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sayafics · 7 months

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Dragon of Dorne - Chapter III

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A tense silence had shrouded the hall shortly after, a thick presence that coiled around them all. Daemon watched his niece with a leering gaze. Try as he might, he could not withhold the infatuation that budded within him.

Despite Rhaenyra's persistent petting, the exasperated glances Jacaerys shared with his betrothed, and Lucerys' hidden smirks of horrified amusement, Daemon found his gaze could not be pulled away from the girl.

Daemon could not look away if he tried, even when she turned towards Aegon to share fretful smiles and indulge him with conversation so he may leave their nephews be.

Daemon leaned closer towards the table when Alaynha turned to Aemond, sharing hushed whispers and fruitive glances towards a quiet Lucerys.

Daemon's eyes softened when she laughed alongside Helaena, the two sisters conversed sweetly over insects and paintings, and he could not help but notice how the girl would preen at Alicent's every word, would smile shyly at Otto's nods of approval and would grin unabashedly at her father's acknowledgement.

Here was a girl who was surrounded by love from a family which was not wholly hers. Here was a girl bathing in affection - Daemon should have been jealous, his blood should have curdled with envy at the sight of someone receiving such outpouring, unconditional love.

Instead, his heart grew heavier with such great need he almost lost his breath. Daemon was not sure what he needed, just that there was an ache and an emptiness that lingered fresh beneath the scars and nightmares of his battles hard-won.

There was a part of Daemon that had awakened at the sight, to see such goodness able to exist within the walls of King's Landing.

There was a part of Daemon, dark and cruel, that wished to corrupt it and nurture it to feed the hole in his heart so he could feel anew.

Daemon didn't know what he wanted, but he would do anything to try and make the sinking feeling tearing at his soul stop.

It did not take long for the tense silence to simmer into an agonising echo of rage - with Alaynha far too distracted talking to Aemond, Aegon had grown bored quite easily.

His taunting words grated at Jacaerys' patient countenance. And when Aegon had stood between him and his betrothed and laid an offer, quiet and bare, with pride tinging him words, anger roiled within Jace's heart as he leapt from his seat.

The loud thud of his fists against the wooden table caused the room to hush, eyes fixed upon the seething brunette boy as he hunched over the table. Aegon did not even look ashamed when he returned to his seat, sharing an amused glance with his brother, who had taken Jacaerys' impulsive actions as a threat against Aegon and stood to his defence.

Alaynha watched on with cautious eyes, the hand holding her cutlery knife twisted it in her grasp as she tensed within her seat, eyes hardening as she prepared to move to defend her kin if she must - her gaze flickered between her nephew and brother, the grip on her knife tightening as she pursed her lips in an attempt to stay composed.

But with her twitching fingers, her trembling body and her raging eyes, Daemon knew. The girl looked like she was out for blood, the calming waves of naivety and shyness she had previously radiated were drowned out by the shrieking fire that begged to make itself known.

Daemon found himself enamoured at the sight of her restrained anger, wondering what potential hid beneath the walls she caged herself in. Wondered what her anger was like, what her violence held, what her touch felt like when the dragon in her blood burned all that came across its path.

He could understand the girl's vigilance. The last time one of her brothers had held their own against Daemon's children, and Rhaenyra's, Aemond had lost an eye. She would not allow her brothers to lose to them again.

Jacaerys spoke, his words strained as he toasted to his uncles, and then to his newfound aunt - pretending Aegon's words had only been in jest, all to keep his mother happy and his grandsire at peace. Jacaerys' eyes glimmered as he regarded her, only looking away when Aegon turned to him with a fierce glare.

No one spoke for a few moments, all silently staring into the depths of their empty plates and drowning cups before another voice spoke - a toast to Alicent, she said.

Rhaenyra's voice was thick with emotions, and a glance towards Alicent would show her eyes were full of unshed tears as she regarded the words of her oldest friend with the highest esteem.

The Targaryens - half-blooded and whole - sat in an amicable air of content despite the tense toasts shared in honour of Aegon and Aemond, and in rejoice for the cordial toast from Rhaenyra to Alicent.

There were tentative smiles shared between the women as food was passed around the table, but Alaynha did not fail to notice how her eldest half-sister avoided her with every laugh and every whisper.

She could not help the despair that settled in her heart, she had hoped she would gain another kin tonight but she was sure Rhaenyra would prefer to see her as an enemy. Perhaps as nothing, if she could help it.

Alaynha pushed around the food on her plate, much too anxious to try and sate her cramping stomach from hours of starvation as she traversed the skies upon dragonback.

There was a bark of laughter from across the table, Alaynha did not have to lift her head to know that it was her father's. A gentle smile pulled across her face as she peered up to watch him - at least he had found some peace in such a reunion. And truly, that was all which mattered.

Instead of her father's wilting gaze, her eyes caught the blazing fire that burned beneath the violet hues of Daemon Targaryen.

It was only then, seeing how concentrated he was, how his eyes singed her skin and his smirk sped up her heart, that she realised his eyes were not the only ones upon her.

A glance to her left showed the guarded eyes of Aemond, the stare growing more manic as he also realised the prey laying under Daemon's predatory gaze was none other than his sister.

Still, he kept mum - he did not want to ruin this for his mother, not when she was glowing in a way he had thought was diminished and extinguished, never to spark to life again. But it has - in this moment now, Alicent was set alight, talking with the woman who had everything she had ever wanted - choice.

Alaynha's gaze flitted back to her plate, cheeks flushed under Daemon's heated gaze, and she was not sure whether she wanted him to stop.

A flicker of guilt welled up in her throat, disgust curdling inside her gut - this was her half-sister's husband. This was her uncle. Although Rhaenyra may not acknowledge her, Alaynha was not half as cruel. She would not take what is not hers.

Daemon liked to think he could have taken his eyes off of his niece should he wish, but there was something tempting about her. There was a streak of Targaryen hidden behind her half-blooded soul that called to his whole one - where like searched for like.

She was quiet and meek, pretty and dainty. A doe in the wild, a lamb ready for slaughter. But when she spoke of her dragon, the High Valyrian slipping off her tongue with ease, there was a likeness which shone through.

There was something wild about her - something grim and feral that hid beneath layers of manners, polite greetings and shy smiles.

She was a gentle flame, a flickering candle yearning to be guided and fed to cause a roaring blaze.

Daemon's gaze eased off the girl as he followed Jacaerys' rounding figure towards Helaena - she sat next to her grandsire, lost in her world of dreams and insects. That is until a hand presents itself to her, and an offer for a dance is made.

Helaena reaches for Jacaerys' hand with glee, and although her brother's watch with irritated stares and suspicious eyes, Alaynha watched with an indulging smile that Helaena returns tenfold as she grips Jacaerys' hand tighter, allowing him to lead her.

Alaynha watched the pair in quiet admiration. She knew that Rhaenyra had previously proposed Jacaerys wed Helaena - her mother thought it mad. But seeing her sister's grinning face and hearing her joyous laughs, Alaynha feels she would have been much happier with Rhaenyra's child than stuck in a loveless marriage with her brother, both bound by a duty they do not want.

She remained stuck in her thoughts, smiling unconsciously at the sight of Jacaerys spinning Helaena around in buoyant moves. It was the touch of something rough and calloused against her back of her hand which snapped her out her reverie.

Her hand was resting against the back of her chair as she had twisted in her seat to admire Helaena's dancing with Jacaerys, and it twitched at the unfamiliar sensation. There was a sharp intake of breath, had that been her?

Her eyes darted towards what had caused the sensation, she thought it to be Aegon since Aemond sat on her other side - but her eldest brother's hands were soft and pliant, the hands that brushed against her own were worn, like that of a warrior.

Her eyes found fingers calloused by the use of heavy weaponry, scarred by light scratches and gashes, brushing against the back of her hand.

A soft caress that called to her.

She followed the hand up, up, up.

Oh.

Her gaze wavered for a moment, her vision wobbling as she looked up towards the man who thought himself brave enough, worthy enough to call to her. To ask for her. It was then she realised the room had plummeted into true silence, the guards much too hesitant to shift from their positions in fear the sound of their scraping armour would send the room into utter chaos.

Those around her watched as she regarded the man in front of her with a curious gaze.

Daemon Targaryen.

There was a part of her that felt she should not be surprised by his audaciousness, but she was sure her mouth had parted in surprise as she gazed into his eyes with a wide and curious stare.

Daemon did not dare to glance around the table, so sure he would be met with the sight of Rhaenyra stiff with wrath, his brother frothing at the mouth with indignation, and the suspicious gazes of her brothers and Alicent.

Instead he smirked softly, the feeling foreign upon his face, as he lifted his hand, palm facing up. Another offering - a chance to dance.

Alaynha reached up easily, as though she was reaching out based on simple instinct. But the stifling sense of hostility, which drowned the room, seemed to make her hesitate. Her eyes flickering between her brothers, as though she was almost asking their permission.

Daemon and his niece had not spoken again after their introductions, and even now he regarded her in silence. He knew he wanted to hear her voice again, to hear the High Valyrian slip off her tongue in rolling waves. There was a fascination that had seeded within him, one which slowly began to blossom and bloom.

He simply wanted to see where this sweltering feeling of temptation would go.

Daemon had a feeling he already knew, but a distant glance towards Rhaenyra's seething form had him feign ignorance to his own scheming desires.

Daemon did not wait for Aegon and Aemon to grant her permission, nor did he wait for her to accept his hand. He reached for her hand, holding it firmly in his grasp, "would you do me the honour, dear niece? I believe it is only right to offer a dance to the niece I have not known of in so many years."

His words were light, and he did mean every one. But he also held back on what his mind begged him to spill and confess. It seemed Daemon's words were enough to convince an aching Viserys, his voice strained as he prompted his daughter - "yes. Yes, dance with your uncle, dear. It would make me most happy to see my kin get along."

Perhaps Viserys should have known better than to encourage, but Alaynha had already been rejected by a sour Rhaenyra - perhaps Daemon's persistent acknowledgement of the girl would force Rhaenyra to accept her one day.

Alaynha relaxed at her father's words, assured she would not upset anyone as she stood and nodded in agreement.

Daemon led her close to where Jacaerys and Helaena still spun in graceful circles.

The sound of music faded into a melody that was new and bold. The violins were a layered chant of whispers and echoes that rung through the hall and enchanted the ears of its audience.

Daemon loosened his grasp on Alaynha's hand, letting it fall to her side as she simply watched him. A smile twitched upon his face, a brow raising in question - "well?"

Alaynha coughed, his words pulling her from her musings as she took a step back.

She glanced beside them, where Jacaerys and Helaena danced with child-like glee - holding each others arms like they were infants playing a simple game and not a man and a woman living in the ghost of their past.

Alaynha looked back at Daemon, her breath catching as she took in his fierce stare - she felt as though she was drowning in the vision of him.

The gentle tune reverberated across the hall, and Alaynha lifted a hand between her and Daemon. The tips of her fingers were so close to brushing against his jaw that they almost trembled - her palm faced him. Waiting.

His eyes glimmered with intrigue, his shoulders rising as he straightened his posture. He lifted a hand of his own, his left meeting her right.

In dances such as these, etiquette was key. That was what Alicent and her Septa had taught her, it was of modicum to stray from touching.

So when Daemon's hand brushed against her own, she had to suppress a flinch and fight off the shiver that crawled down her spine. His palm felt warm against the cold-bitten flesh of her own. Her hand dwarfed against his, and she could feel every mark he had suffered to earn his titles throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

The Rogue Prince.

Commander of the City Watch.

King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea.

He had rejected all titles but one, and the Rogue Prince stood in front of her today - a tall and lumbering figure who bore the expression of a man starved.

She nodded at him, and they began to dance.

The tip-toed around each other with graceful steps, when they would let go of each other's hands during one step they would immediately find it again in the next.

"Why would you ask me to dance, Uncle?"

Her question sounded innocent, and though he had given Viserys a reason he deemed acceptable, it did not mean Alaynha found it believable.

She may be the youngest child of Viserys, but she had grown up with the boy who did not want to be a king, a soldier burdened by the sacrifices of his past and a dragon dreamer who did not know how to escape the fates she had forseen. She was young, yes. But not naive.

"Is it truly so hard to believe I simply wanted a dance to learn more of my niece?"

"When you have tried so hard to not associate yourself with my brothers and sister, you should understand why I do - find it so hard, that is."

He pursed his lips, and when they spun around each other before switching hands, he took a step closer. Daemon took a deep breath, the scent of citrus and berries coating his tongue as the warmth of Alaynha being stood so close burned him through his clothes.

"They are not the same as you."

"Because they carry the blood of Hightowers? Well, it would do you well to understand I am no different to them, Uncle. For it was a Hightower who raised me with love and affection, when all the 'true' Targaryens - as I'm sure you refer to yourselves - fled the Seven Kingdoms and left my father to rot on his deathbed."

Her words were tainted with venom, anger that was hidden deep and caged away had been sparked to life. Daemon found the sight amusing, but if he let that be known he was sure the girl would walk away from him now.

"My apologies," he whispered softly, "I believe I have some reparations to make then, if I am to get your approval."

"And why is it that you crave such a thing, Uncle?"

"There are many things I crave that I cannot explain away," he glanced towards her lips, relishing in how she flushed darkly at the action, "but I would be more than happy to show you instead."

His eyes now bore into hers, pupils dilated as his heart beat wildly in his chest. They had merely danced in simple circles, and yet he found himself losing his breath the longer he breathed in her scent. The longer he held her hand - the flesh was supple and soft, felt soothing against the calloused gashes of his own.

She parted her lips, tongue rolling as she got ready to answer. Her eyes flickered over his shoulder briefly as they spun around each other once more, and when she came to face him again, her expression was blank, and her lips held tight.

Daemon did not need to turn to know who had caused such a thing.

Still, he could not blame the girl for her reaction and instead gave her a nod of reassurance as his hands twitched in an attempt to intertwine his fingers with her own.

They continued like that, spinning around each other in slow circles as the melody began to fade and stretch with dramatic pulls and frantic strums played in a frenzy.

There was then a silence, an opportunity to breathe as they stood still for a moment. They were much closer than when they had started, and their dance had caught the attention of all those in the hall who watched with raptured attention.

Even Jacaerys began to stumble in his steps as he tried to watch one aunt at the same time he danced with the other.

Daemon drew closer in anticipation. His hand that was pressed firmly against the palm of hers began to drag down her wrist, and the sensation of his fingers brushing against her hand, and then her wirst and arm caused goose-flesh to rise. He bit his lip in quiet amusement. His hand in question had reached for her opposite shoulder, where he brushed back strands of pale hair before winding his arm around her waist.

He tugged her closer, a reassuring warmth funnelled through him. Her eyes darted between his earnest gaze and the raging form of her half-sister, but a soft jerk pulled her back to him, and a kind smile eased her racing heart.

A moment to breathe.

It was then the music came crashing back, what must have been seconds felt like hours but Daemon had been prepared.

He pulled Alaynha flush against his front, his skin growing heated as he felt her form press against his own. He kept his sneaking desires to himself, taking to spin around the hall with calculated steps as Alaynha wrapped her arms around him with wide-eyed surprise.

Daemon glided them across the floor, spinning and turning. They never missed a step, and Alaynha found herself lost in the vertigo of their endless dance. Their feet moved in synchrony as their breaths melded into one, and Alaynha had simply lost herself to this moment now.

A breathless laugh escaped her. The sound was an addictive melody that Daemon found he would drown himself him if he had the choice. He smiled, a grin so broad and free that it felt foreign upon his face.

A glance over his shoulder would show a simmering Rhaenyra, and it was the only thing that stopped him from joining Alaynha in her joy.

She clutched him tightly as she tried to move in step with him, her hands winding around his neck and brushing across the scarred flesh hidden beneath his collar. Daemon's breaths stuttered at that, but for once, in perhaps a decade, he felt no need to turn from a gentle touch and instead leaned into it.

A haggard cough broke through the music, the musicians trailing their notes off-key as Daemon and Alaynha came to a stop. She pulled her hands away from their place around his neck, and they came to rest at his chest as she pushed against him softly.

Her head turned towards her father, expression tight with concern as she saw the man unable to catch his breath. She would have tried walking to him, but Daemon's touch was unrelenting.

She spared her uncle a look and saw his eyes filled with the same unease that settled in her heart.

Alicent ordered the King to be sent to his bed, Otto chiming in to have him receive milk of the poppy to ease his pains. Alaynha watched with sad eyes as her father's ragged form was carried away by his personal guard, the man much too weak to raise his head and deign a goodbye.

Her eyes followed him as he exited the hall, fixed to the door even after it had been closed. There was a comforting brush across her waist, where Daemon rubbed light circles atop her dress.

But it was Alicent's voice which brought her back - "why not continue your dance, my sweet? I was enjoying it quite so much."

There was a pleasant smile on her face, but Alaynha could not dismiss the suspicion held in her eyes as her mother regarded Daemon. Her grandsire simply looked amused as he nodded his ascent.

"As you wish, muña."

She agreed with ease, already turning back to peer into Daemon's waiting eyes. Her hands were still pressed against his chest, and a shudder ran through the man as she dragged them up to wind around his neck.

They dance for a few moments more, their steps in line with the gentle strums of the violin. But their moves are much more stilted, the joyous atmosphere tainted by the truth of her father's health - the man could take his last breath any day now. Such a truth threatened to drag her down with misery and dread.

It must have been only minutes before they were pulled to an abrupt stop - a powerful thud echoes through the hall as the lean figure of Aemond Targaryen stood above those in the hall.

Rage poured off of him in tempestuous waves, but he composed himself - head held high as he regarded the swine placed in front of him with disgust, and the boy sat across from him with murderous craze.

"A final tribute - to the health of my nephews."

Alaynha tensed, so sure of where his words would lead him that even as she paused with Daemon instead of her arms dropping from his neck, they tightened. In gross anticipation, she held her breath, fingers pressing into the rough and scarred flesh of Daemon that he almost gasped at the heady sensation that tumbled through him.

"Jace. Luke. And Joffrey," he continued, his hardened eye moving to each nephew, "each of them handsome, wise..."

There was a long pause, and Alaynha could see Aegon's lips twitch in amusement as well as Helaena's earnest gaze. A glance back to her uncle, who watched Aemond with narrowed eyes, was enough to restrain a familiar twitch of amusement spreading across her face.

"Hmm. Strong."

Alaynha finally slipped her handa from Daemon's neck, taking in Jace's figure that trembled with anger at Aemond's words.

"Aemond-" Alicent's voice was tinged with exasperation, but Aemond did not allow it to stop him.

"Come, let us drain our cups - to these three Strong boys."

Alaynha watched as Aegon, ever the supportive brother after Aemond had lost his eye, raised his cup almost immediately. Helaena replied to his speech with a light round of applause and a tender smile.

Alaynha could only stand next to her uncle, unsure of what he would do to her should she so openly support her brother in front of him.

"I dare you to say that again."

Jace held his head high, a challenge.

Aemond turned to him with ease, "why - twas only a compliment."

He began to stalk towards Jace as the boy stumbled towards him with a wrathful temper - "do you not think yourselves strong?"

His words were met with a resounding punch to that of his unseeing eye - Rhaenyra called to her eldest son but he paid no mind.

Aemond had barely shifted, turning back to Jace with a bearing grin.

Where Alaynha had previously been hesitant, she now began to seethe as years of resentment over what these Strong boys had done to her brother came crashing over her in waves.

She watched as Lucerys marched for his brother, but Aegon got to him first - slamming the boy face-down against the table.

Jace moved to Aemond again, and at that, Alaynha moved forward, simmering in rage - a dagger falling easily from the clasp in her sleeve into her awaiting hand.

Aemond pushed Jace to the ground with ease, and a large hand wrapped around Alaynha's wrist to stop her from what would have been a glorious rampage.

Daemon tugs the girl harshly, throwing her behind his back as he watches the scene unfold with speculative eyes. When she tried to round his solid figure, he reached back - his hand scrapes across the pristine blade held in the princess' hand, and it closed over the blade and her wrist in a tight grip.

He paid no mind to the sting as his flesh tore open, and blood began to spatter upon the floor beneath them. But there was a moment of hesitation that overcame him when he heard her sharp intake of breath, and he knew he must have cut her flesh open the same.

The two began to bleed freely in the hall of the Red Keep, a small pool of blood leaked between them as their blood mixed into one.

Daemon felt light-headed, his skin burning where his bleeding gash met hers. But he steeled himself, watching the scene unfold with unforgiving eyes.

It was when Rhaenyra stood with her eyes blazing as she watched him hold her half-sister, a hand on her swollen belly as she called to him silently, that he found himself reluctantly letting go.

He clenched his fingers around his gaping wound. Alaynha hid hers behind her back, hopeful that her brothers nor mother would see the blood that stained her gown.

They stepped away from the pool of blood with ease, stepping in opposite directions.

Alaynha walked to Aemond's side with graceful steps, and Daemon stood as a barrier between her family and Rhaenyra's.

They shared a weighted gaze, unsure of what it is they were searching for.

Daemon looked away first, staring passively into the bright eyes of Aemond instead.

The man hummed, a smirk painting his face before he rounded his uncle and walked away. He paused by the door, peering over his shoulder - Aemond watched Daemon as he spoke, a glimmer of a challenge in his eyes, "come sister, tis late. I shall see you to your chambers."

"Of course, Aemond."

She walked to her brother, holding Daemon's gaze with every step. As she walked past him, his injured hand seemed to reach for her own, but with Aegon taking Aemond's words as a silent order for himself, he stepped between the two and led his sister away.

Daemon didn't turn, lest they take his glances for weakness. But he stayed silent, listening to how the sound of her soft footfalls melded into the silence, which haunted the Keep during the late hours of night.

He stayed still for a moment longer, wondering if she would turn back.

Rhaenyra sent her children away, his own following them with practised ease. His eyes met Rhaenyra's, which wobbled with a darkness - an endless wrath that threatened to boil over should he make one more wrong move.

She turned to Alicent, her shoulders sagging with relief when her dearest friend took her hands - Alicent took a glance at Daemon, apprehension colouring her features as she thought her next words out carefully.

Rhaenyra plans to leave tonight.

Alicent did not want it to happen.

Daemon could not let that happen.

"You only just got here, Rhaenyra."

Alicent's voice was heavy with reminiscence, poisoned with the longing desire to relive the days of her childhood before she had been sold to Viserys like a brooding mare.

"You cannot leave. Don't."

Perhaps if Rhaenyra stayed, she would grow used to the presence of Alaynha. Of her other siblings, too.

Perhaps she would enjoy Alicent's company once more.

Perhaps she would be happy at the Keep, and she would love Alicent's children enough that she would not order them killed when it came time to claim the throne of the Seven Kingdoms.

Would it be Daemon who took a sword to their throats? Would she have them killed in their sleep? Or tortured for all the kingdoms to see, in fear of retaliation? Would she have them poisoned or stabbed or beheaded? Would she wish them away? Would she kill them with her bare hands if she could?

Perhaps.

Daemon wanted to stay. Curiosity poked at him with growing force - a gnawing and aching sensation that flooded his body when his mind flitted back to the girl he had only just met.

It had to have been her beauty - her moonlit hair, her glowing skin, her bashful laughs, her gleaning smiles.

It had to have been her dragon - Grey Ghost was a wild dragon, and for her to have tamed him with such ease and become his rider only sang to the idea she had dragons blood burning through her veins.

It had to have been her words - coy and hesitant, shy and calculated.

It had to have been her darkness - hidden within the depths of her soul, easily prodded if one knows how.

Daemon knew how. He remembers the look on her face when she mentioned his dismissal of her brothers and sister. She cares for her family, deeply and true. She had given away her biggest weakness, and Daemon could not let such an advantage slip through his fingers unsullied.

There was an ache growing within Daemon, in the very place his curiosity had seeded and grown.

Rhaenyra wantes to leave, but Daemon would do what he had to, to ensure they stay.

Taglist: @kelssssxd @esquivelbianca @chynagirl13 @luanasrta @kemillyfreitas @americanprometheuss @clarap23 @pet1t3 @your-favorite-god @hypocritic-trash-baby @esquivelbianca @serving-targaryen-realness @toji-girl

Tags in italics - couldn't tag blog, sorry.

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen smut #dragon of dorne #house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd fandom #hotd x oc #hotd fanfic #hotd #daemon x reader #daemon targeryan #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x targaryen!reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen fluff

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soaringthroughthegalaxy · 4 months

Note

Hello! I love your writing sm!! I was wondering if I could request promts 13 and 17 from your promt lost with crosshair or wrecker?

Hello hello!

Thank you so much, gives me the warm and fuzzies knowing folk like my writing 🥰

Part of me wanted to write this for Wrecker but it ended up screaming 'Crosshair'

Better than Nothing

Your little scheme during a night out on shore leave doesn't go according to plan - but that's okay, Crosshair has another plan in mind that's just as fun.

Pairing: Crosshair x f!reader

Word count: 2.2k

Rating: 18+ MINORS DNI!

Warnings: established relationship, teasing, grinding, thigh riding, pet names, naked reader and clothed Cross, some armour on, praise, dirty talk, implied oral (f!receiving), implied PiV, one use of ‘daddy’, D/s tones, very light choking, light marking, heavy eye contact, light (non-toxic) possessiveness, they be secure in this relationship.

Your whine reverberates around the hotel room, lips pressed into a pout as you watch Crosshair lean back on the couch that’s shoved up against one of the walls. That stupidly handsome smirk tilts his lips, hawkish eyes raking over your body.

You’d taken advantage of a brief stint of shore leave, booking several hotel rooms and heading out into the city. A nearby bar had seemed like a good idea, and all of you had piled into a booth. You’d all chatted and drank for a while, but when glasses were empty, you’d headed up to the bar for another round, only to be approached and hit on.

You might’ve played into it, batted your eyelashes and leaned in towards the stranger. It had lasted two minutes before Crosshair appeared over your shoulder, scaring away your new friend.

Before you could say anything, he’d dragged you outside and back to the hotel, leaving his brothers in the booth. Two years as their civilian handler had taught you a lot, in particular, that Crosshair enjoyed your little games, and the resulting sex was more spectacular than usual.

This time, however, he wasn’t playing into your plan.

Crosshair can see the frustration on your face, and your adorable pout pulls a small chuckle from him as he pats one of his thighs. He knows the little game you sometimes play, and while he’s usually happy to indulge you, he wants you to work for it this time. “It’s my thigh or nothing. I’m not helping you get off.” He states, voice low and slow. If someone had told him two years ago, when you’d first joined them, that he’d end up enamoured with you, he’d have scoffed. And yet now, he couldn’t fathom not having you around.

You weigh your options, eyes flitting down to the thigh plate he’d slid on while your back had been turned. You appreciated the gesture – the friction from his jeans would be unbearable – but you also knew the act wasn’t wholly selfless. He’d always gotten some sort of kick out of seeing you wearing or using his armour.

Playing along, for now, you step closer, fingers finding purchase on his knee. You go to straddle his thigh, but slender fingers wrap around your wrist.

“Clothes off, doll.” Crosshair insists, watching the flick of emotions across your face. Your hand pulls back from his knee, and he watches as you reach for the hem of your dress, shimmying it up and off your body. Kicking off your shoes, your bra follows, discarded on the floor, and then you’re bending down, prying down your panties until they’re off, too.

Holding out a hand expectantly, Crosshair waits for you to give them to him, and when you do, he tucks them into the front pocket of his jeans. You could have them back later.

He pats his thigh again, eyes roving across your naked body, a low rumble of delight starting in his chest as you move, straddling his leg, slowly sinking down until your pussy is pressed against the plastoid.

You shiver at the contact, the coolness of his armour contrasting your body’s heat. One of your hands finds its way to his shoulder to steady yourself, toes barely brushing the carpet. Eyes finding him, your teeth sink into your lower lip as anticipation coils in your belly. As much as you’d pouted earlier, you were excited about this.

Shifting a hand to your hip, Crosshair gently squeezes your body. “Grind.” He commands. “Grind on my thigh, kitten. Go on. Nice and slow.”

You start small, a gentle roll of your hips that brings the faintest twitch of a smile to his lips, the cool plastoid between your thighs beginning to warm up.

“Attagirl.” Crosshair coos, delighted at how easily you follow his instructions. He doesn’t feel much of anything through the thigh plate other than your weight, but that doesn’t matter. The sight of you, hips rolling, your fingers digging into his shoulder, naked and needy, makes his half-hard cock twitch. “There you go. Keep going.” He encourages, his hand on your hip helping guide your movements.

Grinding down, your clit presses against the plastoid, pleasure shooting through you. Your slick provides glide, a whine leaving your lips as you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut. The warmth starts to build in your belly. You reach out blindly with your free hand, searching for Crosshair.

“Want me to touch you, pretty girl?” He can read you like a book and knows the soft touches make you feel loved. Your little nod pulls a smirk from him. “Use your words.”

Head tipping forward, you open your eyes to catch his gaze, hips still rolling, pleasure still building. You know the eye contact does it for him. “Please. Want you to touch me. Wanna feel your hands on my tits.” You tell him sweetly, enjoying the way his eyes darken.

“See. That wasn’t so hard.” Crosshair murmurs, bringing his free hand up to brush across your collarbone, fingers dancing over your body. His hand sweeps down, palm finding your breasts, which he grasps gently, squeezing the soft mounds. “So beautiful.” He leans forward, peppering open-mouthed kisses to them, drawing a nipple into his mouth. He sucks, laving his tongue across the stiffened peak. Your moan is delightful, as is your hand on the back of his head, holding him close as you continue grinding on his thigh. Pulling back after a moment, his fingers tweak your nipple, making you gasp.

“Cross...” You moan his name. Your body is on autopilot, desperately chasing the high you know Crosshair can give you. Glancing down as he pulls back, you spot the telltale bulge in his pants. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and your hand that was on his head reaches downward.

You’re stopped mid-motion, wrist caught by slender fingers. You whine a little in frustration, but it turns into a soft sigh as Crosshair brings your hand up to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. “No, kitten. You need to come first.”

You know that’s the rule – it has been since the first time you tumbled into bed together. Most people assume he’s selfish, perhaps even cold and unfeeling. But you’re privy to who he is away from prying eyes, who he truly is, and he’s far from any of those things.

“You want to come, pretty girl?” Crosshair asks, lowering your hand from his mouth to press your palm against his chest, leaving it there, letting you feel the heavy thud of his heart. He knows you’re close already; he can see it in your eyes, the draw of your brow, and the way your chest heaves and your hips roll. “Tell me how much you want it.” He insists, his hand on your hip guiding you just that little bit faster now.

He’s always loved hearing you speak, hearing exactly what you want. He’s never denied you anything, so long as you tell him. “I wanna come. Please. Wanna come all over your thigh – all over your armour. Mark it up. Make a mess.” You babble, hips shifting that bit quicker, the warmth in your belly almost an inferno. “Only you make me feel this way.” You tack on, breath coming in short pants.

Your words are like music to his ears, but there’s one thing left for you to say. Crosshair reaches out, lightly grabbing your throat, bringing your faces close together. “You’re not going to do that again, are you?” He asks, taking in your lust-blown eyes and the fast beat of your pulse under his fingers. You were always so receptive to this. “You’re not going to indulge unsuspecting civi’s and make me mark my territory. You’re going to be a good girl.”

There’s a hint of playfulness in your gaze, and Crosshair loves you even more for it. He knows you’re only playing when you indulge civilians, and he’s happy to play along, to scare them off and then bend you over the nearest surface as funishment. After a year together, he knows you’re not interested in anyone else.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly – not enough to hurt you, never to hurt you. This is all part of the play. “Now, I’ll ask again. Are you going to be good for me?”

Something about having his fingers wrapped around your throat makes you feel secure. While others might be terrified of your super soldier, you feel safe with him. Your hips are still rolling, the little back and forth throwing fuel on the fire, and the edge is so close. You momentarily let his words hang in the air, just to push back a little before you nod. “Won’t indulge unsuspecting civi’s again.” You agree.

“Good girl.” Crosshair praises, satisfied with your answer, before he draws you in for a bruising kiss. As your lips part, he presses his forehead to yours, sharp eyes glancing down to watch you ride his thigh. His armour is shiny with your wetness, and he licks his lips. He can’t wait to taste you. Eyes lifting, he meets your gaze. “Come. You’re allowed to. Come real kriffing pretty for me.”

You grind down a little harder, breath stuttering as you chase release. A few more rocks of your hips, clit brushing against the worn plastoid, and you’re thrown over the edge. Pleasure slams into you, hips stuttering and thighs trembling as you’re swept along for the ride. Keeping your eyes open and locked on his, knowing how much he loves it, your lips part with a cry of his name.

Pride blooms in Crosshair’s chest. You were always gorgeous, but it hits differently when you’re in the throes of pleasure. Soft noises slip from his lips as he watches you ride through the high. “There you go, kitten. So good for me, making a mess on my armour.” He whispers, the hand around your throat sliding up to smooth across your face and through your hair. “Feel good, pretty girl?”

His cock aches, but he ignores it, focusing instead on taking care of you. Your little nod at his question has a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He finds the little trembles still working through your body adorable. “Not done with you yet, though. Wanna taste that pretty little pussy of yours and then pound you into the mattress until you can’t take it anymore. Fill you up so you never forget who you belong to.” He rasps, enjoying the way your breath catches. “Sound good, princess?”

The pleasure starts to recede, and you nod again, not trusting yourself to speak. Heart pounding, you catch your breath, absorbing the hungry look in Crosshair’s eyes. Even now it still astounds you that he loves you, that he hadn’t scoffed when you’d quietly confessed your feelings to him while on watch together in the cockpit of Marauder between missions.

Waiting for you to catch your breath, Crosshair leans in to press a sweet kiss to your lips, hand smoothing down to your hip so he can hold you. “But first, you’re gonna lick my armour clean.” He decides, scooting you back slightly to free his thigh plate. It glistens with your slick, and his cock twitches at the sight. With one hand, he unlatches it before holding it up right in front of your face. “Go on. Clean up the mess you made.”

You lean in, holding his gaze, one hand still on his shoulder while the other rests against his chest, and you slowly drag the flat of your tongue across the smooth planes of the armour. The tang of yourself hits your tongue, along with a faint trace of the cleaner he uses to wipe down his kit after every mission. Your moan echoes in the room.

Crosshair’s cock is throbbing, pressing almost painfully against his pants. He desperately needs to be buried inside you soon. “Good girl.” He whispers, watching as you lap up every drop of your release. Once satisfied that you’ve done an excellent job, he discards the plate to the side, letting it drop to the floor before hauling you entirely into his lap. His lips meet yours for a fierce kiss, and he groans as you grind down on his cock.

Hands on your ass, he squeezes it, pushing himself up to stand. Your legs lock around him, and he carries you over to the bed, laying you down, pinning you beneath him. He grinds down against you, chuckling at your mewl of pleasure. Lips dragging down your throat, Crosshair bites down gently, enjoying the moan that escapes you. Continuing, he presses kisses to your breasts, sucking marks into your skin as he reaches your stomach until he hauls you to the edge of the bed and finally kneels between your thighs. A wicked smirk crosses his lips as he looks up the length of your body. “Legs spread, pretty girl. Daddy isn’t done with you yet.”

Tag list: @clonethirstingisreal @starrylothcat @cw80831 @dreamie411 @issa-me-bry-blog

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yourlocaltreesimp · 4 months

Text

How much I have to give

I’ve been craving to write some Hyrule. It’s a need, not a want. So here y’all go. Based on a submission by the lovely @fandomsarefamily1966

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Never in the entire time you’d been traveling alongside the chain were you scared of Hyrule. the person, the place was dangerous as fu- He’d proven time and time and time again that so long as he lived, he would not make you uncomfortable. He knew when to pull back and give you space, when to leave a spot for you to sit together in silence and would always stop to listen if you needed help. Of course your heart latched to him. His crooked smile was enough to make anyone swoon, and yet he bore it so freely. His eyes crinkled and he had a small shallow dimple near his chin on the right side. You’d spent so long committing him to memory, each tuft of soft brown hair and each freckle like the stars in the sky. He was familiar. Homey and safe, the person you’d search for after battles not for healing, but to know that you were safe. Perhaps that was healing, but it was of no spell. You were, however, bewitched. Enamoured by each conversation and entranced by every soft touch. He was your definition of safety and comfort, everything possibly good in the world. But your nerves were alight as you looked at him across the clearing. Your heart fluttered seeing him among the flowers. He fit so perfectly. You couldn’t live without knowing if he too saw you like this, if he believes there is good things in the cruel world because he can find goodness in you. You push the thought away before you could give yourself too much hope. But then again, what if he did? What if he too watched you, unable to speak as you took the heart from his chest and cradled it as if it were something precious. What if he too were to scared to admit that he could love, because any time he did it only ended with pain and that cold loneliness. You stood, hoping that however this would happen, that fate would be as kind to you as he was.

Hyrule sat with a book in his lap, pages left open to the sky. He’d been entangled in those pages maybe an hour or so ago, but there’s only so many sonnets he could read without wandering back to you. He had that habit of wandering for as long as he could remember. Now, it was even his namesake. Known for being bound to nowhere, no real home where he can run for solace and friends who are fond of him because the time that passes before he sees them. When his body wanders, there’s no telling where he’ll be. But how is it that when his mind wanders it always wanders back to you? Never once has he been so bound. Never once has he found himself so wholly taken by something or someone. But he shouldn’t be too surprised, you’d been keen on making him realise things about himself. The fragility of a person and how truly rewarding the trust of a true friend can be. The daisies he chained together were much like you. Fragile and yet so persistent, finding their place in flowerbeds, fields, songs and sonnets. You were transcendent to one idea or concept, ever changing and beautiful. And there you were again, sitting across from him quietly, as if he were something to bask in. Your hands fiddled with the grass in front of you, halving the thicker blades.

“Hey rulie” Your smile was small and restrained, bothered and dampened. The brightness in your eyes sapped out until you were back to timid. He handed you the unfinished chain of daisies. They were supposed to be your crown, woven of the world he saw in you, but if the unfinished chain refreshed your wilted expression, he didn’t mind.

“Hello, flower” He played off the nickname with a grin, receiving one of your own in return. It was dull, not so vibrant as he’d grown used to, and it faded quickly to a strained frown. “You are ailed, what is it that bothers you” He found himself leaning forward, trying to catch your attention, to break you from whatever plagued your mind.

“I-“ Your nerves were alight, heart all you could hear. You thought he had it, so why was it you could hear it now? Maybe it best for him. That must’ve been it. “I need you to listen the whole way through and not stop me, is… that alright to ask?” His response was immediate, firm and confident.

“Of course”

You take a deep breath “I’ve been thinking lately, about what it means to be alive” You began, slow and cautious. You really wished you’d thought this out a little more before coming over to spill your guts. “About how people work, their minds creating worlds incomprehensible to us. Worlds that may never be, and have never been.” You look at the chain of daisies looped together in your hand, careful work. Caring work. Just like how he was with you. “I’ve been doing that a lot lately, creating worlds. I find you’re often in them too” His eyes widen in curiosity, head tilting ever so slightly in intrigue. “Worlds where I as never from a different one, Worlds where we met sooner. Worlds where I walk alongside you” You smile, those worlds were always your favourite to think over. He fawns over your dreaminess, that the thought of him could quell the storms of your mind, a raging sea now calm waters. “I like to think that you have some small piece of me. That you carry a part of me with you, to see the world, to live with” He wishes he does. He wishes you’d let him. He wishes to badly to have you, through the good days and bad. “And I think you’ve taken my heart.” You choke on the words, as if speaking them will take you past the point of no return. “Taken it from me still beating, and yet I still live” You can’t find it in yourself to look at him, to see the judgement he made of your words. He can’t find it in himself to stay quiet. His hands cup either side of your cheeks, your eyes snapping to his with the fear and sorrow of a rejection that he would not give to you. He’d read hours worth of sonnets and prose, and yet your words were worth more than the whole book.

“I love you.” He says. It’s honest and a soft. A promise that he is yours as much as you say you are his. The words all he is, all he has to give. He is a man of no riches, but he makes up in honor, the sincerity of his words a branding on his soul. He loves you. With so much of him it bleeds into what he does and says, something so inherent to him. He had to learn how to walk so he could wander, but he did not have to learn to love you. That was something he was made for.

“All that build up and you aren’t going to let me say it first?” You sink into the warmth of his calloused hands and let yourself grow weak. He would not claw at your heart now that he had it.

“I’m sorry, go ahead”

“I love you, Link”

His lips were as sweet as he was.

#submission #linked universe #legend of zelda #linkeduniverse #linked universe x reader #link x reader #link x you #x reader #lu hyrulexreader #lu hyrule #fir’s library #firreplies

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autumnshighlady · 3 months

Text

A Lesson in Language

Fëanor x female!reader

part of The Professor Series

summary: challenging your linguistics professor is your favourite past time, until he decides it's time for you to face consequences for it

warnings: smut, power dynamic, daddy kink (only a little bit at the end), rough oral sex (m receiving), hate sex, roughness, Fëanor is a raging asshole

word count: 4.4k

request: Professor Feanor x reader? With fiery smut and snarky student reader ;) I was thinking something like he’s a linguistics prof (since he did come up with a new system of writing) and he teaches this one course that reader needs to graduate but she’s annoyed that he teaches it’s either his way or nothing at all so she argues with him all the time in office hours for her marks and etc?

So since we seem to be imagining everybody as a professor: Feanor. He'd be mean, and condescending, and the gods may help you if you're not good in his class (wth is he even teaching, he's good at everything💀) But if you're his best student, and a bright mind beyond class assignments? You'll want the gods to help you for wholly different reasons.

a/n: Fëanor is a massive douche in this fic ladies pls never let a man treat u like this lmao

series playlist on Spotify here

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

You rolled your eyes as you doodled in the margins of your notebook, trying to ignore Professor Fëanor’s arrogant voice echoing in the classroom. He was droning on about pragmatics, a topic you had mastered last year already. You hated this class – it was tedious at best, and like watching paint dry at its worst. The only reason you were begrudgingly taking it was because it was your last requirement for graduation, as the class involved drawing up your own research study instead of a final exam. Everyone who was in this class took it for one of two reasons – either they were the same as you and just needed it for graduation, or they were lovestruck morons enamoured with the professor.

Admittedly, he was an attractive male. His long, raven-black hair suited his sharp face, with grey blue eyes that surveyed the class like a hawk, picking on daydreaming students to answer difficult questions. He was always impeccably dressed, and spoke with more confidence than anyone you had ever met. Yet he was arrogant and stubborn, insisting his way was the only way to learn linguistics. He spoke to his students as if they were dumb, incapable of being anywhere near his level of knowledge. And it irritated you beyond belief.

You were well known amongst your peers for getting into arguments with the professor. Dr. Fëanor had a nasty temper that frightened most, but amused you. You were the only student who didn’t hesitate to challenge him and stick up for yourself when he decided he wanted to bully his students. You were confident in your linguistic skill set, marching to his office to argue your grades whenever he gave you a shitty mark. You could tell it infuriated him, how his best student didn’t kiss his ass like he had clearly expected you to.

“Am I interrupting your artistic time, (Y/N)?” Dr. Fëanor’s bored voice sounded a few feet away from you, snapping you back to reality. You looked up, and he was standing in front of your table, glaring down at you. The students beside you shrank back, afraid to be caught up in the professor’s wrath. But you didn’t back down, only sighing and looking up to meet his gaze.

“What was that, sir?” You asked, widening your eyes and faking innocence knowing damn well it would piss him off further.

“You haven’t been paying attention to a single thing I’ve said all week.” He snorted. “How you are my top student is beyond me, with such a short attention span.”

“I’ve been paying attention, sir.” You lied, bringing your elbows to rest on the table.

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Then you won’t mind a little pop quiz, just for you?”

You shrugged. “Fire away.”

“What are the three airstream mechanisms in phonetics?” His shoulders were tense, a sign of his visible annoyance towards you.

Your answer rolled off your tongue. “Pulmonic, glottalic, velaric.”

“Define a morpheme.”

“The smallest meaningful unit of language. It must have a meaning of its own, either lexical or a grammatical function, and it must be minimal, not containing any smaller units that have meanings of their own.”

“And what are the four maxims of conversation?”

“Quality, quantity, relation and manner.” You smiled, watching your professor’s face get redder as you answered his questions easily.

“Name the distinctive linguistic properties of Quenya that make it differ from Sindarin.” Dr. Fëanor smirked, cocking his head arrogantly. You knew he would ask this question, it was too predictable. He was the master of Quenya, having played a huge role in the development of the language and construction of the Tengwar alphabet.

But as usual, he underestimated you. You took a breath, pretending to think for a moment before lifting your chin and meeting his gaze once again. “Where do I begin?” You said confidently. “Quenya is a more complex agglutinative language that strings morphemes together into long words using an inflectional system with a flexible syntax, while Sindarin has a much easier to follow language structure. Quenya uses 5 tenses to conjugate, Sindarin has 6 and words often begin with vowels whereas in Quenya, they typically end in vowels. They both use the structures SVO and OVS structures, but Sindarin uses VS and VO, although it lacks the OSV structure that Quenya has. Additionally, Quenya adopted case endings for nouns in nominative and genitive cases, using the dual plural to represent plural form since it lacks a definite article to mark the regular plural. Would you like me to go on, sir?”

The entire class was utterly silent. No one dared breathe in the moments following your monologue as you waited for your professor to reply. You expected him to yell at you, maybe throw a manuscript at your head. But he didn’t move. It began to make you uneasy, and you noticed a strange look cross his face for a half second before he finally spoke.

“I’ve heard more than enough from you for one class.” Fëanor’s voice was leathally calm, sending goosebumps up your arm. “Keep your mouth shut for the remainder of the lecture, and pay attention.”

You rolled your eyes, picking up your pen and sitting back in your chair as the professor continued his lecture. You crossed your legs, making your skirt hike up on your thighs, but you were too annoyed to fix it. Your professor was an arrogant bastard who couldn’t comprehend that not everyone around him was as dumb as rocks. But your skin flushed as you drifted off into one of your many daydream scenarios of Fëanor bending you over his desk and taking his anger out on you. You just knew he was rough and dominant in bed, having fantasised about being on the receiving end of that fire within him.

Your daydreaming was cut short as the professor began distributing last week’s quizzes back to the students. He didn’t acknowledge your presence as he ungracefully dropped yours in front of you. You noticed quickly a note was attached to it, that read:

Be in my office at 5pm tonight. We need to have a talk about your attitude.

You sucked in a breath. This was new. Not once had he invited you to his office – you were there of your own volition often enough to challenge him about your marks. You wouldn’t be surprised if he put up a sign on his door barring you specifically from entering. You knew he hated your visits to his office, so why invite you now? Talks with your professor about your attitude were done in public, specifically to try and humiliate you.

You folded up the note and slid it into your pocket, nervousness beginning to churn in your gut. Was he going to fail you out of spite? You’d be unable to complete your degree if he did that. While Fëanor was an arrogant asshole, you didn’t think he was cruel. Or at least you hoped so.

Tears began to well in your eyes as the possibility of failing dawned on you. Perhaps there were consequences to mouthing off to your professor after all.

*******************

A few hours later, you knocked at the elaborate wooden door to Fëanor’s office, then wiped your face one last time. You had spent an hour in the bathroom attempting to fix your makeup and conceal the evidence of your tears and failing, miserably. Your mascara was wet, giving you more of a smokey eye look than you had intended. Your smudged face was a stark contrast with your perfectly put together outfit – a short brown pencil skirt and tall boots, paired with a tight fitting, slightly cropped t-shirt. You felt ridiculous now, going to your professor’s office like this, but you had no other choice.

“Come in. And close the door behind you.” His deep voice echoed from inside the office, and you pushed the heavy door open. His office was its usual organised mess, manuscripts and books everywhere, laid out across every sitting space available save for the single chair in front of his desk. The room glowed orange from the roaring fireplace off to the side, making it look more like an ancient cave than an office.

You carefully walked over to the chair in front of the desk, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Sit.” Fëanor ordered, finally glancing up at you when you hesitated. “Unless you prefer to kneel on the floor?”

Your face burned bright red as you scrambled into the chair, ignoring the way his insinuation made your thighs tingle with need. He ignored you for a few minutes, continuing whatever he was translating on his desk. You shifted uncomfortably, unsure what to do. None of your interactions had ever been like this – quiet, suspenseful, behind closed doors. No, it was always bickering arguments that turned heads in the hallways. Something was different about him.

“Do you know why I really called you in here today?” He asked, still not looking up. His long hair was tied back, except for a few loose strands that hung around his face as he wrote.

“To fail me.” You said quietly.

He barked a heartless laugh. “Gods, no. Failing you would mean I’d have to endure a whole extra semester of your arrogant attitude. I refuse to put myself through that.”

You felt all nervousness fade away, quickly replaced by that hot anger only he seemed to be able to get out of you. “I’m arrogant?” You snapped. “Take a look in the mirror.”

Fëanor’s writing ceased, and his grey blue eyes met yours and narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard what I said.” You fired back, unable to stop the words from coming out of your mouth. “You’re the arrogant one here, sir. You try to belittle me every time I prove myself to be smart because you can’t imagine that everyone around you isn’t a complete imbecile.”

You expected the male to snap back, to call you an idiot and ask how dare you say these things to him. Truthfully, you couldn’t believe you were saying these things either. All your arguments had been about the material so far, veiled insults hidden beneath your words. Never were you this open, this bold, about how you felt.

“Anything else?” He said in a bored manner.

“Yeah, you’re a real prick.” You continued your angry rambling, sick of being looked down on by this male. “You know as well as I do that I’m your best student, yet you treat me like the problem kid at the back of the class. It’s ridiculous, and the only reason you do it is to feel better about yourself. Am I wrong, sir?”

A long pause followed, and you swallowed a lump in your throat. If you weren’t going to fail before, you definitely were now. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. You simply sat there, eyes locked with your ill-tempered linguistics professor. After a few minutes, you couldn’t take it anymore, averting your gaze to inspect a loose thread on your skirt.

“Do you know why I’m such an arrogant… prick, did you say?” He stood up, walking around to the front of his desk and leaning against it, crossing his large arms. “Because I’ve earned it. I invented the Tengwar script and am the most knowledgeable person on the Quenya language there is. I have created and invented things that nobody else has, and nobody will ever come close to achieving what I have achieved. I have earned my arrogance, you have not. You’re just a little girl who’s in way over her head.”

You saw red, angrily pushing back the chair as you stood up to challenge him . Fëanor was a good foot taller than you, making you strain your neck to meet his gaze. “Call me a little girl one more time, I fucking dare you.” You hissed.

“Or what?” He smirked. “You’ll cry? Just like you did before you came in here?”

Your jaw went slack, “Wha–”

Fëanor scoffed, pleased with himself. “Oh, please, don’t even try. It was written all over your pretty face. I like it covered in tears, by the way. It’s a good look on you.”

WIthout thinking, your hand reached up and connected with his face, a dull slap echoing throughout the office. “Fuck you.” You spat, turning to storm out before you could face the consequences of hitting your professor.

But Fëanor was faster, his large hand firmly clasping around the hand you just slapped him with and yanking you back around to face him. His other hand grabbed your other wrist, and no matter how much you squirmed against it he didn’t budge. His eyes were dark as he pulled your hands up and across each other, pushing them into your chest as he stepped even closer to you.

“You wish.” He purred mockingly. “Isn’t that right? Is that not one of the reasons why your attention drifts off in class? Because you’re fantasising about being bent over my desk and fucked until you can’t remember your own name?”

“You think way too highly of yourself–” You tried to defend yourself, but he cut you off as if you hadn’t even said anything.

“You think I’m blind? That I don’t notice how you always wear those revealing outfits on the days you have my class. Don’t play dumb, it’s not a good look on you.”

You thrashed in his grip, ignoring the effect his words had on you. “Let me go right now you self righteous, narcissistic–”

“Kneel.”

That made you freeze. “Excuse me?”

“You really need to learn how to shut up.” Feanor growled. “And that’s what I’m going to do. I’ve had enough of that mouth of yours, it’s time to make it useful for once. Now kneel.”

You were utterly dumbstruck, unable to do anything as your professor gave you a shove, making you fall to your knees on the ground in front of him. The wooden floor made your joints ache, but you knew better than to protest.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Fëanor began, the sound of his belt unbuckling distinct in the background. “Do you think you can follow simple instructions for once?”

“Yes.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, throat dry with anticipation for what was about to happen.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He paused his movements, grabbing your chin and forcing you to look up at his towering form. “I’m going to stuff that smart mouth of yours with my cock, and you’re going to take it like the desperate little slut I know you are. If you please me enough, I will bend you over this desk and fuck you so hard you can’t walk tomorrow. And you’ll have learned your lesson to keep your mouth shut when I tell you to, understood? Is that simple enough for you to understand?”

“Yes, sir.” You repeated, trying to keep the shake out of your voice. Your core throbbed at his words, exactly as dominant as you imagined him to be.

Fëanor finally unzipped his trousers, letting them fall to his feet along with his boxers, revealing the thickest cock you had ever seen. Your jaw dropped, but you didn’t even care that you had just boosted his ego. All you could think about was how it would possibly fit.

“What’s the matter?” He mocked. “Too big for you? Scared you won’t be able to take it? You’ll be able to take it because I’ve told you so. Now open.”

You parted your lips, letting your professor slide his cock between them. You sucked on the tip, earning a groan of pleasure from the male above. Forcing your jaw to relax, you took him deeper, aching with the stretch.

Without warning, Fëanor impatiently grabbed the back of your head and pushed you down further. Tears blotted your face as you gagged around him, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked him. Clearly, he wasn’t concerned with having you come up for air, forcing you to breathe through your nose.

He set a rough pace, guiding your head up and down his cock as far as it would go without making you gag too much. Your mascara began to run down your face, and you made sure to keep eye contact with him despite the strain on your throat.

“There’s a good little slut,” Fëanor growled, tightening his grip on your hair as he thrusted faster. “I told you you looked better with tears running down your face.”

You couldn’t protest with his cock around your mouth, so you only whimpered, focusing on taking him deeper. You sucked hard with each stroke, letting your tongue run along the vein underneath his shaft as you bobbed your head. Your professor moaned shamelessly above you, a sound that set your nerves alight.

Mindlessly, your hand wandered between your legs, attempting to relieve some of the pressure building there. Your fingers hadn’t even grazed your panties when Fëanor halted his movements, holding your head down at the base of his cock.

“Don’t even think of touching yourself.” He hissed angrily. “I didn’t give you permission to do so. Try it again, and I won’t let you cum. Got it?”

You nodded around the base of his cock, whimpering. Your jaw was in agony, stretched to the max to accommodate his length. When he finally moved your head once again, you doubled your efforts, determined to make your arrogant professor fall apart. You sat on your hands for good measure, trying to avoid the temptation to ignore his orders altogether.

Fëanor began thrusting his hips to meet your mouth a few minutes later, his pretty eyes screwing shut as he tilted his head back. “Fucking swallow every last drop.” He grunted between thrusts, his grip on your scalp tightening right before his cock twitched in your mouth. He came with a loud groan, shooting spurts of warm liquid down your throat. You kept bobbing your head, sucking up every last drop and letting it slide down your throat. He panted, hips sputtering as you sucked him dry before finally pulling your lips off him. Your jaw ached like never before, but you were strangely proud of yourself. The image of your high strung professor climaxing into your mouth would be forever burned into your mind.

“Looks like you’ve earned your reward after all.” Fëanor grabbed you by your shoulders and hoisted you up onto his desk with impressive strength. You didn’t have time to ask if you should move the papers on his desk before his mouth crashed into yours. His lips were hot and dominating, overwhelming your senses. You barely had time to kiss him back before he was pulling away, attaching his lips to your neck and biting down, making you cry out. He sucked and bit every inch of your throat in a manner you knew would leave dark bruises the next day, undoubtedly an intentional choice on his part.

You felt your shirt being yanked up, Fëanor quickly pulling it over your head along and ripping your bra off then tossing both items somewhere behind him. His calloused hands eagerly grabbed your breasts, squeezing hard. You squirmed under his touch, wanting to get away from the harshness of it but also needing more somehow. Fëanor’s mouth assaulted your breasts, biting the soft flesh firmly before taking your nipple in his teeth and flicking the bud with his tongue.

“Oh, fuck.” You couldn’t help but moan, tilting your head back.

“You like this?” Fëanor teased, lifting his mouth from your breast momentarily before hovering over the other one. “You like it when I’m rough, treating you like a dirty little whore? Leaving marks all over your body so you know that you’re my property, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir!” You cried out as he sucked at your other breast. It was overwhelming, his hands were everywhere except where you needed them most.

As if he read your mind, Fëanor pulled away, ripping his shirt over his head to reveal the most sculpted abs you’d ever seen. The bastard stood there for a moment, proudly watching you admire his form. Gods above, you’d never be able to focus in class again after seeing his muscles.

He reached down and roughly tugged your skirt and panties down, exposing your glistening cunt. Fëanor plunged a finger into you without warning, pressing a thumb to your clit and making you see stars. His mouth found your neck again as you squirmed under his touch, a hand reaching around your back and pressing you into his frame.

“You’re a fucking mess,” He growled into your neck, adding in a second finger and stretching your hole. “All for me, isn’t that right? I’m going to break you, my dear. Break you into a thousand pieces and put you back together so I can do it all over again and make you mine.”

You whined, feeling your muscles clench around him as he pumped his fingers in and out of you. You were approaching your orgasm faster than you ever had in your life. “I’m close…” You mumbled through shallow breaths, legs beginning to twitch.

He smirked. “I know.” Was all he said before roughly pulling his fingers away, right before you could make the final stretch towards the edge.

“What the hell!” You exclaimed, angry. Before you could cuss him out, his hand wrapped around your throat and squeezed.

“What did I tell you about keeping that pretty mouth shut?” Fëanor growled. “I would threaten to stuff it with my cock again, but you’d probably enjoy that too much. Guess I’m just going to have to fuck you so hard you scream and lose your voice.”

He roughly turned you around, pushing you by your neck so you were stomach first down on the desk with your feet still on the floor. You breathed heavily, grasping the edge with your fingertips as Fëanor lined his cock up to your entrance. You forced your body to relax, knowing it was going to hurt at first.

His hands found your hips and he slammed into you, almost knocking the wind right out of your lungs. You barely had time to catch your breath and acknowledge the stinging stretch between your legs before he pulled out and did it again, setting a brutal pace. You began to scream, fully screaming in pleasure and pain as Fëanor pounded into you relentlessly. You couldn’t even think straight, all logical thoughts about there possibly being people in the hallway that could hear you as you cried out over and over again.

Fëanor’s grip on your hips was almost bone shattering, his thick cock slamming into your g-spot faster than anyone had ever fucked you. He was right, your entire body would be sore tomorrow. In fact, you’d be lucky if you were able to walk to class. Fëanor’s thrusts were so powerful, you were sure he was going to split you in half.

And you fucking loved it.

You loved being bent over your professor’s desk, unable to think about anything else aside from how hard he was fucking you. The male you had had verbal sparring matches with for weeks was taking his frustration out on you, and you loved it. You enjoyed being at his mercy, feeling things nobody else had been able to make you feel.

Fëanor grunted, reaching one hand down and rubbing your clit. “You cum when I say you cum, got it?”

You nodded, whimpering as you felt your body try and pick up where it left off. You begged it to keep your orgasm at bay, knowing Fëanor would be less than happy if you came without his permission. So you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to think about anything else.

He thrusted into you for what seemed like hours, to the point where your legs had gone almost numb. You were a sobbing mess, fighting to stop yourself from climaxing all over his cock. The papers on his desk were stained with your tears, and your determination to not beg him for anything snapped.

“Please let me cum.” You sobbed pathetically.

Fëanor only increased his pace on your clit, smirking as he pounded you. “Aw, are you crying again? Poor little thing is so desperate to cum for daddy, isn’t she?”

Daddy. Your brain went haywire. Normally, you were not into the whole daddy kink, but the way Fëanor said it changed something in you. You whined, nodding. At this point, you’d say whatever to get him to let you cum. “Please, daddy, I need to cum,” You cried, body shaking. “I’ll do anything you want, please just let me finish.”

Fëanor groaned behind you, his cock twitching inside of you, evidence of his pleasure with your response. “That was pathetic,” He grunted. “But I’ll let it slide. Cum for me, slut. Cum now.”

Your body let go before he finished his sentence, the dam that had been holding your orgasm back bursting, letting the climax wash over your body. You cried out, voice breaking with hoarseness as your legs twitched violently, your grip on the desk and Fëanor’s hand on your hip being the only thing keeping you from sliding onto the floor.

The world spun around you, and at one point you were pretty sure you lost consciousness. As you came down from your high, Fëanor moaned loudly, pulling out and stroking his cock while jutting his hips forward. Thick spurts of cum landed on your back mixing with the sheen of sweat already there. His loud groan echoed throughout the office as you panted, your entire body feeling both completely wrecked and on cloud nine at the same time.

You tried to speak, but no words came out. Your vocal cords were shot, jaw aching with every movement. You didn’t even hear Fëanor retreat, but he returned with a towel, gently wiping the seed off your skin. You wanted to thank him, but couldn’t. In fact, you weren’t sure if you could even move.

Fëanor chuckled, bundling up your clothes and setting them beside you. He placed a glass of water to your lips, tilting it back and letting you eagerly drink it up. “You’re excused from Thursday’s lesson,” He said smugly. “Only because I know you won’t be able to get out of bed to get to class. Let this be your lesson learned not to question me, or call me an arrogant prick. Got it?”

You nodded weakly, defenceless, and knowing your linguistics class with Dr. Fëanor would never be the same.

#amara's professor series #feanor #feanor x reader #feanor smut #feanorians #the silmarillion #the silmarillion x reader #tolkien #jrr tolkien #middle earth #lotr #smut

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doodle-pops · 7 months

Text

Midnight Mischief

Celebrimbor x reader

Kinktober 2023: Size Kink/Stomach Bulging

Warnings: fem!reader, stomach bulging, size difference, dirty talking, rough sex, who knew Tyelpë had such a dom side to him

Words: 2.8k

Synopsis: Frustrated and unable to complete his latest craftsmanship, Tyelpë takes it upon himself to become enticed by your offering to relieve his stress.

List of Requests

“S–Slow down Tyelpë…too much!” you managed, voice sucked in and raspy as he ploughed into you. Your warm walls happened to feel the enormous stretch of his cock sliding through your passageway to nestle where it belonged from the very start.

The very notion and visual of his massive body towering over your tiny one—his hands on your thighs, gripping and kneading your flesh, marvelling at its softness—spiralled you into ecstasy. How easily he consumed the very existence of your being with his massive structure.

“I doubt that mírë—look at how well you take me…” his raspy voice trailed off to stare at where his cock constantly sliding in and out your entrance, loving the motion of his hips slapping against the back of your thighs and sound that followed. Its sight was even better when his eyes fell on your cunt—your lips were stretched around his shaft and gripping him like death. He laughed; your lips said one thing while your body betrayed you. “My cock is never too much for your pretty little cunt.”

Nails scraping against the wooden table, you sucked in a deep breath and remained silent at the unspeakable pleasure being churned inside the pit of your core. The mixture of the constant sliding in and out of his robust and heavy cock, the brushing of his tip against your sweet spot and the imprint of everything being visible in your lower abdomen made rivers of arousal gushed and soaked his cock. A heavy groan was ripped from his throat causing you to dart your hooded eyes upwards to catch the look of frustration rippling throughout his body. His arms were tense and veins prominent, even in his neck as he seductively tossed his head backwards, allowing his hair to cascade over his shoulder; you saw his disturbance.

Your whines and pants were all stuck at the back of your throat from the force he was thrusting away. All you could do was gasp as his cock touched your cervix and curved to meet your sweet spot. You felt like you were going insane from the pleasure he gave your tiny body. It was amazing that you could handle all of him and be wholly enamoured at the same time. All the struggling to breathe as his cock felt like it was tearing you in half and punching you in your gut was deliciously painful; you were his little jewel, you were made for him, therefore you could take all that he gave.

Feeling your legs pushed apart wider as your body was dragged to the edge of the table, ass hanging off, his calloused hands moved them upwards to give him more access. It was a rare moment when you saw him this loose, visceral and untamed. Without an absolute care as he relieved himself deep in your heat. All the sounds of your pleasure, the toes curling, eyes shut, lips parted, and head lulled, told him he was doing a good job—an ounce of control in his life he fought to grasp. What more did he need when he could obtain it from you?

You who delivered yourself so sweetly with your charming honey–like voice, dressed in a flimsy nightgown and made your way to the forge to inspect your husband’s performance. You who were currently being ploughed into and hanging on for dear life as he made himself feel at home within your heat. His place of solace.

Finding the strength to lean on your forearms which allowed your breasts to spill from the shards of your nightgown, you sucked in another sharp breath when he slowed and splayed his entire hand over your abdomen. The heat radiating from his palms provided extra heat to the fire already building, but you were marvelled. Not once did you realise how consumed you were by him. His scent, his smile, his charm, his abilities, the contrast of size, everything that was off him.

“You’re so perfect,” he praised. “Made for me.”

In return, you looked up at him, unable to respond like you wanted and nodded with whimpers. Your head moved up and down as your body jerked back and forth on the table, taking the substantial force of his thrusts. From where his hands were resting, his fingers slid lower until they met your bundle of nerves and rubbed it. It was as if a switch went off; your body was electrocuted the minute he touched your most sensitive nub, sending you into a frenzy.

Arching off the table and whining about how good it felt, you were chanting his name like a prayer. “Sogoodsogoodsogood, Tyelpë! Fuck, ohmygod!” you cried out, twitching on his work table while he remodelled and redesigned you to take his cock as you were always made for.

There was a moment when your head began spinning, the air getting lighter and lighter as your pleasure grew simultaneously. Hands were no lower scraping away at the table, but lunging at his arms for support as he took you to town. It was a beautiful sight to witness though; he gazing at you through hooded eyes, strands of hair clinging to his sweaty skin and falling in his face—most of them were results from his accidents—the sheen of sweat on his robust body and the look of satisfaction on his face. His frustration was diminishing and turning into elation the longer he watched as you cried for him; your bliss on display and letting him know his prowess.

He didn’t hiss or wince when your nails curled into his arms, he only cast a swift look at where you clung to him before removing your right arm and placing it over your abdomen. To feel what he saw and felt as he satisfied his Lady; how easily consumed you were by him, how your body was made for him. Once your hand rested against your skin, he pressed down and earned a series of gasps, never slowing his thrusts or his ministrations on your bundle of nerves as you felt him.

“Feel me—feel how deep I am in you? How much you drive me crazy? How much you let me consume you?” he groaned.

The motion of his cock, the ridges and bumps, could be felt as he rolled his hips into your spongy walls. Just feeling him under your fingertips as he pushed into you prompted for an avalanche of arousal to flow out, gushing without an ounce of decorum. Your eyes darted upwards to meet his look of satisfaction, the ‘I did that to you’ look.

Eyes flickering back and forth between your hands intertwined with his and feeling his cock, and his facial expressions, you bit your lips to prevent a whine from escaping, failing unfortunately. “Tyelpë, oh fuck! Ah—” You were cut off by an unexpected pinch of your clit and a deep rumble reverberating in the pit of his chest.

“You like that don’t you mírë?” he teased, leaning his body lower to rest his sweaty chest against yours. He licked his lips at the contact of your soft breast being squeezed against his chest and the stifled panting in his ears now that his head was beside yours. “You like how I fit so perfectly in you? How tight you feel around me? How much smaller you are?”

Turning his head to the right, his lips came in contact with your neck and created an artwork that combined a series of bites and rough kisses. The weight of his larger body pressing against yours, pushing your back flat against the uncomfortable table while he used you to relieve his stress, was heavenly. You enjoyed this; being crushed under his massive, muscular form, feeling all the ripples of his iron muscles under his thrusts. The contraction of his abdomen against yours, the erratic heartbeat, his sweaty skin slipping and sliding deliciously over yours, all these gestures left you feeling blessed.

“I’m amazed that you could take me…all of me,” he uttered softly in the crook of your neck before landing a kiss on your pulse, feeling you shiver. “So easily I could break you, and yet, you take me so well…”

The hand that held yours against your abdomen, rubbed the area eliciting a soft groan from you.

“So deep, Tyelpë! So deep—” Your whines were cut off at the breaking of your arousal and high coming onto you like a tidal wave. This made him chuckle, relieved to know that you were loving yourself on his cock, slowly losing yourself—it always started like this before he pushed you past no return. He always thanked you, of course, you were his darling, and for managing his sheer prowess, rewards were necessary.

Switching your hand from his arm, it swung around his back to curl into his muscles, unable to dig deeply but leave little moon crescents; a little something he would take notice of whenever he was taking a bath. Crying into his shoulder, your mouth clamped down and bit against him as your toes curled from the intensity of everything, nonetheless, he was far from finished with you. There was much to be relieved, and he was only a third of the way, the night was still young for your mischievous lovemaking—rather you would say, vigour fucking while he described it as heavenly artwork.

“I find that hard to believe, mírë. I’m sure you can take more of me—give me another,” he goads, licking a stripe from the base of your neck to your chin before settling against your lips. Eyes locked with your closed ones, he grinned and donned a few pecks to your lips humorously. At this point, your muscles were crying for a moment of relief from the endless pressure they were experiencing. Being folded and pressed into the table like a piece of paper was still something you hadn’t adapted to after years of marriage. It wasn’t every day he was stressed.

Animalistic, you could have sworn the very power he gained his stamina from stemmed from his brooding family and their passionate tendency to be rough and wild. He was no different as much as he attempted to separate the sheep from the goat. Some things ran deeper than blood and towards natural instincts. Having you in his arms, trembling and crying out from your previous orgasm and listening to the music produced by his heavy balls slapping against your ass and his hips against your thighs, he beamed on the inside. This was genuinely the way to relieve one’s frustration, especially when you were smaller than him.

The rapid clamping of your walls around his length as it continued to drive into you increased once more as another round of orgasm was appearing. His cock was bathed in your arousal, some dripping down his balls creating a slick sound with every ‘pat–pat’.

“I could just devour you right now…ah! Hmm, You squeeze me so well,” he hissed and pushed himself against you with more weight, immobilising you against the table for good. There was nowhere else to escape besides taking the vicious pounding he was giving to your heat. All the cries of his name were tumbling past your lips like an avalanche, nothing was being hidden from him in this moment.

“T–Tyelpë! Too…close, so big!” A desperate pathetic cry and attempt for him to have mercy on you, he laughed in your face. It was rare for him to act so carefree and menacing. Opening your eyes, the tears that were built on your lashes gave a glittery effect as you looked up at him and pouted. You could barely breathe right from how suffocating his cock had you feeling at that moment. Sick to your stomach was the last feeling from how much he was splitting you open. You were enduring the burn as he pushed deeper, brushing against your cervix and sweet spot.

In response, he smirked down at you. Eyes darkened, hair falling over his shoulder to create a curtain for your private interaction and lips parts as he panted; far from his orgasm and on a mission to rip as many from you. “I’m never too big, mírë. You’re taking all of me to the hilt, but I need you to cum again for me. You can cum all over my cock for me pretty girl, hmm?”

Feeling high and confused in that moment, you were supposed to be rejecting his offer and yet your head was nodding along to his wishes. “Hmm, yes.”

Perfect, that was all he needed to hear before rising off the table and taking you with him. Arms curled under your thighs and hands gripping your ass, you were scrambling in his hold as he bounced you up and down his cock. Your arousal dripped down his length to ease himself as he slid all the way in from tip to base; he sat you on his cock. It was impossible to escape his embrace as he moved you like a doll up and down, taking all of him and feeling the stretch greater.

The heat pooling in your stomach as the butterflies swarmed and grew was insurmountable and intense. Your toes curled and your calves burned from the cramps from the attempts at breaking the sinful stretching of his thick cock deeper in your cunt. You should be passed out; it was impossible for anyone to take such an impressive size and be conscious. It was some type of unknown torture—but a good one you would admit, being fucked by his cock was a blessing—you had to endure it as his little stress reliever.

“I can feel you’re close,” he hummed as he appeared leisured. The calm expression as he made you ride him, comforted by the trust you held to allow him this daring position, left him woozy. Eyes hazy and slithered and biting his lips as your walls fluttered endlessly around him, he smiled. You were the prettiest sight he had ever seen in such a climatic mess, hair frizzled, eyes starry, lips parted with some signs of drool and head tossed backwards. The nightgown you had worn for your visit was halfway torn on your body to leave your chest on open for him and access to your heat. The rest dangled obstructively on your tiny body, such a doll. He should start calling you ‘doll’ given your size.

Just then, your body ceases and seizes up entirely in his arms. A loud cry went off and your nails dug into his nape, emitting loud hisses. Your thighs tense and your toes curl as they hang in the air; the sensation too much for your body to contain. No matter how much you attempted to escape, you were stuck in his arms and left to endure the toe–curling orgasm washing over you while you remained seated balls–deep on his cock. Your breathing was ragged, and your body limped as your abdomen clenched and squeezed your walls to push out your arousal to give his cock another coating of white.

And so, he looked on in amusement at the artwork—he didn’t know you were an artistic painter.

Your cunt was puffy and swollen from the intense workout and yet Tyelpë refused to remove you off him. The sight was too cherishing to end when he still had the energy for more memorable moments like this. Craning his neck lower to nuzzle his face against yours, he peppered your face with light kisses before he came to your lips for a fat kiss. His lashes fluttered against your cheeks, tickling you and creating a series of restrained chuckles.

“Tyelpë!” you whined, opening your teary eyes to gaze at him. “Too sensitive…” At the cry, he felt your walls clamp down specifically harder around him to emphasise your sensitivity.

“Hmm, I may have gone overboard,” he murmured against your cheek. “I lose myself when I see how small you are compared to me, how easy you take me. Thank you.”

Tsking, you shook your head at his praises. “Is your stress relieved at least?” you asked, pensively gazing at him.

It was, however he didn’t want the session to end so soon. Not when you were still warm around him and he had yet to find his release. Meditatively devising a simple lie, his face frowned and became sullen. A melancholy expression lingered in his eyes as he roamed your face. “No,” he sighed, “I believe the worst has not been solved. Another session should satisfy me perhaps.”

Squinting at his thorough lie, you mused, “Well, you are right. You did not find relief yet.” Looking down to where you were still seated on his cock, you stared at the mess that was made and how your lips were still hugging him like a blanket. “You think another round would sedate you?”

“With the way you are looking right now, mírë, it definitely will.”

Masterlist

Taglist: @lilmelily @eunoiaastralwings @koyunsoncizeri @ranhanabi777 @someoneinthestars @mysticmoomin @aconstructofamind @rain-on-my-umbrella @the-phantom-of-arda @singleteapot @wandererindreams @asianbutnotjapanese @ilu-stripes @justellie17 @justjane @silverose365 @bunson-burner @batsyforyou

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leggerefiore · 6 months

Text

Ingo or Emmet getting jealous because the other twin has had his full attention consumed by their s/o.

Ingo feels frustrated he's upset over something so petty, but he simply is not used to seeing Emmet so enamoured and completely throwing himself into another person. He's glad Emmet has found someone he can love so strongly, yet the adjustment period is rough with sharing his younger brother's attention wholly with another.

Emmet is so upset that Ingo is utterly entranced with his s/o and has his mind so fixated for them. His older brother has barely spoken to him all day and is too busy cuddling with his partner to give him any mind. He's not used to sharing Ingo's attention with someone like this and is distressed by everything.

And, even funnier, when sharing an s/o, it evolves into them being jealous of both s/o holding the other twin's attention into them also bring jealous of the other twin for hogging s/o's attention. The only solution is to sit sandwiched between them.

*hopefully, this doesn't need to be said, but i mean jealousy in a platonic way not romantically between the twins.

#ingo.ima #emmet.ima

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thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 3 months

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Boromir for the character ask?

Yessssss my man! Boromir my love!

First impression

First, first impression when I was like 11 and in theatres seeing LOTR for the first time? I couldn't tell him apart from Aragorn lol - it was two white dudes with the same hair cut and facial hair!

More serious note, like most, when I was young, I found him a bit unnerving and even frightening. Then it shifted to no strong opinion either way and now, obviously, that's vastly different.

Impression now

Love him so much. The older I get the more I sympathise with him and what he was going through. All he had on his shoulders and the stresses of his position and the expectations his people had of him to be their stalwart defender against Sauron. Let alone the whole Family Dynamic.

He is a complex, wholly imperfect person and I really appreciate that about him.

Favorite moment

In the movies I'm torn between the bit where he's teaching Merry and Pippin how to sword fight and every Fraught Conversation He Ever Had With Aragorn (there were so many).

In the books I love his response to the Balrog being: I'm Gonna Fight it.

Gandalf: We're not fighting it.

Aragorn: No, he's right, we should fight it.

Boromir: drawing my sword! it's gonna happen!

Idea for a story

Not sure I have one off hand - obviously every iteration of Boromir Lives is a godsend to us poor mortals.

ahufflepuffhobbit will know where this came from lol - but I am enamoured with a story idea of Boromir and Aragorn and Eowyn being a power couple.

Boromir lives, somehow. Schematics aren't important. Comes to Rohan, so Eowyn is like: Oh Wow Yes. Both of these men are A+

And obviously Boromir would be like "yeah girl you kill that orc. I'll hold your mead." Aragorn would be like, "the two people I love are MANIACS who enable each other."

Anyway, let Eowyn be queen of Gondor!! She deserves it and two hot husbands!!

Unpopular opinion

Not an evil or bad man? He has nothing to atone for?

idk - I'm not sure I have one when it comes to Boromir. There are people who don't like him, but my general opinions and read of the man aren't super out of the ballpark.

Is my opinion that Tolkien undermined his own narrative purpose about love etc. by killing Boromir unpopular?

(My one like, "yeah I get it and think it's important to the story," is that Boromir's death shows the reality of the great danger they are all in and that no one is coming out of this unscathed and he represents those who went to war and didn't come home. All those sons and brothers for whom people buried empty coffins. It's an important role that is needed in the story. But Tolkien, stop killing off only people who have "done wrong".)

Favorite relationship

Merry and Pippin, obviously. The three of them have a fantastic dynamic and clearly they need to hang out together more often.

I also love the complexity and manifold layers of his relationship with Aragorn and we were robbed by Tolkien in not having a chance to see how that would have unfolded over the course of the books.

Because there is Boromir before some of the dire, insane shit the Fellowship went through together and Boromir after - and I wish we got to see that and how it impacted/informed/changed his relationships with people.

Favorite headcanon

He and Gimli are Bros! The only reason I didn't have this as "favourite relationship" (because it is), is because it's not strictly speaking canon.

But yeah, I headcanon that they bonded super quickly during the Fellowship and are just absolute besties. Boromir is best man at Gimli's wedding to Legolas. It's all great for everyone

#ask meme #ask game #thank you!!!#boromir #boromir defense squad #lotr #lord of the rings

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muzzleroars · 8 months

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out of curiosity, how do you think an encounter between Micheal and Gabriel would go after Micheal's botched fall? not only did Gabriel fall, but he's with a machine? surely that's gonna do a number on Micheal's mental state. (btw, i'm utterly enamoured with your archangels and gabv1el content! seeing you post about them is always a highlight of my day)

i talked about how i think gabriel would react here, so i want to go in a little more on michael's perspective as well as the WHOLE v1 issue. because the thing is....his rallying against gabriel lacks context at first, knowing only that he fell and that, as hell's warden, he is determined to restore full order beginning with gabriel. he is grieved at his loss, he feels wholly responsible for it as he has long feared that gabriel's questioning would lead to his fall, and the only way he can manage that terrible guilt is to see him bond to his proper punishment. just the same way he always handled lucifer. however, the situation becomes much more complicated upon actually meeting with gabriel and fully understanding his fall. as well as meeting v1.

michael, importantly, takes no joy in the work he forces himself to carry out - this is about his repentance, this is about maintaining god's order no matter the consequences, this is about proving that something of saint michael is left in him. he condemns gabriel, he proclaims his own righteousness, yet his voice reflects none of it in spite of how he tries to feel the rapture at carrying out god's will - no, all of his words are flat with a barely concealed grief and anger behind them. he wants detachment from this awful task, to bind gabriel and let him haunt him the way he always has been. yet this is all that can save him, it's the only action he can take in his desperation to not leave such a hideous stain on his own memory. and when gabriel begs to know what's become of him, he offers the simple, automatic response: my light was severed. nothing more needs to be said of his heinous actions.

yet a dam breaks in gabriel at the words, the frozen shock melting away into a furious indignation that demands to know who did this. who stole michael's light, who dared touch the prince of heaven and tear him away from god's people - he vows to find them and rend their heads from their shoulders just as he did the council. that admission resounds in michael's skull - is this why he fell? damned to treachery for the assassination of the council? michael laughs, the first welling of emotion he can't contain. gabriel had done what he would have - in michael's mind, the council was nothing more than a self-selected group of heretics who laid claim to god's throne and his authority. they deserved their deaths, yet he knows no exception can be made because any exception means to stray. gabriel has taken life eternal and michael's adherence to god's law is biblical - a sin is a sin, even if the sinner was right. his whole body cries out against the action as he draws his chains, telling gabriel there is no need. he tore out his own light. and seeing gabriel stricken still again, he rushes in to complete his work and be done with it. he hopes gabriel will make it easy on them both.

but while ice roots gabriel to the floor, v1 enters to fend off michael with a few solid hits that seem to do less than it hoped in deterring him (though it quickly determines the underwhelming response seems to be due to an inability in michael to feel pain) and THIS is when the encounter goes entirely off the rails because michael hadn't really registered v1's presence, let alone that it might be related to gabriel. and before he can reach any conclusion, gabriel snaps back to attention as he calls out to it and the small machine signs back to him, gestures quick, a bit irritated, and unreadable to an outsider. michael would voice his disdain for it, a low alliance that proves gabriel's deterioration, yet i think gabriel would counter it with the truth of what v1 means to him. he is far beyond caring, especially with how disoriented this encounter has already left him - and hearing v1 disparaged incenses him besides (v1 has never understood it, but gabriel is adamant about maintaining its honor).

michael is flooded with relief, the ache in his open chest releasing him as his thoughts narrow into a single objective. this is gabriel's true treachery, to love what wasn't made by god. this is so much easier, this rids him of his guilt at punishing the sin he would have committed himself, extinguishes the pride he felt in gabriel's rebellion against unlawful kings. he is a demon, like any other, and gabriel is dead. he smothers any other emotion before it can drown him, refusing to show anything to the unnatural pair before him - the assault is immediate, singular in focus as the vessel of god's holy wrath and shut down to anything else. gabriel has seen it before, michael's uncanny ability to throw a killswitch in his head and drain himself of any semblance of a personality. even with god dead, it seems he's retained that talent - gabriel had never been on the receiving end of it but thankfully v1's reflexes are as fast as ever and gabriel had always been the only one that was able to talk michael down when he couldn't seem to come back to himself. this feels just off though - gabriel thinks little of the difference given michael's state, but it's obvious he's targeting v1 specifically for dismemberment. if this is what gabriel fell for, it better prove itself worthy.

#michael: i WILL kill you both. but first is this little freak good enough for gabriel #raph and uriel left back there like: HE KISSED THE ROBOT!!!#v1 meanwhile had no idea gabe had a whole family um!!!!#gabriel: it never came up!!!!#this encounter is just chaos lmao #cake answers #fallen gabriel #michael #v1 #rise and fall au

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starvin-darlin · 9 months

Text

Parallel Play

in which Anton and his love spend some time together

cw : a little nsfw!

“What are you doing?” They giggled as they were pulled to the other end of the couch, Anton’s hands gently guiding them back into his lap. His face tucked into the side of their neck so that his breath tickled them as he spoke.

“Oh nothing, just want you closer.” He mumbled before kissing that spot behind their jaw, he knew that was their favourite.

“You finally finished your work?” They asked, gesturing to his laptop that had been shut and discarded to the coffee table. He made an affirmative noise before shifting to lay back against the corner of the couch, bringing his partner back with him. They were used to his silence, the way he sometimes spoke through gestures and noises, and they knew he was asking them to rest with him.

“Hey, no way! I wanna get this square done!” They sat back up, though his arms did not let them get far, lingering on their waist as they continued the crocheting they had been fiddling with while he worked. It was a hobby they always enjoyed, but hadn’t had much time to indulge in until recently.

Anton loved his job, a freelance engineer hired by companies every couple of months to help with their projects. He loved his job, apart from the tight deadlines of the current project he was working on. It had been weeks of constantly bringing work home with him, spending hours each night debugging lines of code or adjusting blueprints for designs he was working on.

Hence, his partner’s decision to return to their love of crocheting. It gave the couple a nice way to spend time together; the gentle taps of Anton’s keyboard mixing with the clicking of their crochet hook. Sometimes the two watched TV or played music in the background, sometimes they just enjoyed the peaceful silence being broken by taps and clicks and quiet breathing. Both often found their gazes wandering, staring at their partner in admiration, enjoying their furrowed brows as they focused on their individual work. Occasionally a hand would find the others’, a gentle kiss on their knuckles before returning it to its task.

It made Anton’s heart ache. The simple domesticity. The enjoyment of just the other’s company with no pressure on what form that needed to take. The support he had from his partner, despite how busy he always was. The exhaustion from weeks of work was wearing at him. And all he wanted to do after finishing tonight’s allotted coding was to relax in the arms of the person he loved most.

However, the crocheting they took up as a counterpoint to his keyboard clicking had enamoured them too much. He loved how obsessively they strived to create, how happy they were after finishing a new plant pot cosy or mug coaster, filling the house with their labours of love. He loved this quality about them until it denied him them in his arms. Their newest creation - a large intricate granny square blanket, a beast of a project in hues of oranges and yellows and greens and purples - had captured their attention too wholly.

He sat back up, draping his body over their frame as the clicking of their hook started again. His record player was still playing one of his favourite albums, the sound blending with their quick rhythm in an odd but pleasant melody. They noticed the slight pout on his lips as his face entered their peripheral vision.

“How much longer my love?”

“Only a few more rows, then we should get started on dinner, yeah?”

A sigh escaped his lips. Yet another obstacle in the way of resting with his love in his arms.

They laughed at his childish exasperation, “I know! I know. But then we get to curl up and relax the entire rest of the evening.”

He knew they were right. But they didn’t know how much the time away from them the past few weeks had eaten at his patience. He yearned for more of them, them closer to him, their hair running through his fingers, their body pressed into his. He said words he didn’t fully mean. “I don’t mean to pull you away from your crochet my love, take as long as you need.” He didn’t want to deny them their simple pleasures, however to keep with their usual time together, he needed something to do with his hands too.

His lips traced their hairline with kisses, a small smirk growing on their face. He wrapped his arms around their waist, getting as close to them as possible until their back was pressed to his chest. A contented sigh left them as his kisses continued down their neck.

He paused to watch their deft hands at work. Looping yarn and twisting and slipping it off their hook to create a gorgeous pattern, shades of orange blending into the green they were introducing to the current square they were working on. Anton thought it would be a beautiful addition to their couch, realising they had matched the colours to the couch cushions. He loved their eye for detail in aesthetics, something he neglected as his work focused only on functionality and use. They slowed him down, made him appreciate beauty around him. The evidence was shown in the traces of them around his space, now overcome with plants and pillows and blankets. His previous apartment had been practical, as simple as possible to avoid it getting messy as he didn’t have time to clean. The only area with character was his work desk, bustling with paper and tools and half finished mechanisms.

The house they had bought together was completely different. He finally lived in a space he could call a home. They had forced him to let them fill every inch of it with colour and life and he was grateful he did every day he lived there. A constant visual reminder of how they improved his life.

He loved watching their fingers. Beautiful fingers, he thought, wanting to kiss each one. He resorted to kissing down their back instead, slipping their shirt down one shoulder to access more of their skin. Dipping his hands under their shirt to dance across their stomach, to massage their sides and up their chest while he sucked and nibbled and licked. Their breaths were growing louder now, but the clicking of their hook remained constant. He chuckled at their muscle memory not failing them, even while he tried to distract their mind.

A single finger dipped below the waistband of their shorts, causing a sharp intake of breath and their hips to jump slightly. He chuckled again. They finally realised what he was doing.

“You’re mean.” They mumbled, turning to face him. He thought this meant he had won their full attention, however the clicking remained, and they returned their gaze to their project after one chaste kiss.

“I’m not trying to make you stop your crocheting. You continue your hobby and I’ll continue mine.” He smiled, dipping his fingers once again under their shorts. He meant it. Anton wasn’t trying to make them choose him over finishing their craft, he just needed to hear the sounds of their pleasure, he needed to feel them writhe against him. He wasn’t a man of many words, he preferred to show his love and it had been so long since he showed them how much he craved them.

One of his arms stayed wrapped around their waist, holding them back against him while the other teased between their legs. He was slow, he liked to take his time, no need to rush their pleasure. They hummed in quiet satisfaction, crochet hook still clicking, as their man toyed with them exactly how he knew they liked. They lay back against him, positioning their hands higher up so they could continue working in their new position. This drove Anton wild. Feeling their body resting on him, opening their legs wider in silent plea of more. It was exactly what he craved, the simple bliss of knowing he made them feel good, that their body yearned for him the same way his did for them.

He kept his hand moving slow and gentle. His other explored their chest, kneading and massaging any tension away until they were a puddle in his arms. A puddle who still didn’t miss a beat with their crochet hook. His mouth on their neck caused the first moan to escape their lips, breathy and cut off like they surprised themselves with it. Anton loved that sound, and planned to do everything he could to make them do it again. Soon moans left them freely, and their head threatened to tip back in pleasure. Finally their dedication to their crochet was being tested. A single finger slipping inside of them was the tipping point.

They cast their work to the side and reached behind them to tug on their lover’s hair. He laughed at the reaction before their lips found him. They kissed him greedily, hungrily, like he was the last oxygen left on earth. His hand on them remained slow and determined, finally encouraging them over the edge gently. Ecstasy washed over them in waves that he stroked them through, adoring the way their body writhed and tensed in his arms.

When they finally stopped twitching in pleasure he kissed their temple, their breath returning to an even rate and their body once again going slack in his touch. They turned to straddle him, resting their head on his shoulder while he drew shapes on their back. The vinyl record reached the end of its last song.

“I know, I know, dinner before relaxing, right?” He teased.

“You’re too good to me.” They whispered.

“Never. You deserve so much more.”

They kissed his forehead. Then the corner of his eye. Then his nose.

“But I want you.”

And how could Anton deny them anything they wanted.

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redactedverse #redacted audio fanfic #redacted fanfic #fanfic #redacted anton

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