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#Our own ocs
lingrimmart · 6 months
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innerenigma · 14 days
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•Normalize Fanart for Fanfics Again You Fools•
It's not cringe anymore (it SHOULDN'T be cringe anymore), just do it. You're doing something you enjoy, who cares what anybody else says! So spread the words my fellow internet brethren.
Spread the Word :)
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dasloddl · 2 years
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your desire to write the same trope over and over again
🤝
my desire to read the same trope over and over again
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chalkrub · 6 months
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svanhildr my beloved returns
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thewingedswine · 6 months
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Enjoy one of Nona’s slutty doodles✨
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cheekylittlepupp · 23 days
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Kiss me like it's your last..
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this is dedicated to the lovely anon in my inbox who later asked me to not respond to their ask, and also to anybody out there who could use this little reminder today: there’s no such thing as “too far / too much / too gory / too dramatic / too graphic / too problematic” when it comes to writing fictional stories or making any type of fictional content.
go crazy. go wild. don’t let the fear of your work being “too far” hold you back from creating the story that you love, and don’t let anyone — especially strangers on the internet — tell you your in-real-life moral compass can ever be judged by the art you created that is entirely fictional.
you do nothing wrong as long as you tag your works with proper trigger warnings, so that your audience can decide for themselves whether or not they want to go ahead and enjoy the art you create.
it’s fictional. it’s a form of art, and it’s your creation. be as wild as you want.
don’t hold back.
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The real tragedy of modern fandom is that sometime between 2002 and the present day, people stopped reading and enjoying oc x canon fics.
Sometime in the past 20 years readers became convinced that fanfic with an oc main character wasn't 'for' them, was somehow personal to the author, wasn't interesting, wasn't something that you could put your self in.
In the past 20 years people forgot how to treat an "oc" main character like any protagonist and project themselves on them.
There used to be loads and loads of LOTR "10th walker" fics with different oc main characters. People read them! They got comments and interaction! Obviously not everybody liked them but they were way more visibly popular than they are now.
I can point you to my old OC x canon fics from 2002-2006 and they all had like 12 comments per chapter.
Somewhere along the way the idea of empathizing with somebody's oc went out the window and now we have all these 2nd person POV "you x canon" fics instead.
Am I bitter about it?
Yeah. A little.
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mj-102009 · 2 months
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Does anyone else get irked when an author uses "shook their head yes" instead of nodded?
Like it's a small detail that I notice EVERYWHERE and always makes me twitch in frustration.
idk tell me if im delulu
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bebx · 5 months
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what are two of the hardest pills to swallow for writers and why are they “if you want to finish and post your works you have to actually write them first” and “no, you don’t like the act of writing, you just love the idea of coming up with cool plots and the idea of having written”?
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slater-baby · 14 days
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Captain Knows Best
Captain John Price x f!Reader
Tags: um....yeah. Pervy!Price, !!!DUBIOUS CONSENT!!!, corruption kink, age gap, experience gap, blow job, Dom!Price, Captain taking advantage, pseudo Daddy kink, praise and degradation, spanking, under negotiated kink, bimbo!Reader
Summary: You're a new recruit who's a little wet behind the ears. Good thing you have Captain Price to help you out. After all, the Captain always knows what's best, doesn't he?
Or, simply, pussy inspections with Captain Price.
Word count: 6.5k
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When you joined the military, you hadn’t been aware of your own two left feet. For the first few months, you tried valiantly to prove yourself to no avail. Now, you’d learned to keep your head down and work alongside the others as best as you could, and yet, you always find yourself running in the back of the pack or struggling to keep up during rucks. You’re always the last over the finish line, always stumbling over your own two feet on both the running track and the field. Your superiors know that you lag behind, and eventually, they stop expecting anything more from you…
That is, until one Captain John Price comes into view. Immediately, the petty sergeants who'd been yelling at you straighten up, whipped into shape the minute he comes into the room. This time, it's them that trip over themselves to earn his approval...and as you watch him survey the lines of eager recruits, you can't help but shrink in on yourself in embarrassment, knowing that you'd only make a fool out of yourself in front of a man like him.
He watches as you clumsily fumble through the drills, his big arms crossed over his muscled chest in quiet contemplation. By the end of it all, he hardly spares a word to your fellow privates, watching with a bored expression as they file out of the room. You're last, like always, shirt stained through with sweat that you'd barely earned. You duck your eyes as you pass by him, heart thrumming just at his presence. That is, until a low voice beckons you back into the room. Then, it’s just you and him
"Sweetheart, you can do better than this"
Instantly, your heart drops. He's not yelling at you like the other men do, and yet, there's just something so shameful about hearing it from a Captain of all people. He's seems so earnest and kind, so big, strong, and knowledgeable...and he's telling you you aren't good enough...
...that is, until he makes an offering.
Private lessons on how to be a model soldier. Private lessons with the captain himself.
"I'll make you into a better soldier than this sorry lot, darling."
Really? He'd really help out a lost cause like you? Your heart bursts at the thought. Surely, with the captain's help, you'd be able to show up the rest of the people who've doubted you. The two of you would meet in the gym the following night. Young and inexperienced as you are, you agree without a second thought. After all, the Captain must know what’s best, right?
Little did you know, Price had his own ulterior motives. Perhaps if you'd been smart enough to look behind you as you left the room, you would have seen the way his eyes lingered on your ass for just a little too long.
When you get to the gym, wringing your hands shyly as you desperately try not to crumble into a shaking pile in front of this man, he only croons at you. He folds his large, calloused hands over yours, some sweet expression coming over his face as he moves closer, so close you can smell the musky beard oil in his hair. And it's then that he comes up with a set of rules. You nod along diligently along, not even noticing how his hands possessively curl around your own, just a touch too tight.
-
You can't tell anyone else what you're doing with the Captain. After all, if they knew he was giving you private lessons, they'd only want some for themselves! You wouldn't want to get rid of your own advantage, would you? 
-
You agree without a second thought, and John silently breathes a sigh of relief. Good, if any of his superiors caught wind of what he felt towards a lower ranking woman like you, he’d be court-martialed. Though, that naïve, wholly trusting look on your face gives him the feeling you’d be hard pressed to disobey him. 
Good, all the easier to have you to himself, then.
-
2. You need to follow whatever he says. It doesn't matter if you don't understand it...after all, you're a private. The Captain knows what's best for you. You wouldn't dare to disobey an order, would you? 
-
You shake your head with a cute, empty look in your eyes. Of course you wouldn’t dare to go against him. He smirks just at the thought. Sweet little thing like you, didn’t have an ounce of sense in that head, did you? Didn’t even think twice when a higher ranking, older man like him decided to take you under his wing. 
-
3. Price demands nothing less than perfection. Your uniform, your manners, the way you address him—everything. They have to be perfect, and he'll enforce mandatory inspections just to make sure you get it right.
-
“Yes, Captain,” you tell him, voice so high and so, so sickly sweet.
John sucks in an imperceptible breath, looking at you through low lidded, dark eyes. God, you really had no idea. When he quietly dismisses you, he waits until you’ve turned around to reach for his fly and readjust himself. 
-
It starts out fairly simple. Late night sparring sessions with the captain. Before any match, he inspects your uniform to make sure you're wearing it correctly. He circles you like a shark, watching the way your shirt begins to cling to your breasts as sweat collects across your skin. He watches the way your ass fills out your pants when he shoves you into the mat, likes the noises you make when he pushes your wrist between your shoulder blades, and you whine at him to let you go. 
One day, during uniform inspection, he sticks his fingers under your belt, clicking his tongue when it isn't tightened at just the perfect length. 
"Sweetheart," he scoffs, a stern look on his face as he forcefully yanks your belt out of your pants, "There's no point in wearing it if you put it on incorrectly. Try again."
With every harsh word, you find your ego wounded. It's a struggle not to let tears burst into your eyes at his harsh tone. But you suck it up, nodding along eagerly. The captain knows best, after all, even if the click of his tongue made something…strange curl in the bottom of your stomach.
The sparring is hard. After all, he's just so much bigger and stronger than you are. He’s tall and burly, with thick arms and dexterous hands. He pins you every time without fail—and rather easily, too, you might add. You swear you can barely manage claw yourself out from under him before every rematch, the entire length of his muscled body holding you down like a weighted blanket. Though, every time, he only urges you to keep going, spurs you on.
-
"C'mon, love," he demands, pinning your ass to the mat with his strong hips, all but pinning you below him, "Get me off. C'mon, you know how to do it"
-
It ends the same way each time. You, on your stomach, cheeks flushed with heat. His hips pressed into your ass, his hands pinning your wrists to the mat nearly hard enough to bruise. You quickly become used to it...That, and the hardness you feel pressing in between your legs every time he gets you like this.
But surely that didn't mean anything, did it? After all, the Captain knows best. 
-
"Shouldn't worry 'bout the tiny things, love. Just do what I tell you, yeah? It's about respect. Always gotta give your commanding officer respect, isn't that right, doll?"
-
And as it turns out, you do start to get better.
You become a fast runner, taking morning jogs with the Captain each day. You begin to find your own footing on the mat, even having pinned the man a few times all by yourself. You treasured those memories, few and far between as they were. Strangely, they had a way of sticking in your head, replaying themselves over and over in your mind every time you lay down to go to bed at night. It was a sign of your own improvement, after all, how could you not bask in it? Especially when the Captain was so generous each time you managed to do it.
“Good girl, darling,” you can hear his voice echo in your mind, “Just like that. A big man gets you cornered, you take ‘em down just like that, yeah?”
You smile just at the thought, wringing you hands in your bedsheets.
“Manage to pin me by the end of the night,” he’d whispered into your ears with a smile, hands on your shoulders as he walked you into the gym, “And maybe I’ll take you out to the bar for a drink tonight. On me.”
You can’t help but gush, thinking back on it. After having come so far, that day seems like a far off dream. His voice in your ears, his kind hands over your shoulders. You’d nodded in agreement with his challenge, and he’d looked at you with that now-familiar look—the one you couldn’t help but crave time and time again.
Warm, wide eyes, lips curved into a small smile.
“M’proud of you,” you can practically hear him say.
You’d been so starstruck at the look of it, you’d hardly been able to do more than jump when he’d gently patted you on your backside, some unknown heat springing to your cheeks. He’d moved to the mats without another word, flicking his fingers in a silent gesture for you to follow him. Chest light with pride, you follow after him, nearly skipping.
You’d seen the guys on your high school sports team do the same thing to each other countless times over. Maybe it was like that? Maybe you were finally good enough to be on the team.
And your Captain thought so, too.
-
Best of all, your drill sergeants’ incessant screaming no longer followed you around the halls. In fact, they've begun to shower you with praise, as well. For some, they've even seemed taken a special interest in you, their smiling eyes following you restlessly about the running track every time you lace yup your boots.
For you, it’s like crossing the finish line in first place.
For Price, it's nothing but a slow motion nightmare.
Your tits bouncing with every step during your morning jogs.
The way your little shorts curved around your thighs whenever you exercised.
The way your nipples shown through your shirt if he cranked the air con up.
For days, you let him manhandle you on the ground, let him shove your weaker body under him, let him talk down to you. You let him grind his hard, aching cock against your ass during every sparring session, hardly batting an eye, purely because you couldn't ever dare to doubt your precious, competent Captain.
God, there really was nothing behind those eyes, was there?
You showed up bright and early each morning, saluting him the instant he opens the door. You giggled when his fingers dug into that one soft spot on your side, even when his hard dick was rocking against the planes of your covetable ass, and he couldn’t help but grunt into your ear like a man in pain. To you, it was all just normality, just a friendly gesture that meant you were finally a part of the squad, of the team. To Price, it was another fantasy to jerk off to when he walked you back to the barracks at night, sending you off with a hand against the clasp of your bra and a low "Sleep well, darling."
God, you let him get away with so much.
You let him run his hands all over your precious body under the guise of "uniform inspections." You let him dig his fingers up under your shirt when you were sparring—almost to the band of your bra, nearly. You let him study the pretty, perfect panty lines under your fatigues every time you walked ahead of him, your high voice ringing in his ears like a bell.
Of course you were too dim to realize it, but he even palmed his aching cock during your water breaks, watching as the bare skin of your stomach slowly revealed itself during your ambient stretching.
And, fuck, his balls are just so full and heavy. He fucks his fist to the sound of your voice in his head almost each and every night, spilling his seed against the trail of hair that ran down from his belly button. Despondently, he looks at his own semen against his skin, cursing your oblivious nature. This should be in your pussy, not on his hands.
Though, could he blame you? You were a young thing, a skip in your step, hardly a single chip on your shoulder. He doubts you've slept with many boys—not any men, for sure. And, god, even if he had to hide his infatuation with such a young, low ranking thing like you, he'd be lying if he said your inexperience didn't make his cock throb in his pants nearly every time you stood in front of him.
If you let him do all this, what else could he get away with?
-
When your staff sergeants started to get handsy, Price decided to test his theory.
Things changed. Instantly.
He became more aggressive, more demanding. He didn't go easy with you during sparring anymore, didn’t roll over and play dead like he used to. Every chance he got, his arms were wrapped around your body, framing your tits, fondling your ass, pressing his crotch up between your legs. As the days go on, you become more and more frazzled, struggling to keep up with the change in pace. His words are harsher, voice lower.
-
“Can’t even fight me off,” he scoffs, subduing your little hands up against your tits, struggling to pin your legs to the floor with the strength of his hips, “You’re fucking better than this, aren’t you? Get me off. I said, fucking get me off.”
When he ruts against you this time, you don't react like a highly trained soldier. No, it takes you minutes to push him away. He swears he sees your eyes glaze over the next time he gets himself in between your legs.
-
Even on leave, he demands you see him, demands that you come to his home just to continue your "training." Just because you weren't in uniform, however, doesn't mean you could slack off. When you show up to his home in sweatpants and a long sleeve shirt, he clicks his tongue, pawing at the soft set of your body as if the clothes had personally offended him.
"It's too much fuckin' fabric, sweetheart. It's a disadvantage in a fight. If there's loose clothing, they can easily take you down. Wear something tighter next time—something smaller, okay?"
And like a good girl, you listen.
With each visit, your clothes get skimpier and skimpier. Crop tops, shorts, sports bras. Hell, by the end of the week, when your laundry's due, you've got nothing left except for an old skirt and a tight exercise top. When Price opens the door, sense all but flies out the window, and from that point on, uniform inspections become a bit...different.
You stand tall, head held high, arms flat at your sides, like a model soldier. Price circles you with a frown on his face, lip curling into a snarl as he studies the curves of your cleavage and the dangling fabric of your skirt. You don't bat an eye when he swipes his hand over your stomach, running it underneath your tits. After all, that’s only commonplace. However, when he stands behind you and clicks his tongue, hooking his finger underneath the edge of your skirt to push it upwards—to look at your panties—something...new starts brewing in your bloodstream. 
"This..." he runs his finger underneath the edge of your old, Victoria Secret panties, watching your skin come alight under his fingers, "This isn't part of the uniform, love. Are you trying to disrespect me? Showing up here like this?"
"N-no, Captain," you manage to stutter.
"Good," he huffs, copping a quick feel of your ass, "'Cause from now on, I'll have to check them, too."
He shakes his head, letting the skirt fall back over the curve of your ass.
You're mortified. How could you mess up the uniform code? Thank god the Captain had brought it to your attention. Who knows what another officer would have said. The Captain was always looking out for you. After all, he always knew best.
-
However, even when you try desperately to please him, he only seems to become more and more dissatisfied with your clothing the longer it goes on. Shorts and pants quickly become unacceptable. The last time you dared to show up at his house, he demanded you go home and change. When you'd shown up in a skirt, however, he'd been no less angry.
"Can't even remember the blasted uniform code," he scoffs, shoving the hem of your skirt up over your ass to viciously snap the waistband against your hip, "Imagine if the other officers could see you now…God, they wouldn't believe it. Need to straighten you out myself," he growls, swatting you across the ass cheek hard enough to make you flinch, "Need to make you fuckin' listen."
-
To be completely honest, you couldn't quite understand why the Captain insisted on checking beneath your skirt every time you came over...
"Uniform, love, how many times do I have to fucking say it?" he scowls, grabbing a fistful of your hair, "Gotta make sure you're clean and decent, yeah? Wouldn't want the other officers to think ill of you would they? Wouldn't want me to be disappointed, would you, doll?"
"No, sir..."
He slaps your ass with a furious curl of his lips, "Fuckin' good, soldier."
-
Cotton, lace, thongs, bikini cut—none of them seem to be the right answer. If the way the Captain spent longer and longer each time with his hands underneath your skirt, there was still something glaringly obvious you must be getting wrong...
Your cheeks only get hotter and hotter. Your hands only wring further and further. Something deep within you—something in your very nature—screams at you to hide yourself from him, especially now that the Captain insists on pressing the entire breadth of his big hands between your legs, his warm palm smoothing over your pussy and ass...
“Gotta make fuckin’ sure,” he’d growled at you the first time he did it, and you’d jumped in your shoes, “You’ve been so outta line lately…if you want me to go easy on you, learn how to fuckin’ dress, love.”
-
However, one day, during another mandatory inspection, the Captain suddenly freezes, the heel of his palm pressed right into that single sweet spot that always had you biting your cheek to keep a straight face. You’d come to learn that standing still and quiet was important. The first time you’d made a noise, the Captain had spanked you so hard you’d gone home with a red handprint over your ass.
"Sweetheart," he straightens up, "What's this?"
He bunches your skirt up, raising his palm to show you his hand. And it's then that you see it: your own arousal smeared over his palm. Instantly, you're stumbling over your words to give him an excuse. However, he just drags his eyes over your soaked panties once more, quieting your panic with a single word.
"Hush, love, you've done nothing wrong. It's okay that you're wet," he says lowly, dropping the edge of your skirt. HIs voice is so soft and kind, reminiscent of all the days he’d spent standing behind you, whispering in your ear with a smile in on his face. 
"It's normal,” he takes you hand, squeezing it to comfort you, “It's what girls are supposed to do, darling. Won’t make me think any different of you. Now, be a good girl and bend over so that I can keep going..."
-
After that night...
After the way that he spoke to you.
After how kind he’d been to you…you can't help but feel warmer any time he lays his eyes on you.
Even though you know it's wrong...even though he's only trying to help you get better...
But no matter what you do, he only becomes more and more neurotic. First, it was the skirts. Then, it was your panties. And now, it was a miracle if you made it through an entire inspection without soaking through the fabric, getting his hands all messy.
Price starts to notice.
-
"Fuck, darling," he muses with a pensive look on his face, swiping a finger over the droplets of slick that cling to the fabric, "This is hardly decent. Might need to clean you up myself..."
"M'sorry, Captain..."
"Fuckin' better be..."
-
And then, you can't even say that you're surprised when he insists inspecting your pussy, too, just to make sure you were well and truly decent for him.
-
He pulls the panties away from your skin, pulling them just far enough to press his a rough finger between your folds, just barely nudging your clit. When you jump, he clicks his tongue.
"Sit still, sweetheart," he commands, "If you respect me, you'll let me do this without interfering."
-
One day, when you wear a nice set of lace panties, the slick leaks through once more. Fuck, it's so obvious that the captain can see it the minute he flips your skirt up. 
"Darling—“ he shakes his head in disappointment.
"I'm sorry, Captain," you begin to whine, tears gathering in your eyes from day after day of failed uniform inspections,When would you ever get it right?
“Hey, hey—shh, sweetheart,” he cups the back of your thighs from his crouched position, tilting his head so that you can see his face better.
"M'not mad," he tells you, pulling your panties down your legs to swipe his fingers in between your folds, "Just disappointed."
"I know, Captain," you sniffle, legs shaking as you struggle to maintain your composure, “I—I swear that I'm trying to learn, but I just—”
A low coo escapes his mouth and he stands to his full height, a gentle look in his eye.
"Shh—hey, love, look at me," he croons.
Hesitantly, you do, barely able to see his face through the haze of your own tears.
"It's okay, just a little mistake," he brushes his thumb over your cheek, wiping the tears away, "We all make mistakes."
You raise your eyebrows in question.
“Even you?”
“Even me.”
You watch his thick chest expand with a slow inhale, and you watch as his dark, chocolate brown pupils expand.
"Happens to everyone," he explains, and before you know what's happening, he's reaching for your wrist. He guides your hand to lay over his crotch, where the hard length of his cock curves against his hip. Your tears slow, and with a small inhale, you slowly settle your curious fingers around the length of him. Innocent and unsure in your movements.
God, just the sight of it makes him twitch. At the tiny movement beneath your hand, your face flushes with heat.
“See, happens to me, too," he whispers, pressing on the back of your hand to make sure you're gripping him tight, "Look."
Slowly, you look down at his hardened length. God, the weight of it in your palm...
Even the captain wasn't immune. Even he struggled to follow the rules sometime. But even so, he was always decent and prepared...if only you knew as much as he did.
"See?"he breathes hoarsely, curving your palm to cup his bulge, "Just have to know how to take care of it. Wouldn't want any of the other officers to see you like this, right?"
"But, how…when the barracks are so full…” you trail off, listlessly staring down at his arousal. The Captain was always so gentlemanly. But like this—vulnerable before you—you can’t help but marvel at the breadth of his knowledge and experience. 
"Shh, darling," he interjects, still holding your hand where it lay over his cock, "I'll teach you how to take care of it.”
Two of his fingers sneak back beneath your skirts, easily parting your folds. Here, standing in front of you, he towers over you, some unfamiliar look in his eye. His fingers are so big and rough, padding over your clit. Electricity runs up your back with the movement, and you jerk where you stand. And when one of those big fingers pushes gently inside of you, you can’t help the small gasp, eyes shocking closed.
However, a swat against your ass forces you to open your eyes.
“Look at me,” he commands, grabbing you by the jaw with one hand while he continues to fuck into you with the other, “You’re gonna keep your eyes open and stand at attention, yeah? Let me do my job, sweetheart.”
“Yes—yessir,” you manage weakly, eyes widening when a second finger stretches you out. You go up on your tip toes, looking resolutely in the comforting depths of Price’s brown eyes.
“Captain,” you gasp.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, “I’ve got you. Just let me help you now.”
-
That night, you’d gone back home with a flush over your face, the phantom memory of the Captain’s expert fingers between your legs. You’d tossed and turned in your bed, trying to will your own mind into submission. However, when you’d shown up at the Captain’s house the next morning, you couldn’t even fein innocence when strings of slick hung between your panties and your swollen pussy during the next uniform inspection.
He’d looked at you with caring, worried eyes.
“Darling,” he’d held up your panties, swiping his fingers over the puddle of your juices, “Again?”
You only nodded your head shamefully, skin buzzing with anticipation when he’d stood up with a sigh.
“Well…” he’d dangled them from his finger, tucking them into the pocket of his jeans hardly a second later, “‘Guess it wouldn’t hurt to let you off easy just this once. You’ve always been such a good girl, haven’t you, darling?”
“Yessir,” you’d said reverently, trying to slow your breathing as he came closer.
“Yes, you have,” he’d whispered, and when his fingers had filled you up, only then had the hollow ache disappeared.
-
That day, Price had sent you home without your panties.
“Just because I let you off easy doesn’t mean it’ll be like this every time,” he’d held you by the chin, forcing you to look him in the eye, “Don’t forget my kindness. I’ll be keeping these for now.”
The minute the door had closed behind you, he’d darted to his bedroom, reaching for his pocket with impatient hands. John Price had never been smitten with a young thing like you before. But the image of you with raw asscheeks, tears in your eyes, too naïve to know better.
Hell, he could write you up and call it love, and you’d fucking thank him for it.
Fuck.
It was a good thing he hadn’t promised to give you the panties back. After all, they looked purely sublime wrapped around his cock as he jerked off, your sweet smell clinging to them. And when he stained them with his own cum, he would be lying if he said the look of it hadn’t inspired something completely unhinged within.
-
"Can't let the others see you like this...when this happens, come to me, and I'll take care of it.”
“Really?” You’d asked him, nearly bouncing in your place.
“’Course, darling,” he’d answered sternly, “You’d humiliate yourself if I let yourself walk out the door like this. I know you’ve got no little toys to help you out at home, and your fingers…”
He’d splayed your fingers over his palm, shaking his head.
“They’re too small to stave it off for long,” he’d explained, trying to hide the wild desire in his eyes behind a façade of well meaning guidance, “Need something bigger. Something that’ll keep you sated.”
“Of course, sir,” you’d nodded along, acting as if you completely understood every word he was saying.
Fuck, he’d thought, cute slag.
“Good,” he’d dropped your hand, reaching for your skirt to reveal your pussy to him, “But just because I’m willing to help doesn’t mean you can slack off, y’hear me? You show up here wet again, and I’ll have you bent over my fucking knee. Understand?”
“Yessir.”
-
And soon enough, there are a plethora of new instructions you have to follow along with.
If you thought you couldn’t make it through uniform inspection, the Captain would let you slide your hands underneath your panties before you came over—if and only if it was truly necessary. 
“A good soldier knows how to be decent,” he’d snarled at you when you dared to show up with a wet spot once again, “If you can’t fuckin’ keep your uniform clean, I’ll have to write you up, sweetheart, is that what you want? Want all the other officers to know that you’re a whore who can’t even make it through inspection without getting her panties wet?”
“No, sir.”
“Well,” he’d slapped your pussy then, causing you to finch against him, “This—”
He’d yanked your head downwards by grabbing a fistful of your hair, wringing your skirt up so that you were forced to look down at where he pressed over your soaked panties.
“This,” he’d growled, “isn’t very fucking convincing, now is it?”
“N-no, sir.”
“Good,” he’d released you, “Do better next time.”
-
As the days go on, and you continue to show up to his door with slick between your legs, he can’t help but push you further and further.
-
"Stop squeezing your thighs together," he reprimands, striking your thigh when you try to hide the obvious wetness between your legs, "Lemme see you—let me fucking see you. Fuck, you're so wet. Didn't even try today, did you?"
He shakes his head, grabbing your wrist to pull you over to his desk. You whine when he bends you over the edge of it, and you feel the cold air against your wet folds when he pushes your skirt up.
“God, darling,” you can tell he’s angry. You hide your face in the fold of your elbow, if only to try and hide the elated, excited look on your face from the Captain.
He was just trying to help you, and here you were, taking advantage of him like this.
If only you were smart enough to realize it was the other way around.
“I told you,” a hit against your thigh, “Touch that pretty pussy when it gets like this,” a swat against your ass, “Fuck yourself on your fingers,” a slap against your pussy, “Rub your clit,” he leans over you, his hard cock pressing against your wet hold.
“Anything,” he grabs a handful of your hair, yanking you backwards, forcing you to arch your back, “I gave you so much leeway, and this is how you fucking repay me.”
His breath is hot against your cheek when he hooks his chin over your shoulder. And you swear—you swear that you try to stay still and stand at attention, but your brain screams at you to press your pussy back into him, rub your cheek against the soft bristles of his beard, just so that when you wet home at night, you’d smell like the oil and aftershave he wore every day.
“I’m—I’m sorry, Captain,” you mutter.
“You wanna show me how sorry you are?” He pants, and you feel the fabric of your skirt move as his belt buckle jingles.
“Get on your knees,” he commands loudly.
You scramble to do just that, fidgeting on the plush carpet beneath you as you study his face with rapt attention, trying to gauge the best course of action. However, you hardly expect to see something akin to desperation on his face. That, and you can’t hide your own surprise (and secret elation) when he reaches for the zipper on his thigh.
Your heart swells when he pulls out his cock, and you watch it bob just above your face, so heavy and swollen in his big hands. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if you were completely unblinking as he poised himself above your face, mouth still turned downwards in reprobation. 
“Suck my fucking cock,” he tells you lowly, sliding his fingers into your hair, “Then we’ll see how sorry you are.”
You salivate, puddles of spit pooling on your lower lip. You yearn to reach out for him, but the smallest, little prick of confusion works its way into your brain.
“But Captain,” you say mindlessly, “How does this help me—”
His hands tighten in your hair, “Quiet, private. You don’t need to understand. You just need to follow my fucking orders. Is that clear?”
God, how could you have been so clueless? It was like you were back on square one all over again.
“Yes, sir,” gingerly, you reach out for him, trying not to gasp when your soft fingers meet his velvet skin. His cock twitches at the feeling, delectable beads of precum gathering at the tip.
“Good,” he sighs, jaw going slack as your pretty, sweet mouth envelops the tip of him. He struggles to keep his voice steady through the force of his pleasure, but even when he spreads his legs wider, you hardly react. You only suckle on him innocently, giving him tiny kisses that hardly gave him any feeling, but that nearly sent him over the edge.
Fuck, you didn’t know what the hell you were doing.
Good. No other man should teach you things like this.
You moan around the length of him when he bullies himself deeper into your mouth, but he soothes you easily.
“Shh, love, just suck me like this,” he pushes a strand of hair behind your eyes, “Captain knows best for you.”
-
However, this new dynamic seems to do anything but help you keep your panties dry. If anything, it makes it worse. Weeks into it, with bruises on your knees and his soft voice on your mind, nothing could satisfy you. Not your fingers, not his—nothing.
If the welts on your ass had anything to say for it, the Captain wasn’t happy about it. And even though you know you were supposed to remain quiet and obedient like a good soldier, you were at your wits end trying to make it stop.
“Captain, it’s not working…” you beseech him, trying your best to keep your voice polite, lest he think you’ve disrespected him, “Even when I…before I come here, I’m still…”
“Really?” He quirks a brow, looking anything but pleased.
“Yessir,” you try not to sniffle when a tear falls over the edge of your eye, “I—I followed your instructions to the T, sir. And—and when I was in the shower, I tried to…to make myself feel better, but—but even if I do that, it still happens…”
You avert your gaze to the floor, trying to hide your shame. You can feel the frustration rolling off of you in waves, but when he doesn’t make to reprimand you, you can’t hide your relief when he lays a hand over your shoulder. He squeezes you there, a knowing look in your eye. It’s simmering alongside his anger, but you feel anything but lost. No, if anything you preen under his gaze.
“You need something more,” he begins softly, kindly, “Is that it?”
You furrow your brow. How could he expect you to know what you needed? He was the Captain. He should be the one telling you what’s what.
“But—But what do I need…” you trail off, trying to catch your breath when he steps so close you’re practically breathing in his cologne.
“Sweetheart,” he croons, pursing his lips as he takes your hands. He looks serious, a thoughtful look in his eye.
 “If you wouldn’t be opposed to some overtime, I think I might know what could do it…”
“How?”
You can’t help but inhale sharply when he rubs over your fingers comfortingly. He leads them to the front of his pants, pressing them against the zipper of his thigh. You feel him there. So big, warm, and familiar. Ever since that first night, he hadn’t let you touch him here. No, he’d only let you use your mouth—but, if he was letting you do this to him, then that must mean…
“Normally, Captains don’t do this with their soldiers,” he explains, purely informational, “But—but you’re such a good solider, such a good girl. You’re special.”
“Really?” You pry.
“Mm-hm,” he nods,“So if you do what I tell you, look me in the eye, and promise real hard not to tell anybody…I’ll help you. How does that sound?”
You struggle to keep your eyes on his face as you feel him throb beneath you. You swear you can feel your heart beat between your legs when he begins to gently walk you backwards, towards his desk.
“That—that sounds good, Captain,” you whisper, jolting when the back of your thigh hits the edge of it.
The click of his tongue is stark against the abject silence, and the sound of stacks of paper and knick-knacks falling to the floor pales in comparison to the noise of his inhale when he presses you back into the surface.
“That’s not what you say to me,” he reprimands you, standing over you in all his glory as he slowly undoes his fly.
Raptured, you watch as he pulls himself out, the leaking head of him just barely grazing your inner thigh. 
“What do you say?”
“Thank you, Captain,” you correct yourself, voice completely and utterly mindless, focused singularly on the man in front of you.
“Good girl,” he praises you, stroking over himself in long, agonizing passes, “Now, spread your legs. I’ll need to look at your cunt before I’ll know how to help you.”
-
And this time, when he looks at you, you can’t even begin to feel remorseful for how much slick leaks out of you. It spills down the curve of your ass, pooling on the desk beneath you. Price doesn’t comment on it—he must be feeling generous. His hands are soft and familiar, kind and helpful. They knew what was best for you, knew how to make you feel better. Graciously, he doesn’t curse you for your mistake. No, he only stands up, rubbing his hands up your thighs comfortingly.
“Sweetheart, would…”
He trails downwards, looking at the aching erecting jutting out from his fly. You bite your lip, nodding unconsciously to who that you hear him. Then, he leans over you, his masculine scent overwhelming you at once.
“Would this make you feel better?”
You gasp quietly as he swipes the head of his cock up and down your folds, gathering your slick on his tip. Your entire body comes alight at the feeling, and your hands shock to his shoulders to grab ahold of his shirt. Without even thinking, you nod along, babbling words falling out of your lips.
“Yeah? That it? That’s what you needed? Just a little attention?” The head catches on your hole, and you can’t even help the pitiful sound that leaves you.
He chuckles, standing back to his full height. He guides your thigh around his hip, holding himself with one hand to line his cock up.
“Tell me,” he tucks the head barely inside, watching the way your back arches in anticipation, “You ever let a man do this to you before?”
Eagerly, you shake you head no, barely able to breathe through the force of your own unadulterated want. You don’t even notice the condescending, victorious smirk he wears.
“Good,” he says, and all at once, the length of him slides into you.
It shatters you, your legs shaking as he sinks down the hilt, his balls resting comfortably against your ass. You feel like you’re floating, viewing the world from the third person, outside of your own body. But he grounds you easily, planting his elbows next to your head.
“I’ll write you up if you spread your legs for anyone else,” he growls, digging his nails into your ass nearly hard enough to bruise.
“Y-yessir,” you mewl, not even thinking to fight it.
After all, the Captain knows best, doesn’t he?
-
NOTES: ao3 version will be updated soon!! Thank you so much for reading!!
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lingrimmart · 5 months
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Keep going.
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cyani07 · 4 days
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the fact there's so many people just silently and collectively agreeing these characters are ocs now is so amusing to me it was always our story and characters in the first place
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eraenaa · 1 month
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The Prince and the Poet
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Aemond Targaryen x Lannister Reader AU
Synopsis: It is established that Prince Aemond hates poems and sonnets; it was just a pity that you adored them. 
Warnings: Mature, 18+, Mutual Masturbation, Aemond Writes a Poem, Childhood Friends, Hidden Attraction, Not Proofread
Word Count: 2,900
Inspired by my Original Fic on AO3, The Den of Dragons and Lions
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Aemond scoffed and rolled his eye as he watched you completely enthralled by the sonneteer who performed before you. It had been un-endless hours he had to suffer as the court was subjected to watching poets read their works for the day’s entertainment. It was all too boring, all too frivolous, it was an utter waste of time. Aemond could not understand why you would willingly subject yourself to these men's trite and untrue words— whose delusions and desires were projected in their works. Aemond strongly believed that those who write poems and epics are weaklings and cowards. They do not have the courage to go on great adventures and woo their loves, so they can only imagine and write them down on parchment. And you were the sweet, naive fool who brought into their words—declaring their works beautiful and unparalleled. Blinded by flowery verses and empty promises. 
You sigh longingly in your seat as the sonneteer before you recited your favorite sonnet of them all. Your lips silently move unconsciously as you recite your most favored work with him. Aemond, who sat by your side, sneered at the sigh that left your pillowy lips and the enchanted look in your eyes. His gaze traveled the court; every young maiden swooned by the words and looks of the sonnet who stood in the middle, reciting the work that you clung on to. When his torment finally ended, Aemond rolled his eye once more as you quickly stood and clapped your hands, an ovation for the young man who had finished his performance. Aemond did no such thing, only staring down the sonneteer who bowed and savored the praises given. 
“I hope he shall return soon— and with new material!” You exclaimed to Helaena as you two walked the halls, arms linked together, Aemond trailing behind you. It was an old scene, your actions instilled since childhood. You practically grew up in the Red Keep with the princes and princess, a lion fostered by dragons. 
You hear Aemond’s third scoff of the afternoon, making you glance behind only to see the consistent look of annoyance on his face. “I would take it you did not enjoy?” You say and face onward, feeling Aemond fasten his steps and now walking beside you and Helaena. “It is an utter waste of time; why must we spend hours on this frivolity when pressing matters could be attended to?” You roll your eyes at the Prince’s complaint. 
“Aemond, your attendance was not required. If you believe poetry is a waste of time, I do not understand why you came there.” You say simply, pausing in your tracks. Helaena, a silent audience as you and Aemond began your ceaseless squabbles once more. Aemond was silent for a moment; the truth of his actions may not be revealed. “We did not force you to sit there and listen to Sir Liam— if anything, I’d prefer if you did not come; your glares and scoffs were seen and heard, and are very much unappreciated,” Aemond clenched his jaw as he had no response that he’d like to share. His eye traveled to his sister, who had a knowing smirk on her lips whilst you waited for his response that would not come.“I’ll see you both at supper,” Aemond grumbled as his eye landed on you, who bit back her smirk, the prince stomping away as you finally let your smile slip your lips. 
“Must you really tease him? You perfectly know why he sat through the readings,” Helaena said as you and she sat in the gardens for tea. You picking at the candied lemons that you and Aemond would usually fight over. You smile as you lick your finger clean of the sugary syrup. “Yes, I know why he suffered through the readings. However, he is not aware that I am knowledgeable of his intent,” Helaena sighed, “How long will you make him suffer?” The princess asked, already impatient for the day her closest friend and brother would finally admit their attractions. 
“Suffer?” You ask in shock, “I do no such thing! He inflicts his suffering himself—“ Helaena shook her head and laughed. “You’ve known of Aemond’s attraction to you for years! Yet you still act so clueless with him!” She reasoned. “I am a lady! I am expected to act chase and reserve. I cannot just go up to Aemond and confront him with his secret attraction!” You exclaimed with a fake and exaggerated look of scandal on your face, making Helaena laugh. 
“If you are waiting for my brother to acknowledge and confess his attraction towards you, then you must wait— it might take him a lifetime.” Helaena mused, a hint of frustration and pity in her voice, for Aemond had wanted you since childhood; he was just afraid to let it be known. “Then I pity him… he could have had the golden beauty of the realm, but he chose to stay silent.” You say confidently— proud with the title bestowed upon you by lords and ladies, small and noble folk men who agreed that your beauty was as valuable and desirable as the gold your family was known for. Helaena hummed quietly and quickly prayed to the gods that her brother would soon admit his attraction, for Helaena knew that your pride would not subject you to confess your feelings first. 
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“Just because you do not understand or care for poetry does not mean they are a waste!” You exclaimed as Aemond picked another fight with you. You were peacefully seated in Helaena’s chambers, stroking your cat's fur mindlessly as Aemond’s own pet lay beside you. You were in no mood to fight with him and battle his views of poetry. “They are! They’re pointless. If you must say something, then say it— why must they dance around the matter? Why must they go on and on about something that could be said in one sentence? Cowards, the likes of them are!” You let out an exasperated sigh, making Aemond smirk at your annoyance. 
He finds you quite endearing at the state, which is why he often takes time out of his day just to annoy you. Relishing at the roll of your enchanting eyes, the sighs that leave your plump, pink lips, and the furrow between your perfectly arched brows. If he were lucky and had annoyed you to quite an extent, you’d stomp your foot like a spoiled child. Or simply wave him off with your pampered hand because you no longer had a word of defense. 
“Because they are poets! They do not wish to come to the answer and their intentions all at once— they create beauty with their words. They are capable of making subjects so dire be of great interest that they, in turn, create spectacles upon it!” You defended but Aemond only rolled his eye and shook his head, the former action he had gotten from you. Ever since you two were young, you would always roll your eyes when you found something disagreeable; Aemond would mock you for it— would mimic your actions in hopes of getting more from you. However, in time, he managed to adopt the same mannerisms. 
“Archmaester Sisco believed that poetry is of great danger,” he said, taking a goblet to his lips. Your eyes followed the way the ball on his throat booed as you waited for him to continue his thought.  “He says they mislead and are obscure and false— that poets are seducers of the mind,” He finished, noting the way your eyes were on his throat. Guessing you’d want to strangle him out of annoyance, Aemond was amused with the thought of you thinking about strangling him. 
“The Archmaester’s proclamation and thinking is old— irrelevant in our times. Even his student, Archmaester Aristedes, disagrees with his views on poetry. He reasons that it is not harmful— it is a form of expression! Cathartic to those who read and write it!”Aemond let another scoff of derision slip his lips, pushing your annoyance into frustrated anger. 
“You would not understand the beauty of poetry because you keep everything you feel inside you! You do not know what great relief it is to say or even write what you desire and hope for!” You exclaimed, and Aemond tensed in his seat. Silence surrounded the room as Aemond could not work out a response. You saw him fisting the arm of his chair, the knuckles of slender fingers turning pink from his tight grip. 
You sighed heavily, “What I meant is… I understand that you do not like poetry and find it pointless and a waste— but I don’t. I am not forcing poetry onto you, nor am I trying to change your views upon it. I enjoy and adore poetry— I just wish you would stop discouraging me from enjoying it. 
“Why do you enjoy it?” Aemond asked after a short while. You try to hide your surprise at his question. “Because… I find it romantic. For someone to take time to depict you with such beautiful imagery and flattering words, to love and admire you enough to dedicate a work of literature to your name… for me, it is the best way to express to someone how much you truly love them.” You could not look at Aemond as you said the words. In truth, a part of you felt silly because your love for poetry was only solidified because you loved a boy who you knew would not subject himself to create such works. When you read your favorite epics and songs, you would humor yourself and imagine it was Aemond who wrote it for you, knowing he would never do such a thing. 
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Days passed since your and Aemond’s interaction and you noticed that you had scarcely seen his presence. You would pass by him whilst in training and join him and his kin for supper— but other than that, you could not feel a trace of his presence. He would usually join you and Helaena for tea or would suddenly appear by your side as you walked along the keep. He didn’t even pick fights or tease you anymore. Him growing more silent and reserved. Now you regret speaking— wishing you had just held your tongue and let him continue to disparage the sacred thoughts of poems and songs. 
It was high night, and you sat silently in your chambers, staring at the fire, trying to find ways to approach Aemond. Already missing his teasing presence— the only presence you would muster the patience to endure. 
You furrowed your brows as you heard shuffling at your door. Your eyes catch the shadow of a figure outside. You cautiously and quietly stood, going to your door only to see a piece of parchment being slipped at the slit of the wooden door. Your confession only grew. You quickly took the parchment and opened the door, revealing its sender. Three eyes went wide as you were met with Aemond, who blended in the dark. However, his silver hair shined in the light of the moon. “What are you doing?” You ask and turn to the parchment he had slipped. 
“Nothing— I… this—“ Aemond fumbled for words; you had never seen him in such a state. He was usually composed and stoic. You thought seeing him bashful and embarrassed was a nice gift from the gods. “What is this?” You ask and unfold the parchment. “No! Don’t—“ Aemond bit his tongue as it was too late to hinder you. Your eyes already consuming what was written. 
I’ve known you for half of my life yet; you consume the whole of it I’ve had you near and close to me yet, I only gaze from afar
I do not know how to proclaim I’m not certain how to say it without blame, but you, my beauty, are the cause of my desire and, most of the time, my ire
I know I pick countless squabbles, but I do it because I love to hear you babble about things I have no care for but you just simply adore
We disagree for many reasons, but I’d rather fight you through the seasons You, my beauty, so lovely and carefree my heart could not help but love you, most ardently 
Aemond watched you bite your lip as a wide smile started to spread. Aemond felt heat all over his body— anticipation did not sit well with him. He was ready to meet your laughs at his attempt to make you a poem. Ready to face rejection, but instead of the pessimistic thoughts in his mind, he was met with your sweet, pillowy lips. You were so excited and thrilled that you could not help but kiss him. Show him how you adored him as well. 
What was supposed to be a short and chaste kiss turned deep with passion. Lips dancing and refusing to part. You and Aemond stumbled to your bed, uncaring and ignorant of the teachings of the gods, for you and him had long surpassed your desires, and they could no longer be denied. They were ready to claim without thought of consequences because both of you knew that you’d happily take all punishment that would be presented if it meant neither of you had to stop your actions. 
“Gods, I want you,” You uttered as his lips traveled to kiss your soft cheeks, then trailed downward to the side of your neck. His hands were on your waist and threading dangerously close to your bosom. “Say it again,” Aemond almost begged. Savoring your scent, delighting at the way you feel against him. “I want you, Aemond. I’ve wanted you for years— you, only you.” You sighed as he left marks on your necks, earning quiet moans from you at the new sensation.  
Aemond let a low moan rumble as his cock painfully strained against his trousers, throbbing at your admittance of want for him. It was all he wanted. He thought his deepest desire in life was to have a dragon, but that was wrong. He desired you more than claiming a dragon— his deepest desire was to claim a lioness.
Aemond tangled his hair in your hair, finally letting his other hand move from your waist and cup your breast. Your hand, in turn, went to palm him through his trousers, watching as his jaw clenched and the ball of throat bobbed once more. “We… we must not lay until we are married,” Aemond said, voice pained and filled with impatience. Yet, he still did not move atop you; he kept his hold, but you relinquished yours. “We don’t have to,” You said, trying to push away your need for him to touch you. Aemond sighed and hurried his face in your neck, his lips and breath tickling your skin. “Then how…” Aemond trailed, and a thought passed your mind. “We must not touch each other….yet. However, I do not recall teaching forbidding us to touch ourselves,” You whisper, Aemond’s lilac eye flying to you, dark and filled with lust, mirroring yours. 
Aemond moved to remove his weight from you. You keep your eyes locked as you back away to the back of your bed, resting yourself on the pillows as Aemond kneels by the edge of your feathered bed, watching each move you make with his glazed, lone eye. 
You bit your lip harshly as your hand threaded a path that it threaded plenty of times, the thought you had as you did the actions now watching you. You slipped your hands, and you resisted moaning as your fingers brushed over the pearl of your cunt. Aemond admired the way your breasts peaked and traced through your silk nightgown. The way your eyes were hooded and how your plump lips finally parted and moaned his name. 
Aemond could no longer resist. Slipping his hand into his trousers just like he did every night, the image of you no longer in his mind but now sitting before him, calling out his name.“A-Aemond,” You stuttered as you felt the familiar cold within you. How desperately you wanted it to be, him to make you feel such a way. Aemond groaned and tilted his head to the heavens as he felt his cock twitch; he was quick to reach his peak; just the way you called for his name was enough for him to spill so quickly. 
Aemond closed the space between the two of you, each of your hands still pleasuring yourselves while lips met and wanted to be together when both of you reached your peaks. “You will be mine soon, my heart… mine to pleasure and please, all mine,” Aemond swore against your lips. You nod your head as you fasten your pace. “I’ve always been yours, Aemond.” You said truthfully, the final push for Aemond to come undone; you quickly followed as his moans spurred your peak. Aemond kissed your lips once more and boldly prayed for patience, patience, and restraint to not take you that night.
It was not enough for Aemond; pleasuring himself as he watched you pleasure yourself was not enough, but it had to be for now. Because when morning comes, he’ll demand that you shall be his, just as it ought to be.
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If you enjoyed the premise of this story, you might like the inspiration for it!
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platitudinalteen · 6 days
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Damian realizing that the Teen Titans make up rumors about him to haze new recruits>>>
“Why do you look so frightened?” Damain asked calmly, his hands clasped behind his back. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”
“Scared?” Arlo repeated with a guilty expression, shaking his head quickly. “No. No, of course not. Who cares if the Teen Titans say you hate everyone and everything and dispose of kids who make mistakes?”
Damain’s expression remained stern and guarded, completely unreadable. “Is that what they say?” He mused curiously. “Interesting.”
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thewingedswine · 5 months
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Neteyam braiding Stripes’ hair, by @itscaptainmarty✨ (follow him on Instagram, Patreon or twitter!)
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