed once, low and bitchy. “You wish.”

He took another step forward. Not touching. But close enough that your bare arm almost brushed his chest. “If I wanted to fuck you, I’d already have you in the back of someone’s car right now.”

Your smile dropped a little. “If you were that good, you wouldn’t have to talk about it.

His grin spread, slow and cocky. “I don’t talk. I make you beg.”

You tilted your head. “That’s funny. I don’t remember begging.”

He leaned in, breath just barely brushing your cheek. “You remember how I made you cum.”

You didn’t blink. “You’re not special.”

“I’m the best you’ve had and you know it.”

“You were just loud,” you said, eyes sharp. “Loud doesn’t mean good.”

He chuckled under his breath. “You’re real bold for someone who couldn’t even walk straight the day after.”

You reached up and adjusted your strap. Letting his eyes follow your fingers for a second before saying, “You’re real confident for someone I won’t fuck again.”

Toji looked down at your drink, then back up. “You’re already soaking through that dress and I haven’t even touched you.”

You didn’t react. Not with your face. But your legs pressed tighter under the bar. You lifted your glass to your lips. “You know what’s sad?”

“What.”

“That you think talking to me like this is gonna change anything.”

He gave you that half smile again. “You saying no with your mouth but yes everywhere else.”

“You’ve been replaced, Toji.”

“By who? Your little tennis boyfriend?”

You blinked. “He doesn’t lie to me.”

“Because he doesn’t know you. Not like I do.”

“He doesn’t need to.”

Toji tilted his head. “So why are you wet right now, ma?”

Your jaw twitched. He saw it. You wanted to slap him. You wanted to drag him somewhere private and ruin him. You hated him. You hated how right he was.

He leaned in closer. “Let me remind you.”

“You’re not touching me.”

“I won’t need to.”

You shoved your drink into his chest. Not hard. Not gentle either.

“Keep dreaming,” you said.

And then you turned. Walked away. Didn’t look back.

But you felt him staring the whole way.

And you hated how bad you wanted him to follow.

You didn’t flinch until you made it back to the table. And even then, barely. You smoothed your dress, took a sip of champagne, ignored the questions already in Reina’s throat. Yuna opened her mouth to say something. You gave her a look. She shut it.

You didn’t talk about Toji.

You didn’t need to.

It was all over your face. The flush in your cheeks. The slight shake in your hand. The way your thighs were pressed together under the table like your body was betraying you in real time.

He still had you.

And you fucking loathed it.

You reached for your clutch, checking your lip gloss in the compact mirror, giving yourself something to do while you calmed down. You were fine. You were composed. Nothing happened. Just words. Just heat. No contact. No slip. Nothing.

Except your panties were damp and your breathing was shallow and your chest felt tight.

Whatever. You’d seen better. Had better.

Right?

The music shifted. Bass heavy. Something slow. Something slutty. Mika dragged you up to dance. You didn’t want to. You went anyway. You moved. You smiled. You kept it cute. You felt eyes on you the whole time.

Not just his. Everyone’s.

But especially his.

You didn’t turn. You made him watch.

And when his hand curled around your wrist from behind, you didn’t jump. Didn’t pull away. You just looked over your shoulder with a deadpan stare.

“Toji...”

“You walked away.”

“I tend to do that when someone’s full of shit.”

He pulled you off the floor like he didn’t care who was watching. Like he knew no one would stop him. You didn’t resist. You let him lead you down the stairs and out the back door into the night air. You were done pretending you didn’t want it.

But you weren’t gonna make it easy for him.

He backed you against the wall. Not touching. Just looking. Like he couldn’t believe he got you here. Like he was already picturing what he’d do next.

“You gonna hit me or kiss me?” You asked, breath even, voice sharp.

“I’m gonna make you say please.”

You snorted. “I’d rather choke.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Say less.”

And then he kissed you. Rough. Hot. Like he’d been starving. His hands slid up your waist, slow, squeezing your hips like he missed the feel of your skin under his fingers. Your lips parted out of instinct. He took it as an invitation.

You kissed him back. Harder. Meaner. You bit his lip. He groaned against your mouth and shoved you harder into the wall. You liked the way he lost control for you. You liked knowing no one else got this side of him.

His hands slid up to your chest. You grabbed his wrists. “You think I’m easy?”

He looked you dead in the eyes. “No. I think you’re desperate.”

You slapped him.

His jaw tensed. He licked the corner of his mouth, eyes wild.

Then he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hand tangled in your hair. Your hands were on his chest, his neck, his chain. You yanked it once. He didn’t flinch.

“You miss this,” he said against your mouth.

“Shut up.”

“You gonna let me fuck you, ma?”

You stared at him, chest rising. “You really think you deserve it?”

“I know I do.”

He moved his hand under your dress. You grabbed it. Tight.

“No touching.”

He smiled. “That how it is?”

“You want it?” you asked, nails digging into his wrist. “Earn it.”

Toji stepped back. Breathing heavy. Eyes dark. His boner was obvious through his jeans. You made a point not to look. Not to give him the satisfaction.

You fixed your strap again. Patted your hair. Rolled your lip gloss back over your mouth.

“You’re not fucking me tonight.”

“I’m not?”

“No.”

“You’re gonna go back to your girls and act like I didn’t have you up against a wall?”

“You didn’t have shit.”

He stepped back toward you again. Close. Nose brushing yours. “You���ll be thinking about it all night.”

You stared him down. “I’ve got better things to do.”

“Like who?”

You leaned in, lips at his ear. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Then you walked off.

And you made sure your ass swayed with every step.

You didn’t even look back.

But you knew.

He was watching.

You didn’t go back to the table. You didn’t say a word.

Your hands were shaking. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that you noticed when you reached for the champagne and your fingers wrapped around the stem too tight. You hated it. You hated that he still had that much control. That just a kiss and a few words had you so wet it was distracting.

You kept your legs crossed under the table and your mouth shut. You didn’t want questions. You didn’t want looks. You wanted silence.

But Reina was already eyeing you.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t even say anything—”

“You don’t need to.”

You downed the rest of your drink and grabbed your phone, not even looking at them when you stood. “I’ll be back.”

You didn’t even wait for a response before you headed for the bathroom.

You didn’t lock the stall this time. You just leaned back against the wall, one heel popped up behind you, staring blankly at your reflection in the metal. You looked perfect. You always did. Dress still in place. Lip gloss still glossy. Hair still exactly how you styled it. No smudges. No signs of what just happened.

Except the way your chest was rising a little too fast.

Except the way your thighs were pressed too tightly together.

Except the way your mind kept replaying the look on his face when you walked away from him.

You pulled out your phone. No texts. Not yet.

You waited another minute.

Still nothing.

And then.

Toji

open the door

don’t make me knock again

ma

last warning

You rolled your eyes.

You waited.

Then you unlocked the stall and opened it.

He was already inside before you could say anything. Closed the door behind him. Locked it. Backed you up without a word.

You should’ve shoved him. Should’ve screamed. Should’ve said no again.

But you didn’t.

You let him crowd you. Let him box you in with his arms on either side of your head. Let him stare.

“Still pretending you don’t want it?” He asked, voice low.

You scoffed. “Still pretending you have a chance?”

“You’re not leaving this stall unless you say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you’re mine.”

You laughed in his face. “You really think I’m that easy?”

“I think your thighs are clenched like you’re about to cum just from me breathing on you.”

Your jaw tensed.

“You don’t know shit.”

He leaned in, mouth barely brushing your cheek. “Then why are you shaking?”

You hated him. You hated that he wasn’t wrong. You hated that his cologne was already in your nose and under your skin. You hated how his breath was warm on your neck and how he still smelled like weed and sweat and the best fuck you ever had.

“Don’t touch me,” you whispered.

“Say please.”

You met his eyes. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re wet.”

You slapped his chest. He didn’t move.

“You wanna hit me again, ma?” he said, smiling like he loved it. “Go ahead. I can take it.”

“I should call my boyfriend.”

“Then do it.” He pulled out his phone and handed it to you. “Call him. Let him hear how wet you are right now.”

You didn’t take the phone.

“You’re sick.”

“No,” he said, dropping the phone back in his pocket. “I’m the best you’ve ever had.”You bit your lip. He stepped closer. His mouth brushed your ear. “You gonna lie to me again?”

You pushed at his chest. “I said don’t touch me.”

He didn’t listen. His hand went to your waist. Slow. Confident. He dragged it up your side, resting right under your ribs.

“You’re not even gonna stop me,” he murmured.

You stared him down. “You think you have that kind of pull?”

“I know I do.”

He leaned down and kissed your neck. Just once. Just enough to make your whole body stiffen.

“You’re not fucking me in this bathroom,” you said, voice low.

“Didn’t say I was,” he said, kissing lower. “I’m just reminding you who this pussy belongs to.”

You gasped and slapped him again. Harder.

His hand shot out and grabbed your wrist.

You didn’t pull away.

He stared at you. Inches away. Breathing heavy. Fingers tight around your wrist.

“I’ll stop,” he said, voice calm, too calm. “All you gotta do is tell me you don’t want it.”

You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

Your whole body was buzzing. Your legs were shaking. Your panties were ruined. And you still weren’t giving in. Not yet. Not fully.

But god, you wanted to.

He let your wrist go.

And stepped back.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Didn’t think so.”

You hated him.

You hated yourself more.

You should’ve left.

You should’ve shoved him off and stormed out with your head high and your thighs clenched like it didn’t affect you. Like you weren’t dripping for him. Like you didn’t need his mouth on you, his hands, his voice. But you didn’t move. You just stared him down, breathing too hard, your pride barely holding together.

Toji leaned in, real fucking slow, eyes locked on yours like he was waiting.

“You gonna keep running that mouth,” he said, voice low, “or you gonna be a good girl and say it?”

Your jaw clenched.

He grinned. “What, ma? You scared of telling the truth?”

“I don’t beg,” you snapped.

He laughed once under his breath and stepped into you. His hand found your thigh again. Palm warm, fingers rough. He didn’t even try to tease this time. Just dragged your panties to the side and slid a thick finger through your folds like he owned it.

You sucked in a breath.

“Fuck,” he muttered, licking his lips. “You’re soaked.”

“Don’t—.” You whispered, but your voice cracked.

He kissed your neck. Just once. Just enough. His voice dropped.

“Say it.”

“No.”

His thumb circled your clit. Your hips jerked.

“Say it.”

You swallowed.

“You think I don’t know how to break you?” He whispered.

His fingers moved slow. Deep. Two inside you now. Curling just right. Your legs shook.

“You think I don’t remember every spot that makes you melt?”

You tried to keep your face blank. You really did. But your body had already betrayed you. Your head was tipped back. Your chest was rising too fast. Your thighs were parting just a little wider. You felt him smile against your skin.

“You gonna say it, ma,” he murmured, tongue flicking the shell of your ear. “Or you want me to stop?”

He slowed his fingers to a crawl.

You whimpered.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

His thumb paused.

“Try again.”

You snapped. “Fine—fuck—Toji—just—please.”

His eyes locked on yours. “Say it.”

You blinked, chest tight. “I want it.”

“What do you want?”

You were absolutely going to put a bullet in your head.

“You.”

He raised a brow. “Say it right.”

You groaned, voice cracking. “I want you.”

He pressed a kiss to your jaw, then your cheek, then your lips. Soft. Like a reward. Then his hand picked up pace, fucking you with his fingers like he knew exactly how close you were.

“Good girl.”

You moaned.

“Louder.”

You grabbed his shoulder. “Fuck—Toji—don’t stop—.”

He chuckled against your throat. “Not planning to.”

His thumb pressed tight circles against your clit, his fingers fucking into you harder, faster. You were panting now, grinding against his hand, body betraying you completely.

“Say it again.”

“Toji—!”

“Say you missed it.”

“I missed it,” you gasped, hips jerking. “I fucking missed it.”

He kissed you this time, deep, hot, tongue sliding against yours while he fingered you through it. You came, with a whimper in his mouth, body convulsing, thighs squeezing his wrist, his hand not stopping until you were twitching and pushing him back.

He pulled his fingers out, smirking. Slick coating them all the way down to his knuckles.

“Told you you’d cave.”

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy catching your breath, dress wrinkled, panties ruined, and hate burning behind your eyes.

He licked his fingers slow. “Still taste the same.”

You wanted to slap him again.

Instead, you fixed your dress, yanked the door open, and walked out first.

Not a single word.

But he was smiling when he followed.

Like he already won.

[shotmrmiller]

@magicislikelove said pathetic!simon with single mom reader.

pathetic!simon sees you the first time when you move in, dragging a heavy box through to your door, and he is enthralled.

he also doesn't move to help you because the grunts that escape your lips from the effort set his loins ablaze.

your flushed skin glistening with sweat— a rosy hue across your face, perspiration dripping from your temple down to your chin, where it collects like dew drops. (he wonders if you taste like brine, or sweet like golden wheat)

the swell of your soft hips peeking from under your damp shirt that rides up whenever you bend down to get a good grip on the edges of the cardboard box. (he wishes those dainty fingers would caress his scarred back, leaving trails of red in their wake)

every noise that spills from your bow-shaped lips the color of petals sends a lick of pleasure up his spine, white-hot and agonizing. (what he wouldn't do for you to spit into his mouth, or maybe just on him altogether and make him clean it up)

he watches you raise your arms to pull your sweaty hair away from your face with delicate hands— slender, fragile wrists twisting it into a makeshift sloppy bun. (would you tug on his hair like that? would you pull until you felt the cropped strands pop from his scalp?)

and then you look up and notice him standing in the hallway, right by his front door. your eyes lock onto his, and he feels the oxygen in his lungs being siphoned away.

"uh, hi."

his breath lodges in his throat, or maybe it's spit because he's spinning on the balls of his feet, his back to you as he barks out dry coughs until he can breathe again.

"are... are you alright?" the slight worry in your voice has his cock twitching.

he'd be better if he could use that shirt you're currently wearing as a mask— the wet spots right over his crooked nose.

"yes. sorry. i'm a little ill," he hoarsely utters before turning back around to face you. "it's just a mild cough, so i can help ya with tha', if ya like." his head tips toward the box he's been watching you fight with for the past half-hour.

"i'd, i mean, yeah...okay." he doesn't care that you sounded almost coerced, simon moves with the speed he uses in the field, and is by your side in seconds, hoisting up the box wordlessly.

he stares at you, waiting for you to turn around and invite him into your home.

"uhm, right this way," you push open the door quietly, and point at the kitchen floor. "there please."

simon does as you say, (like a good boy, he thinks, won't you let him be your good boy?) when he hears a child's cries come from behind a closed door.

"ah, duty calls. i really do appreciate you helping me," you give him a small grin. "i'll see you around, yeah?"

simon slowly nods at you before turning to leave, opening your front door when he notices that you've begun to walk toward your wailing offspring. (he didn't see a ring on your finger)

he discreetly swipes the scented plug-in (just a touch too hot in his roughened palm) by the door and heads toward his own flat.

simon doesn't even fully undress, just hastily undoes the button of his jeans and lets them drop mid-thigh before he slams his back on the living room wall and begins to unscrew the plug-in.

the slick, hot, aromatic oil pulls a sibilant hiss from his thin, chapped lips as it touches the sensitive skin of his meaty cock and lathers himself in it with a couple of experimental strokes.

he squeezes the base of it, encircling it with his large hand, so tight it hurts.

that's what you'd feel like around him.

simon grips himself and starts to fuck his fist— choppy, desperate thrusts that has his toes curling in his muddy, creased boots.

his hand is calloused, just on the edge of too rough, but it doesn't stop him from imagining it's you that's on his cock, bouncing on it with fervor.

his nostrils sting with the overwhelming smell of the oil even through the thick fabric of his mask— a heady mix of lavender and vanilla— and it makes his head spin.

the web space between his thumb and pointer drags along his frenulum, and white spots dance behind his eyelids. sweat beads his brow as he gets closer to his end, the ecstasy coursing through his veins threatening to consume him whole.

simon replays the sounds you made earlier in his head, and for once, it drowns out the usual low ringing in his ears, intensifying his arousal.

he's pumping himself roughly now, fast and jerky as he rears his peak.

would you let him come inside of you? paint your silken walls with his unworthy spend?

when he thinks of you trying to hook your ankles at the base of his spine to keep him deep inside of you as he tries to weakly pull out is what breaks him.

his cock spasms as thick spurts of warm cum dribble all over his scarred knuckles and pants.

simon's hand is slippery as he continues to pump his softening length, and squeezes right under his flared head, the remnants of his pleasure beading at the tip.

his gait is awkward, and stiff as he waddles toward the kitchen with his trousers still by his wide, hairy thighs— plugging in the wall scent on his way there.

unbeknownst to him, he was giving you that kubrick stare and it made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

you also thanked the stars that he wasn't a serial killer.

[barbieaemond]

Iron on Silk

Pairings: Prince Regent Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Warnings: mild angst at the beginning, definitely angst at the end, smut, oral sex (f and m receiving), choking, fingering, p in v, war dirtytalk.

Word count: 3.2k

Author's note: This was my little gift to you for the Aemondsversary. And it's still a gift now, for thanking you for 500 followers in such a short time since I remade my blog. There's a filthy extra in this filthy piece. Enjoy! :)

MASTERLIST

He wears it proudly. He wears it cruelly. It falls on his head like a halo, holy and dark. Black iron on white silk, and little stars of blood.

The crown is heavy with conquest, with tyranny, with the fire that forged it and the blood shed in its name.

"It looks better on me than it ever did on him."

It is true enough, but it does not make it any less heavy. He hides it well, but you can see it, as if looking down at a thick layer of ice, still and cold, and seeing the raging abyss underneath.

You can hear it in his deep sigh, even more in his short ones, when blinding rage is gaping its jaws to swallow reason.

You can feel it in the way he fucks you every night. Relentless. Ruthless. Merciless.

Hopeless.

Desperate to shake it off, to shake off the burden—the crown's burden, the death's burden. The one he lashed out on his family, the one who took Jaehaerys’ life, and Helaena’s. For Helaena is good as dead.

You tend to her every morning, at least you try. You try to get her to take a bath, to hold Maelor. Maelor, who cries and looks for his mother. Maelor who laughs and looks for his mother. You look at her and see her ghost while she still breathes. You look at the Queen Mother and see a shadow of flesh.

You look at him sitting in the Small Council, wearing iron on silk, and see a crown of thorns piercing through the skull.

“Does it hurt, my love?” you ask in the empty room while he strokes the skin around the sapphire. He mumbles something in return, and you walk to his seat at the end of the table, leaning your low back against it.

“No.” you say quietly “I meant the crown.”

He looks up and just stares at you, jaw clenched to trap words, the storm in his eye bubbling up from the depths.

“I have a war to plot.” He says, and that’s all he’s been saying for days.

“You have done nothing else. You look at your Lords and wait for a stab at your back. You look at our bed and see a battlefield. You lay with me holding a knife to my throat.”

He rests his lean shoulders against the seat and the wrinkles on his forehead unfold. "Tis' the first time I hear you complain about my marital duties." he says tilting his head with a cruel grin "It didn't seem much of a burden when you begged for more right after I spilled in your mouth last night." 

"Must it always come back to duty? If I wanted to spread my legs for a cock to warm me every night, I would've thrived in any brothel of Flee Bottom."

He laughs at this, but it comes out wrong, like a rusted gear, oiled too little. "Such lewd words for a Queen."

“Is that what I am?” You ask with a half-teasing smile “I thought you chose not to style yourself as King.”

“Hmm.” he muses, taking hold of your waist with his long fingers, to pull you to him. “I am wearing the Crown, am I not?”

You lean over him, placing your hands on his shoulders, looking at the sharp black edges cutting the soft white silk, wondering how it could have fallen on his head by mistake when it seems that the Gods have always meant to place it there.

Your back collides against the table and you slowly hop on it, your gaze fixed on him, whose eye widens slightly, mesmerized and thrilled. A rustling of paper fills the room, and he looks at the table and then back at you, lips curling up.

“Those are my war plans.”

“It seems my husband is not capable of talking about anything else these days. Fine, then.” You incline your head, mirroring his smile “Tell me about your war.”

He remains still and quiet for so long, looking at you with that glint you know so well, so much that your chest goes up and down fast, and his hands are not anywhere near you.

But then he stands up, forcing you to raise your chin, and leans over you, slowly, silky hair tickling your chest. “It seems my wife is in need of some warfare lessons.” he whispers, ghosting his lips against yours, and you eagerly part them to kiss him.

“Ah.” he counters, pulling his head back with a sly grin “First, we need to ensure our armies are ready.” his deft and long fingers climb on your corset and he starts to pull harshly at the laces, making you jump twice.

“What if someone enters?” you ask, as shivers run down your back like ice drops.

“Indeed, what if someone enters?” he turns your question around and stops his unlacing, challenge and hunger dance on his lips.

“Then you tell them you are the King and the King can fuck his Queen wherever he wishes to.”

His eye blazes under the candles, and after a moment of trepid silence, he brings both his hands to your corset, and with a swift and strong move he rips it apart.

You fall with your back on the table, your breasts are out, nipples hardening for the cold air and the arousal slowly coiling in your belly. He grabs your ankles and pulls you close to him, making you slide on the table to tie your legs around his waist.

You pull yourself up, holding onto your elbows and frantically reach for his belt but he stops your wrists. “Alreay eager to surrender?” he hums with amusement, eye roaming on your exposed body and the hold on your wrists grows impossibly tight, hurting. “If you were in charge, we would lose the war within a day.”

“Or win it.” you suggest, tightening your legs around him until you feel his hardening crotch, winning a quiet whimper from his throat. “Women could end any kind of war, my King. We own the most powerful weapon.”

“Say it again.” he orders, hands hiking up your skirt until it’s nothing more than a heap of fabric around your waist.

“My King.” You say, shuddering as his long fingers hover on your thighs, almost tickling—a gentle touch born out of so much violence.

“Again.”

“My—King.” The words come out wrong, broken by a soft gasp as his fingers unexpectedly breach your walls. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel him go deep inside, deeper than ever, and your mouth falls open.

“You are not so bold about your weapon now, are you?” he asks with a tone ridden with cruel enjoyment.

“Tis’ unfair.” You mumble, resting your head on the table.

“There is no fairness in war, my love.” he says, looking down at your damp flesh and how it clenches endlessly on his hand, and he watches and watches, wetting his lips as if pondering which move to strike on a war map. “It’s best not to be caught…unprepared when you expect an assault from your enemy. Do you know why?”

You whine quietly, biting your lip as he pumps his fingers deeper and deeper and his thumb draws circles on your apex. He does not accept that as an answer, so he slides out, and his large hand grabs your core, fully and almost painfully. “I said, do you know why?”

His tone is demanding, words laced with thunder as he does when commanding the Lords. “Why?”

“Because” he says lessening the grip on you “you give open field for what comes next.”

Air feels scorching in your throat as you look at him, black and silver and blue.

“What comes next?”

He grins like the most ruthless general at the front, the one who takes no prisoners and wipes the bloodied sword on his green cloak. “Siege.”

In a blink, your legs go up on his shoulders, a frame of flesh around iron, silk and sapphire.

He takes his seat again as if sitting down to feast, and you lift your head, breathing hard with anticipation, meeting his eye as his face hovers over your center, feeling his scorching breath lighting a fuse that quickly burns away every rational thought left in your head, if there ever was one since he touched you.

“Aemond, please…” you beg shamelessly, hands flying down to touch him, to bring his head closer and closer.

But he grabs your wrists and holds them still on your stomach. “Call me properly.”

“Please…” you say with your voice cracking, like the nerves in your neck because you can't stop looking at him “Please, my King.”

“Do you know how to conduct a siege?” he is speaking so close to your apex that you can feel his voice reverberating through your skin long before hearing it. “You strike first, hard. And then you wait, watching your enemy starve to death, until they surrender.”

He puts his words into practice by running his tongue flat on your folds and then he is sucking, hard, so hard you fear he is about to devour you.

He moans contentedly, closing his eye for a moment as his jaw moves nimbly and his tongue pierces inside. Your head falls back and you cry so loud you are sure the guards outside are aware of what's happening in the Small Council room.

Just when your hips are beginning to rock on their own against his face, feeling the bone of his long nose, he licks a long stripe and then pulls back.

You raise your head with a sound of protest, but his hands are still pinning your wrists like iron chains, and he is looking at you with a victorious smile, face all wet. And he licks his lips, thoroughly. "If only my enemies tasted half as sweet as your cunt."

With cruel delight, he watches you writhe beneath his hands, breathing hard and unconsciously rocking your hips on nothing to soothe the painful ache between your legs.

“Perhaps I should say mine by now.” he ponders, roaming his gaze on your whole body “This siege seems to be surprisingly short. Do you wish to surrender, my Queen?”

“Yes. Yes, I surrender.” And you press your ankles on his shoulders, hands desperate to free from his hold and seize him, to force him to seize you.

He finally releases your hands and stands up, your legs sliding down and your hands going to his breeches. You pull two laces, but then your right hand locks on his wrist as you see him about to take the crown off his head.

"No, keep it."

His eye turns pitch black, making a deadly contrast with the sparkling blue of the sapphire, and your hands go back to the laces, pulling quickly until you have just enough room to slip your hand in and grab his hard cock.

His lips twitch as pleasure makes his head numb, makes his limbs heavy and his blood boiling and falling down, right where you can feel it, harder than the iron resting on silk. You feel his breath changing with every stroke of your palm, his waist moving almost imperceptibly as he chases your skin, like falling into the warm embrace of a siren’s chant.

The sight only makes you smile, though it stokes your ache for him so much that you mirror his heavy and slow breaths. “Who’s besieging who now?” you point out, almost regretting it when he grabs your neck, squeezing lightly with a dark promise curling his smirk.

“This is your lesson, not mine.” He declares, despite the labored breathing.

You swallow, quietly gasping for air as you look at him.

“Who told you to stop?” he asks, with the same cold purpose he questions the up-and-coming Lords who seek council in that very room, tightening the grip on your throat, almost relishing in the choked sound that escapes your lips.

“Did you forget, sweet girl? You surrendered.” His eye lingers on every detail on your face, and his free hand flies through your hair, tucking a lock behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, almost delicate, the opposite of the hold of steel around your throat. Hostility and devotion doomed to a ceaseless chase to purge one another.

“Siege is over.” He says, sliding his hand up your chin “Now it’s time to claim.” two of his long fingers breach into your mouth, grazing your tongue, and you sense the faint taste of yourself. “There will be some fool who will rebel against the new order. But the rest? They will kneel before their new King.” he leaves your mouth only to grab you by your cheeks, angling your head so he’s whispering to your ear “And who will you be, my dear wife? A fool on a spike or a dutiful subject?”

You recognize that tone, playful but dangerous—the one that will make you wonder if the next grip will be hostile devotion or the opposite. “What if I’m both?” you whisper, moving your head so you can look at him once more. “What if I want to serve you and die by your hand?”

“Then kneel.” He orders, but in your ears is the sweetest death sentence.

His eye glints as soon as your knees hit the ground; it thrills him, it always does, to have you like this and he’s not shy about showing it, for how his chest heaves more and more rapidly as you part your lips to pledge to him.

“No.” he croaks, almost sneeringly given the trepidation pulling his bones so taut, so close to snap. “Look at me and speak the words.”  

“I pledge my allegiance to you, your Grace. I vow to honor and serve you until the last of my days." you swear and there's no acting in it. "Long may he reign.”

Your mouth closes around him and he gasps deeply, jaw falling slack as he looks down, at your lips so perfectly laced around the tip, at your eyes looking up with devotion, no hostility. Never. “Gods, you are so beautiful like this.” He pants, pulling your hair away from your forehead and immediately thrusting his hips so you can take all of it, up to the base.

It's a matter of moments before his hand tangles in your hair, pulling and pushing slightly to give you a steady pace that leaves you breathless and gasping for air. It doesn’t matter though, not when his eye almost rolls back for the pleasure you’re giving him, not when he’s so lost for words that he has not even breath for his snarky remarks. He just moans and groans like a primitive beast, thrusting his cock as deep as he can, growling when you hollow your cheeks around his wet and hard flesh.

Suddenly he tugs at your hair harshly, pulling away as you recline your head to look at him, mouth open to catch your breath. “Why?” you whisper, panting “Did I not serve you well, my King?”

He helps you get up only to make you sit on the Small Council table once again. “You served me exceptionally well, my love. But you will serve me even better by taking my seed into your sweet cunt.”

He hikes up your skirts and revels in the way you spread your legs for him. “Do you wish for a King to fuck you?”

“Not a king, no. My King.”

“I shall do more than that.” He says, panting slowly, eye all foggy but urgent with pleasure, and he takes your face, cradling it between his hands. “I shall put a child inside of you, to strengthen the Crown and see you swell with my offspring.”

“Here?” You tease “On your war maps?”

“Fuck the war.” His delicate hold turns to iron, and then he’s kissing you, as he always does, harshly, smothering, slumping his tongue into your throat.

His hand moves yours away, and your jaw falls slack as he thrusts into you, sliding easily all the way in. You fasten an arm around his shoulders, your parted lips brushing against his, struggling to breathe. He ties your legs around his slender waist and climbs halfway up the table, leaning over you.

Papers rustle and fall to the floor, a sound soon covered by your flesh clashing hard against each other as he ruts into you, and you are utterly besieged. The air fills with moans and growls, and you are not sure whether it is him or you as you climb together toward the final peak.

"Look at me." He laces his fingers around your neck, squeezing lightly. "Look at your King."

You do as he asks, straining to keep your eyes open, frowning with painful pleasure. "Yes, like this, my good girl." He praises, panting loudly, "My Queen."

He thrusts even harder, sweat dampening your skin and his forehead, and he is the most beautiful and dreadful sight you have ever seen. Black iron and white silk, blue sapphire and fire, fire and fire.

"I want you to come with me." He whispers, grabbing your chin with his fingertips, his hand still clutching your throat. "Can you do that for me?"

"Y-yes." You manage to choke out, "Anything."

"My beautiful wife. So dutiful." he says laying wet kisses on your chest "So perfect for me."

His words, uttered so gently compared to the violence of his sieging thrusts, only pushes you up and up, staggering to not fall. "Aemond, I can't—" you whine, digging your nail into his shoulders "I can't last for long."

Your legs are trembling helplessly around his waist, but he fastens the grip on your throat, hard, making you gasp for air. “Hold it.” he orders, groaning because he’s close too, “Just a little more, my darling. I know you can take it.”

It is true, but it does not make the coiling pressure between your legs any less painful, beautiful and painful. He turns sloppy, panting and cursing each time more loudly while you whine, pleading under your breath for him to let you fall into a depth of bliss.

And finally, when your muscles were starting to ache for how much you were holding it back, you hear his breath change, slow and labored, and you know the end is near.

At last, he comes with a choked groan, making sure that not a drop of his seed goes to waste. And you are falling with him, spasming all around his waist, shoulders and cock.

His head falls on your chest, covered by silk and iron, and perhaps the crown has never been less of a burden as it is in this moment, while he rests against your collarbones, as a place where he can lie, or even die.

When sunbeams filter through the bars of your cell, you look through them, though no heat is able to warm you anymore. Except for the life growing inside you.

From a distance, you hear a clamor of men in the courtyard, guards getting ready to carry out the sentence.

If you stand up on your toes, you can even catch a glimpse of the pike on which your head will be mounted in a few days, or perhaps a few moments.

It doesn't really matter.

You look at the puddle of mud on the ground and think of the lake.

You wonder if, at least under the Gods' Eye, the raging abyss beneath the ice has gone quiet, or if the waters have simply swallowed him.

[asbestos-n-asbesties]

john price likes fat girls.

he likes how his girl squishes and spills over his paws when he grabs her. obsessed with the way she can handle roughhousing. he loves how her tum pokes out from under her shirt as she lifts her arms up. he thinks its hot when she has to jump a lil to pull her pants on. he notices how she waits a few minutes to let the denim stretch before she buttons it. he likes when her bra doesn't smooth the rolls on her back. he thoroughly enjoys how soft her jawline is - he swears it makes her look ethereal. calls her venus. john price hates when she wears her hoodies because he buys his flannels larger just to see them dwarf her. he hates how she wears her pants on her waist and not on her hips. he wishes she would wear low cut jeans more. he thinks that her clavicles being prominent shows his incompetence at providing. he loves the way the stretch marks on her breasts are dark but the ones on her ass are light.

john price buys boudoir photo shoots for his love every valentines day and has them oil painted on large canvasses that he hangs around the house. this man has polaroids of his woman in every (safe) conceivable place. he would get his whole body tattooed with pinup girls of his woman if he could. he makes sure to get the extra deep couch when furnishing his place - to give her space to curl up. her recipe books are on the top shelves in the kitchen so he can peek at the small of her back as she reaches to grab them. he makes sure his tub is a custom soaking tub both large and deep. his shower is more of an enclosed wet room. he has a walk in closet dedicated to her (his space is the very slim space to the left). man knows every size she needs. bra? done. underwear? done. jeans? what cut?

he likes how his girl's tummy pushes against him when he takes her over his knee. he watches the fat jiggle as he spanks her and nearly cums his fucking pants. and fingering her in this position??? spreading her ass cheeks to see her lil fat mound slick from her punishment?? i don't think he could resist pumping his thick fingers in.

price would love hunting his girl. have her walk down a dark alleyway and grab her. tie her up, blindfold her, and (with simon's help) put her in the back of a van. whisper sweet things while he slowly cuts her clothing away. putting the knife to her throat, dragging it down and placing the flat of the blade against her nipples to harden them. playing with her as she sobs through a makeshift gag of prices boxers. taking a gun and placing it against her tears to lubricate it, then slowly fucking her open with it. opening the door of the van, bringing her out, cutting her loose. saying if she ran and escaped she could be free but if she didn't she would come home with him. try as she might theres no fucking way she is escaping him. he'd love the way her eyes tear up and the way she'd shake. he'd love catching her. he would love fucking her against the hard ground. he would love the scratches she gave him fighting back. he loves kissing her tears away after and caressing her adrenaline filled body.

he loves being rough with her. he loves the fact that she can take it. he loves showboating his strength by shoving her and pinning her. he loves that she challenges him just for the punishment. he loves dressing her up just to ruin it later. if anyone wanted to watch? sure why not. they just dont get to touch. man would make porn of his love and then sell it to his men just to show her off.

yeah. john price loves fat girls

[things-arent-what-they-seem66]

Ok so I wanted to do a storyline for your Adam swapped AU, if you want to too. This has been in my mind for a while now lol.

This is a point in timeline where they still think it’s Lucifer’s Adam with changed memories but they are still searching for who could’ve did it.

-

Adam flipped in the cold bed, it was getting harder every day being just on the edge of delivering babies (8 and a half months)

Lucifer closed the nightlight: Good night.

Adam: Night.

He really didn’t had the energy to be so openly hostile towards the devil anymore. It didn’t do shit to both of them, what was the point?

He closed his eyes and was surprised by how fast the sleep took him in.

-

He opened his eyes in a blurry place, it still burned his eyes though.

Adam, raising his hand to his face: What the..

His eyes widened in shock and he pulled his hand away.

It was… Normal? A human’s hand?

Like he used to have?

He sat up straighter, and the first thing he noticed were a way longer fabric than the maternity wear he wore back in Lucifer’s palace.

When he looked down, he saw that they were his old robes, the ones he wore during the last extermination day.

And he also noticed that the huge baby bump he had back there was also long gone, he was back to being just chubby.

He looked at himself a bit more and saw that his wings were also back to their shiny golden color, he could also feel his feet back.

He was an angel again? What the actual shit?

He looked around for an explanation, but everywhere was just an endless, maybe once a garden full of dead trees and withered flowers.

It almost looked like…

He heard soft footsteps from behind and turned around.

He was facing with himself.

Sort of.

The sight he kind of got used to see in the mirror during the month he spent with Lucifer. Horns, a grayer skin, and oil spilled black wings.

He was looking down at him with tired and anger burning eyes.

Other Adam: Fucking finally.

((He got dragged to his mindscape by his “other version”))

((I do! Thank you))

Adam looked at him with a quizzical look: What?

Other Adam: Do you know how fucking long I've been trying to get your ass in here so I can talk to you?

Adam: You're..... You're the me that's supposed to be in this world.

Other Adam: Yes, and I see everything you're doing you fucking little shit. Treating my husband and daughter like that.

Adam held up his hands: Look, he's not my husband and she's not my kid from where I'm from okay. I don't even fucking know why I'm here. If I could just give you back your little life I would.

Other Adam: I know, I'm in your head. My head. What fucking ever.

[berryhobii]

I also have another drabble idea! (i'm the same anon from the last ask, I hope I'm not asking for too much)

I can imagine the Late for work couple being really playful and cheeky when it comes to who initiates sex first. Could you do a drabble where they do No Nut November? Like, them competing to see who can last more without touching the other one and overall sex (and both of them trying to seduce each other than order to win)

That's everything from me. Thank you so so so much sweetheart

Thanks so much for the request!! I kept rewriting this because I was making it WAY too long but I think I’ll still post the longer version with more backstory and everything soon. The way I described Jungkook in this is definitely inspired by Seven ft Latto! The gold chain has me in a chokehold!! Enjoy!💜

~

Jungkook was gripping his controller hard enough to break. He tried so hard to stay focused on the television but how could he when you were walking around the house in the skimpiest robe known to man? Why the hell was that even considered clothing?

The navy blue robe was practically see through. He could just barely see your nipples, the dark areolas beckoning his mouth and fingers to pinch and lick at them. Your thigh tattoo was on display, looking shiny and vivid from the body oil you had applied after your bath. This past week, you had done all of your pampering—nails done, a fresh wax, and you had given yourself some knotless boho braids that looked absolutely divine on you.

He loved seeing how much more confident you got after completing your princess treatment. He always thought you were gorgeous but you just hit different after you got all dolled up.

Something else was hitting different too. His frustration.

You hummed as you moved around the living room, wiping down surfaces and adjusting things that didn’t even need to be touched. He knew you were doing this on purpose. Why else would you be fake cleaning right as he tried to play his games? It wasn’t even Sunday.

He tried to focus back on the screen, eyes stinging from not looking at you.

“Accidentally” dropping something, you bent over right in front of him and the sight almost made him choke on his tongue.

You weren’t wearing any panties! Your bare cunt was on display, the folds glistening from your natural wetness, thighs bare and needing hickies all over them caused by his mouth.

Fuck! You knew how much he loved eating your pussy and you were practically waving it in front of his face. You tease!

Growling, he quickly stood to his feet and rushed out of the room to go take his millionth cold shower in the past several days.

You smirked when you heard him rush off, body burning from the excitement. You almost had him. You’d have to up the ante next time.

This bet was your idea. After you and Jungkook had gotten into a small scuffle over who was the horniest between you, you decided to challenge him. November had barely been a week away and the bet was too tempting not to offer. Never one to back down from an opportunity to gloat, Jungkook accepted before blowing your back out as a punishment for teasing him.

The bet was on.

~

Jungkook had arrived home from the gym a little while ago, showering and grabbing a light snack before he started dinner. You had texted him a little while ago saying you were on your way home from work.

You always came home stressed after work and you texted him earlier complaining that someone ate your lunch which meant you were probably cranky as hell right now.

Perfect.

He started chopping vegetables as he waited for you, eventually hearing the beeping of the keypad by the door. He paused for a moment, hearing your huffs and grumbles as you took off your shoes.

“Baby! You won’t believe what happened at work today!” You slammed your purse down on the counter, not even looking at him and beginning to pace the room. He turned around to lean against the counter, arms folded and eyes amusedly watching you.

“First, Suhyun spilled coffee all over my work laptop! Then someone ate my lunch and stole my lunch bag! You know the purple one with my name rhinestoned on it? Yeah! That one. Then my heel broke so I had to super glue it back on and if that’s not horrible then-“

Your rambling was cut off when you finally turned to look at your husband, words getting caught in your throat at the absolute marvel that you were devoted to for the rest of your life.

Shirtless. Tattooed. Hair tied up. Sweats low on his hips and bulge pressing against them. And your favorite gold chain around his throat. You’ve had your hardest orgasms with that chain dangling in your face.

Swallowing to wet your dry throat, you stuttered out, “uh…..hi.”

He smirked. You were so easy.

“Hey princess. Welcome home. How was your day?”

You held your lips together, knowing that if you spoke, you’d beg him to pick you up and fuck you right in this kitchen.

He pushed himself from the counter, 3 steps bringing him to you but each one made your pussy clench. Once he was standing close to you, you formed your hands into fists, hard enough to make your nails hurt. His soap smelled so good and droplets of water were dripping from his hair and down his chest.

You wanted to lick it off.

“You aren’t going to give your husband a welcome home kiss?” He asked, rolling his lip piecing with his tongue.

Son of a bitch.

Jungkook didn’t like your lack of response so his large hand reached out to grab a handful of your ass, pulling you right into his body. You could feel his bulge on your leg, your hands resting on his pecs. Oh no….

“You feel so tense. Are you okay? Do you want me to do anything about it?” His low voice itched your brain in the best of ways.

You wrenched your eyes shut, trying to ignore the building feeling in your lower belly. You considered it both a blessing and a curse that you had such a hot piece of ass for a husband. A blessing because he was your personal eye candy that no one else could touch and a curse because you currently couldn’t throw your feet behind your ears and have him pound you through the kitchen table.

“No. I won’t lose.”

He smirked, delivering a swift slap to your ass that caused a broken moan to come from you. You could feel his erection starting to grow just as fast as your walls were slicking up.

“Come on, princess. Let’s end this.” His other hand trailed up the front of your blouse, popping the buttons to reveal your heaving breasts. You melted into his touch as he began pressing kisses to your cheeks and neck, nipping at your skin.

You’ve been so touched starved. You two haven’t even been cuddling like you used to with all the sexual tension. And now he was standing here looking like a thanksgiving meal and this stupid bet was telling you that you couldn’t ride his face?

Ughhhhhhhh.

You should pull away but his hands and mouth felt like bliss on your skin.

Jungkook suddenly pulled away, your whine getting caught in your throat when he flipped you around, pushing your back so that you were bent over one of the stools by the kitchen island. With deft hands, he pulled up your skirt, groaning when your heady scent hit his nose.

“Fuck I love your pussy.” Wasting no time, he dove in, sucking at your clit over your soaked panties. You moaned out, reaching behind you to grab at his hair.

You were so desperate that just a few licks already had you feeling close. No! You couldn’t lose! But his tongue felt soooooo good.

Eventually, your panties were too much of a hindrance for him. Grabbing the thin material, he harshly pulled at them until they ripped right off of you. You gasped at his show of strength. Normally it would make you angry but you couldn’t think about that when his tongue was back on your clit.

Jungkook licked and slurped up all of your juices, sucking at your clit and pulling the most desperate of noises from you. Your squeals fueled his own desperation, his mouth working overtime to bring you closer to the edge.

Your hips pushed back into his face, sensitivity running up your back but you wanted more. You haven’t cum in over 2 weeks and you didn’t think you could handle it anymore.

Jungkook brought both hands up to roughly slap at your ass, pulling the cheeks apart to dive deeper into your cunt. His own cock felt hard enough to cut glass. He needed to be inside of you. Bet be damned.

Standing to his feet, he tugged his sweats down just below his cock, giving it a few tugs before diving into your heat.

Your mouth dropped and you could have cried from relief at the feeling of his cock stretching you open.

He immediately set a fast pace, wanting to make you cum as soon as possible.

You reached your arms back, silently telling him you needed support. Ever so in tune with you, he grabbed both of your arms, tugging you back so that your chest was hovering over the island stool.

“We’re never doing this shit again. I’m gonna have this pussy when I want. Understand?” He growled out but you couldn’t even hear him, your ears ringing as mind numbing pleasure coursed through you.

Your head hung low and your knees shook from weakness. You were going to cum and you were going to cum hard.

But the bet……your resolve was crumbling. Who the hell cared which one of you was more horny? At least you were horny for one another and that’s what mattered.

His cock jammed right into your soft spot, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as a pleasured smile spread on your face.

“Now cum on this cock.”

You were about to but then you remembered what would happen if you lost. That could not happen!

Gathering your last brain cells that he hadn’t knocked loose, you stood up, wrenching your arms from his grasp and stumbling away from him.

Your pussy throbbed with wanting to cum but you had to hold strong.

Both of you sat in silence as you tried to regain your breath and you made the mistake of looking at your husband.

The sight made you want to hop right back on his cock—he was dripping with sweat, his hair had come out of his ponytail and was being pushed back by one of his buff arms.

And his eyes were staring down at you hotter than a thousand suns. He was pissed.

“I…..won’t….lose….”You panted out.

His head tilted, jaw clenching and cock hard and shiny with your juices. Your mouth watered just looking at it.

“We’ll see about that.”

It was gonna be a long rest of the month.