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adelheidvonschicksal · 3 months

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I beg of you, your the only person who wrote such a good zayne story 😍 it makes everything tingle, can we get a story of us sucking him off PLEASEEEEEE

⋆｡°✩ PWP Smut, Banter, Oral (M-receiving), no pronouns. Please let me know if I missed something, and I'll fix it.

Your nerves are on fire, each one a tiny beacon for arousal to run its rickety, lurching course through you. Overwhelmed, you bring your hands up and brace them against the headboard of the bed, clasping them into tight fists to calm the adrenaline rolling like waves through your veins.

It’s been too long since you felt this way, burdened with trembling limbs and stomach-knotting excitement, something that could only be accomplished when you have a certain surgeon between your gripping thighs. It’s been too long since you’ve seen Zayne, let alone have his hard, defined abs taut where you cradle his stomach.

He props his shoulders on dark blue satin pillows, his head in the perfect position for you to look at him. The unyielding gaze he holds does nothing to calm your heaving chest or aching nether regions as you take your time soaking and drinking him in.

Zayne has already changed so much since you last were with him. Your eyes are anchored to the widening of an already broad physique and the stretch and bulge of his biceps when he runs his hands down your back and over your ass to grip at the meat of your thighs. The golden glow of the nightstand lamp setting off against dark hazel eyes and battle-worn skin tempts you to squeeze his slowly fluctuating chest.

Before you can seal the deal on your spiraling dirty thoughts, Zayne catches your intentions, as if the position you were in didn’t already make it obvious. It’s a game that both amuses and frustrates you at the same time.

“It seems someone worked themselves up rather quickly.”

Lifting your sight from his chest, you meet a playfully mocking glint hidden behind a firm gaze. To keep your annoyance, or impatience rather, from showing, you set your attention on the intricate designs of the headboard.

“Just admiring the finish on the wood,” you excuse. “Lacquer?”

Zayne lifts a hand and pinches at your chin to force you to concentrate on him causing you to take your first shuttering breath that night. With piercing eyes, he searches for something in your face, so hauntingly that it makes you throb, and you silently hope he doesn’t feel your legs clamp harder at his waist or how much you're beginning to leak.

He doesn’t need it. As always, Zayne finds what he wants. His voice is inquisitive but the look in his eyes is teasing when he finally asks, “Are you sure that’s what it is? Your pupils are dilated, and I don’t think you’re one to really care about woodwork to that degree.”

You huff at his observation, always the smart-mouthed one. Could he blame you for being hot and bothered when you have an undeniably attractive man under you, especially when you haven't been able to touch him in weeks? It’s so hard with your schedules. Even now, it’s thanks to an unexpected sick day that your schedules managed to align. So, yeah, maybe you were more worked up than usual, but Zayne was a lot of things, stern, serious, reservedly kind, and very much aware of his commanding good looks and the effect it has on you.

Luckily, you’re not the only one who is having trouble maintaining a calm visage. His face holds a barely recognizable flush, his chest strains with too-deep breaths, and his large, scarred hands squeeze the back of your legs to an almost painful point before he swipes your tender skin with manicured thumbs.

It doesn’t take a genius to see that the tepid atmosphere is growing too tense for both of you. Who admits to it first is anyone’s guess, but it’s not likely to be Zayne without some encouragement.

So, you prance your fingertips across his angular jaw before drawing a seductive line from the point of his chin through the center of his pectorals, a line you plan to use to start your reacquaintance with his body very soon. The sticky heat radiates from him and seeps into you, knotting the aching twists in your lower stomach even tighter.

“You’re one to talk,” you remark, displaying your own mischievous thoughts. Your hand finds a place to roost over his left side and sprawls open over his heartbeat, reading the steadily rising pace. “I can hear you breathing from here, and your skin is so hot and sweaty.”

For someone whom others wrongfully describe as cold, something about him is smoldering when he rakes his eyes over your body. It’s hungry, and you’re so ready to devour and be devoured, as he forces himself to meet your face again.

“It’s the fever.”

Holding in your laughter, you smack your lips at him. “Didn’t you say you were feeling better today? You didn’t lie to me, did you, Zayne?”

The man doesn’t respond, usually a sign that he was thinking but the only thing on his mind was your hand running orbits around his nipple, outlining the smooth round expanse circling it. You grope lightly at his chest, marveling how full it makes your hand, before cascading that touch lower and lower.

The girth of his cock twitches against your ass, and you think you almost got him as he begins to ripple under your exploration; alas, he manages to keep in his sighs until you start to comb through the delicate valley of shallow black hair that curls from his lower stomach and disappears under his sweatpants.

“I knew you would blow it out of proportion otherwise,” he plays off, releasing another low groan. “It didn’t seem to stop you from marching right over, however.”

“Oh?”

Pitifully pouting, you roll onto your side next to him, press your chest into his arm, and lean in to kiss under his ear.

“You don’t like me taking care of you?” you whine with a pathetic infliction and a whimper, all the while adding pressure as you begin to massage his groin over his briefs, close enough he can feel the sensitive flesh right above the base of his cock imprinting with your touch but not quite where he wants it or how he wants it. “That’s so mean.”

Playfully, you blow against his ear, and there’s the smallest shudder that makes your heart pound hard. There’s nothing like seeing him slowly give in, trying to act in control when his cock readily jumps and stiffens as if to reach your hand. The reaction encourages you to shuffle your hand under his briefs in a few ticklish swipes only to be met with disappointment when his voice catches, hiding a guttural sound you could only curse him for not letting you hear when you wrap your fingers around his cock.

It frustrates you how he won’t even give you an inch of nonresistance, but his cock pulses at your touch, and you smile to yourself at how he couldn’t hide the eager hard-on that you were quickly encouraging with only a few twists and pets.

“When you forced me to let you take care of me,” he begins, pausing only to hiss softly when your fist tightens, which causes the warm slick of precum to seep into his pants and a brief fluttering of his eyes before he recollects himself. “I assumed that meant you’d make a wreck of my kitchen like last time.”

Slowly, you slide your calf over the top of his knee.

“My soup made you better though.”

Zayne groans as you pull him free from his clothing, holding onto his cock as it springs from too-tight confines. Your thumb follows the thick pulsing vein running up the side of his cock before tracing his dripping slit. His head slides back against the pillow, tilting back as he quietly gulps, and his thick throat stretches with the swallow.

“At the cost of my best pot.”

“A win's a win,” you mumble against the crux of his neck, which turns into a sigh when his arm makes space to slide under you, wrap around your upper hip, and squeeze at your ass.

“Now, I see you only had one thing in mind when you came over, after all.”

“That’s not it,” you mewl, squirming when he pinches your cheek harder.

“Are you saying you didn’t come over to take advantage when you have me like this?” he asks.

“You make it sound so calculated!” You shake your head. “I just know this will fix you up in no time. Besides, I missed you.”

There’s a short and irritatingly self-satisfied chuckle from him that makes your chest vibrate with the makings of a moan as his deepening voice rumbles in your ears. “I’m in your capable hands then,” he finally relents, not that you expected any other outcome, and you make your move to flip on top of him again.

There’s a snap somewhere finally releasing any inhibitions when your lips meet. It’s passionate, filled with every desire that’s been burning in him since he’s seen you. Zayne can be gentle, but he can also be bruising. Sometimes he’s a mix of both like when his tongue glides on top of yours and his teeth graze against your bottom lip during the short moments you break for air before capturing each other’s taste again.

You moan into his mouth when he cups the back of your neck and pulls you closer, deepening the kiss to the point you're becoming dizzy. It takes some strength to break free from the passion of it all, but you want more of him, and you’re not willing to wait anymore. So, you pull away and allow your mouth to collide against his collar before he has time to capture you again. Zayne’s eyes glower, half-lidded as he watches every pucker of your lips and every kiss and bite on his body.

Zayne slides a palm up the small of your back, the other going to rub the crux of your thigh, dipping inward to stroke at the yielding flesh right at your center. You moan against him, doing your best not to start dry humping him like you’re in heat whenever his cock pulse against your lower belly, but the scent wafting from him was becoming too much. So, you quickly begin to make your way to the promised land, trailing kisses along the way.

“I missed you,” you puff out softly before wading your tongue across his nipple then under his chest and to his stomach. Releasing his cock, you slide your hands down his sides, making sure to keep them aligned with the movement of your kisses. “You don’t know how much.”

Zayne brushes his fingers along your hand, following down your arm before gently cupping the side of your face, his thumb gliding over your cheek in a tender return of your sentiment as his once proud demeanor in his eyes softens with the smallest of glances from you.

“Is it more than I’ve missed you?” he whispers, and when you nod, he smiles. “I don’t think that’s possible.” Seeing you like this, so beautiful, all his, is a luxury. “I never tire of seeing you.”

Feeling a rush of shyness overtake you, you muffle the small sigh of his name against his stomach. Butterflies filling your stomach, you slide further down and kneel, your knees digging into the end of the bed as you sit back on them, your ass in the air as you hover your face over his lap. He’s so big that you’re never entirely sure where to start. You could go for where he’s most sensitive or—

“You can always use your hands instead if you don't think you can fit it all in your mouth,” he instructs half-jokingly, causing you to grow flustered at your overthinking.

“This isn’t the first time, I know how—” You clamp your mouth shut when you remember the first time you tried, something you’re sure he wouldn’t let you forget. “Don’t,” you order before sliding your tongue over his tip to clean away the pre-cum.

Your tongue laps along his glans as you slowly take his head into your mouth. It’s only when you finally get to work, sliding your mouth halfway down then back up that he finally stops his teasing and lets you have your way with him.

There’s an audible sound of relaxation when you squeeze his base with your palm and purse your lips around him. There’s a certain pride that comes with knowing you’re the only one who can see him like this, with his shoulders lax, eyes closing in bliss, and jaw slightly slacked as he groans. It’s not an easy sight to imagine on someone as stern as Zayne but the look of arousal was also something that seemed like it was made for him, which only causes your legs to squirm with need when it evolves into a low grumble from his chest.

You push it a little further to turn it into a growl by relaxing your throat and allowing it to press against the back, pulling back up and slurping the sheen of saliva clean from him before lapping your tongue over the tip. When you repeat the process, his hips twitch and buck, causing you to whimper when you feel more liquid scalding down your throat.

With a quick reposition to sit up more and force you closer, he presses both hands to cup at your cheeks, lifting your head partway up as he lightly strokes your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. Briefly, you look at him, heart fluttering a bit at the flush dusting the bridge of his nose and the wetness of his parted lips.

“You’re so good,” he breathes out, a chilly flow emanating from him, “so good for me.”

Blinking away the water in your eyes, you moan around him, the vibrations rolling down his heated flesh as you suck your cheeks around him as he holds your face. One hand goes to the back of your head, and you bob once again with the encouragement of his hand pressing down on your head.

“Fuck,” he hisses out when you pop him out your mouth and brush your lips down the side of his shaft. You pepper it in kitten kisses before nipping lightly. You squeeze around his tip, making it your mission to keep your thumb grinding his slit and blushing head while you cup and suck his balls.

When you feel them strain and tense, not once but twice in your mouth you have enough warning to know he’s about to cum. It’s with one last stroke of his shaft and one last quick suck around his head that he paints your mouth white, the excess seeping from your mouth and flooding over his length.

You take your time cleaning your mess, like you promised. It’s with slow, deliberate movements as you allow him to ride out his much too quickly fading high, the last throbbing spilling the last drops of his finish on your lips. You release him with a pop and a sigh.

“How messy,” he quietly remarks, causing you to tense as his thumb ghosts over your lips. “You missed a spot,” he explains and slides the finger into your mouth for you to readily close around. He wipes it clean against your tongue before sealing your mouth with a kiss. He slides his finger free from your kiss, and you can feel the lingering wetness of your saliva against your face when he holds you in place to kiss you more passionately.

His strength starts to become too much when he grips your shoulders, pushes you towards the bed, and pins you on your back.

Breaking the kiss and pushing against his arms, you puff out, “Wait, I’m supposed to be in charge today.”

“Sorry to change your plans, but I don’t think I can hold back anymore,” he explains with a growing smile that makes shivers climb up your spine from the sheer hunger in it. “Allow me to show you how much I missed you as well.”

#zayne x reader #love and deepspace x reader #zayne smut #lads x reader #lnd x reader #zayne love and deepspace #adelssmut #notsfw #sorry for the wait hon #i kept getting posting anxiety

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dotster001 · 4 months

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When You Escape Him; Ignihyde

Summary: Yandere Idia x gn!reader. He adopts a child that looks like the two of you. You run to give you both a chance at life. You never expected him to find you.

A/N: okay, here's the thing. I know technically Ortho is one of the first year crew now, and thus, he is technically as old as we are. However, in my head he has been ten years old for so long that it's hard for me to see him that way. I tried to think of a way this could work platonically, and I came up with nothing for this prompt. So no Ortho for this one. Sorry friends 🤷🏼‍♀️ also, I know this is not an 18+ blog, so some of you are minors, in which case, I am not judging you for liking Ortho, if that is the case. I'm just saying it's a no for me.

CW: tranquilizer darts, minor character death, yandere stuff

Other Parts: Heartslaybul Savannaclaw Octavinelle Scarabia Pomefiore Diasomnia Non NRC Staff

Three years into your relationship, he had come home and placed a baby in your arms.

"They were left in a box, all alone. And, well, he looks like if the two of us had a child," he sheepishly stared at the ground. "I just, I just figured it must be a gift from the seven."

You knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to tie himself to you through this boy. He looked just like him, and you were disgusted and scared.

Until he opened his eyes for the first time, and you found yourself staring into your own.

And you knew. You had to give this child the opportunity for a better life. A life without him.

In the end, your son did the opposite of what he had intended. And the first moment you could, the two of you had escaped.

You couldn't help but be…. suspicious. Idia had only grown smarter, and more creative over the years, which made you wonder…did Idia build your son? Flaming blue hair wasn't common.

But he aged normally. So he couldn't be an Idia creation. So maybe it really was a coincidence?

Not something you could worry about right now as the two of you hid from S.T.Y.X robots.

The fact that you'd made it a year was pretty good, if you were being honest. You didn't have clearance to leave the Isle of Woe, but a scorned ex employee of Idia’s had let you stay hidden in his home. He didn't even make you pay rent because, in his words, keeping that pretentious bastard's favorite things away from him was payment enough. Aside from that little spiel, he was a sweet guy. Which is probably why he was fired.

But someone must have ratted you both out. You'd heard a shot downstairs, followed by his pained groan. A groan that was only as loud as it was for the sole purpose of alerting someone hiding upstairs.

You were hiding under the bed, with your son. The man had lined the beds with materials the S.T.Y.X bots couldn't scan through. You didn't have much faith though. Not that you had a plan if you did manage to hide from the bots. Either way, this was probably game over for you.

But you'd rather game over didn't come from Idia.

You stayed quiet under the bed, as you heard the bots start wrecking rooms. One particularly loud crash woke the baby. You hurriedly rushed to calm him, but he started crying. You couldn't blame a kid for being a kid.

Bots rushed to your room, and threw the bed you were hiding under across the room. They all pointed their tranquilizers at you, as one of the bots stomachs displayed Idia’s visage.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, please come home,” he cried. You didn't even know how to respond to that. You would have thought he'd be angry, but that would have been out of character for him.

“I know, I'm the absolute worst, but I'll be better for you! Please don't keep my son from me!”

Bargaining. Nice.

“I'll let you go outside for an hour a day. I'll buy you whatever you want. Please, please,please, please, please.”

“Oh my God! Idia! What I want is fucking freedom!” You snapped as you continued to try and calm the boy.

“I…I can't…”

“Yes you can!”

“I need you!”

“Well I don't want you!”

His eyes widened for a moment, completely taken aback. Then they narrowed, as he bit his lip in disdain.

“Fine.”

One of the bots hit you with a tranquilizer dart. You cried out, but were quickly distracted from the pain as a bot took your son from your quickly numbing arms.

“No,” you groaned, reaching out as quickly as your body would let you, which was not very fast.

Your eyesight was darkening as the bots began to leave the room, leaving you alone with the bot projecting Idia.

“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Your vision faded as you were left alone in the room, a single tear rolling down your cheek.

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #idia shroud x reader #idia shroud #yandere idia shroud #yandere idia shroud x reader

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mystra-midnight · 6 months

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Dark Paradise

summary: geralt was all-consuming, invading every one of your senses; somehow, he'd snaked his way beneath your skin and between your ribs before burrowing into your heart. he lived there now, and you couldn't breathe without him.

warnings: 18+ only. breeding kink. overstimulation. mentions of multiple orgasm. name calling; slut. dom!geralt.

words: 1k.

notes: no one will ever convince me that geralt is a soft man. he is all strength, and arrogance, and hard muscles. and he will dominate his woman. admittedly this is shorter then i wanted it to be, and maybe not my best work, but i do hope you enjoy.

If ever there was something to be grateful for, it was this: being able to fuck his woman raw without the fear of an unwanted pregnancy. Having you naked beneath him was everything Geralt wanted—to watch your velvet walls stretch around his cock's girth, to feel your body tremble as he rocked his hips against your ass, to watch your cum mixed with his be forced from your tight hole with each brutal thrust.

You knew, completely and irrevocably, that there was no chance of falling pregnant with Geralt of Rivia. The trials had made him sterile, though you boiled fennel and drank it regularly to be certain. Your mother taught you from the eve of your first bleed to protect yourself against others, to trust no one but yourself, and that having a child with the wrong man could lead your life to ruin.

But tonight he had come to your cottage on the outskirts of the village in a foul and angry mood, with snarling tongue and gnashing fangs. He refused to tell you what had happened as he forced you down to your knees. All he'd wanted was your naked body beneath him.

"Geralt." Your voice quivered and rose to a crescendo when he speared through the satin clutch of your cunt and hit the sweet spot that sent your eyes spinning. Geralt of Rivia was not a small man—not in any sense of the word. He was tall and impossibly strong. His eyes were intense, and his hair was the colour of starlight. With broad shoulders and a myriad of scars along his body, he was every woman's fantasy.

And he refused to treat you with fragility. To him, you were not a damsel in distress. So he fucked like he fought, with teeth and tongue, and in every position. "I-I can't. S'too much."

Your thighs trembled under the lingering force of the three orgasms Geralt had pulled from the depths of your soul—on his fingers, tongue, and cock. Another one would surely kill you; you would float away from your body and away from him, never to return. But the idea of him filling you again was heavenly and impossible to deny—not when he dominated you so beautifully.

"You can," he grunted, his voice a rough growl. Geralt followed a bead of sweat that dripped down your spine with the tip of his tongue, leaving your sweat-slick skin goosepimpled. His hand followed the same path until he gripped the nape of your neck and pressed you into the mattress, keeping you cemented in place as he filled into you again. “You can, because I’m not stopping.”

Geralt knew that you wouldn't reply—at least not verbally. The impact of his hips against your ass was brutal, forcing the air from your mouth in pretty moans. The clutch of your cunt was more than enough of an answer. He smeared his lips along your shoulder as he shadowed over you like a terrible, haunting visage. The angle made it seem as though he was in your guts, rearranging your organs.

"That's a good girl," he cooed against your skin, his tone positively mocking. "Now, you stay right there while I fuck a baby into you. That's what my slut wants, isn't it? To be swollen with my child?"

He turned feral and ferocious in a flash, ruthlessly rutting into you. He drove you to the brink of yet another orgasm as you clawed at the sheets. Between whoreish moans, your walls tightened around him, leaving you gasping for air. A familiar warmth moved through your aching limbs and raced through your blood while a thunderstorm roared behind your ears.

"Geralt. Geralt, please, I can't. I can't—oh, fuck. There, r-right there." You babbled mindlessly. You felt lost in the sensation of his hands grabbing here, there, and everywhere. You felt lost in the sting of his teeth and tongue and how he tasted your skin. You felt lost in the pressure of his fingers and how he left bruise-shaped prints everywhere he touched.

"Right here?" He demanded. His fingers dug into the curve of your hips as he pulled you back to meet his pelvis, the sound of wet skin connecting echoing loudly in the small cottage. You squirmed and keened when he hit that sweet spot. "Is this what my slut needed—to feel me this deep?"

You didn’t hear him over the thunderstorm, which had grown into a deafening roar that blocked out the world. And as your vision went white, the pressure snapped, and a bolt of lightning sparked a wildfire in your blood. You felt like you were burning alive; the air in your lungs was superheated, and nothing could cool it. You came hard, screaming his name as he held you in place.

Geralt held you tightly, fingerprint bruises decorating your skin while galaxies burst to life inside your veins. The warmth of your cunt was divine, a heavenly caress as he rutted into you, chasing his own release as he threw his head back. "There you go," he grunted. He slapped your ass just hard enough to get your attention. "You're such a good slut. Does it feel good cumming for me while I breed you?"

You still couldn't answer him; each thrust knocked the air from your lungs, leaving your mouth open as you gasped, squealed, and wriggled in his grasp. Geralt didn't seem to mind. With a final thrust, he buried himself. His hand in your hair held you in place and tinged your scalp with a pleasurable sort of pain as the last of your orgasm ebbed away, leaving your clit throbbing in time with your heartbeats.

It was a welcomed feeling when his release painted your walls—a feeling that made your brain foggy. And despite the haze clouding your thoughts, you knew in that moment you would give yourself to this man. Not only your heart, but your body as well. You knew that if there was a way, you would give him what he wanted, and you would let him breed you.

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia smut #geralt of rivia fanfiction #geralt of rivia imagine #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia x you #geralt x you #the witcher #geralt x reader #geralt #geralt fanfiction #geralt smut

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sweet-as-an-angel · 1 year

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Just hear me out,

Wild west outlaw König.

That's all ,please and thank you❤️

P.s I love love love your work and you inspire me so much more than words can express,so thank you so much

Wild West Outlaw König Headcanons

Warnings: Outlaw König, König Kills People, Obsessive König, König (DEEP) in Love, Looting, Kidnapping, Implied Smut, Non-Explicit Descriptions of Smut, Dominant König, Submissive König, Mention of Ghost, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Petnames, No Pronouns used for Reader except ‘You.

A/N: Thank you so much for your kind words, my lovely ! Your kind words have touched my heart, and I hope your creative endeavours flourish <3

Man owns a pair of handcuffs and KNOWS how to use them.

Let’s work on the assumption that he kidnapped you.

Perhaps you were already partially romantically involved but your family would never let you marry someone like König, so he stages a robbery and takes you as part of the ransom.

One he has no intention of accepting any payment for because he’s never letting you go.

König’s monstrous proportions make it easy for him to physically overpower aggressors – other bandits, outlaws, authority figures.

However, he does pose something of a hazard to himself because there’s (much) more of him to hit.

Luckily, he’s straight out of a situation the minute it gets sticky – as if he just disappears into thin air.

Just one of the reasons why he’s called the Phantom Outlaw.

Not to be confused with Ghost, who is also an outlaw but never leaves a trace (or a witness), making his reputation far more ghoulish than König’s.

Though, König does excel in the fear factor, his sheer size and notoriety – his trenchcoat and mask the very visage of Death – forcing everyone who sees him to relinquish their goods in exchange for their lives.

Speaking of, König’s ability to swing thousands in cash makes for a happy home life, given how he spends much of his fortune on you.

Clothes, jewels, literature, instruments, automobiles: you name it, you’ve got at least a treasure trove of each.

Even if you try to resist these gifts, König refuses to let up.

“Can’t have my precious little Engel going without, can I ?”

So, in return, you typically handle all the chores, though König insists you don’t have to.

“It’s not like we can hire a maid to do it for us, can we ?” you tell him. “Especially not when there’s a handsome bounty on that even more handsome head of yours.”

Said bounty is what makes it difficult for the two of you to stay in one place for too long.

And whenever you move, you always try to make the house a safe space for König.

Blankets in his favourite chair, his favourite meal on the table for him whenever you know he’s going to have a rough day, a bit of fun before bed, etc.

You can tell whenever he feels really comfortable, because he takes up three quarters of the bed, just sprawled out like a rapidly growing infection.

And you always fit neatly against his side. Or on his chest.

König calls you his “Little bunny” (or “Bun-Bun”) because of how small you look when you’re nuzzled into his chest.

He never takes you, or anything you do, for granted.

You don’t know this (so keep this a secret between you and I) but König watches you when you sleep. More than you’d think.

Truth be told, the outlaw life terrifies him.

Sure, he has the swagger and the notoriety to make off with thousands in gold, jewels, and lavish material items, but, really, his greatest, most prized treasure is you.

There is only one of you. You cannot be bought, or replicated, or found in the wild like an ore of purest diamond.

Simply put, König’s success is entirely down to the fact that he can’t be caught lacking.

If he ever was to, he knows he’d lose you. Whether you’re taken by a stray bullet in a shoot-out or your town’s rangers come to tear you from his cold, lifeless grip, König takes every precaution to circumvent these tragedies by remaining the fastest hand in the west. And the most ruthless.

Even for an outlaw, his kill count is exceedingly high.

And it’s no coincidence that the numbers began to climb after he met you. Fell in love with you.

People who he’s seen giving you lecherous stares, or those he can sense have poor intentions, he’s taken them out the back and absolved the world of their presence.

And, at the end of every excursion, every execution, every haul, the weight of the world falls from König’s shoulders as he comes back to you.

He takes his mask down around you, hangs his hat upon the coat rack. You’re the only person who he shows his face to.

But, whenever you can tell a fragment of the day resides pinned in his mind, shrapnel of his self-inflicted lifestyle, you make sure to service him before bed.

How he likes to be serviced can change on a day-to-day basis. He’s not fussy.

The only thing that changes is whether he wants to be handled by you or if he wants to slam you into the pillows.

Possessive sex <333.

“Tell me you love me,” he rasps into your ear, pinning you to the mattress with his body, making escape an impossibility to you. “Tell me I’m the only one that will ever have you like this,”

As stated previously; he has a pair of handcuffs and knows how to use them.

Or, if they’re too far out of reach and he needs you bound now, he’ll use rope. Or even just his hands.

Eye contact. The whole time.

It’s as if a different person inhabits him when he gets like this; something dark and jagged, no mere demon, possesses his form. And, by extension, yours.

König’s not stopping until you’re full, he’s empty, and he’s confident you’re not leaving the house for the next few days.

But, when König is feeling fragile, he lets you take the lead.

Just lies back while you’re on top of him, calling him your “Good boy”, “my Prince”, “my protector,” – anything that reaffirms that he holds a great deal of importance in your life.

More often than not, he ends up with tears in his eyes.

Nobody has ever been so gentle and loving towards him as you have. And coupled with how you’re taking him slowly, taking the time to make sure you’re hitting all bases and he’s thoroughly loved, sends him over the edge.

Kiss his tears away and his soul leaves his body.

It’s times like these that, more than anything, König wants a simple life. A paroxysmal desire to lead an ordinary existence where the two of you can live together happily, without the threat of being chased out of town every few months.

And, maybe, one day, even have a family together.

Until then, König will continue to dream, to give you a lifestyle of sapphires and gold and every delicacy the human mind can conjure.

And whenever he looks at you before he leaves, he sees his good luck charm, the light at the end of his tunnel. And, most importantly, the embodiment of love itself.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

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theminecraftbee · 2 months

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situation ask game: joe hills for 16?

16. Meeting past/future self

"Howdy!" Joe Hills says.

"Howdy!" Joe Hills says back. "This seems to be quite the predicament."

"Oh god, there are two of them," whispers Doc. He'd just wanted to check on the log shop, man. Joe had said something about fixing some redstone (inherently terrifying to hear), and he'd just wanted to come check on it and inevitably fix the fixed redstone, and now there are two of them.

"I have to say," the first Joe Hills--presumably, the original one, given that he's insisting on saying everything through that stupid hand puppet he made this season, although Doc couldn't tell you--says. "I'm fairly certain seeing my own ghostly visage is normally considered a bad sign in most literature. Luckily, this isn't literature, so I can ignore the ill portent."

"Alas, I am, in fact, a bad omen," the second Joe Hills says, all too cheerfully. The second Joe Hills does not have a hand puppet and appears by all measures to be a ghost. Doc would generally agree that's a bad sign too, except for the fact that the Joe he knows is a ghost about fifty percent of the time, and oh no, he's already confused. There are two of them and he's already confused.

Maybe he should go get some coffee. The cafe Cleo set up is supposed to be good, and if he's this confused, maybe he'll manage to get himself to walk past the cats before he remembers he's supposed to be scared.

"Oh no," Doc's Joe says. "I don't have time for bad omens. For one, I'm not any good at killing pillagers. For another thing, I'm busy. See I was trying to help and I accidentally broke Doc's redstone and I feel bad because I think he's like, actually for-real mad about it, not fake mad, and we're supposed to be business partners, right, so I thought I'd come here and fix the redstone. Except then when I was hanging out with Mumbo at the end of our setup confessional Mumbo mentioned something and I just now remembered it and I think I fixed it wrong, so I'm here to try to figure that out, and that means I really don't have time for a bad omen."

"We never do," the ghost Joe says, shaking his head.

Doc, weirdly, feels touched.

"So if you could go away and give me dire warnings later--"

"Sorry, I don't have time to be put off for later! If you put this off for future Joe, you're putting this off to me! Then I'll have to do this all over again, and it'll be a closed time loop. Or, I guess mostly closed, because I don't remember this. But maybe you hit your head and forget everything! I don't know! I don't know how time travel works, but closed time loops were always the really confusing ones because they try to make sense. If we don't try to make sense you might still be able to change things."

"Oh no. What if this is a self-fulfilling prophecy?"

"I hadn't considered that," the ghost Joe says.

"I mean, everything I've ever read says that in trying to avert catastrophe, I am likely to accidentally cause it!" Doc's Joe says.

"Maybe the solution is for you to not believe my warnings?" the ghost Joe says. "No, that always ends badly too. That means there's dramatic irony!"

"Right, right. Maybe you just have to be as clear as possible, so I can't misinterpret your words?"

"No, I think the solution is to be vague," the ghost Joe says. "Good prophecies are normally vague that way. I mean, I'm mostly just here to tell you how to avert the nasty end of the world that kills everyone super dead, not anything too complicated! If I put too many details in, I'll leave in a dramatically appropriate loophole by accident, and then you'll never manage it."

"True, but Cleo says that I should always be given exact instructions, or I'll do the wrong thing on purpose," Doc's Joe says.

"We do that even more with exact instructions."

"That is true! And I guess it's harder to remember exact instructions?"

"Maybe the solution, given that I am going to vanish back to the past in five minutes," the ghost Joe says, "is that I should simply write down my instructions. That will make them harder to misremember or misinterpret."

"I will lose those too! This is too much responsibility!"

"I know! That's what I said!" ghost Joe says. "I said, why are you asking me. I mean I know the ghost thing is the only reason I can do this, but I don't want this kind of responsibility! I am not trustworthy! You all have known this since, like, day one, stop putting this kind of stressful responsibility on me! I do weird things when I'm stressed! I mean, I'm always stressed--"

"That's true, we are," Doc's Joe interjects.

"--but this is even more stressful than that! If I thought anyone else could do it, I would have said no! And now I don't know how to--"

"Man, if the world is going to end and kill all of us, stop worrying and just say how," Doc says, stepping out of his hiding place and throwing up his hands. "You're wasting time!"

"Oh, you're right," ghost Joe says. "So, the world will end when--"

He vanishes.

Doc and Doc's Joe stare after ghost Joe into the distance. Finally, Joe, with the world's most betrayed expression, turns to Doc.

"You scared me off!" he says. "If you hadn't shown up I'm sure I would have explained eventually."

"WHAT," Doc says as calmly as possible back. It does not appear to appease the Joe he's left with at all.

#answered #boonbeenblade #ask game #a bee fic #joe hills #docm77 #hermitcraft #hermitfic #two joes would form the world's dumbest feedback loop is what i'm saying.

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maeby-cursed · 5 months

Text

vampire!satoru who’s not used to being in the shadows.

he gets turned very young and lives through every stage he could possibly live through; denial, starvation, a deep self loathing and a bitter feeling of acceptance. he was never too concerned about harming others but he was also not used to having his liberties curtailed.

vampire!satoru who begins to hunt others.

he needs the blood, quite literally, to survive. he’s also gotten even more vain in this new skin, this odd state of life between what was and death. he hasn’t found any others like him yet so he has no guidance, he hunts men and women alike and tries to figure out what he likes. he can’t help but admire himself though; this new glow of his skin, his elongated canines… he enjoys the blood dripping down his face, the only drop of color against the white of his hair, skin and eyes.

vampire!satoru who gives up on morals entirely.

he finds new victims easily and feeds on them, enjoying himself like narcissus in the lake. he buys a mansion by stealing money from every prey and works out a system to enjoy his life to the fullest even if he cannot see the sun ever again. he tricks and manipulates women and lies and slaughters men by the thousands. he feels numb with every drop of blood.

he never once kills a child.

vampire!satoru who meets you.

it’s a cold january night and a blizzard has struck the town he resides in at the moment. he could very well go out if he felt inclined to but he’s not forgotten his lazy ways, he doesn’t feel like chasing some poor victim in the middle of a snow storm just to get a drop of cold blood. he’s not that desperate.

he spends his night reading, studying, turning the tv on and off and contemplating himself on every surface he can see himself reflected upon.

he’s in the middle of admiring his eyes on a silver spoon when someone knocks on his door. he’s so startled he drops the utensil, and now he’s annoyed. no one startles the satoru gojo.

vampire!satoru who opens the door and sees your face for the first time.

you’re wrapped in a thick coat, hair floating around your visage due to the wind. he’s struck for a moment with a memory he can’t recall; a warm smile and a mane of black hair.

“who the hell are you?” he asks.

vampire!satoru who for an unknown reason decides to listen to you.

you explain how you were about to catch a flight when the storm hit, how you don’t know the town very well and cannot find your way to a hotel. a shy smile makes your cheeks soft when you timidly ask if you could stay for a night.

vampire!satoru who is a predator, vampire!satoru who is an animal, vampire!satoru who is not human, not your friend, not kind, not good.

vampire!satoru who for a second feels greedy.

you trust him. you trust this creature in front of you who is very obviously not like you, who has the coldest eyes you’ve ever met and the longest canines you’ve ever seen. your instincts know – they must.

and yet… he can see it in your eyes, the kindness hidden behind the pupils that tell him you always expect people to be good, even when you shouldn’t.

vampire!satoru who feels thirsty for something that isn’t blood for the first time in a hundred years.

vampire!satoru who can’t remember who he was all those years ago.

he can’t remember the faces of those he used to love, can’t remember how he looked like or what he thought of the world. who was a human in a world of humans and now feels like a child who’s been told he has to hurt others to survive.

he can’t remember what he’s done since he was turned, can’t remember the number of victims or what they looked like. who was reborn alone and has lived alone and will exist forever alone.

vampire!satoru who really truly doesn’t want this to be his existence.

vampire!satoru who answers your question with an “okay” and lets you in.

#˙⋆ 𓂃 ࣪ch. thoughts !#wrote this in 15 min instead of revising for my finals #can you tell i was a twilight girlie ?#jjk imagines #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #gojo imagines #gojo fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru fluff #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #satoru gojo fluff #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Note

HAL, HEAR ME OUT !!! ghost coming home to wis wife on Easter, he thought he wouldnt manage to come back home in time, but Price dismisses him earlier, so he decides to surprise her by making a egg hunt for her, something she always said she liked to do when she was little, I KNOW THIS IS A SPECIFIC REQUEST, FEEL FREE TO DENY DEARIE, i just really love easter loool (and simon too)

love ur works, hal ❤

A Good Man

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Self-deprecating thoughts, allusions to Simon's past & trauma, delving into his psyche, angst, but a lot of fluff, Simon's POV

A/N: I knew I had to get this out before Easter actually came around so here it is early, Anon! This was an adorable request. Enjoy and have a happy holiday! <3

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it.

Skin shredded; showing every tear and rip with a thinly veiled sense of pride along with a detailed description of every bullet wound and burn. Rope tears along the forearms and red stab marks over the visible spine of his back. Tattoos that depict skeletons and war. He couldn’t tell you every life he had ended, but he could name names until his tongue went black and fell off; though he spared you the details.

Simon Riley was a devil incarnate. Dead-eyed and robust of body. Muscles wound with promised death and the trigger finger to prove it. His life was measured in an hourglass, the sand cascading down like the blood from his knife after a kill; it would stop flowing, one day – abrupt and final. Simon Riley was a demon, a monster. Simon Riley was a Ghost.

A ghost with an impeccable memory and a deep love for the woman currently on the living room couch.

The man blinks, slate eyes taking in the steady rise and fall of your chest with a slow melting of his shoulders. He had a doubt that you had planned to fall asleep with the Tv on – or the floor lamp, for that matter.

Its golden light slipped over your form, and he traced the flow of it as the voice of the news anchor went in one ear and out the other. Gradually, a hand slipped to the balaclava over his head as your lips let loose a grumble, nose nuzzling the feather pillow.

Simon often found himself watching you sleep when he was home; how your face would lose all tension in those brief intermissions between oblivion and awakeness. When his own nights were restless, it helped to know that at least someone was at ease, especially if it was you. The fabric slips from his tired visage, the mess of blonde locks atop his head sticking this way and that; layered with the gleam of grease. As the black face-paint stains his sockets and spreads with a swipe of a stiff palm, the ever-constant cloud over his head peels back but for a brief moment of peace.

His bag was still in the foyer, holding three months of dirty clothes and gear hostage in its zipped space; stained, and bloodied. The man himself wasn’t much better.

It had been a long few months.

Hooking the balaclava onto the belt of his cargo pants, Simon bends down on an achy knee, a grunt in his throat sounding off like a boar. Scarred fingers go to brush your cheek, though no words exit his mouth, no whispers of adoration. Just a glimmer in his eyes, a release of that furrowed line in the center of his forehead that seemed permanent these days.

Staring, the faint twitch of his lips is the only tell at all that he was content at all, feeling your skin as a feather would slide over water. He takes down a breath.

There were few instances that Simon fully remembers from his childhood – most displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole – though there is one he refuses to lock away. His mother. He can’t help it, and before he can stop himself the words are spilling directly from his heart to his mouth.

Hell, he really must be tired.

“She’d of loved you, Sweetheart.” It’s like he’s startled by his own voice, head pulling back and walls going back up, but that delicate glimpse was enough.

A gravel voice and manchester accent bleed together to form some piece of the puzzle that was his pure adoration for you; small cardboard cuts and divots that had been given over to create a picture. Simon Riley was a ghost, yes, the Ghost, but he was never that when he was home.

He was just Simon to you.

Blue eyes study the small smile that blesses your face when the man runs his fingers into your hair and attentively separates knots; your body unconsciously molding to his touch. With a kiss on your forehead, Simon chooses to not wake you. It’s late, the man reasons, and he knows how hard it is for you to sleep when he’s gone. Almost as hard as it is for him when he can’t feel your weight on the opposite side of the thin mattress he’s cursed with in the barracks.

Against his better judgment, he’d learned to love your contact; your presence next to him and the way you fit into his arms.

As gently as he’s able, the black ink of his tattooed arm slips under your shoulders, pushing between the cushion and your limp body to lie still. The other hooks around your knees, and with a pause to make sure you weren't going to wake up, Simon lifts you as easily as a piece of paper. Your weight lays comfortingly against his chest, shallow breath hitting his neck and he thinks for a moment just how it was possible to love something more than you can love anyone else that came before.

“Simon…” Your voice brings goosebumps to his forearms, his fingers tightening over the shirt he now recognizes as his own clothing you. A smirk runs over his face.

Lips caress his pulse, a nose taking in his scent of canvas and sweat; a tinge of barely restrained corruption, a soul more damaged than a window shattered into a million pieces.

How can you stand it? How could your body instinctively lay into him and give redemption willingly?

Simon grips you ever closer, using his own body heat to lull you back to oblivion. He didn’t have an answer – probably never would – but that didn’t mean he wasn’t forever grateful.

But he was a stiff man; a stoic one.

He slips through the bedroom door, navigating in the dark as if his eyes had built-in night vision, and hums out, “it’s me. Go on – back to sleep now, Love.”

Air communes with a soft grunt, and Simon watches from the side of his vision as your lids flicker open and closed. As desperate as the fight is, it’s over fairly quickly when he lowers you to the sheets, cupping your head and setting in on the pillow.

Soft fingers wrap his lower arm, and with trapped breath, Simon watches your lips connect to the pale skin of his wrist before your form once more goes slack; ever the stubborn one to greet him even half-gone. Weak mumbles stuck forming ‘welcome home’ and ‘love you’ on a lead tongue garble to nothingness like a gargoyle’s stone speech.

“Hmm.” The Lieutenant smirks as the area tingles, preening like a bird. There are many things to say to you, but he settles with a mumbled, “Don’t hog the sheets. Gotta go take care of the mess first, copy?”

You don’t answer, of course. With a delicate pet on your head, Simon exits the room silently to take a shower and organize his gear; closing the door behind him only halfway so he can still keep an eye on you as he passes. Ever the neat partner, he wouldn’t go to sleep until all were in their proper places – clothes in the washer, knives and various licensed weapons in the nightstand, and paperwork in the office.

There was a sanctity in this. A way to get rid of the lingering adrenaline of being on Base or in the field – deterioration of the mind but in such a way it would be described as a boil to a simmer.

All of it is uneventful.

He enters the kitchen with only a white towel around his waist sometime later, flicking on the lights and running his fingers through his damp hair before bee-lining to the fridge. If there needed to be a list made of the things he loved the most, it would be fairly short – only three.

One, you, two, the adrenaline rush of a good deployment, and, finally, your food.

Simon would listen to Johnny’s rambling for days if it ended with an excellent heaping plate of whatever you cooked for supper.

Opening the fridge, the man’s eyes widen, shimmering with azure glass.

“Fuckin’ hell, Sunshine,” he breathes to himself, hand reaching inside the box with fervor, “you’ve been busy, then, eh…? Bloody feast in ‘ere.”

The Lieutenant drags out a heaping plate of steak and potatoes – a side of greens covered in plastic and a sticky note on top.

‘Save for Simon.’

The food didn’t look older than a day or two…did you save him some of your meals every once and a while just in case he would show up?

He grunts, re-reading your chicken scratch with a swelling of his chest and a foreign heat on his cheeks. Simon moves to the oven, preheating it and placing a cooling rack on a metal pan over parchment paper. Damned if the man would mess up your masterpiece; he’d reheat it properly.

With minimal noise, he waits for the meat to be done and settles on placing the potatoes in the microwave with the greens for time's sake. Standing in the kitchen, his eyes gradually fall closed, their weight heavy. But his ears perk at the faint pitter-patter of bare feet.

The sneaking arms around his waist don’t startle him, and with a sigh on his lips, Simon feels you melt into the curve of his open skin. A head connecting with his spine.

“Thought I brought you back to bed?” He whispers, flesh melding to you like hot iron, a scarred hand resting over the one that’s on his abdomen.

Your nose nestles into the burns over his back, and even if you couldn’t see it – the sudden sweep of vulnerability is nearly heard. You lay a kiss and think no more of it, but Simon shivers with beautiful agony; eyes gazing off.

“...Erm,” you groan, fingers tracing the build of his ribs, “needed to hold you.” Your breath stills – half-asleep. “You’re…here?”

Simon chuckles, hearing it echo off the walls.

“I’m ‘ere, Love. Few more bloody cuts,” he breathes, “but I’m here.”

“Good. Missed you.” A second of kisses and distant blue eyes. Muffled yawns into his flesh. “Didn’t think you’d be back in time for Easter.”

Simon twists, aware of the delicate fold of his towel, and lifts your fatigued form onto the counter, settling you down so you don’t fall sideways. He blinks down at you, cupping your cheek when your neck gets too heavy to hold up. Your lids rapidly move, your nose scrunched at the overhead light and the man knows you’re only awake because he’s home.

He utters out to you, faces close, “The Old Man let me off early,” and lays a peck to your forehead, holding his lips there for a long second. Mutters into your skin, “prickly bastard’s been antsy – hasn’t had a good drink in weeks. Was about ready to strangle someone.”

She’s warm.

His body slots itself between your legs, one arm around your back and the other placed on the counter. Simon’s forehead falls to your shoulder, and with a groan of satisfaction, he feels your fingers go through his locks; itching at his scalp dreamily.

“...Dunno whether to thank him or send ‘em to a therapist.” You whisper, kissing his neck, unable to keep your hands off each other for a mere second.

“Better to place money on the both.” His grumbled words are barely heard. “I’ve got two weeks ‘fore they need me back.”

A soft hum is all he gets before the timer goes off and he takes down a breath, forcing himself to peel back from you and grab his supper.

By the time the both of you are in bed, he’d nearly forgotten about your comment, and as he stroked your hair and felt you bring him closer under the covers, he remembers. He’d asked Price to give him two weeks on account of the holiday you’d loved so much – Easter – and had used the Captain's deteriorating attitude as a pry. It had been easy enough, the two had known each other for a long time. They knew their breaking points.

Sometimes living around a handful of other men formed unbreakable bonds of brotherhood, and while that was true for 141, it was also a pain in the ass. People long for home at the end of it – a soft touch and sweet kisses. There’s only so long you can go with yelling orders into the same faces and playing Poker in a shitty safehouse.

Simon never thought he’d be worthy of it, a home, but here he is regardless and here he would stay. And he knew Easter was your favorite time of the year, and he also knew that Easter was…tomorrow. His dead eyes widened.

The plan formed quickly, his strategic mind helping as it always does, and as he snuck out of bed and laid his lips to yours in a tiny kiss, a shirt was tossed on along with boxers. You never heard the door to the garage door opening, just snuggled back up to the pillow and an old t-shirt he’d placed in his spot instead; inhaling his calming scent.

—

When the sun had risen an hour ago and Simon had finished with heavy fingers. Groaning, the back of a hand meets a forehead, trying to swipe away sleepiness as one would a fly. But he says nothing, feet hitting the floor as he enters the kitchen, an object held in his palm that was quickly stashed in the breadbox.

This was childish, he knew, not at all like the deadly Lieutenant of TF-141. Like Ghost. The boys would tease him relentlessly if they found out.

“Simon…?” Your voice draws him back, and with a look over his shoulders, he finds you wrapped in the comforter like a mouse. “What are you doing out here?”

The lie comes easily.

“Fixin’ breakfast.” Your eyes flicker to the open breadbox, eyebrows furrowing. A smirk grows and you walk over with a laugh living in your expression.

“I don’t even trust you to toast bread, Love, go sit down. You’ve been stuck on rations for too long.” Simon only steps back, gazing over your head and seeing your hand pause. “I’ll make us some…”

He watches as he loves to do, memorizing the parting of your lips and the recognition lighting like a shy fire. The man smiles then, and it is a delicate thing; an expression not tainted with sarcasm or deception.

Your hand delves into the box and pulls out a plastic egg softly as if it would snap in two.

It’s cheap, made of thin plastic and fading in colors of the shade of pastel pink. Chipping. There’s nothing inside of it, just a bare piece of holiday joy that never meant too much to anyone beyond children. But with how you’re staring up at him, Simon thinks all the searching in the bins from the garage was worth it.

“What’s this?” Your voice wraps him close, and your hand holds the object close. Simon shrugs, digging deep into your vision.

“I’ve the faintest idea, Sunshine.” The giggle flies to his cold heart and he pulls you to his chest to still the raging of it. “My guess,” he raises a stiff brow, “intruder broke in, yeah?”

“Did this intruder have ears and a pink nose?” You ask, noses brushing. “A hop in his step, maybe?”

“Hell if I know,” Simon grunts, eyes flickering away before he can break before you. “Best get my gun just in case – you’ll ‘ave to find the rest ‘o the bastard things, though.”

You kiss him then, and he captures the back of your head, holding you to him as if you’d disappear if he let go. He doesn't know what you did to possess him so, to make his thoughts be only of you even when he’s halfway around the world. Were you an angel? A shred of light made physical? Perhaps an embodiment of all the good in the universe?

Simon had no answer, as he usually did when it came to you, and you sighed into him, whispering redemption to his soul.

You said you loved him, and he said it back with every ounce of him that was untouched by death. And then you pulled from him with a laugh that could throw away darkness and disappeared with promises of finding the remaining eggs. Like a loyal hound of hell, Simon followed, pulling on the comforter to slow you down so you don’t trip. He would always follow.

The vision of a good life starts with a view of the present. Who you choose to care about; how you make meaning of nothing but a shared morning and a memory of youth. Simon does not remember much of his childhood. Most of the memories are displaced in the back of his mind with a barbed wire fence and a door with no keyhole. Cast away.

Coated in fear and lies.

Some days he asks how he can still call himself Simon Riley – it’s the name of a dead man, after all…and then he looks at your beaming face, and his question is answered as fast as it was thought up.

You deserve Simon Riley, not Ghost. Not a devil incarnate or Dead-eyed. A demon, or a monster. If there was even a shred of purity left in him, that was what he knew beyond doubt.

Simon Riley was selfish, he admitted, and he was loathed to leave you…so here he would stay. Hiding easter eggs and giving veiled hints when you were close to one near the planted flowers in the backyard. There was a simplicity that the man bathed in – the blatant enjoyment of a plain life.

With a chuckle in the back of his throat, Simon pushes off the back porch and makes a comment about how you were closer to the dead bird you had buried in the garden bed than an egg. A flick of your middle finger leaves him smirking, and he splays a hand over your back, angling your body farther north. The kiss left on his stubbled cheek makes him warmer than he wants to admit; cold eyes soften.

If such a thing as a good man existed, Simon Riley knew he was not it…but he was trying to be damn near close. Until then, the ring he had bought would stay in his office.

TAGS:

@blueoorchid, @jxvipike, @revrse, @shuttlelauncher81, @bruhhvv, @kittiowolf210, @aerangi, @spikespiegell, @ghost-with-a-teacup, @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore, @uberraschungg, @shoe1412, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet @pukbadger, @omeganixtra, @gills-lounge, @voidinfernal, @sukunas-left-nut-sack, @untoldshortsofthefandoms, @batmanunicorns523, @icepancakes, @copiasratscheese, @besas-stuff, @marytvirgin, @misfne, @halfmoth-halfman, @lothiriel9, @anna-banana27, @jade-jax, @cl0wncxre, @john-pricee, @330bpm-whiplash, @lora21, @wolfyland07, @dilfsaremyfavourite, @levietc, @kk19pls, @semieitabby, @thriving-n-jiving, @cringe-kats, @n1choles, @gaychaosgremlin, @johnpricesprincess, @haleypearce

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withered-tears · 10 months

Text

Sometimes, it was easy to forget that the autobots aren't human.

Well, not in the literal sense. Of course they aren't human. They are giant alien robots that turn into cars, for goodness sake.

But they talk like humans. They walk like humans. Even the way they think sometimes feels extremely human-like.

So sometimes, yes, it is easy to forget they are not human.

This had the unfortunate side effect of, unintentionally, see more than one situation through a human filter, so to speak.

Such as, for example, their durability.

Because when Bulkead ran through the groundbridge carrying Bee's body, with Arcee running next to him carrying Bee's head, every human present in the base froze.

Jack's eyes were wide open, face growing pale.

Miko, in contrast, was looking almost green. Hands clasping her mouth, either to stop herself from sobbing or puking. Tears were streaming down her face.

June, although horrified, was focusing solely on keeping Raf in place.

Raf was the worst. As soon as he saw Bee, he started screaming.

June was doing her best to try and comfort the kid while keeping him from running to his friend's body. Hugging him against her chest to keep him from looking at the horrible visage.

Agent Fowler was grim, fists and teeth clenched. When Cliffjumper died, he was the one who dealt with the horrible bureaucracy of asking the bots about proper protocol. About post-mortem condecoration, about burial rites, about tradition and wishes.

Now, at least he knew the proper way to proceed, which boils down to let the bots do as they please with their dead and keep any nosy superior out of their business.

Then Ratchet spoke.

"Finally. Bulkhead, drop him in a berth, and bring me the second crate of spares. Arcee, bring the head here. I want to start running diagnostics before- Bulkhead! The second crate! I'll have to repair most ports on Bumblebee's neck, f not replace them outright."

June was the first human to speak.

"What do you mean 'repair' his ports?"

Bumblebee's head had been cut off. Surely there's no repairing that, right?

Ratchet rolled his optics (once again, such human-like gestures) at the question, barely paying any mind to the humans as he worked on Bumblebee's head.

"What, you expected me to just shove his head in place and wrape tape around it? Sorry to disappoint, but reattaching a head is a bit more complicated than-"

"Bee's alive?"

Raf's voice was awful. Voice cracking and filled with such fragile, fragile hope.

Ratchet's eyes widened (so human-like) in surprise before his entire demeanor changed.

He carefully and gently picked up Raf to bring him closer to his workstation.

"Of course he's alive. Here, look. Although his neck was severely damaged, his processors, his brain module, are unscathed. The sudden lost of power caused them to crash, which is why I'm running diagnostics through his software."

Raf, small, young, terrified, and brilliant Raf, was quickly putting the information together.

"So it's like, it's like a computer that got unplugged without being properly turned off first?"

It was obvious Ratchet was not happy being compared to such inferior, human technology. But he held any complaints to himself.

"Yeah, something like that, kid. As I said, I have to check every port in his neck to make sure they won't overload his processors once I reconnect them. Not to mention, all vital components on a cybertronian body not only receive power from the spark and energon processing, but they also store a small portion of it. Like an internal battery. Bumblebee's brain could be kept powered off for years without any side effects, other than some minor lag once reactivated. Not that his repairs will take nearly that long. I'll have Bumblebee back online in a couple of days, a week at most."

Raf was sniffing, wiping his face with his sleeves. "Can, can I help?" His voice was still scratchy.

Ratchet huffed, trying really hard to sound annoyed.

"Why not. Might as well have a second pair of optics double-checking the code. Maybe you'll even learn something."

Yeah, the Autobots were not human.

But they sure acted human-like often enough.

#transformers #ratchet #tfp #transformers prime #tfp raf #my writing #my fics #look i just love the idea of ratchet being a grumpy old man but having a soft spot for raf

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 11 months

Text

a sin you were made for │Daemon Targaryen x Daughter!Reader

See my Masterlist for more works!

Please note: this is a ONE-SHOT unrelated to my terms of endearment series.

Synopsis: Your stepmother Rhaenyra thinks it is time you get married. Your father disagrees.

Um, I’m really sorry about this one. It’s awful. Thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @randomdragonfires for being my unwilling victims during the writing. Some notes: you are Laena and Daemon’s firstborn daughter in this one, born before Baela and Rhaena. As such, this is POC reader, though I hope it can be - well, not enjoyed - by everyone. Plus, this is technically ‘smut’, but it’s arguably the worst thing I’ve ever written so if you ain’t into it I do NOT blame you.

Triggers: non-con, NON-CON, incest, age gap, breeding kink, forced breeding kink, major angst, Daemon’s a creep and a bad man, and a bad father, and overall bad.

“Do you love me, my girl?”

“Yes, Papa,” you say, lip quivering.

There is no man quite like Daemon Targaryen. He is vicious and unrelenting as he is warm and doting, a being of such utter extremes that one’s head may very well spin off its mount before truly comprehending the individual before them. Sometimes it is frightening to linger in his presence; he has a way about him that keeps you forever guessing, unsure of which side of the coin he has landed upon at any given moment. You see, his capriciousness does not spare you—not even you, his eldest, the apple of his eye. Today, you sense that it is one of those days.

He snorts, eyes cold.

“Your stepmother wants to arrange a match for you,” he muses, almost to himself. The calm of his tone unsettles you, unnerves you. “Some cunt from the Vale, methinks. Tell me”—he leans forward at this, fingers clasped together like a penitent’s, only you know he will never be sorry—“is that something you want?”

You swallow. “No, Papa.”

His brow quirks. “No? You don’t want a strapping young lad from the Snakewood to make you his wife? Fuck a few pug-nosed, brown-haired vipers into you? Hm?”

Your heart sinks. No, no, no… You hate it when he gets like this.

“No, Papa,” you try again. It comes out as a whisper.

“No.” He sits back, a darkly pleased tilt playing at the corners of his mouth. “That’s what I told Rhaenyra. Alas, she’s quite determined. Thinks it’s unnatural for a young lady your age to take company with her father. Do you think she’s jealous?”

“I—I cannot say.”

Baela and Rhaena had bonded well enough with your stepmother, folding easily into something resembling family, but you… Long has she watched you with carefully assessing eyes, darting back and forth between you and her husband, suspicion written in the planes of her visage but never voiced. You wish she had. Perhaps he would never have stumbled into your rooms soused on wine after celebrating the announcement of little Viserys’s impending arrival; perhaps he would never have seen you there, asleep, so much like your lady mother (and oh, how you miss her laugh and the sound of her heartbeat thumping through her chest and the riotous spring of silver curls smelling of rich Myrish spices even now); perhaps he would never have conceived the notion to claim this fresh Targaryen maiden, because Targaryen maidens belong to Targaryen princes and he was a Prince in all but deed, and so you had belonged to him before you truly knew what it meant for bodies to conquer, to take all and leave nothing behind. Perhaps you would never have awakened to the leaden weight of man over you, foreign fingers pressing between your legs where they ought not to go, this part of you is for your husband one day, dearest, you are to save it for your marriage, but one look up at the glow of pale hair in silver moonlight and the face you had known and loved so well contorted wild and sinister—lust, it is called, you know this now—and you had quailed, for is it not a daughter’s duty to be good and obey her father? And so he had brought the parts of himself you knew not the name of and pried your own open, apart, asunder, hand shoved up against your mouth to quell the sounds sprung from your belly at the agony of it, too much, Father, it’s too much, and sh, you’ll take it, you’re mine to have and I’ll do as I like, and you had felt your brain rattle in your skull at the vigour of his driving thrusts slapping into you, worse than a strike across the face because he had told you all the while I love you, daughter of mine, Papa loves you, and that is all you had ever wanted to hear from him.

No, you cannot say how Rhaenyra feels. You are sure she has her own ideas as to what he spends evenings with you doing—but she will never make the move to ask. Thus, you will never be free.

Your father grunts. “Well,” he says. “I’ll have to put a stop to this nonsense. Can’t have my daughter married off to the Vale, not when I went to such lengths to escape my own incarceration to that bronze bitch.”

This again. You school your expression into something placid. “Of course, Papa.”

He stares at you. “You’re quiet tonight. What—no words of praise for your father? No gratitude?”

“Tha—thank you, Papa.”

“For?”

“Stopping my match to the—to the Vale.”

“And?”

“For keeping me with you.”

“That’s right.” He nods to himself, bringing the cup he has held loosely in his fist to his lips. A droplet of wine treks down his chin—you imagine it is blood. My blood, my life and body and soul and blood, it is all for him whether I like it or not. “I’ll be causing a lot of strife,” he says, “preventing this thing going ahead. Your stepmother will be positively wrathful.”

“Yes.”

What else can you say? If you stay silent, you risk incurring his ire; he does not like for you to behave like a mindless doll. I like a bit of fight in them, he had said once, drunken eyes roaming and drunken fingers fumbling around your throat. Meekness bores me. He is angry when he is bored.

Papa smiles, the action transforming the hard planes of his face into something softer, gentler. You know better than most how deceptive a thought that is. “I think I’ll need reminding. Of how much you love me.” He taunts you with the word, as though love is as meaningless as any other mundane feeling. But it’s not. It’s not. Love is what allows him to break you. “You can do that, can’t you, pet?”

“Yes, Papa.” Your knees knock beneath your skirts, heart racing. He will ask. Any moment, he will ask. “How do… what do you wish of me?”

There. A glint. In the eyes. The kind curve of his mouth turns razor sharp, a knife with which to ribbon your flesh into a thousand thousand pieces. “Take off your dress.”

When you were younger, you had possessed a gift. At times of strife, of extreme and undesired emotion, you could just… slip away inside your mind, if but for a small while. Whatever would happen next would seem as though it were occurring below, and you were above your body watching on, detached, the performance continuing in spite of the fact its main character had departed the stage. You had floated above, looking on as Vhagar bore your mother to blackened bone and ash; the taste of that ash coating your mouth, of burning flesh sometimes awakens you still, but the memory of it is dim, lost to that nether space where time is meaningless. You had floated above when your mother, mama mama please come back save me mama, your sweet, loving mother had been returned to the seas she missed all your life, and the scent of the saltwater sets your nose to streaming in rare bouts. You had floated above as your papa had destroyed you then built you anew for his own desires, pain and the hot lick of pleasure-shame distorting sleep into a hellscape.

Papa’s command leaves you damp between the legs. Sometimes, you think it is your maidenhead bleeding afresh, just like it did that night. You wonder if he will come away stained red again.

He does not like it when you are not readily available to him, so your gowns are easy to remove. A tug here, a shuffle there. The fabric slips to the floor with nary a sound, chased swiftly by your shift and your underthings. When he asks you to remove the dress, he asks for you to remove it all. You had learned that the hard way.

Your toes tingle with the desire to run as he stands, reminding you just how much more he is than you. Older, wiser, stronger, taller. His fingers trace the curve of your breast, pale upon brown, languid as only a man possessed with surety in his claim ever could. Up, up, up he moves, eyes following the path, scorching fire in his wake. Those fingers knot in your hair, crumpling curls between callouses, pressure forcing you down, down, down.

“You know what to do,” he says.

Papa is too big, or you are too small. Whatever the reason, it is why he sits upon your mattress after you tug off the belt, tug down the breeches, shoving the leather strap under the bed so that he does not catch sight of it and decide to use it on you again. He cannot force his cock between your lips when he is standing and you are kneeling. He is too—and you are too—

Hand on your nape. “Go on,” he murmurs.

It is graceless, but you know by now how to make it easier. You work your tongue in your mouth to draw forth the saliva, letting it spill past your lips and track slimy down your chin as you lean forward. Papa is half-hardened, curved like a dagger against his thigh. You start how he likes, by taking him in your grasp at the base and pressing your lips to the tip like you would kiss his cheek.

“Look up.” He grunts when you follow his wish. “Smile.” You do. “Gevie,” he praises. Beautiful.

You do not feel beautiful. You feel wretched.

He tastes caustic, bitterer than the ale you had once snuck from the cellars, but this is a flavour you are accustomed to. It hits your tongue wrong, and you chase that feeling of wrongness, that feeling that Papa seems to have done away with entirely. Knowing that this is against the laws of gods and men is, strangely, the one thing that makes you feel better. A reminder that it is not your fault, perhaps. That it is his.

His fingers tighten against your scalp, pulling, pulling. “Hen hynge sētetāks bībagon raqā, gaomo daor?” You love sucking the cock that made you, don’t you?

The reminder sours in your belly. For a moment, you wonder if you might gag up on him again. Last time, he had jerked you off him and, when he had cleaned himself up, held you close, soothing you with wine-soaked kisses as you cried. It is tempting to make yourself heave if only to have that version of your father back.

A light slap to the side of the face grounds you. “I didn’t say stop,” he says above you, stern and cold.

You push yourself further along him, breathing through your nose until you no longer can, until he has stuffed himself so far down that you feel lightheaded and sick. Salt-musk sticks to your palate and curdles your insides as you fight for air. He cares little, gripping your skull between his palms like he intends to crush it to pulp, taking command of your body to slide along a rhythm of his choosing. Wet, choking sounds fill the room along with his panting moans. All you can do is fist the covers on either side of him and try to recall what it had felt like to slip free of the shackles of reality, to ignore the strike of his sweat-soaked stones jostling against your chin and the winded groans of the man who is supposed to love you.

Not like this, you think. Not like this.

It is only when you splutter around him, the sting of bile making you retch, that he finally takes pity on you. “That’s a girl,” he croons, patting your back as you spit up on the stone beside his feet. “You did better this time.”

Better is not good. He had said that to you once.

Hoisting you up to the mattress with little fanfare, you lay winded on your belly as he rearranges you to his liking. Quickly enough, you are bent almost in half with your face pressed to the covers, knees close to touching your shoulders. In this position, there is no hiding—the cool night air caresses whisper-soft along the split between your legs, forcing you to bloom.

“Pretty cunt, such a pretty cunt,” Papa is muttering behind you, the head of his cock nudging through the grool that slips from the opening he has tilted high for his viewing. Sometimes, he teases, makes it feel nice, makes it just a little harder to feel so awful when he touches you like this. “Desperate fucking cunt, look at all this, you little whore—”

He departs; a firm pass of tongue up from where you are most sensitive, and you cannot help the sound you release as his mouth slurps greedily and messily, and oh, it feels nice, it feels better than a full tummy or a warm summer’s day or a soft fond hug, and maybe he wants to make this time special—

His tongue travels upward, circling the furl of your other hole, the place he has always threatened to stick his cock into whenever you have made him very, very unhappy.

“Papa!”

He laughs. “What”—he sits back, thumbs spreading your rear wide so that his spit dribbles sticky and warm down your back passage—“you don’t like that? I think you would. Sluts like you love getting fucked here.”

You shake your head, terrified. “I don’t—I don’t, Papa, I don’t—” I’m not a slut, you want to say, all that I am is what you’ve made me, but you also think that he’s made you into a slut anyway, and perhaps that is why he had wanted a daughter in the first place. His own personal slut.

“Alright, alright, calm down.” He is still chuckling when he prods himself through the mess of saliva and slick, notching himself at your cunt and beginning the slow push in, always slow because he likes the feeling of you fighting to keep him out. “Stop fighting,” he murmurs as you wiggle, an instinctual drive to get away, “sh, sh.”

Papa holds you down by the back of the neck as he sinks in, never rocking in-out to wet the way and ease the path, no, the panicked clenching and the slight grit of entry excites him, makes me feel like a man, your stepmother’s too fucking loose from all that cavorting about she’s done, do you know how that makes a man feel, my girl?, and you feel like he is shoving the air from your lungs with his own length as it tears its way through you. Fingers digging into the tendons is what keeps you still, battling to keep the tears at bay, for he only gets belligerent when you cry, ungrateful girl, after everything I’ve done for you, I could’ve just left you with your grandmother and grandfather but I took you with me, you owe me, and sometimes you think that maybe you would have been better off with strangers like your mother’s parents than you are with the one that remains to you.

“Papa—it hurts, please—”

“I know it does,” he says, damp kiss to the shoulder, “but you’re a good girl, aren’t you? Be grateful. Stop complaining.”

You hear the warning for what it is. Stop complaining. Your sisters wouldn’t. Maybe I should seek them out instead. Rhaena, kind little Rhaena, perhaps she’d be more grateful than you.

He growls when he hits home, an unkind knock that whites out your vision for a moment, deep and visceral.

It is the only part that is slow.

“Fuck, you’re tighter than Laena,” Papa is saying, grip turned to palm flattening your head to the mattress as he punches through you in short, sharp thrusts, stabbing and burning like a wound. “Tight little cunt just for Papa, no one else, no one but me—”

You bite into the sheets so hard that you think you may just slice straight through, grind your bones into dust and your flesh into ash like your mother’s, and would that not be a fitting end for yet another of Daemon Targaryen’s prized conquests? Like mother, like daughter.

He smacks you across the backside and you try to rear up, squealing, but you are stuck beneath his hand and on his cock and can go nowhere. There is something about it that he likes because he does it again, and again, and again. You are grateful that your skin does not redden like Rhaenyra’s, like your little half-brothers’, that most of the marks will bruise below your mother’s colouring for only you to feel and to know.

“Only thing you’re good for, getting fucked, letting Papa fuck you”—every time he says it, you cry, but you cannot help that, it hurts to hear him say it like it hurts to feel him in you—“don’t know how I’ll ever let this go—”

“Papa, Papa—”

His teeth sink into the meat where your neck and shoulder meet, painful like most of his touches are, and you yell at the sting of it, yell until his hand slams clammy over your mouth to hold you close and quiet and still. “Shut up, shut the fuck up, be good—”

Fingers worm below you, pinching at a nipple and rolling between rough pads, pleasant enough any other time but now it only hurts, only makes you choke on silent sobs like a fist has come around your throat to steal the life from you.

His hot breath rasps over the indentations he has left in your flesh. “I’m going to come in you, get you fat and full of me. Give you a little babe, ruin you for anyone else. What do you think?”

He doesn’t normally spend inside you. Your mind whirls, near-hysteric. Brother-son, sister-daughter, brother and son or sister and daughter. Little sibling tucked up in your own womb, put there by your father.

“See if she tries to rid me of you then,” he snarls, grabbing you by the hips to grind desperately into you, as though he is trying to worm his way into your flesh in some sickening reverse of birth. “Fucking bitch… You’re mine. I seeded you on your mother, I can do what I want with you. I made you for me, no one else.”

If he could, he’d beat Rhaenyra’s head in with a rock like he did his first wife and marry you. He’s said so on some nights; only when he drinks, though. If he were any other man, the talk of marriage might ease the bite of your misuse—but Papa collects wives like knights collect favours. When he tires of them, they die.

Papa’s thrusts turn quick and uneven, piercing, his growl a steady rumble where he joins with you. “Going to come,” he gasps, nails digging into your skin with the strength of his grip. “Going to come in you, my girl—”

“No, no—”

“Yes, give you a little Targaryen babe like you deserve—”

“No, please—”

It is too late. He blusters against your back like an angry bull, wordless noises of animal pleasure driving against your flesh, and warmth bursts inside you, coating you up with the same essence that had given you life. It feels nice, almost comforting, swilling there.

By the time he slips out and rolls you to your back, your tears have dried. You are able to give him the wan smile he wants, mechanically accepting his lips on yours like he is a lover and not the man who sired you. When he kisses you, it is easy to pretend that this is something that you want.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His breath tastes of the wine. “I’ll speak to Rhaenyra.”

“Okay, Papa.” You are resigned to it. There had never truly been any possibility of him letting you go, anyway.

You remain splayed out on the bed as he pulls up his breeches and seeks out the belt you hid, staring up at the canopy, your father’s seed leaking out and seeping through the covers, the sheets, the mattress. They are the only witnesses of your sin.

Papa stops at the door, violet eyes—your eyes—glowing in the night. Even from here, you can see the threat that looms in his expression. “If I find out you’ve been to Gerardys again… you won’t like what happens.”

“I know, Papa,” you say quietly.

For good measure, he locks the door, the key grating in the mechanism as it always does. And so, you are trapped in, unable to seek out moon tea as you had done the last time he spent in you. It is cold now. The hearth ought to have been lit. But the maids know better than to disturb Papa when he comes to visit his firstborn.

Wincing, you rise from the bed. It is like walking on sea legs. As you go in search of your nightgown, you see your reflection in the mirror.

Riotous silver curls rumpled and untidy. Deep circles beneath your eyes. Hollowed out cheekbones. Swathes and swathes of dark skin mottled in places, distorted and marred by your father’s touch. Thin knees, thin elbows, thin arms and legs. A doll left wasting away in the corner, forgotten and alone.

And there, right along your middle, a barely noticeable swell.

Your hand falls to that spot, the place where your brother-son or sister-daughter grows in secret, and your eyes fill with tears again. When he finds out, you will never escape. You will never be free.

The whisper carries eerie through the silence. “I know.”

Read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48466069

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miintsprigz · 4 months

Note

Hi again!! Was wonderin if ya could do some hcs of Scout, Pyro, Sniper, Engi, and Medic with a reader who loves to give and show them drawings they made, but gets pretty nervous when they watch them draw? If this isn't exactly yer cuppa tea or you just genuinely do not know how to write this, feel free to just ignore this request:]

Hope you have an excellent day/night/evening/afternoon/noon!!>:DD

Ah, I think I recognize you there! Good to hear from you again. I’ll give it a shot!

GN! Shy Artist Reader x Mercs

Characters: Scout, Pyro, Sniper, Engineer, Medic (TF2)

Warnings: None

Scout ⚾️

• The two of you tend to draw while you hang out, just chatting in the meantime.

• He absolutely adored your work, and loved watching you make it.

• But when you pulled your sketchbook to your chest quick, he seemed confused.

• “Hey! You good?” “Yeah, I uh…I just feel weird when you’re watching me draw.” “Huh? You don’t gotta feel embarrassed, doll!”

• “…You know when you tried to pull off a jump while Spy and Demo were watching the other day…” At this reminder, Scout gave you a teasing scowl—not genuinely mad, just embarrassed remembering that.

• “Ah geez—yeah, if they hadn’t spooked me by starin’ at me like a buncha creeps—oh.” “You get it now?”

• He got…a little confused. “Am I makin’ it worse? Aw man, I’m sorry—” “No, no! I just—that awkwardness? Yeah.” “Ohhh, I think I gotcha…”

•Scout, uh, scooted over on the bed a little and eventually sat back down with his back against yours. “There. This’ll fix it!” Both of you erupted into laughter.

•In all seriousness though, he respected your wishes. He keeps everything you make for him in his room, aside from a small doodle or two that he carries on him to work at all times…awww.

Pyro 🔥

•You and Pyro lay sprawled on the floor, with a can of colored pencils and a box of crayons respectively.

•They’re actually quite good when it comes to color, pairing different hues together. It’s hard to tell exactly what they’re drawing, but sometimes you can faintly make it out.

•You suddenly felt eyes very intently locked onto you and jerked your head up.

• “Hm??”, came through the mask, muffled. “Uh…could you um…”

•They did that curious little head tilt, tenderly reaching for your hand. If you needed to tell them something, they wanted to make sure they heard it!

• “I feel nervous when you watch me draw. I know it’s silly, but—” “Ah!” Genuine surprise from the masked figure. They’d had no idea.

•Immediately, there were muffled apologies from under the mask, quickly hugging you. “Hey hey, it’s okay! I’m not mad. I just figured I should tell you. You’re okay, Py.”

• “Mmph?” “Yes, dear. I promise.” Giggling a little now, they pulled their free hand over the eyeholes of the mask like a visor, blocking you from view. You chuckled along with them.

•Later on, as the two of you shared drawings, you made out a familiar visage—that of you, with a couple bright red hearts drawn nearby. “Hehe, I love you too.”

Sniper 🏹

• Mick didn’t often watch you draw, honestly. The two of you tended to do your own thing in the same space, talking occasionally. Even that was enough.

• Once you caught him watching on what was kind of an off day though. You kind of just stared back up at him.

• Sniper cocked an eyebrow. “Why’d ya stop?” Biting the inside of your cheek, you looked off to the side.

• You felt the bed next to you sink down a little as he moved closer. “Hey. Ya got somethin’ ya wanna say?” His voice was softer, more cautious. “…cuz ya know, I’d like to hear that.”

• Shuffling a bit to get more comfortable next to him, you sighed. “I don’t know how to explain it, but…I feel weird when people watch me draw.” “Yeah?”

• You nodded. “Kinda see what ya mean, I guess. Ya think they’ll judge the work-in-progress?” You silently agreed.

• A slight smile brightened his features. “Well, dunno if it helps, but I know a lil better, love.” His shoulder brushed against yours as you moved a bit closer.

• “I love everythin’ you make. And I know that you know what yer doin. But…if you’re more comfortable with me not lookin’, I get that too. That’s fine.”

• He went to move away, but you quickly clasped his shoulder softly, indicating that he could stay. “Maybe, I could try to keep going?” A laugh broke through as you admitted, “Besides, I like sitting next to you.”

• Humming contently, the Aussie planted the briefest of kisses on the top of your head. “Arright, darlin. You just lemme know.”

• As you kept working on that page, you did notice when he was watching, and it wasn’t easy, but after that he would have periods of staring off into space instead.

• There was a conciseness to it. He’d taken what you’d said to heart. Still, though, he seemed happy…and you were, too.

Engineer 🔧

• Dell had gathered quite a collection of your art by now, kept it on the wall of his workshop. He showed it off proudly to anyone who happened to enter, even if visitors tended to be few and far between.

• One night, you kept him company as he worked overtime on a new design for a model. While he worked, you did too.

• After a while though, you could tell someone was looking at you. As your gaze lifted, you caught him sneaking a peek from his desk, right next to the table where you sat.

• “Aw, did I break yer focus there? Sorry, honey.” “No no, it’s okay, Engie…I could put it away for now anyway, if you want something—”

• “No problem, (Y/N)! You can keep right on with that if ya like.” A somewhat sheepish smile came to your face.

“Hey, Engie…can you keep a secret?”

• “Mmm?” “…I get sorta nervous when people watch me draw.” A knowing sort of smile slowly crossed the Texan’s face, sliding his goggles up to rest on his forehead for a moment.

• “You wanna know a secret?”

“Hmm?”

A nostalgic sort of thoughtfulness crept into his voice. “I used ta be the same way.”

• “Really?” You never pictured the mellow, easygoing Engineer to ever be self-conscious in that way.

“Yup.”

• “People would ask me all sorts a’ questions while they watched me build. ‘How ya gonna make that work?’ ‘What’s that do?’ ‘Why’d ya put that there?’ Drove me crazy. Part of the reason I got a shop, I s’pose.”

• He held a spare nut and bolt, twisting them together and apart as he talked, somewhat absentmindedly. Eyes wandering a bit, but always making their way back to you.

• “But here’s somethin’ I think you oughta hear, although I’d never try ta make ya change. Your work is yours, darlin’. Yours and yours alone. Ya make such beautiful things. I’m not askin’ myself what you’re doin’ when I watch, cuz I already know.”

• He put the fidget aside and reached for your hand with a sweet smile. “Why do you like to watch me work?”

• You could feel your face redden just a bit, and grinned at the floor for a moment. He chuckled at this, in a lighthearted way though. “Cuz it’s really cool how you make everything work, and how smart you are with your designs.”

• “Yep. That’s why I like watchin’ you work. Own the process, (Y/N). It’s all yours. You know exactly what you’re doin.”

• “Thanks, Dell.” “Of course, honey. Of course.” From that moment onward, it seemed like he tried not to watch for too long, but when he did, you remembered his words. And it didn’t feel quite as nerve-wracking then.

Medic 💉

• Medic absolutely loved to watch you draw. It was fascinating to him. Seeing how giddy he got, it took you a while to work up the guts to tell him.

• “Is something wrong, Liebe? You’ve been stopped for a while now.”

“Yeah, uh…Medic, I wanna tell you something, but it’s weird.”

“Oh?”

• “I uh…I feel kinda…nervous, I guess? When people watch me draw.”

“…might I ask why?” He seems genuinely perplexed by this. “I think it’s fascinating.”

• Yeah, yeah he would. You weren’t sure how to explain this to him—you knew for sure that he didn’t mind when people watched him at work, he operated on fully conscious people!

• You sighed softly, unsure of how to make this make sense to him. A hand rested on your shoulder for a moment. “(Y/N), I can see this means a lot to you. And as much as I love watching you at work…I love you even more. So I’ll stop doing that.”

A smile crept up on you, glancing back up at him.

“I appreciate it a lot, love. Sorry I can’t put it into words.”

“No need to be sorry! But…I do have one request.”

“Yeah?”

• A sheepish sort of smile came to the doctor’s face. “I can…still see the finished product, right? And maybe, instead of me watching, you could tell me how you put everything together?”

“Of course! No problem.”

“Ah, wunderbar!”

I’ve been very tired lately so I’m sorry this took me so long, and that it’s sorta short/repetitive. I appreciate your patience!

#tf2 x reader #tf2 x you #team fortress 2 x reader #tf2 scout #scout tf2 #tf2 scout x reader #tf2 pyro #pyro tf2 #tf2 pyro x reader #tf2 sniper #sniper x reader #tf2 sniper x reader #tf2 engineer #engineer tf2 #tf2 engineer x reader #tf2 medic #medic tf2 #tf2 medic x reader

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haravath0t · 6 months

Text

𝐀 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝’𝐬 𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨

𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧-𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐬

𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝚗𝚎𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎, 𝚣𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒, 𝚊𝚢𝚊𝚝𝚘, 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚊

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑹𝒊𝒌𝒂𝒏𝒆 𝑾𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑨𝒅𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒓 - 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝟹

𝚜𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 : ̗̀➛ meeting the in-laws during the holidays…how does that work? (genshin men x Filipino!reader)

☕🤍🌿 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚗'𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 ! 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 ! ☕🤍🌿

₊˚.༄ 𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦

Oh, they’d love him.

The minute he walks through the door, his aura is undeniable. He’s practically the dream son-in-law any Filipino parent can ask for.

Taking off shoes at the front door? Check. A put together outfit? Check. Going up to your parents immediately to take their hand and doing the “mano”? Check. Your parents would eat it all up too!

“Ayyy, wow! Mabait s’ya!” (Wow! He’s polite!) “Ang galing naman! Ay thank you, thank you!”

They would even notice that he took care of the refreshments too, it seems. By refreshments, we mean water bottles. Lots of it. It undeniably will be the brand that he likes the best. No, it is not the crystal geyser, no it’s not dasani, just a bunch of “flavored water with the best aftertaste.” (Don’t get your hopes up, it’s good ol’ mineral water.)

It’s all nice and all, but when he sits down? He may not look like it, but he’s a nervous wreck. “Is this alright?” “Perhaps I can say something. But what?” “Hmm, no, not that.” In truth, he’s amazed that he even landed on a beautiful partner, that is you, someone who has exercised so much patience and has taught him ways to express himself. However, to practice all he has learned from you in the face of other people, especially that it’s your parents? It is safe to say even the Iudex himself cannot help but feel queasy.

He cannot bring himself to really start any conversation as much as he would like to, even the bustle of your family slowly trickling in cannot take away the unspoken worries he has. It is thanks to you holding his hand below the table that his worries ease even a little, as well as your inquisitive parents.

The fact that your parents start off by asking questions eases Neuvillette, his posture as elegant as he looks, relax ever so slightly, something you notice by the slightest shift in his seat. The longer they talk to the quiet Iudex, the more your parents are comforted as well. Perhaps their daughter is in good hands, after all.

“Please, do not worry. I shall swear to you that your daughter will live every day knowing how much she means to me.”

ᨒ ₊ ⊹ 𝘻𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪

Like Neuvillette, he’d have an aura that one cannot deny. It’s as though he carries himself with a quiet yet powerful sense of confidence, truly the definition of finesse as he steps in. It’s as though a higher power has stepped into the party. (hah!)

He was well-dressed, having his dress shirt with a nicely placed tie, some nice slacks, and a trench coat that only accentuates his lean visage. As always, his long brown hair was in a ponytail, and he came in with leather gloves.

The way he takes off his shoes and the way he practically bows down to your parents to “mano” them is pretty second nature to him. “Greetings. Thank you for hosting this night for us.” He’d say, and his deep voice along with the gentle tone he uses amuses your parents and even your cousins. Sure they knew he was a good man for you to be married to, and sure they have heard him speak before, but to hear him and be within his vicinity is such a shocker to them!

The titas are fawning over him already, trying to lean closer to hear this man talk, even approaching so that way they can greet him as well. His smile was so kind, his amber eyes something no one can look away from, and his stature made him look much taller than he already is.

In his hands were a container of dumplings that you and he had made together, a suggestion made by him to thank the hosts, your parents. “Ay! Thank you!” Your parents seemed more than pleased. It is when he takes off his gloves and holds your hand does your wedding rings shine in the light, a reminder to the family just who he was happily married to.

They cannot help but talk about you both now, watching Zhongli catch up with your parents quietly, all the while his hand subconsciously places itself on the small of your back, letting you take a plate and dig into the various foods and desserts you would like. Though your parents have talked to Zhongli several times before on smaller visits, they still cannot help but feel some form of intimidation towards the man, feeling as though it was too good to be true.

Your titas love him alright, but your titos? Oh, they envy him. Almost every man in that party does. They felt as though Zhongli needed to be eased in, and what better way than through drinks and games? Mayhaps mahjong? Oh, that’s where they had made a mistake.

Zhongli refuses beer, settling on tea while he talks to the titos with ease, though he wouldn’t hesitate to give out his opinions on some topics, which undeniably tarnish some of the pride your titos came into this party with. The worst part? He’s winning the mahjong matches no matter how many times the titos or your guy cousins switch. The man at this point seems unshakeable! He didn’t show it, but he was getting a hoot out of it.

However, even if it may be so, he’s always coming back to you. Even amidst the noise, his smile truly appears when you’re near. Your parents don’t miss how easily you two reciprocate, and they cannot help but feel relaxed.

“Salamat sa diyos,” (“Thank god”) Your mom sighs, looking at your father. “She’s taken care of.”

₊˚.༄ 𝘬𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘺𝘢𝘵𝘰

Unlike the previous husbands, Kamisato Ayato is an intimidating type. Rather than him being a bit nervous around your parents, it’s more of them being nervous around him.

They immediately approved of your marriage with him, his name alone already ringing a bell to both your mom and dad. When he met them, asking their blessing in your marriage? Oh, they cannot help but become nervous. They tried to dress their best, you came in with an extra spotless looking household, and the biggest array of Filipino dishes you can even recall. Admittedly, it was a little too much, that you even got a bit annoyed of how they were putting much more effort into this than they should, but you had to just let Ayato be, letting him praise your parents in turn.

When you called your parents to notify them that you two were coming to this year’s Christmas party, it was the same reaction. Even though Ayato does his best to reassure them that he’s just “your husband”, it seems to never be so.

And so, he’s dressed in a simple yet elevated outfit: a light blue collared shirt, paired with a black tie and vest, and a long black trench coat.

The kids loved him, of course, but you can see your parents practically curl up. He greeted your relatives and your parents with ease, amusing them each time he even spoke to you so lovingly.

“My love, let’s grab something delicious to eat.” He’s heard saying to you with a smile, gently guiding you through the crowded house where the trays of food are lined up.

Though many are in awe of the famed Kamisato, they are undeniably going to think of your comparability with the young man too. The titas talk to your parents, and it’s a whole round table in itself.

“Ang pangit ng damit ng anak mo!” (“Your daughter’s clothes look ugly”) A Tita whispers to your mother. “Lalo na sa tabi n’ya.” (“Especially next to him.”)

“Couldn’t your daughter have a better job?” “I feel like this is some joke.” “He could leave her one day, watch…let’s see if she can keep her act together.”

Your ears catch it pretty quickly, the women talking so loud. Undeniably it hurts your mother, but she lets them talk, trying to toughen it out. Ayato is quick to notice your concern.

“Hey,” Ayato chuckles from behind, kissing your temple. “Why don’t you find us a seat? I’ll get us your favorite drink, hm?” His voice, as always, was so sweet, and you couldn’t help but smile. “Fine, fine,” you sigh. “I’ll be in the living room.” Ayato can only smile and look at you with loving eyes. “Good girl.”

And so, you opt to find a cozy seat on the couch in the other room, somewhere by the corner and by the window. Ayato was going to get your drinks from the freezer, yes, but also to make a quick stop.

“Ahh,” Ayato chuckles, standing beside the circle of titas and your own mother. Immediately the chatter dies down, and he practically commands the flow of the topic, all the while he holds onto your drinks. “I don’t want to be so intruding, but I cannot help but overhear what you all are talking about!” It is only then that the titas start to feel a tinge of guilt, and Ayato stops them before they even come up with an excuse.

“Why, if I may add my own contribution, I’d like to offer that before you begin to judge what my wife and I have with one another, that you all consider just what type of people you all are that makes you all so capable of passing judgment, hm? You won’t tarnish my impression of my wife, but you are tarnishing my impression towards you all.”

₊˚.༄ 𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘢

Oh, your parents had their doubts when they met Childe. They couldn’t help but wonder if he was a bad influence or not, but they decided that they can’t really sway you to reconsider or to think about it a bit more. So alas, when you and your husband come in for the Christmas party, Childe, or rather, Ajax, was already having a happy face.

He looked so cozy in your eyes, dawning a red crew neck sweater with gray pants, all put together with a black belt and a beige coat. No doubt he was handsome, and yet the elders can only stare at this rather loud and rambunctious man that was your husband.

Your parents greet him, but he hugs them! It’s quite a shocker to them, but they couldn’t deny, his charisma was something that had them soften up. “If you don’t mind, I also brought along someone else!” He says to your parents, and before they can question him, out peeps a smaller boy behind his legs, someone who looked similar to Ajax. He had the same red hair and blue eyes, the same freckles, and your parents’ eyes went wide.

Was this his kid? Your stepson? But the questions were immediately answered when your husband spoke: “This is Teucer! My little brother! He has been missing us, so I figured he can come along!”

This made your parents second guess their previous view of Ajax. Did he really speak so highly of you and your parents that he trusted his little brother to come along? Yes, yes he did. The implication alone made them smile. Maybe they needed to rethink this.

“No, it’s okay! Come, go eat na! There’s so much food!” Your mother beckons to Teucer, leaving you and him alone. He’s very affectionate with you, and openly so, that it makes your parents blush. They watch you two settle, watch Ajax sit you down on his lap while he feeds you food from a plate you two are sharing, all while Teucer fights his older brother to snuggle up to you.

That’s only temporary, though, especially when the little boy gets whisked away by your own young nieces and nephews, causing the kids to be even louder than usual. Still, this gets your father and mother to talk to him.

“So Ajax…” They start asking him questions one by one, and each makes them slowly relax. He’s ticking all the requirements: he’s making a steady income, you and him are getting along fine, and that you’re also being well received by his own family.

But then comes a dreaded distraction: a yelling noise from a chorus of men that was your Tito’s. And Ajax’s head snaps in curiosity. “Oh, don’t mind them,” your father waves dismissively. “Pacquiao is fighting tonight.” It was then you see Ajax’s eyes widen. “Wait. Like the boxer?!” “YES!”

Your father did an immediate 180 if he hadn’t already. For all you know, Ajax wasn’t yours any longer, for he was already given a bottle of beer and within the crowd of various Tito’s, seeing him mimic punches as though Pacquiao himself was being coached by this man.

Your mother couldn’t help but laugh with you, seeing the Tito’s and a now buzzed Ajax talk amongst themselves as though they have known each other as long as you and him have.

“You know, anak?” Your mother starts, looking over at the sight of all these men gathered around the TV while your husband screams alongside your mother’s husband. “You were right. You married a good guy, a good family oriented guy. I like it.”

#the rikane wonderland advent calendar #neuvillette #neuvillette x filipino!reader #neuvillette x you #zhongli #Zhongli x Filipino!reader #zhongli x you #kamisato ayato #Kamisato ayato x Filipino!reader #kamisato ayato x you #tartaglia #childe #childe tartaglia ajax #ajax x you #ajax x reader #childe x Filipino!reader #zhongli x reader #neuvillete x reader

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tumbleweed-run · 7 months

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Ethereal

Kinktober Day 25 Pregnancy

It didn’t matter how many times he saw her lately, Gale’s breath caught each time. When he thought of Tav the image his mind conjured up was still the woman he met, so it was a small thrill every time she appeared in the room. She was still absolutely stunning, but the fact that she was now carrying his child did something to him viscerally.

The pregnancy was far enough along that there was no denying it. Even while fully dressed, anyone with eyes could tell Tav was carrying their child. Gale had spent much of the early months laying in bed with her caressing the growing mound that was her belly. Now he enjoyed allowing his hand to stray to her stomach, occasionally blessed with the little sensation of tiny feet against his hand.

“Getting any work done?” Tav teased from where she’d paused by the door, undoubtedly watching him watch her.

Gale glanced down at the mess of parchment in front of him, “not important.”

She laughed and walked over to him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “What were you thinking about?”

“How lovely you look carrying our daughter,” Gale answered almost immediately.

He heard the huff from above him, an amused and exasperated noise all rolled into one. “You’re so sure about that.”

“I have it on good authority that Morena Dekarios has correctly guessed the genders of the last 5 pregnant women she’s encountered,” Gale explained for probably the hundredth time, “and Mother took one look at you and declared that our child would be a girl.”

“Is that authority Morena herself?” Tav teased had disappeared further behind him.

Gale turned and found she had settled onto the seat on the terrace. The setting sun caused her skin to glow and Gale was momentarily frozen in awe. She looked every part the goddess right now, glowing both on the inside and the out. Luckily he knew that beneath her ethereal visage laid a very human heart. Tav’s humanity was some of his favorite parts of her, making her better than any god.

“What did I do to earn the right to love you,” he asked surprising himself, the words leaving his lips before they’d even entered his brain.

Tav smiled and rolled her eyes fondly. “You’ve been yourself and that’s all I’ve ever wanted,” she said insistantly.

Admittedly they had this conversation at somewhat regular intervals. Gale would likely never accept that he was worthy of loving someone like Tav. But everytime that black urge to prove himself in increasingly grandiose ways she was there to reel him back in. Reminding Gale that she loved him exactly as he was.

He rose from his seat and went to her. Instead of taking up the rest of the space on the seat, Gale knelt before her. Placing a hand onto the swell of Tav’s stomach he leaned forward and pressed a kiss. He was rewarded with a thump against his hand. Gale chuckled and delivered another kiss.

“I can already tell this one will be a handful,” Tav said fondly placing a hand over Gale’s as another kick fluttered against her skin.

“Alright little girl,” Gale said with mock sterness, “give your mother a rest.”

Another eye roll above him but when he looked up Tav smiled and he was once more struck by her beauty and his luck.

“Let me worship you,” Gale asked softly.

Tav blushed at his request, eyes darting around, “not out here.”

“No one will see,” Gale tried to reason with her, more than happy to cast them some cover.

She shook her head still.

“Alright,” Gale conceded, “then lets go inside.”

“Uhg,” Tav whined, “I just got out here.”

Gale laughed in response and took Tav’s hands before rising to his feet, “I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”

Tav allowed him to pull her to her feet at that promise. “You better.”

Gale lead her back inside and then further into the house towards their room. He’d considered using the couch in the study but knew their bed would be much more comfortable for her. His desire to touch her was easily outweighed by his desire to make Tav comfortable.

Once they got into the room Gale made quick work of her clothing. Unable to resist Gale leaned down and pressed yet another kiss to her bare stomach. Tav laughed and playfully pushed at his shoulder.

“I’m beginning to worry you might like be pregnant a little too much,” she accused even as she climbed onto their bed and settled against the mound of pillows that was beginning to take over their bed.

“I enjoy your body in all of it’s states,” he told her as he followed.

Gale pressed apart her legs slightly so he could kneel between them. He leaned up and captured Tav’s lips with his. She sighed into the kiss, raising up so she could deepen it. Gale was happy to let her lead for a while, resting his hands on either side of her face. The second Tav’s lips parted his tongue chased it’s way inside. He licked at the soft earthy flavor of the teas she’s begun enjoying lately until he found the flavor that was uniquely hers. They went on like this for several minutes until she was making soft noises into his mouth.

Gale broke away from Tav’s lips in order to trail kisses down her neck and across her collar bone. She relaxed back, seemingly happy to allow him his time to worship her. He trailed down into the valley between her breasts and she arched her back towards him. Taking the hint Gale kissed upwards until he could draw one of her nipples into his mouth. Tav gasped, hand raising up to thread into his hair. He swirled the nipple with his tongue, his hand raising up to gently caress its twin.

Tav moaned, legs spreading slightly in response. Gale gently pressed on of his knees forward against her core. She moaned again and ground down against his leg almost immediately. He released her nipple from his mouth and turned his attention to the other side. In the last few weeks she’d been nearly insatiable in bed, a perk of this stage of pregnancy she’d assured him. A perk Gale was all to happy to take advantage of.

When he’d spend enough time worshipping her nipples, Tav was writhing near constantly and he could feel her arousal seeping into the fabric of his pants, Gale allowed his kisses to trail lower. He spent a few moment kissing along her stomach before sliding his hands beneath her hip. Sliding back down the bed Gale gently pulled her after him until she was laying.

“Do you need a pillow?” Gale asked even as his lips trailed ever lower.

“Gale,” was Tav’s only response, a plea.

He sat up then and looked at her. “Do you need a pillow for under your hips?” He repeated.

Tav huffed, rolled her eyes, and grabbed a pillow out from the pile that was now above her head. “Yes, here,” she handed it to him.

Gale quickly helped work the pillow under her hips before returning his lips to the exact spot they’d left. Tav settled further into the bed with a contented sigh.

She was so delightfully wet when Gale finally made his way between her legs. Tav whimpered at his first lick between her folds, legs spreading even more. He was only happy to oblige to her silent request. He took his time licking every inch of her, swirling his tongue just inside her entrance. She moaned, hand finding its way back into his hair.

Gale gripped the pillow and pulled it forward so her hips tilted up a little more. “Good?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered breathlessly, tugging softly on his hair trying to guide his mouth back down onto her.

Gale was laying flat on the bed now, hands resting under Tav’s thighs keeping them spread. As he lowered his mouth to her clit she cursed and rocked towards his lips. Gale’s hips rutted against the bed in response, his aching cock demanding attention. That was as much as he was willing to indulge it, his sole focus on sucking and licking at Tav’s clit.

She was unreserved in the sounds spilling from her lips. Moans and whimpers spilling out around the melding of his name and various curses. It was music to Gale’s ears and he moaned against her cunt. Tav gasped and pulled him closer enjoying the vibrations. Gale continued to moan as he licked, showing her just how much he loved his current position. Tav writhed and cried out above him as she came against his mouth.

Gale happily lapped at her under the waves of her orgasm stilled. Only then did he push up to sit back on his knees. Looking down at her he realized he was mistaken, she was truly ethereal now. Skin flushed, eyes dark with arousal as he hair fanned out a halo above her head. He wanted this memory burned into his brain forever, he would gladly forget every incantation to be allowed that.

“Gale,” Tav whispered, raising her hand to him after allowing him to look a her for several moments.

“I’m here,” he promised taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Yes but I want you up here,” she said and tugged at his hand until he leaned back over her to press a kiss against her lips.

“And here,” Tav continued, dragging a leg behind his thighs until he leaned forward, rocking his clothed cock against her core.

Who was he to deny her? Gale stripped as quickly as possible, eyes only leaving Tav when they absolutely had to.

“Like this?” He asked leaning over her when he was done, allowing his cock to brush against her folds.

“No,” Tav shook her head and pushed at his shoulders.

Gale sat back confused. Tav sat herself up and shuffled her body to the side of where she’d been. “I want to be on top,” she insisted.

“Are you sure?” Gale checked even as he shuffled his body into the space she’d just vacated.

Tav nodded and as soon as he stopped moving she threw her leg over his waist. She settled back until his cock was nestled between her legs, not inside just yet. Tav slowly rocked her hips against him whimpering each time his cockhead bumped against her clit. His hips followed her movements after a little, chasing after every one of her movements. Gale was happy to be like this for a while, lazily thrusting between her folds.

Tav was the one who grew impatient. Planting one foot into the bed she rose up and grasped his cock by the base. Gale knew her well enough to place his hands on her hips and when she began to sink down onto him he forced her to move slowly. She tried to glare at him but her eyes were heavily lidded in pleasure with each little bit he allowed her to sink down. Slowly they went until she was settled flush against him. Gale bit his lip in restraint as he wanted to allow Tav a moment to adjust

“I’m not fragile,” She insisted rolling her hips with him deep inside of her.

“Yes, but you are precious,” Gale reasoned, voice rough.

Tav didn’t try and argue only continued to roll her hips. Gale granted her a few more moments before releasing her hips and gently rocking up into her. Tav quickly rose up and then allowed herself to slide back down his cock. Each time she did this she swiveled her hips slightly. Gale thrust up into her as she quickened her pace, one hand resting on his chest for support.

She slowed eventually, movement becoming less smooth, she groaned in frustration. Tav’s muscles undoubtedly were growing tired. Gale planted his own feet into the bed and held onto her hips. He fucked up into her, taking over the motions entirely now. He could no longer tell who was making what noises.

Gale came first, hips thrusting up harder than he meant. He then pinned their hips together, a habit that would likely never die, as he filled her. Gale held her there until his orgasm faded. He quickly moved his hand, pressing two fingers between his skin and her’s until he found Tav’s clit.

He worked it, quickly using some of his cum that had begun leaking from her as lubrication as he rubbed. She squirmed cried out, fingers flexing on his chest until her nails broke the skin. He kept up with his fingers until only a little while later Tav came again, cunt spasming against his softening cock. She collapsed against him as she came.

Gale gently rolled them onto their sides so her stomach was no longer trapped between them. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured against her skin. Tav leaned her head further against his lips and sighed happily.

#Gale x Tav #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #kinktober 2023 #kinktober 2023 pregnancy #only 6 days left!

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