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getlostsquidward · 1 year

Note

Ohhhhhh requests hehe nice

Spare some alpha!claire and omega reader bit please, if it tickles the muse? I have no idea about the setting, maybe reader helps her with the campaign or miles got everyone on the island an omega to further relax during the weekend? Some sweet thing desperate to please cause if the assigned person isn't happy, miles isn't happy, and that is ... not good. And god knows Claire needs it, being a single mom running a campaign... 👀

Or something else dark, whatever comes to your mind! Have a good day!

fated

pairing: alpha!claire debella x omega!reader

a/n: hey anon! i hope i gave your request justice, my writing's a bit rusty hehe enjoyy

warnings: smut, omegaverse, alpha!claire, knotting, breeding, oral (r receiving), overstimulation, lil bit innocence kink, choking (briefly-not in a sexy way), men being assholes

summary: claire takes home with her a little more than memories from this greek island getaway.

“The rooms are named after chakras, your biorhythm is your key, get changed, settle, and let's have an afternoon by the pool before the real party begins,” Miles explains, as the wristbands glow with each of their chakras. Most of them go to their assigned rooms when he added: “...and there's a special surprise for you waiting in there. Thank me later.”

Claire and Birdie looked at each other, shrugging their shoulders, having no idea what it is this time.

Much to Claire's surprise, a very pretty present awaits her, sitting on her heels in the middle of the bed. The short frilly summer dress you're wearing compliments you very well, not to mention it's in her signature color, as is your collar engraved in the words ‘Claire's property.’

You stay with your head down low, waiting for your new owner to regard you in any way.

What a good girl.

This is, by far, the best trip Miles had organized.

Claire closes her eyes and breathes in, letting the Greek island wind soak her stress and worries when a faint smell in the room catches her nose.

It's faint, but it's there.

She walks into the room, taking her sun visors off, as she gets closer to where the scent is most potent — and she can feel her cock twitch when she realized it was coming from your slick.

Claire bends a little and tips your chin up with the visor, searching your eyes for something, anything. She could see the way your pupils widened just with the intense eye contact, how your pupils dilated, how your lips parted ever so slightly, how your throat bobbed up and down as you swallowed.

Despite the clear attraction on your part (and hers), she could feel how nervous you are. She puts her sun visor on your head backward, caressing your warmed cheeks with her knuckles. “Do you have a name, darling?”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Unlike the rest of the disruptors who have their omegas on a leash, Claire takes you by the hand, your palm cold against hers. When she refused to take the leash, she didn't miss the shy, small smile your lips painted as you thanked her.

Comments were thrown at her, saying omegas should/ be on a leash to keep them behaved, for them to be constantly reminded who they belonged to; but Claire disregarded all of them. She kept you close, patting the side of the bed, sharing the small space with her—until two of her friends decided to join her, with the blonde woman ordering all of you to move.

The three of you decided to sit one bed away from them as they chatted. You could hear the two whispering to each other how their alphas were with them, and all you could do was stare at Claire with great awe.

You're thankful that you went to an alpha like her.

Prior to this weekend, someone had given you a brief introduction to your assigned alpha. Initially, you're scared, given all the politician stereotypes, even if she is a woman. If anything, she's the exact opposite of them all.

The more you look at her, the more you feel your heat starting to make you feel hazy — and you're worried if you're good enough for the dear governor to breed.

Lost in thought, you didn't notice the tall muscular man towering over the three of you.

“You.” He hooks a finger to your collar, choking out a gasp from you. The man looks at the tag on your collar. “Claire's, huh? Did she take care of your heat already? Want an alpha more capable of breeding you?”

You're shaking, terrified, but you can't even do anything because here, you are just breeding holes. Brought on this island to please this alpha pack, and holes don't speak. Above all, Miles himself had said: I don't care if another alpha wants to claim you other than the assigned. It's up to them to take responsibility for their property.

He grins when he sees how your lip trembles, leaning down slowly towards your nape—

And the pressure on your neck is gone, followed closely by a loud water splash.

“Do not touch what's mine, Duke. This is your only warning.” Claire stands at the edge of the pool, pointer finger sharply pointed at the man. “You'd do well to remember that.”

You're still trembling, but not because of fear anymore.

She guides you away from the pool area wordlessly, keeping your gaze trained on her hand tightly wrapped around your wrist.

None of her friends dared to stop Claire, her rage keeping everyone at bay.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

As soon as you get to the comfort of her room, Claire all but pushes you into the bed, her chest still heaving as she straddled your middle. Her eyes are still burning, though it wasn't directed at you. She's zoning out.

Claire was just happy bragging about you to her friends, a sweet little thing that you are when Birdie's voice cut her off. “Claire...”

And then all she saw was red, because no one, not even her closest friends, can touch what's clearly fucking hers, and they should know better than to do so because she swears they will not see the light of day—

“Mistress?”

Your small voice grounds her to this moment, reminding her that you're here, that no one had snatched you up right under her nose before she can even officially mark you as hers. No one can.

She lets you tuck a stray hair behind her ear, the faint red mark on your wrist that her grip left catching her eyes. This time, gently, she brings it to her lips. “Are you okay?”

“I am,” you say, eyes shimmering with adoration. “Thank you, mist–”

Claire's soft lips caress yours for a second before she pulls away. Her bright blue eyes stare at yours, then at your lips, and back to your eyes, and back to your lips again.

You brush your nose against hers, voice hoarse as you whisper. “Please.”

“Your lips taste good, princess. I wonder…” she trailed off, face hovering along the valley of your breast and stomach, the slightest touch of the tip of her nose trailing making you shiver. She stops at the hem of your dress, eyes never once wavering off yours. “...no, I'm sure you're as sweet as you smell.”

Without another word, she dove into your cunt like a feast, the lack of any underwear a relief to you both.

Claire's cock ached to be freed out of its confines with your sex so graciously served to her on a silver platter. A pure omega, never been touched, holes clenching around nothing as you anticipate her touch.

“Fuck me like the whore that I am, mistress!”

An untouched omega with a dirty mouth? Well.

She smirked. You will be fucked like the whore that you are, but she needs you to produce as much slick as possible, not wanting your first time to hurt — but the thought that she will be the first person to ever fuck your cunt, the way she can see how goosebumps arise on your skin at the unfamiliar sensation of someone else's hands touching and prodding on your most intimate and sensitive parts has her head clouded with stormy lust, all focused on how she can destroy you, your tight little holes, and breed you round until you can't walk.

She uses her tongue to fuck your hole, her nose so deliciously rubbing against your puffy clit. She smiles to herself with how wet you're getting, with how desperate you sound. Claire didn't take too long to bring you your orgasm, and another, and another until she deemed you ready to take her cock.

Claire looks at you fondly, caressing your cheek with the back of your hand. Your eyes are glazed over with how fucked out you were, your hair a mess, the pretty marks and bruises she painted across the canvas of your skin.

She's barely even starting.

“I'm ready, mistress. ’M ready to be filled up…” you say with adoration, nuzzling your head against her touch.

Claire coos, “Aww, sweet baby. Are you, really? You think you can take mistress' cock? You think it will fit your tight pussy?” She then claws her swimsuit off of her, sighing as she strokes her cock.

You swallow as you see how thick and girthy she was, and Claire sees the way fear has flashed in your eyes. “I know it's scary and I know you're thinking about how my cock will fit you, do you still want it?”

A blink and your eyes once again gloss over with lust, nodding eagerly.

“Good girl.”

Claire wants to flip you ass up face down, but she also wants to see the tears slipping the corner of your eyes once her cock enters you so she spreads your legs once more, rubbing her length against your clit and pussy lips before aligning the tip in your tight hole.

“You ready, baby?”

Claire takes your nod as a go signal, pushing her cock inside your pussy so slowly, you could feel every inch of her filling you and stretching your walls. She doesn't miss the tear that escape your eyes as you feel the burn of your alpha finally taking your cunt. She wipes it with her thumb, singing praises to your ear. “You're doing so well, my lovely omega. This pussy was made for my cock.”

She's fully sheathed inside you, and as much as she wants to start thrusting into you, she needs to know how you're feeling. Claire was a little worried by how you'd been quiet for the past few minutes save from your little whimpers and gasps.

Before she can ask, you beat her to it. “You're so big, mistress! But I can take it, you're right, my pussy is made for you. Please fuck me, please!”

Claire's cock twitches with how desperate you are and starts ramming her dick into your hole. The scream that you let out was music to her ears, and she intends to hear a fucking orchestra.

She grunts as she feels your hips move to meet hers, your breasts beautifully bouncing with her every thrust. She palms your mounds and pinches your stiff buds, letting another whine escape your lips. Your mouth was barely closed as she fucks you, all the moans downright pornographic, and her chest swelled with pride. She spits into your mouth, and you make a show of you swallowing it, making her thrust harder, a bulge forming on your belly with how deep she is.

“Mmm, fuck, mistress! More, please!” You clench around her cock as she hits that special spot, making your back arch from the pleasure. You've never been more addicted to this feeling, full of your beloved alpha's cock, getting fucked for the first time like a good omega deserves, like you deserve.

You ask, and Claire delivers. She kept hitting that spot in hopes of you clenching around her again, feeling her knot starting to swell. Claire's all set to shoot all her load into you, nothing but feral thoughts in her lust-filled head. You wrap your legs around her waist to keep her close, feeling your own orgasm close.

“This pretty little pussy is mine, you hear me? No one else's.”

“I'm yours...I want to be yours, mistress! Please, please! Let me cum!”

“You want to be mine, lovely girl? You want mistress to breed you?” Claire whispers, her hot breath against your ear adding more fuel to the heat between your legs.

“Yes! Yes please, mistress. I want your pups...”

“If you want my pups, I'll have to take you home with me. You'll be by my side, forever. Would you like that?”

“I'd like nothing more, mistress.”

“Good girl. Now take all of me and cum, baby. Go on, cum for mistress.”

Like it's meant to be, you cum as your alpha says. Claire follows right after, her knot adding more stimulation to your sensitive cunt. The way her thick release fills you to the brim makes you feel like you're floating, too blissed out with the intense pleasure you've just experienced.

You let Claire lay above you, her face nuzzling your neck. She doesn't pull out, not yet. She has to make sure not one drop of her cum is wasted.

She sighs, satisfied, as she smells her scent covering your body. She presses an open-mouthed kiss on your throat, just above the collar tag where her name is.

You wrapped your arms around her and whispered, “Thank you, mistress. That was…I don't even know how to describe it. It's beyond words,” you pause, feeling brave as you lifted her chin and stole a bashful kiss. “I'm glad you're my alpha.”

You feel her smile against your skin. “Me too, darling. Me too. Now get rest as much as you can, because I'm not done with you.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

All good things come to an end, but not what you and Claire had found with each other on this island. The two of you weren't even able to enjoy the full beauty this place had to offer as you remained cooped up in Claire's room, blessing every corner with spit, sweat, and cum.

“You ready to go home, baby?”

When she didn't hear you respond, she found you looking at distant strange people in the faraway part of the island.

Claire gently whisks your hand away, effectively leading your attention away from Miles' people burying Duke's body.

#claire debella x reader #claire debella x you #claire debella x y/n #agatha harkness x reader #eve fletcher x reader

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songsformonkeys · 10 months

Text

Saying I love you with a letter (Ezra x reader)

Month: May

Word count: ~900

Warnings: ANGST, mcd

Notes: You receive a letter from Ezra.

I don't know exactly what happened here. I was in the grumpiest of moods and needed to write something before the end of June. And I did...technically. Oh well... everyone needs something to be the laziest and worst thing they've written. This is probably mine.

The rest of the Year of Creation stories

@yearofcreation2023

~~~~~~

My dearest,

It's been a month since we parted ways. And I ache with every inch and second of that distance, lover.

I dreamt of you last night and I woke up this morning to the phantom sensation of your arm around my waist. I reached for your hand but ended up grasping at nothing but air. I begged for sleep to take me right back to dreamland, but she is a cruel bed companion, I'm afraid, and once I found myself awake, it was impossible to go back.

I'd like to think it was the real you. In the dream, I mean. That you dreamt of me too last night and that somehow that was enough for us to find each other. Is that foolish of me? Distance makes the heart grow fond, and drives the brain a little crazy, I think.

The moon we're at is beautiful like you wouldn't believe, sweetheart. They call her The Green Moon. A very apt name. She looked like an emerald in the void when our ship approached. She's hiding the largest treasure of Aurelac in the system, and guarding it with a deadly fierceness.

There's this... dust of sorts, some kind of spores, I believe. It's everywhere. Captain showed us pictures on the way over of different gruesome ways it can mess up the human body. I'll spare you the details. But don't you worry, lover, I'm careful, and this trusty suit ain't giving up on me anytime soon.

There are ten of us here, practically living in each other's pockets. And let me tell you that after a long day of harvesting, I'd just about be willing to trade one of my limbs for a reprieve from the unpleasantly potent smell of myself and my crewmates.

The crew is about as interesting as a crew of money-hungry desperate bastards can get. Not sure I trust any of them further than I can throw them. Except for maybe the one that doesn't speak. I dropped my rationed bits bar on the floor the other day, and couldn't eat it out of fear of dust contamination. Now, I was prepared to accept my fate and I even laughed along with the others at my misfortune. This guy, however, he doesn't laugh – not sure he even can – just breaks his own bar in two and hands me half. Says a lot about a man's character, that. Still don't know his name.

The work itself is not so bad. By no means the hardest I've labored. Harvesting Aurelac requires more finesse than brute force, which is a nice change of pace.

Some of the others are unhappy with the cut we're getting of the profits. Mostly the new recruits. I think the pay is decent enough, compared to what gigs such as these usually pay. Or perhaps me and the others who've been around know there's little to gain from complaining. Voice your displeasure enough and you'll soon find yourself overlooked when the next job rolls around. No one claims it's fair but them's the rules, and no one's ever heard of anybody getting rich off of prospecting.

How are things back home? I'm itching to hear some gossip about the new neighbors. Did you end up taking them up on their offer to help with the roof? I do feel bad for leaving you to deal with it all on your own. But you know I couldn't turn this job down. Not with all things considered.

I promise I'll make it up to you a thousand times over as soon as I am back! Not too long now, and I'm counting down the days.

I love you, sweetheart. More than words could possibly convey. Can't wait to be back in your arms again.

Yours forever,

Ezra

~~~~~~

You smooth your fingers lovingly over the familiar handwriting and only just resist the urge to bring the letter up to your face. It wouldn't smell like him anyway. Written a month after he left. Exactly one month after he left. You knew because you too had been counting the days, starting from the morning when he hugged and kissed you goodbye at the hangar.

You smooth your fingers over the paper. It's worn like it's been folded and unfolded countless times along the same creases.

One month after he left.

Three weeks before he was supposed to come back.

Your hands begin to tremble.

The young girl across from you at the table speaks up, voice a bit guarded like she's expecting you to lash out at her. Like perhaps that had been the default reaction of someone before you.

”I found this among his stuff... after...” she tells you. ”He never got a chance to send it, but I found it and I thought you deserved to have it.”

And with that, the last glimmer of hope flickers and dies in your heart, replaced in an instant by the cold hard truth.

Ezra isn't coming home.

#year of creation 2023 #year of saying i love you #ezra x reader #prospect fanfiction #tw: mcd #tw: angst

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 2 years

Text

Tithe 1/2(?)

Summary: Younger Gods AU "one-shot." What if the fae gave the little lightning god to Hell as their tithe?

You don't need to read YG to enjoy, all you need to know is: the reader character's lightning god father conceived her with a mortal to cheat a faerie deal. The fae put a magical collar of golden ash boughs around her neck to contain her.

Master list for further reading.

I said it would be a one-shot. I lied. This fucker has grown longer than I planned, and I'm also struggling with the second half, so enjoy what I have. Your interest will determine if I write the original smut/second half/ending I had planned, so seriously do drop a comment or message. Otherwise I will focus my efforts elsewhere (on more Sandman stuff, of course). This was a very, very experimental piece for me.

Behold! The first "one-shot" of the 500 follower celebration. Now there are 1000 of you. Holy shit.

Warnings: Hell, torture, neglect/abuse (non-sexual) of a minor

P.S. Do you know how hard it is to write a character with NO pronouns? Ruler of Hell indeed.

Part 1

Children tumble into Hell more often than the parents of the waking world dare believe. They confuse innocence with inexperience, trusting youth to protect their little angels. But even a child can learn to hate. To steal. To break rules and call down judgement. Children sin every day.

It is the same faulty logic humans use to assure each other bad men of the right faith will go to heaven, or that good people of the wrong faith might find a peaceful afterlife. They have thousands more excuses for their children, but they forget that children live before they die, and they do die, no matter what their fairy stories promise.

Children suffer accidents and illness, too. Anything can kill a vulnerable young soul. Some fall out of trees or high windows. Others perish in fiery wrecks with their parents at the wheel.

And some are sold.

Lucifer Morningstar knows this well, but when the fae King Alberich enters with his tithe, no mere mortal kneels before the throne of Hell. Alberich has grown desperate. He’s misjudged his sway over his court, and he knows if he forces a fae to serve as his court’s hundred year tithe to Hell when a half-mortal pet sits his feet, they will only keep him alive long enough to be the next gift to the infernal dominion.

This sacrifice hurts him, clearly. His frustration ticks with a muscle in his clenched jaw, rage curls his fists, and a sneer fouls the gracious words of a tithe-bringer. As he offers his growling pleasantries, the child’s hands keep twitching up to her neck, and Lucifer notes how the boughs of her collar twist and cinch and bite with the king’s rising temper.

It’s potent magic, and it’s tied to the king.

Alberich doesn’t intent to let the tithe live very long once she’s passed to new hands, and that is a slight difficult to ignore.

But it is not the collar or the wrathful king that snare the Morningstar’s focus.

Alberich must have been wicked indeed to inspire his little pet to look at the ruler of hell like that.

For the first time since the Fall, eyes turn to the Morningstar full of hope. Innocent eyes. Desperate eyes. A child’s eyes. Life, helpless rage, and tears that smell like petrichor draw the lord of Hell’s attention. If nothing is done to save her, the child will suffocate, and the tithe will be a useless gift. Another soul. Another husk of rotting flesh. But there’s a touch of the divine in this one, something attentive and precious in those hopeful eyes, and the Morningstar has the power to keep them.

“I accept your tithe gladly.”

The child shudders, finally clutching the collar as it jerks tight around her neck.

“We do not need the collar. Remove it.”

Alberich flushes and rushes to lie. “It is a gift, your majesty. To contr-”

“It. Is. Not.”

There is no doubt, no room to debate. It’s clear to all Alberich’s machinations are transparent as glass, that’s he’s bested and cornered, that he ought to bow his head swiftly before the Morningstar’s loyal Lilim takes it from him.

The Morningstar smiles sweetly, and asks in a voice like honey, “Did you hope to cheat me, Alberich? If I wanted dead tithes, I would ask you to dig up graveyards to fetch old bones. Do you think we need protection from a demi-god child?” A short silence is enough for the king and his entourage to hear the howls of the damned and the gleeful roars of demons torturing them. Even the wind’s voice trembles in agony as it stirs the fires of the throne room.

“Now remove the collar, and perhaps I’ll consider letting you remove yourself from my realm intact. At least for the next hundred years.”

He takes the warning and bows to the will of the Morningstar. He utters a word that sounds like a newborn’s cry and an old man’s death rattle. It whispers with the pulse of a shadow heart leeching the pulse of flesh and blood. Around the child’s neck, the boughs wither and crumble away in golden dust, leaving the ring of bruises, cuts, and scars bare for the first time since infancy.

“Now leave us.”

The fae king does as he is told, and Mazikeen stands by the door to defend her sovereign’s privacy. The Morningstar rises from the throne, descending the steps of the dais. From the floor, the girl stares up with hope practically burning in her face, and tears of relief drip off her chin, onto her knuckles, where her hands linger over her throat, amazed.

Long fingers take the tears and the chin and lift them up to better see the wonder shining there.

“Have you a name, sweet little storm god?”

She tries to bow her head, but the Morningstar’s grip forbids it, so she lowers her eyes until Lucifer’s tutting forbids that, too. Returning her full attention to her new keeper’s gaze, she finally says, “They called me precious and pet. They said I didn’t need the name my mother gave me.”

Lucifer runs a thumb along the tears, marveling at the adoration trapped in each drop. Childish devotion, pure and sweet and belonging only to the lord of Hell.

Lucifer Morningstar smiles.

“Well, then. We shall call you Rain.”

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

Rain understands torment, and although the Hell in which she finds herself now has no sky, or flowers, or green grass, she prefers it to the first. She breathes in dust and sulfur, but she breathes.

It is still Hell. The ash, blood, and burned face of Lucifer’s Lilim remind her. The king has given her to a greater monarch, the collar is gone, and she will never see the sun again.

She will be sad later, she decides, because – at least for the moment – she has a mighty protector.

Demons leer when they come to seek an audience with their sovereign, and a few ask the Morningstar for an opportunity to break in the new tithe. Lucifer responds by lifting Rain off the floor and onto satin-covered knees before dispatching the ones who dare hunger for that which does not belong to them.

Word travels fast, and soon the demons learn not to ask. Not to look.

The ruler of Hell picks dead flowers and old leaves out of Rain’s hair, flicking them into the open fires dotting the room. Long, pale fingers examine Ran’s neck, murmuring questions that make it easy to believe the ruler of Hell cares about the aches and pains left by the collar. It’s easy to believe, and she desperately wants to. After all, the collar is gone by ruler of Hell’s command.

The sunless days of Hell see her in the Morningstar’s company or they do not see her at all.

“We must keep you safe,” the monarch tells her before putting her in a little cell that first night. “When you are not with me, prying eyes, claws, and teeth may find you. You will rest here, and I will return.”

She spends the first night with her heart in her throat, convinced this is her punishment for eternity. She’s had angry thoughts, made vengeful little plans. Karma must repay her for those, and she will never escape this little hole. A normal child would sleep, but she has yet to learn that skill.

When the Morningstar returns, she decides the ruler of Hell couldn’t be better named. The monarch kept true to every word, and her hope flares back to life. As Lucifer guides her by the hand throughout the endless day, she tries very hard to listen, to watch. She knows she is small, and she must learn everything in this strange, horrifying place. She must repay the Morningstar and ensure someone comes to fetch her from the cell every day. Kindness never grew from nothing. She must give Lucifer reasons to remember her, because even she is old enough to know being forgotten in Hell leads to the darkest fates.

She learns to answer to her new name quickly. It pleases the Morningstar, and she feels safest when her monarch is pleased.

Food arrives unasked for, and though it isn’t good food – “There is nothing good in Hell, sweet” – it fills her belly. Except on particularly bad days. When Lucifer loses. When the Morningstar is thwarted and angry. Rain stays in the dark, and food doesn’t appear the first day – or sometimes the second – once she’s released. But her fasts never last long, and the Morningstar delights in feeding her well again, worrying she’s grown thin, becoming a doting nurturer over the damage inflicted by the Morningstar’s own hand.

Lucifer keeps her dressed in clean, flowing gowns that are nearly robes. Soft greys fold around her, and a subtle sheen of every imaginable color glistens in just the right light. She knows she’s marked in some way, not only by the company she keeps, but by the care given to her appearance.

But it’s the same as the food – the fabric is beautiful, but never enough to keep warm away from the fires in Lucifer’s chambers. It gives the ruler of Hell more reasons to keep her physically near.

Even in Hell, she grows. Soon she’s too big to sit on knees, so she sits beside them, resting her head where the Morningstar can reach her hair. Or she waits in the shadows with Mazikeen, the only place beyond the cell and the Morningstar’s reach she is told she is safe.

She mistakes her first sleep for death, and when the Morningstar opens the door, she asks if she’s still alive.

“Of course, you are.” Lucifer wears a mask of concern, skin deep, but animated by genuine curiosity. “What made you fear you had? Did you have a bad dream?”

“I don’t know.”

“You cannot remember?”

“I don’t know if I slept. I’ve never tried it before.”

In the following days, Lucifer riddles out the truth – the old magic is finally fading, and Rain not only can but must sleep. The Morningstar wants to watch, and instead of tucking her away behind the door, the ruler of Hell has her rest on a bench.

She doesn’t drift into an easy sleep. She falls. It scares her awake again, and the Morningstar keeps her there, promising her mortal mother’s blood will give her dreams if she can conquer her fear of the endless nothing behind her thoughts.

Because she believes the Morningstar, she tries. Because the Morningstar has her hope, she dares brave the fall. Again and again, sleeping and waking like a storm tide striking the high cliffs.

Until she is stands in a spring-green meadow with boiling grey clouds overhead. Before she can wonder over the magic that has pulled her out of Hell, the clouds burst, and sheets of rain wash over her face with a purr of thunder.

For the first time, she wakes with regret, and the Morningstar knows.

“Of what did you dream?”

“A storm.”

Curiosity sated, Lucifer returns her to the cell the next night.

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

She dreams in the dark cell, chasing the scent of ozone as she wakes. The Morningstar greets her in the dim light, and she takes up her role as Lucifer’s attendant, ward, and distraction depending on her monarch’s mood. She excels in each position, and although there’s never a drop of precipitation in Hell, her name reflects her fluidity of purpose.

Rain.

The Morningstar’s relief.

“Every tortured soul in Hell yearns for something soft and bright,” the Morningstar tells her. “If you would walk among them, they’d tear you apart just to keep a piece of you.”

What the Morningstar doesn’t say is that the ruler of Hell suffers the same curse as the lowliest soul, that Lucifer craves something soft and bright just as much as the demons clamoring in the courtyard below the royal balcony wish to destroy it.

Time softens caution, and there is plenty of time in Hell. Eventually, one of the demons dares again, and this time they do not ask.

She’s on the precipice of becoming a woman, and her clothes have been tailored to fit her new shape. Her cell cradles her like a cold womb, a place where she can pause her existence, perhaps be unmade if she stays long enough. Is she even real when the Morningstar has no need of her? She overcame her fear of the dark years ago. Now it is only a comfortable dread.

One night – or the time she’s come to think of as night – when the door screeches and shrieks under long claws, she jumps awake. The comfort in her darkness evaporates, and all she knows is that the shadows will make a flimsy shield if the door should fail. She hears it bend and crack, beaten by something large and hungry.

Her cell offers no space to retreat. It is made for her alone, so there is no need, and she may only have good things at the Morningstar’s side.

Russet light stabs through the cracks, overtaking the blackness inch by inch, and bestial eyes peer through. Long claws hook through the gaps, tearing away metal and stone until the door hangs bent and ruined. No longer an obstacle. Only a prophecy.

The demon’s voice crackles as it reaches for her. “Thirsty. Need the Rain, Rain, Rain cloud.”

White eyes dripping ichor follow her as dodges the first grab, but it fills the door, and she only delays the inevitable by seconds. It rushes into her cell, pressing her flat against the wall as claws long as her arm wrap around her, holding her like a toy with limbs pinned in its grip.

“Give us Rain, Rain, Rain.”

Its grip squeezes the air from her lungs. She can’t even scream as it drags her away, out the palace and through the gates. When it finds a quiet place it likes under a bridge, it rearranges its grip, and she takes a deep breath to call for help, to pray for the Morningstar.

Jagged teeth snap into her torso, and she screams instead. The demon’s mouth is so large, it eclipses her lower ribs and the soft places above her hips with one bite. It has row upon row of teeth, some like a shark, others like a lion, a few blunt like a man’s, and they all hurt in terrible, different ways. They cut, and pierce, and grind her into pieces as her scream fades.

She hangs limp in its jaws.

It tilts its head back so her blood pours down its throat, tongue like sandpaper demanding more from every inch it can reach. It isn’t enough, and the demon shakes its head, tearing fresh gashes to staunch its thirst. Her next scream is only a gasp. The demon groans.

“Tasty Rain, Rain, Rain. Good Rain, Rain, Rain.” It speaks with its mouth full, every syllable drawing the teeth out and down again – sometimes into new bites, sometimes into old holes.

Her lungs rattle with blood, and the red warmth rolls from her broken skin to drip over her face, down between her toes.

She’s hard to kill, Mazikeen told her, but she won’t survive much longer in the demon’s grip.

A sense she only discovered after the Morningstar removed the collar stirs. It is wrath carried by a hurricane, quick lightning begging to escape and strike. It reaches to the sky, but the air, moisture, and electricity it summons have no place in Hell, and nothing answers her call. She feels like she’s tugging on a rope attached to a wall. Pointless. Hopeless.

Her only hope is in the Morningstar.

“What are you doing?”

She knows the voice. So does the demon. It drops her, and she lands with a wet slap and a puff of ash. The dust tickles her throat as she tries to force her fluttering lungs to draw a proper breath, but her diaphragm is torn, and instead of air, blood bubbles over her lips.

The demon actually brushes more ash over her mutilated body, like a dog trying to bury the evidence of its misbehavior.

“Is that my sweet Rain?”

She can’t answer, but the Morningstar’s voice is light as spun sugar. The demon’s master already knows. This is a game played on the way to the gallows.

“Fou – Found her.” It isn’t exactly a lie, but the half-truth won’t save the demon while her blood still drips from its teeth.

“I can see that.” The Morningstar steps closer, and the edge of a white robe brushes through Rain’s vision. A rattle of chainmail announces Mazikeen as she kneels, turning Rain so the Morningstar can view her face.

She stares up with the same dreadful hope she offered upon their first meeting. Help me or kill me, but make this suffering end. Only you, only you, only…

She will miss her dreams if she dies, but that is all. She has nothing else. Even her body and soul belong to Hell, to Lucifer. Death is transformation, not escape.

The cool, dry air turns her blood tacky, and ash sticks to her lashes as she blinks up, waiting for a merciful blade or a healing hand. She’ll take whatever she’s given, because her fortunes begin and end in the Morningstar’s will.

The fair ruler of Hell smiles down at Rain, dismissing the demon with the barest wave. “Set the hounds him. Let them have their fill. He should give them good sport after such a grand meal.”

As the demon flees, squealing, the Morningstar’s eyes stay with Rain, whose own vision begins to fade as she fights for consciousness. It’s a battle she’s already lost, but she clings to awareness just long enough to press her face into the cool hand that strokes her cheek.

Healing in Hell never comes as a blessing. It’s used to keep fragile bodies alive for more pain, to restore enough life and vitality for the suffering to continue. That alone makes many beg to just die, but Hell thrives on excess. Medical care in Hell is its own torture. Magic twists bones back into place slowly, grinding the nerves beyond the point of agony. Mending flesh itches and burns. Through it all, the demonic power crackles like flame through the patient’s blood. Her veins glow with it, and she’s reminded once again that life in Hell is no gift.

The Morningstar hovers throughout the procedure, graceful but tense, full of unwelcome emotions the monarch easily stirs into rage. When at last the blood is gone, the holes mended, and only tears run down Rain’s face, Lucifer steps forward to take her face in hand, peering deep, searching for something she doesn’t understand. Something already given, or something she never had. In the Morningstar’s grip, she feels small, much less than the woman she’s becoming and once more the child fighting to breathe on the throne room floor, dazzled and horrified by the greatest of all angels.

“This will not happen again.” Those words should offer comfort – finally – but they echo like a strike on the bell at the outer gates. An end curls out of a beginning, and they twist into a new era like a choking vine.

Lucifer moves her cell to the edge of the royal chambers, and a single lock becomes twenty. Rain listens to their clicks and clangs as a lullaby in the dark. They are the last thing she hears before she sleeps, and the first thing to break the silence of a new day.

Mazikeen brings a veil. When demons come to the throne room, Rain pulls it over her face. Only in the most private moments, when none but Mazikeen stands guard, and the Morningstar is confident in the room’s security may Rain take it off.

It isn’t enough.

The Morningstar has strings of bells forged and chained around Rain’s ankles. Even if she cannot scream, someone will hear her move.

As if anyone would try after the last demon to steal her away becomes steaming dog shit. The Morningstar ensures his dying screams carry throughout the realm, a warning and a promise to any creature foolish enough to take what belongs to the ruler of Hell.

She has become something the Morningstar fears to lose.

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

When the Dream Lord comes for his helm, Lucifer tucks Rain away in her cell. She doesn’t see him, but his visit shapes her future. Mazikeen opens the door once he leaves, and Rain smells the brimstone tint of her master’s rage. The demon hands her food and water and closes the door again, because she is a good servant, and when their monarch has calmed, Rain will have a purpose again.

The Morningstar does not mean to forget, but there are other things to consider, to mull over and hate – too many to remember the little storm god.

It’s fortunate the little storm god is accustomed to loneliness. She can’t remember a time she wasn’t at least a little lonely, and she struggles to imagine anything better than the days spent beside the Morningstar. There isn’t love, there isn’t trust, but there is something, and a starving child – or woman – will always choose something over the void. Time alone won’t kill her. She’ll emerge refreshed and hungry for the Morningstar’s attention, which will make it all the better.

With food in her belly and the locks thrown against her, Rain has nothing to do but sleep.

There are no stars in Hell. No storm clouds, either. Hell has no real weather and no real sky, because weather is change, change is life, and Hell is for the dead. So, when she looks up and sees cumulonimbus scudding along a lavender sunset, she knows she’s in a dream.

She falls back into the long grass. It feels impossibly soft, gentler than her distant memories of rose petals and rabbit fur.

Misting rain washes over the field, kissing life into skin starved of the sun in over a decade – maybe longer; days and nights stretch or shrink by the Morningstar’s whim. It could be a century since she heard a real wind combing through dry cattails.

Life makes so much noise. Even quiet places have a pulse.

She breathes the free air, and the clouds breathe with her.

Eyes closed, she tries to pull the dream into her heart, into her lungs, and gut, and all the hidden places it might survive a little while in the infernal realm. It’s easy to forget she was born for lightning and hurricanes when her life is full of black marble, ash, and flame. She’s learned what she is by absence rather than discovery.

The dream hurts, aches with the illusion of freedom, and she won’t give it up until the choice leaves her hands. Eventually, she’ll have to wake and drink water. Eventually, she’ll have to return to Hell and eat food. Eventually. Not now. Not for a while yet.

She watches the purple sky turn blue, then black as the imagined atmosphere fades, and brighter lights make way for the cosmos. Millions of stars, many too close and colorful to be real, glitter overhead. The Milky Way bends through the chaos, and it looks so tangible she wonders if she could walk along it, out of her field and up into space.

But that requires getting up, and she’s happy where she is.

The night fades, and the Morningstar welcomes the dawn. Only a hint of peach flushes across the horizon before fresh storm clouds roll in, growling with thunder and flashes of lightning. She sits up to welcome it, and the downpour lashes her face clean of yesterday’s tears.

She spends another three days in the meadow before the tug of her body’s needs shakes the ground beneath her. Eventually has arrived, and she rises to meet it. As the colors fade and her mind gathers itself to leave, she sees a dark shape at the edge of field, waiting under the trees. He could’ve been there for hours, but she only just notices him before the dream folds in on itself.

She wakes, and pours water down her aching throat. Once that settles, she takes another bite of bread, and wriggles into a better position against the stone while her stomach settles. She has no idea how long she’ll be in her cell this time. Mazikeen’s gift suggests it may be months, so she consumes her rations carefully. Just enough to live, to dream a little longer.

And just like that, she falls asleep again.

The dark figure waits at the tree line, and the continuous thread jars her so badly she wonders if she never woke in the first place. Her reality could be the dream, the dream the truth. But life isn’t kind enough for that, and the fantastic hope disintegrates the moment she imagines it.

However, she understands as she holds the stranger’s gaze through the storm that she isn’t alone.

There is a stranger in her world of longing, and he waits for her. Eyes like her night sky call through the wind and sheeting rain, and she thinks she may know them. Did they watch her from beside the Milky Way? Has he spied on her?

Questions string tight between them, a link that pulls, and his gaze becomes a summons.

Once he’s confident she’ll follow, he turns and walks into the shadows between the oaks and sycamores. She leaves the meadow and steps willingly into the dark, where the rain cascades in slow, heavy drops from leaf – to leaf – to the forest floor. It patters in whispers over twisted roots, stirring the loam to perfume the air with sweet decay and new life under the shelter of the old wood.

He waits under a maple tree, its leaves flushed scarlet.

When she nears, he says, “Hell has not suffered a living dreamer in an age.”

He feels out of place in her dream, a stranger, but he knows her, and even if she’s never met him, she still recognizes something about him. It isn’t just his eyes. It’s the shadows under his feet, the way the light reflects off his skin. He could be glimmer of lightning in distant clouds or the yearning in ancient trees reaching for fresh rain.

“You know me?”

“I am Dream of the Endless. I know all dreamers.” He looks down, scrutinizing, and she raises her chin to meet his examination.

She has nothing to hide, and she refuses to cower in her own imagination. In this place, unlike all others, her dignity and will are her own.

“I know all dreamers,” he repeats, softer, “and you have such long dreams.”

He is asking something, but she can’t grasp what he wants. Does he want her reassurance that she’s well? Does he want her gone from his realm? To drag her sulfur stink and lonely wishes somewhere else?

She cannot live without them.

“Are you going to take them from me?”

He shifts to face her rather than the tree. Whatever he wanted to hear, she didn’t say it. His stern expression flickers with a ghost of surprise. “No.”

Habit demands she bow her head, compose herself and find something to make him warm to her. A pacifying performance. She knows the way of rulers, but she doesn’t want to play the humble subject, and it is her dream. He says he won’t take it, so she will not compromise it with false deference.

“If my long dreams bother you, blame yourself. The Morningstar has forgotten me because of you. There’s no escape from my cell but these dreams.”

His nostrils flare, and the light sharpens in his eyes. “Are you behind the bolted door in the Light Bringer’s chambers?”

“Yes.”

He comes closer, toe-to-toe, like he wants to touch her, examine her, but he keeps his hands in the pockets of his robe.

“I saw it when I came for my helm. I wondered what great terror the Morningstar would lock away so securely, yet keep so near. Now I see.” He doesn’t reach out. Doesn’t close the distance. But his eyes trace her face, lingering and searching. A smirk almost too quick to see flickers through his expression. “It was no monster in the vault but a treasure.”

“A tithe,” she corrects, “in a prison.”

She does not like to think those words, but they are the truth, and her dreamscape inspires honesty, all the parts of herself she cannot embrace in her waking life. Her storms and her meadows. If he wants to walk with her here, he must weather it all.

The Dream Lord’s lashes flutter, and other tales hide in his eyes. It isn’t only her pain he sees when he looks down at her, snarling against his memories.

Now she sees his question.

“You cannot save me, Dream Lord.”

He closes his eyes, and she returns to the meadow. It’s like the whole forest steps away, so one instant she’s with him, and the next she’s alone.

Part 2

#morpheus x reader smut #dream of the endless x reader #the sandman fanfic #lucifer morningstar

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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 2 years

Text

Lord Save Me My Drug Is My Baby (+18)

Summary: Father Spencer and Y/N reminisce about their salacious encounter and then find themselves giving into the very thing he's supposed to deny

CW: Spencer Reid (Priest AU) x Female Reader (strong religious themes, kissing, corruption kink kinda)

Word Count: 4400

Note: OMG here it is!! This is either good or really bad...

Taglist Sign Up | Tell Me What You Thought | Part One

I could recognize that perfume anywhere. It’s the most delicate, yet potent aphrodisiac known to man. It’s so wrong, the one true example of sin, but I don’t even try to stop myself anymore. Not when I can feel her soft skin against my hands and inhale her perfume with every breath I take.

“This is wrong,” I murmured, my teeth catching her earlobe as I kissed her next. She smelled sweet like summer rain and sinful like a broken prayer, “I just need one taste. One taste and maybe I’ll be able to forgive myself,”

“Your God won’t strike you down for a little kiss, now would he,” the woman says, teasing dripping from the lips that I desperately want to capture between my own. Her body was flush against mine. Every bit of her is soft and plush where I am hardened and smooth. My hands move down her body, gripping her hips like a vice.

How can something so good, so seemingly divine and angelic be the one thing I’ve been ordered to swear away. Her skin is hot, sticky with sweat and sinful with broken promises. My lips burn against her’s. I haven’t kissed a woman in ages. I love the burn. I love the way my lips melt into her lips amidst the flickering flames.

Her eyes are icy, but burn into my soul. If I look hard enough I could see myself reflected in them. It reminds me of a homily I gave, months ago. Something about eyes and souls and knowing someone entirely and completely. The exact words escape me at the moment, but I think I finally understand what I was trying to say.

Her hands swiftly undo my belt, yet her eyes never leave mine. They bore into my soul, icy yet burning. She’s like rum on fire and I am nothing but an unlit match. I’d bathe myself in gasoline if it meant I could feel the heat of her touch. Her lips slip between my lower lip as her hands sneak under my shirt. I desperately want to deepen the kiss, but resist the urge.

The edges of the indescribable room grow fuzzy and her touches are soft. Her breathless voice rings in my ears, calling me in like a fatal siren.

It’s too fuzzy. Too soft. Too breathless. Too beautiful.

Yet, I can feel her soft kiss below me. I can hear her breathless moans as I bite her lips, wondering if I’ll taste her. I want to kiss her neck, cover her in my marks so the entire world and the Heavens beyond know that she’s mine.

God forgive me, I am only human. A man.

A man who needs a frigid shower and a half marathon.

It would be a sin in itself to ask for forgiveness for something that I don’t want to be forgiven. Yet, I am a priest. I made a vow to my Heavenly maker to deny myself to the carnal pleasures of man. I broke that vow already, exactly six days ago, when I gave into the deep desire that I feel for the woman in the confessional.

Running is the worst exercise known to man. It’s nothing but knees and feet pounding against hard pavement. My chest aches with the guilt of my desire, but I attempt to convince myself it’s not that. I decide, convinced of my own convictions, to lose myself in the run. The pain in my knees and the tightened noose around my heart is of my own doing. I’ll take the pain of my human form over the guilt of man’s desire any day.

But God help me I’m only human.

I think of her hair.

I run. I think of the smell of her handkerchief that I stowed in my drawer.

I run.

I think of touching her, her touching me. I think of her breathless whispers, chanting my name like a prayer. I think of her body writhing under mine, giving her divine, Heavenly pleasure. With the same sweet shock of Adam when he first came. My chest burns, begging me like a sinner to give in to my thoughts. To give into the figment of a woman that dwells in my dreams and corrupts my conscience.

And so, I run some more.

–

Trepidation seemed to drip from her fingertips as she sat in the back of the church, eagerly waiting for him to end the mass. She had never been to a Catholic mass before, and even though she didn’t find herself there with the most pious of intentions, it would be a lie to say she wasn’t interested. It would also be a lie to claim that her interest in attending the mass rested in the hands of a particular priest.

A priest, who looked like he was preserved in pickle juice and whatever crappy wine they serve at Communion, was dressed in ornate green chasuble, and wore a look of deep contemplation. He looked lost in thought as he prayed under his breath. A couple of times, Y/N swore she saw him doze off. The deacon, a man with bronzed skin and curly hair, had to nudge him a couple times. Even on the way back, Y/N caught that. She figured she needed something to pay attention to, considering her attempt to catch Father Spencer in his most natural habitat was a no go.

The choir, made up of another collection of eldery women with permed curls and enough blush to make even Dolly Parton remove some, sang a hymn that Y/N recognized as Amazing Grace. She flipped through the book, unsure which page the words to the song would appear on. Just then, she felt a breeze against her side. Looking up, she was face to face with the last person she would be expected to sit next to this morning.

Father Spencer.

“Sorry to startle you,” he said, his words sounding eerily familiar. He must have a habit of scaring women, “It’s page 345 by the way. Or you can just share with me,”

She smiled, grateful for his kindness. As she sat there, Y/N’s mind wandered off to their first encounter. It’s easy to recall the way his voice, deep and gravely, sounded through the small screen of the confessional. She remembered the way the firm kneeler felt against her skin. It was hard and cool, the unforgiving leather left marks against her skin. Y/N thought about the way Father Spencer guided me during the confession. He was gentle, kind even. And Y/N, being anything but innocent, found herself thinking about him in more nefarious situations.

He was like a forbidden fruit, for lack of better metaphor. He was untouchable, yet Father Spencer was the only man she wanted to touch. Her brain was sent into overdrive. Did he know who she was? Could he possibly recognize her voice? She remembered hearing his door creak open when she fled the confessional, her body coursing with embarrassment and humiliation. He must have heard fifteen different people that day. It would be silly, foolish even of her to think he’d remember her, remember their…encounter.

But she remembered it. Oh did she remember it all too well.

Fuck.

She was so fucking fucked. Y/N scrolled on her phone, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread rush over her. It’s not that she didn’t not believe that it was a sin, because she was pretty sure whatever being that was up wherever had better things to care about than her getting off to a hunk of plastic because her (now ex) boyfriend was too much of a tool to even try. Like, even if there was a God or whatever wouldn’t they care more about starving children or sick old ladies or the wars? It made sense that way, but in her limited experience, religion rarely did.

That isn’t why she was fucked though. Y/N was fucked for a very different reason. She zoomed into the picture on her screen, unable to help herself. Greeting her, was a very handsome, very off limits man. He was young, at least by priest’s standards. In her mind, men of the cloth were in the age range of graying grandpas, not 35-ish men with sweet brown eyes and perfectly plump pink lips. Confessing something like freaking touching herself to a man that looked like he stepped off a taboo issue of Hot Priest calendar would be a near impossible task.

Yet.

Y/N’s two feet, adoring her favorite ankle cut boots, walked to the church steps. They were small, but long and led up to the doors adorned with stained glass windows. She wasn’t knowledgeable enough to understand what they were depicting. With her heart threatening to thump out of her chest, Y/N opened the doors. She was met by a gust of cool, air conditioned air. It made her realize just how hot it was in her car. Y/N’s back chilled in the coolness of the large room as a cold sweat formed. The church was strangely quiet, but then Y/N realized that it’s probably that like most days.

An eldry woman, dressed in bright salmon pink tops and white capri pants knelt in a pew. Her shoulders were slumped with either age or reverence, Y/N wasn’t too sure. Uncertain what to do, Y/N looked around at the tall windows above her head. Some she understood, the story of Adam and Eve, the first Christmas, and Easter. Others were beyond her scope of religious knowledge. Standing near the sign for Confessions, Y/N stared up at the stained glass depiction of Eve handing Adam the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.

She always found it silly that women got the blame for being tricked by Satan, when the real fool is Adam. But, she supposes, faith isn’t supposed to be logical. If it was logical, well then it wouldn’t be faith would it?

Speaking of the illogical and fantastical, the image of the man she’s about to confess to burned in her mind. The way his smile was somehow boyish and coy, yet wise and chock full of intelligence. You could see it. The intelligence. It was as if it seeped from his warm brown eyes and straight into her thumb that couldn’t help but zoom in and out.

She sat in a pew, staring at the stained glass and attempting to rid her mind of the less than pure thoughts that circle the drain of her mind. Fiddling with her thumbs, Y/N watched as an eldery man exited the small room to her left. Unsure what to do, or if it was her turn, she took a second to take in her surroundings. The old woman, who knelt a couple pews behind her, looked deep in prayer. Y/N figured that she already went and was taking a moment of reflection. That’s what happened. Right?

Plagued with uncertainty, she let the man find a spot to sit before entering the small room with a heavy oak wood door. It was dark in the room, save for a small battery operated candle. In the tiny room, Y/N realized that there wasn't much room for anything, but to kneel. Again, that’s the point, isn’t it?

“You’re supposed to be kneeling,”

Her heart stopped. It didn’t just skip a beat or two, it actually stopped. His voice startled her, not unlike an innocent lamb at the hands of an unsavory predator. But if anything, she’s the impure one in this duo of sinners.

“Sorry for startling you,” he apologized, a layer of sincerity piqued her interest, “You sound like you don’t know what you’re doing,” Y/N felt her skin heat at the man…the priest’s words. It wasn’t suggestive. It was far from it and it was unfair of her to take it in such a way, “I don’t,” she chuckled, kneeling on the leather kneelers. They were hard against her knees, bound to leave marks when she stood.

“That’s quite alright. I can show you the ropes if you like,”

He sounded….kind? Sweet, even. I knew he was young. And handsome. Ridiculously, wonderfully gorgeous. And completely off limits. A fucking Catholic priest is perhaps as off limits as a man can get. God, there should be rules or something. Like they should all have to wait until they’re graying or wrinkling or smell like talc and moth balls. Before she could help it, her mouth overtook the more sensible part of her brain, “Do I really have to say ‘Forgive me Father, for I have sinned’ or is that only in the mafia movies?

She could have sworn she heard him chuckle. Swallowing the last bit of pride she had left, Y/N listened to Father Spencer as he instructed, guided her, like a wise, kind shepherd leads his unknowing flock. From his handsome countenance to hearing his rich, velvety voice, Y/N is resigned to the conclusion that she’s thoroughly, inconceivably fucked.

The choir, probably half exhausted, half in need of resuscitation after their rendition of Amazing Grace with great gusto, instructed the congregation to sing what they called a processional hymn. Y/N, unsure of what to do, looked over at her not unwelcomed companion’s shoulder.

“You’ve got an incredible voice,”

His humble voice reached Y/N’s ear through the echoey church, making her shudder with anticipation. She didn’t fully understand what he was saying, nor did she ever think she believed in it. But it was hard when he looked so sinfully beautiful doing it.

“Father Spencer,” she says, nodding her head politely. She looks up towards him, wondering how he snuck into the pew so silently, “You’d think you would get enough of this,” she teases, taking note of how he tinges pink.

“One could never get tired of this,” Father Spencer murmurs, raising his head and looking at church with an unidentifiable longing.

Staring at him, Y/N found herself hit with a wave of jealousy. She wondered what it would be like to devote yourself to something so ardently. Y/N didn’t have that privilege or burden, she’s not sure which is it. But whatever it is, Father Spencer certainly makes it look attractive.

In more ways than one.

“I have another confession to make, Father,” she whispers, shocking herself with her brazen words. She sneaks a look at her pew companion, searching for some reaction to her confirmation, “It’s not as….salacious as the last one,”

“You’re not supposed to talk during Mass,” Father Spencer mumbles, “It might just bring us back to that confessional again, my dear,”

Heat rises to her chest, as the memory of closed off, stuffy confessional rushes back. She remembers the feel of the leather kneelers against her skin, the sound of his voice, warm and rich like a glass of whiskey.

“Well, at a risk of being bad,” Y/N starts, her eyes flickering to Father Spencer. He swallows his clerical collar moving up and down as he collects his thoughts, “I have to admit, the only reason I came here today to because I thought I’d see you,”

“Hmm,” he says, neither agreeing or disagreeing with her confession.

“And now, Father,” she starts again, “I’m wondering if you’re here with the same intentions,”

The congregation sits, finished with three verses of Amazing Grace. The priest, pickled and pruning, gestures for the altar boy to collect the basket for donations. While the rest of the church is occupied with finding spare dollars and change in exchange for their souls, Father Spencer’s fingers dig into her elbow. His voice is rich and warm against Y/N’s ear and if she focuses she could feel his lips brushing against the hard part of her ear.

“Follow me,”

She wasn’t sure what prompted her to listen, but there’s something magnetic about Father Spencer. It’s in the way his eyes, light with promises of something more tinilating flickering below the surface, shone in the church. His breath was reveret, not unlike a prayer, against her neck, beckoning her like a lost lamb towards its rightful shepard. Father Spencer, never letting go of his grip against her elbow, leads Y/N down the stairs. Storage rooms and secret nooks are filled with ornate statues and altar decorates. She knows that they must have some significance, but the very thought is lost to her at the moment.

It was as if the world stopped. Y/N, breathless and timorous, could hardly breathe. She found herself all too aware of Father Spencer’s grip against her elbow. His nimble fingers, attached to strong veiny hands, bore into her skin. She found herself wishing he’d leave marks, a testament to this…whatever it was being real.

“Is it presumptuous of me to assume you had thoughts of me, wanting me to touch you, to kiss you, to do things to you that good girls should never be thinking of, in a church no less?” Father Spencer cooes, leading Y/N’s back against a strong stone wall.

Guilt and shame and lust rose in her chest, demanding to be dealt with. She could feel it ebb and flow from her body, tethered to the Earth, to Father Spencer’s tethered to Earth by a power unknowable to her mind.

“Tell me that’s not what you want, little lamb,” Father Spencer asks, his lips dipping closer to Y/N’s neck, barely touching yet leaving not a millimeter of space between them. Father Spencer’s hand came to rest on her thigh. He brushes her skin and plays with the hem of her delicate dress. His eyes rank her body, lust evident in his eyes. She wonders, silently, proudly if she’s the first woman he’s touched, wanted, lusted for since taking up the cloth. A wave of unearned, yet potent jealousy washes over her. She may not have Father Spencer, she very may be denied him, but damn if someone else will procure the very looks she gets from him.

She whimpers into him, inhaling the smell of the incense coupled with the aroma of his Earthy, woodsy cologne. It’s so wondrously him that she wants to lose herself in it.

“You fucking undo me, and I don’t even know your name. You’re everywhere. My dreams, my runs, you’re the prayer on my lips. You’re the reason I’ve had to beg for forgiveness. And I don’t even know your damn name, my dear. And hear you are, in my church, brazenly flirting with, reminding me of what you’ve done,”

Y/N gasps, whining as Father Spencer peppers careful kisses along the expanse of her jawline. Her skin is sensitive, but with his lips on her flesh it’s like he’s on fire. Y/N reaches forward, searching for something to yank her closer to her body. She’s desperate to feel their bodies flush, joined together as one in some bastardized sacrament. Her hands touch his hardened body, a juxtaposition against her soft, smooth one.

“Oh my God, please, Father Spenc-” she cries, her lips bitten a bold, sinful red. Father Spencer groans the sound threatens any sense of reserve that remains.

Father Spencer’s hand rises to her cheek, thrilling her heart as it holds her gently, “And to think I thought you would have had more resolve. That pathetic boyfriend of yours did know what he had, didn’t he. But, my dear, look at me when I speak to you. You’ve made me question the vows I gave with my whole heart. You’ve made me doubt the undoubtable, and for that, little lamb, I think you deserve a kiss,”

Father Spencer’s hands cup her cheeks, bringing her lips towards his lips. They are bitten and swollen from her attempts to stifle any noises. They hear the swell of the organ, alerting them that mass is over, but neither of them care to move. Her chest rises and falls with trepidation as Father Spencer’s bowed head eclipse the low light in the storage room. Y/N’s back, pressed up against the cold wall, arches into the kiss. She tastes his hesitation in the kiss. Her eyes kill the lights and for a moment, she feels like a person.

Her breath, wary and unsure, bleeds into Father Spencer’s mouth. Y/N kisses him, languid and deliberate, savoring the musk of his sweat and the taste of his tongue against her lips. She shudders as his hands grip her hips, ordering her to stay in place. She’s docile in her arms, puddy in his lips, hot liquid against his skin.

No words needed to be said. Somehow there was a silent exchange between them as she stole his breath like a thief. Y/N marvels at the strength in his hands; he holds her so forcefully, pinned up against the wall.

He smelled so good, his hands so rough and big; and he moved them higher up her hips and to her waist, raking the hem of her dress up as he went, like he'd forgotten who he was and where they were. Desperation, as it turned out, wasn’t something only she was plagued with.

It wouldn’t be another sin to try to convince Father Spencer that Y/N was the kind of girl that found herself pinned up against a wall by a man. She’s a good girl. Kisses that make her lips ache and touches that bruise are foreign to her. She stifles a moan, her remaining decency dwindling as Father Spencer’s teeth graze her bottom lip. Desperation floods her skin, as he grinds his lips against her groin, reminding her of the sweetness of Earthly pleasure.

Oh what she could show him, oh what they’ve both been missing. It’s wrong how something that feels so good could be so depraved. Father Spencer’s lips reach her neck, hellbent on leaving marks that will last longer than his fleeting touches.

His hands rest on her hips, forming refuge against her ribcage. Father Spencer, in what seems to be his better judgment, releases her.

“My name,” Y/N says, “It’s Y/N. I want you to know what you’re calling out when you’re alone, Father Spencer. Because I do,”

“And here I thought you were a good girl, my sweet Y/N,” Father Spencer trills, his long fingers dashing up her face. The sound of her name against his lips is almost too much for her to bear. She feels flush and weak, like some ill Regency woman that faints when men so much as ask her for a dance. But it’s her name repeated over and over again as the devilish, yet angelic man mauls her throat. He plants kiss after kiss, washing away all the ones that came before.

“I’m sorry, Father.” She admits. Y/N’s tone is soft, yet she is sure Father Spencer is witty and clever enough to catch the glimmer in her eyes as she lowers her gaze.

“Good Catholic girls don't lie to priests, my dear,”

“It’s a good thing I’m not a good girl, or a Catholic, Father,” Y/N teases, a chanting sort of tone beckoning him forth. He can’t resist the whims of a woman, of a divine enchantress.

Father Spencer’s hips shift, attempting to either hide or announce his pleasure from their secret thyrst. His hands caress her thighs, up to her soft chest, hidden by the confines of her dress.

Her confession, not her first to his ears, and certainly not the first to effect his resolve sends a shockwaves down his spine. His hands shake, perhaps tormented with the gravity of his sin or taken by the woman before him. It’s like in a moment everything in the Earth finds its realignment. The birds return to the sky and the fish to the sea. The grass is green again and the clouds white.

Father Spencer, a man of the cloth, a believer of all things visible and invisible breaks away from the woman before him. He rests his head against her head, unable to not have his body pressed against hers. In a moment, Y/N’s chest rises and falls with her panty breath. She slums against the wall, her mind wandering at the last ten minutes.

"I have to go."

With that, Father Spencer is gone. And all that remains is the knowing, ironic eyes of St. Agnes looking down below her.

Taglist

@reidslovely @reidsbookclub @spencerreidat3am @fightingdragonswithreid @hotchandspencearedilfs @sadgirlml @spencerslibrary @foxy-eva @reidslibrarybook @reidselle @alexxavicry @justlivinginadaydream @reidsmilf @mrs-dr-reid @bloomingeagle @spencerreidsmommy @spenciesprincess @ssawonderland @strawberrykittey @simp-for-men-80083 @gublur @awhoreforspencerreid @spookydrreid @gettingrailedbyreid

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem reader #spencer reid x female reader #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fandom #dr spencer reid

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straykids-97 · 1 year

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Babe!! You can't just end it there! I need more, it was so good!

What would happen when mc finally does come home? When it's late at night and they can be together and Seonghwa can bask in the readers scent all he wishes?

Just, you know. Decisions 🤷‍♀️

Hahahahaaaaaaaah. Alright alright, I suppose I shan’t tease…

Seonghwa hard thought 💭✍🏻

Your phone buzzes with a message. You pause shrugging on your jacket to see what Seonghwa messaged you.

When will you be home angel? I miss you…

You smile at his words, and hastily shove your arms into your jacket and reply.

Soon. Heading home now 🫶🏻

You see that he reads the message, but he doesn’t bother with replying. Sometimes you wonder if Seonghwa knows how to properly text, or if he knows that there’s such a thing as read receipts. Either way, it amuses you as you climb into the taxi to head home for the weekend.

You slide up to the door, fumbling your keys as you desperately try to get the door unlocked. Knowing that Seonghwa typically doesn’t use the front door, you knew it would still be locked. He says it’s dangerous to use the front door, other vampires would scent him and discover that he’s been in and out of your home, putting you in danger. If he enters through the back, it’s more unassuming and makes it look like he’s just passing through.

Seonghwa normally tells you when he’s coming over, or so you thought. You hear the dryer running, making you pause. You know there’s no way that it should be running as you would have had no time to do it yourself and even if you did, it wouldn’t be running 10 hours later. “Seonghwa?” You call into the quiet house, “Are you here?” You hear him hum from what sounds like the living room, and you saunter toward the sound of his voice. “Hwa, why did you break into my house?”

“It’s not breaking in when you’ve invited me in already.” He reminds you. You take a moment to see that he’s gently folding your clothes into neat little piles, his eyes focused on his work. “You scared me.” You grumble tossing your keys and bag into the recliner and hurrying to his side. He hums, “Sorry, angel.” Seonghwa still doesn’t look at you as he continues his diligent work. “You don’t have to do my clothes, Hwa. I can do them later-“

“I want to.” He replies, a little too quickly you think. You narrow your eyes at him. “Why?” He hear him sigh, “You’re always so busy. And I’m not.”

“Liar.” You sing-song. “What’s the real reason?”

“Your house is a mess.” He says, slowly putting a pair of your panties on the neat stack a few feet away on the coffee table. You turn his chin to look at you, his eyes blazing that familiar red color. “What’s the matter?” You ask, worry filling your stomach. Seonghwa was a nervous cleaner, so whenever he got stressed he tended to clean or tidy up. “Nothing. I came by cuz I missed you and it was dirty so I was just giving you a hand by cleaning up a little.” He shrugged. You would have believed him if it weren’t for him averting his gaze.

“Seonghwa,” you breathe. He finally sighs, “honest. I was just cleaning… but then all I could smell was you. I nearly went into a frenzy and showed up to your job.” He finally admits. “I thought cleaning would help. But your goddamned panties are not helping.” He wads up a pair of your lacy panties and leans back into the couch, dangling them by a finger. You watch in a mixture of awe and desire as he holds them up to his nose, letting out a soft groan. His eyes are closed as he inhales your scent. “Out of all the places and all your clothes, your panties hold your scent the strongest.” He reveals.

After a few moments, you finally gather the courage, “Whys that?” His eyes lazily open and find your face. “Because, your desire, your wetness,” he leans forward, knocking over the clothes on his lap as he presses you into the couch, “your cum is soaked into the very fibers of the cloth. It’s potent. It drives me insane.” He bares his sharp teeth at you, making you gasp. Heat filled your body as his hand ghosted between your legs. “Shall I give a presentation?”

You find yourself pressed into the arm of the couch, dripping sweat. Seonghwa had ripped your clothes off and discarded them around your couch. The only thing left on your body was the panties you were wearing.

Your mind was blank; the only thing on it was how Seonghwa perfectly molded into you. It was like his cock was made just for you. You bit the armrest, a stifled moan escaping into the fabric, causing Seonghwa to moan. His lithe fingers found your swollen clit, “One more, Angel. Just one more and I’ll let you rest. I just want one more.” He purrs, his free hand slapping your ass and returning to your hip to hold you prisoner as he brought you to the brink of yet another orgasm.

Seonghwa didn’t know what smelled best; your dripping cunt or your sweat mixed with his.

Chiefs kiss 🤌🏼

©️straykids-97

#ateez seonghwa #ateez hard thoughts #ateez hard hours #seonghwa smut #ateez smut drabbles #ateez smut

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nautiscarader · 1 year

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Zalissa 29

(Ao3)

Melissa loved listening to Zack sweet moans and groans when they were making love. To hear his cries and roars as she rode his cock, or muffled praises when she was on his face… But only when she heard his dominant, decisive voice she realised she was falling in love all over again.

"On your knees".

And with that, her knees automatically got weaker, sending her to the carpeted floor, while her boyfriend towered over her, giving her more commands.

"Undo my jeans."

She didn't have to be asked. Her hands were already on his crotch, proudly showing the bulge inside she desperately wanted to get to. And a frantic moment later, she got her wish, laying her eyes on his cock, its twitching head shining from pre-cum.

Melissa opened her mouth, but then a strange new sensation hit her, and told her to look up at her imposing boyfriend, and wait for his permission.

"Suck it."

Melissa closed her lips around his cock, and at once her sense of taste and smell were overwhelmed with potent fragrances and flavours, which brought her back to where this afternoon started…

Because just fifteen minutes earlier, she definitely was in control of her date, as the two youngsters cuddled on the sofa, getting just a little handsy as Melissa decided to move from sofa to his laps.

Zack's eyes widened as Melissa was getting more and comfortable in his crotch, gently proding the hem of his shirt, waiting for a moment to strike.

"Mel, this is my mom's couch. I don't-don't wan t to mess it up…", he stuttered as he felt her hand sneaking onto his chest.

"It's okay, you can do it inside if you are brave enough…"

"Mel, that's not what-"

"What, didn't you say that from now on you will try to be take things in your hands?" she smiled cockily, gently moving her hips against his crotch. "Well, I am your thing, I'm just waiting for the hands…".

It has been quite a while since their life-changing trip to outer space which ended with Zsck's proclamation of his promise of stepping up his decisiveness. And their first kiss, of course.

And she still loved him deeply, even if very little changed on the homefront - she still was wearing the pants in this relationship, and was deciding when to take them off.

This is why Melissa let out a shriek when she felt his hands on her ass as the world around her suddenly change orientation. Next thing she knew she was lying underneath him, his lips on hers, at least until he took his shirt off, exposing his chest.

"So, you're my thing, huh?", he asked, looking at her trying to comprehend the situation, breathing heavily.

"Yes…", she answered sheepishly, feeling her heart racing.

"Well then… get on your knees."

And that is how Melissa got to her current position, with Zack's hand in her hair, encouraging her to go deeper and deeper with every pass, as her tongue coiled around his cock, gathering more of his potent flavour and fragrance. But it was his towering presence that truly amplified Melissa's excitement, evident by her hand in her already wet panties, toying with her pussy and clit as her boyfriend controlled her oral skills.

Every few seconds their eyes would meet, and she would find a new spark in them, one of dominance and power. Or maybe it were just her eyes, watering as Zack's manhood pushed further and further, the moves of his his becoming less and less subtle.

Melissa would often close her eyes, losing contact with him, but gaining more of the unexpected, her other senses amplifying the experience of her tastebuds, promising a flood of sticky, salty, rich cum soon.

"I'm-I'm close…",. he suddenly uttered, his voice barely broking under oncoming climax of his.

Melissa looked at him as if she wanted to say something, but he finished her thoughts for her.

"And I'm gonna cum inside that pretty mouth of yours.", his finger slid across her cheek, causing her to shiver in anticipation. She could only mumble something, which sounded very much like a plea…

"And you will drink all of it. D-Don' t you spill a drop…"

His head moved to the back of her head as she no longer was in charge of the fellatio that became a facefuck, while he pressed her against the wall. Melissa was taking strategic breaths, her eyes growing wide when she smelled more and more of him, his words painting visions of the future.

"N-Next time I will cum all over your face… and hair… Maybe you will even take a selfie or two ."

Melissa moaned around his cock's head as her body trembled and her thighs shook, the result of her powerful climax, brought not only by his action, but his words painting vivid imagery of his dominance. And when she looked at him again, she was begging for it, silently, with her desperate needy eyes - and he gladly delivered.

Zack let out a roar when his cock pulsed in Melissa's mouth, sending first wave of thick seed. He wanted to do it right into her throat, making her lips meet his balls, but then he retracted, watching as her eyes bulge out and her lips tighten, desperate to fulfil his command. And not a drop of seed has been lost, not after second, third or fourth hefty stream…

Instead, Melissa deal t with the seemingly never-ending batch of baby-making batter Zack was flooding her with, t he room filled with deep, guttural sounds of her swallowing his cum, revelling in its potent taste and smell, a true delicacy she'd never let escape her mouth.

Zack's grip on her head turned into gentle pats and strokes as he watched and listened how his red-head drinks him dry, and only when she w as sure her tongue has coiled enough times around his head to wipe it clean she let go of him proudly presenting her empty mouth, patting her tummy.

"G-goog girl…", Zack muttered, but almost at once has his cocky demeanour changed as he raised his eyebrow n in sign of concern and knelt down. "Okay, was it too much? I had no idea if-"

His voice was broken when Melissa's lips met his in a long, soothing kiss that should have answered his question.

"Dude, that was top-notch. I like that new Zack…"

His cheeks turned red as he continued stroking her hair, until she stood up, looking down at him.

"In fact, I might let you really cum inside me."

Zack's eyes opened wide.

"No, wait, we gotta do it safely, my mom wants grandkids, but not now.", he raised his hands.

"And there it is, my sweet, caring boyfriend.", she giggled and kissed him, "Let's go to the bathroom, we can continue there… and we can flush all the evidence down the drain."

She grabbed his hand and made the decision for him, already waiting to see how that selfie of hers with his cum all over her face will look like.

#zalissa #day 29 #smutember #nautiscaraderfics #lemon #aged-up characters and all that

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narrators-journal · 2 years

Text

Black pepper and mint

This is another Ao3 ask for a/b/o and breeding, so I got a little creative with the little micro-fandom I haven’t tapped into yet. I hope this is enjoyable <3

ALSO! Just so you all know, I tried using the community labels to see what would happen, and I’ve now taken my works *out* of them by deleting the tag, so hopefully they come back into general view. But that’s why they vanished in the first place.

🎊 Also also, this is the last kinktober ask from my batch! You can send more in now until the end of the month 🎊

CW: A/B/O, breeding, Akechi smells kinda awful on purpose

"Akechi! I'm home!" Akira called as he carried his shopping in. However, instead of his mate calling out to him like he usually did, he was instead greeted with a familiar scent of mint and black pepper. Well, that's stronger than it was. He thought. Putting the groceries down on the kitchen counter and following the unique scent.

Admittedly, Akechi's scent was off-putting to most. It was cold and very strong, so almost no omega enjoyed it. Akira though wasn't an omega, but an Alpha. And while he didn't think his beloved mate smelled mouthwatering, he enjoyed how identifiable it was. Akechi didn't smell good in a rut, but the brunette also wasn't particularly good as a person.

"Akechi? Hon?" he asked, poking his head into the master bedroom. Finding the room rummaged through. With Akira's side of the dresser pulled out with his clothes half hanging out of it. Not to mention his pillow case missing, along with the throw blanket he used nightly. So, with a hum, the dark-haired alpha closed the door and instead went to the small bedroom, that the two alphas affectionately called Horny Jail, one room down. When he poked his head into that room, he found the sight he expected. And the dizzying, potent smell.

Sat on the bed, on top of the collection of about everything Akira had worn, was his throw blanket bundled into a ball.

"Akechi." Akira hummed, hiding a smile behind his hand when the throw blanket squirmed. Writhing until the familiar man's disheveled head popped into view. His mahogany-colored eyes narrowed the instant he saw his mate. "Get over here." He ordered, making Akira snort, but the boy did approach the bed, pulling off his shirt as he went.

"Not very patient, huh?" he chuckled, letting his disheveled, shirtless boyfriend lunge at him to drag him into a kiss.

Expectedly, the kiss was hungry and rushed, Akechi wanting nothing but the feeling of skin against him. So, the dark-haired man matched that level of desire, only pausing to get lube and keep it at the ready. Outside of that, he let his partner tear the button off of his pants and yank them down his thighs. He didn't even fight for dominance like he usually did. Akechi's rut made him far too aggressive for that, it was easiest to simply let the brunette drag him into the nest.

Matching his desperate energy, Akira broke the kiss to offer his neck. An offer the brunette took. Littering Akira's skin with lovebites and small bruises, only pausing to nuzzle the mating mark he'd left on Akira's neck. Then, he returned to leaving fresh bite marks on the dark-haired man. Humming at the noises those earned.

Once he was satisfied with the array of marks, the detective almost slammed his partner onto his back on the bed.

"Easy, hon." Akira chuckled. Watching the brunette push his legs apart so he could sit between them. "I'm not going anywhere, no need to break me so soon."

"You were gone too long." Akechi panted back, stealing another kiss while he applied lubrication.

"I was only gone an hour."

"Still too long." Before the ebony-haired alpha could argue any further, Akechi slammed into him. The abrupt feeling made him gasp before the sound turned into a moan to match the one his partner let out.

After that, no more words came out. All Akira did was grab the bed and moan as the insatiable alpha he called a mate dug his nails into his hips and started slamming into him. Chasing his own high with little to no heed toward Akira's own desires. Which, oddly enough, only seemed to fan the flames in Akira's belly into more of a wildfire.

So, Akira joined his mate in filling the room with little more than wanton moans and the slapping of skin. Both of them getting lost in the gratifying friction and warmth while Akechi's strong scent mixed with the more cinnamon-heavy one Akira let off. The scents only seeming to further fuel the two. Akira arching his back and hooking his ankles behind Akechi. The brunette giving off a growl before speeding up.

"I'm gonna fill you with so many kids." Akechi panted, Akira giving an eager nod in response. Unable to form a verbal response with the maelstrom of pleasure swirling within him.

Could either of them indeed get pregnant when they were both male Alphas? Akira had no clue. All he knew was that the thought of Akechi filling him to the top with his seed, made the dark-haired Alpha clench around his partner. The increased tightness, in turn, earned a guttural moan from the brunette before he stuttered to a stop. Slamming into Akira one last time before filling him with that last shot of warmth that sent him over the edge and into the dizzying rush of euphoria as well.

Once that initial orgasm took the edge off, Akechi melted onto Akira like syrup on a pancake. Letting the ebony-haired alpha play with his hair while they both caught their breath. In return, Akira let his mate stay buried deep inside of him and continue to mindlessly thrust into him. In an hour, the brunette would be desperate to go again, but for now, they enjoyed the afterglow.

#akeshu #persona 5 royal #Persona #Akira Kurusu x Goro Akechi #Kinktober 2022 #not sfw #a/b/o #Alpha!Akira x Alpha!Akechi #Ren Amamiya #Persona 5 protagonist #Kinktober #prompt list #Ao3 ask

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allwhilewaiting · 5 months

Text

dear happiness #41

i like purple raw onions now. i never did before. i love the smell of them. so potent and clarifying. i love the crunch and that sweet hot rush of juice it generously shares.

i like them because they're bold. you can't deny a raw onion. you must succumb to it. and if you're willing, it will surprise you with its simple delicious taste.

my despair has not left me. many moons have come and gone under the darkness of this despair i feel so intensely and persistently.

it is the onion of my life. i can't stand it most days. but on some days i can understand its power. i can understand that it is trying to communicate with me on a level that bypasses my desperate efforts to run fast and far.

it's flat footed and sitting squarely in my life. like a solid boulder. like the unmistakable smell of the onion, commanding attention...despair is demanding me to take a good (long) look. to stop denying her value as a signal that there is a call on me. it is calling me to myself. the self that i have perfected ignoring in some very large, obvious, and subtle ways. out of survival. out of self-preservation and fear.

the revolving return is my call to start again. deeper. truer.

with time and perspective, perhaps as much as i revel in you dear happiness...i will appreciate and trust the foundation of despair that builds your stable, sturdy structure within my life.

that potent, bold, delicious flavor that lingers...may i grow to love you both for your gifts.

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palimpsessed · 3 years

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Hey. You post a lot of great stuff about Carry On. Can you talk about the biting in AWTWB. The Baz/Simon scenes.Trying to wrap my head around it to understand why Simon did that. Why he bites Baz and keeps biting. Bites his fangs through his cheek. Is it because Simon wants to be bitten? That he wants Baz so much and Baz can't be harmed? I'm really trying to understand it but . . . what do you think?

Anon, thank you for this ask, and also for liking whatever I'm doing on my blog.

Can I talk about the biting? You bet I can!

Why does Simon bite Baz? Is it because he wants to be bitten? In a word, yes! But of course, there's a lot more to it than that. And this went off in another direction than I thought it would, so I hope you can stick with me on this journey! Under the cut because it’s a bit long.

There is a motif running throughout the trilogy of love being a consuming force. So much of Simon and Baz's identities are tied up in hunger very early on: Baz, as a vampire, constantly craving blood; Simon, as the Humdrum, constantly sucking up magic; both of them starved of love and intimacy. There's also a lot of fire imagery, going all the way back to when they first met, and fire is another consuming force.

Simon and Baz are obsessed with each other. The only thing they think about is each other. ("Trying not to think about you…S'like trying not to think about an elephant that's standing on my chest.") They are consumed and they want to consume, and, at least in Simon's case, they want to be consumed.

In WS, Simon reflects on misunderstanding his feelings for Baz prior to eighth year, and the way he does it has always stuck out to me: "I thought about him all the time. I missed him so much in the summer. (I thought I was just lonely. I thought I was hungry. I thought I was bored.)" The second item on that list is what catches my attention. Simon missed Baz and he thought he was hungry. I think it says a lot about how Simon's love for Baz feels if he mistakes it for actual hunger.

In the biting scene you mentioned, Simon says to Baz: "If it were me, if I were you…I'd drain you fuckin' dry, Baz, and it still wouldn't be enough." That's intense. And it's absolutely Simon. We know how much hunger he's capable of; his hunger was so potent, it became a whole other being! I've long maintained that his hunger for magic is a metaphor for his hunger for love. Because Simon is so full of love, and just utterly bereft of people to give it to, and once he has people to love, he doesn't know how to do it without also hurting them. He's never had good relationship modeling. (He thinks Baz should know he loves him because of how many things he's killed for him.—He thinks about teaching Baz how to break someone's neck like it's a fun couples' activity.—He gets turned on by killing things and watching Baz kill, too.—Date night is helping Baz hunt down rats.) Simon is a mess. He wants to love so badly, but he just doesn't know how to do it. ("Is this what people do?")

Simon loves Baz so much, he can't fathom ever getting enough of him. Ever being able to consume enough of him. He can't stop biting and smelling and grabbing because he wants more, more, more. He fits his teeth over Baz's old scars because he needs to claim him—make his own mark on Baz, possess him.

Part of this, as you said, is the fact that Baz is a vampire. Baz can take the roughness (which is not to say that he should just because he can). Simon's fixation on Baz's vampirism, which used to play out as paranoia, has changed into a desire to be bitten. Simon is thinking about Baz's vampirism, thinking about draining Baz dry if he were the vampire, and Baz, the human.

The other part of this is that Simon is unfettered, but really only in the aggressive, physical sense. He's long hidden his desires behind aggression without realizing that's what he was doing. (In CO: "I just want to run him down and knock him over and figure it all out." In AWTWB: "I wanted to jump on you, I didn't really think past that.") He doesn't know how to be unfettered in the vulnerable, emotional sense, and that's what keeps him from being able to be intimate with Baz. ("I don't know how, Baz…To get enough.")

Simon desperately wants to have sex with Baz. Which is what he's trying to do in the biting scene, but all of his desires are warring for control, and he can't sort out what he wants, and what he should be doing in that moment, with Baz.

What this is all leading me to may be a bit off topic, but I think it's all tied up in Simon's head.

Simon doesn't know how to be gentle.

His hunger and his desire for Baz have never been gentle. It's aggression, it's violence, it's possession; it's a forest fire, it's not a hidden waterfall.

Simon has never learned how to be at peace. In a recent interview with Vanity Fair, Rainbow said she made Simon "fight of flight"—literally, he has wings! There's a reason that Simon couldn't handle the inaction at the beginning of CO and before the events of WS. There's a reason that Penelope thought that they were "being lulled" because there was no war actively being waged. There's a reason Penelope tells us in WS: "Lesson learned: Relaxation is the most insidious humdrum." These are characters who are so traumatized by childhoods being foot soldiers in a war waged by the adults they trusted, they don't know how to live without fighting! They don't know how to live in peace.

We all have "I can touch you less gently, but I won't love you less kindly" burned into our eyeballs by now, but let's move earlier in that conversation to what sparks this: "What if I asked you to be less kind to me?" —What if I asked you to be less kind to me?— Simon doesn't feel comfortable with Baz's kindness or gentleness, because it "makes me feel like I'm being turned inside out. Like I need to get away." Let's sit with this for a bit. Baz's loving touches make Simon want to run because they're kind and gentle and he doesn't know what to do with kind and gentle. His mind isn't programmed for kind and gentle.

It makes complete sense that Simon would show Baz affection in a way that Simon understands, considering, as I said before, that he hasn't had anyone in his life to show him a healthy way to do this. What does Simon most want from Baz? Love. What does Simon understand love to be? Consumption. He wants roughness and aggression, he wants the inferno, because these are things he understands.

Simon wants Baz's teeth, so he gives Baz his teeth.

This is how Simon feels comfortable. I made this post while processing my feelings about AWTWB. It talks about Simon trying to love Baz the way he wants to be loved, and Baz trying to love Simon the way he wants to be loved. They want to give each other everything, but they haven't actually communicated their needs to one another, and that's what keeps them from being able to work through their problems. It isn't until they voice their needs that they're able to be intimate. This is what I'm really trying to get at here.

"Is this what people do?" Simon asks, over and over again. When Simon was in therapy, he learned a technique to break up "life into bites you can swallow". He tells us he's doing this again in AWTWB "because [the future] is too terrifying. Too uncertain. There are parts of it that are too bright." —There are parts of it that are too bright.— Simon doesn't know how to be happy. He doesn't know how to cope with happiness. "Is this what people do when they're in love? Do they just keep touching and talking? And then what? Like what is it all leading to? I don't mean sex, I mean… If I knew what I meant, it wouldn't be so frightening." When Simon is having all these overwhelming feelings about his future with Baz, they're on the Tube, and Simon sees a guy giving him and Baz "a dirty look". He interrupts his introspective on therapy to tell us that he wants the guy to cause trouble "because I would dearly love to punch something right now. That's a decision I could wrap my brain around." He can wrap his brain around punching someone, but not around a bright future with the man he loves.

Simon doesn't know how to be at peace. He doesn't know how to be in love. He doesn't know how to be happy. I think this is what we're seeing at play when he bites Baz. He wants something so badly, but he doesn't know what it is, can't articulate it, can't get at it. In a way, when he bites Baz, Simon is trying to ask for what he wants, without words, and without really knowing what it is that he does want.

He can't figure out how to let himself be happy and feel good while being happy. He can't stand gentleness, or softness. In his head, he can't give that to Baz, because he can't handle it himself.

So, yes, Simon bites Baz because he wants to be bitten. And he bites Baz because he knows Baz can handle it. And he bites Baz because there's an emptiness inside of him that he's still trying to fill, and he doesn't understand how to do that. Someday, he will fill it. He and Baz are going to figure that out together.

I hope this makes sense. With your indulgence, Anon, I'm going to tag in @theflyingpeach who is all around brilliant, and I know has their own thoughts about this scene (and demon Simon 👀👀👀) that I would like to see more of. 🥰

A follow up to this ask can be found here.

Further reading on the relationship between consumption, food, and love compiled here.

#awtwb spoilers #asks #simon snow #baz pitch #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #snowbaz #biting #love as consumption

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bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher · 3 years

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🥺 babe 🥺 bAbE

What if Jask gets sick at Kaer Morhen but tries to hide it from Geralt bc he doesn't want him to think he's gross/weak/etc? And Geralt has the Feelings Braincell for once?

oh babe... thank you

tw: sickness, falling unconscious, fever, whump/angst with a happy ending

---

Jaskier knew he had a fever the moment he woke up. He could feel it burning beneath this skin like a forge, flushing his face a more vibrant shade of pink than usual. He glared at his reflection in the small, round mirror above his dressing table and willed himself to feel better. It was his first winter at Kaer Morhen, and he didn’t want Geralt to think he’d made a mistake by inviting Jaskier along to stay. The bard knew that his stoic, self-loathing Witcher would blame himself immediately for any misfortune or illness that befell Jaskier. Geralt might even reconsider inviting him back again someday. So he had to keep his little bug a secret until he was well. Surely it was nothing major. Surely it would pass after a few days, unnoticed and unremarkable.

He should have known better.

Jaskier dabbed a bit more perfume than usual (which was generally none at all) beneath his ears and along his wrists. He hoped the peony-lavender mixture would mask whatever kind of scent his illness might carry and slowly, carefully made his way down the long stone staircase that led from the guest bedroom to the enormous kitchen. His limbs felt achy and tired, even though he’d slept heavily the night previous. His head sat heavy and unbalanced atop his shoulders; the world wavered and spun around him as he desperately tried to keep from pitching sideways into the wall.

“You alright there, boy?” Vesemir asked, catching his eye from the bottom of the stairs. “You seem a bit… nervous.”

Maybe his anxiety was doing a better job of hiding his secret than the perfume.

“Just a little wool between my ears this morning,” the bard laughed brightly, ignoring the searing pain that throbbed through his chest with the movement, “I think I might go chop some wood and see if the brisk mountain air helps clear it out faster.”

“Hmm,” the eldest Wolf nodded sagely. There was no doubt which teacher Geralt had admired most as a pup. “Alright. Be safe, take care. I’ll send someone to fetch you when breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you, Vesemir,” Jaskier bowed shallowly and headed for the kitchen’s back door. He took the axe into his hands and tried not to sway on his feet from the added weight. The bard covered his tracks by throwing a smile back over his shoulder and pushing the door open. “See you for breakfast!”

He stepped out of the keep and let the heavy slab of wood slam shut behind him. The early morning sky above Kaer Morhen was cloudless and the sun was bright, blinding him entirely. His situation only worsened when the sudden change in temperature, from the warm kitchen to the freezing mountainside, punched the air from his lungs in one thick cloud. He struggled to regain it as he wove his way through the snow drifts to the woodpile. Slowly, and with great effort, Jaskier lined up a thick log to be split.

The world felt watery and far away. His hand, which he knew to be attached to the end of his arm by some miracle, would not obey his command to pick up the axe again. His lungs felt heavy in his chest cavity and his legs suddenly ached with a fierce intensity.

With a quiet cry of protest against his own body failing him, Jaskier collapsed into the snow.

---

Jaskier’s heartbeat was so slow and quiet, his limbs unmoving and his lips nearly blue from the cold; Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever been so scared before in his life. He turned to Vesemir and asked, barely keeping the frantic terror from clawing its way out of his throat: “How long was he out there?”

“Half an hour at most,” the grey Wolf shrugged. “I don’t really remember, Geralt. I was busy taking care of the breakfast arrangements.”

“Fuck!”

“Calm down,” Eskel ordered. He frowned at Geralt from his place at Jaskier’s opposite side. He’d helped carry the bard from the courtyard to Geralt’s room and was just as worried about the human’s wellbeing. “Panicking won’t help him. Now, what’s the problem?”

“It’s hard to tell over all that stupid perfume,” Lambert snarled. “Stupid fucking bard fucking knew we would be able to smell it on him. He covered his gods-damned tracks.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmured, having grown suddenly calm. He let the back of his knuckles drag softly across the bard’s too-hot cheek until he could stick a stray lock of sweaty brown hair back behind his ear. “You idiot.”

The bard shifted against the blanket they’d laid him on, his brow wrinkling. His arms twitched slightly, as if he was trying to move them, and he whined plaintively: “G’ralt.”

“I’m here, Jask,” the Witcher replied quickly, forgetting they weren’t alone in the room. He took one of the bard’s freezing hands into his own and began rubbing the warmth back into his fingers. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you better. You’ll be alright.”

“Who are you trying to reassure?” Lambert huffed a short laugh. “You or the bard?”

“Leave off,” Eskel shot his younger brother a glare. The redhead rolled his eyes and moved to lean against the wall near the door. Eskel continued speaking to Lambert, but his eyes were back on Jaskier, who kept trying to get closer to Geralt even in his sleep. “Why don’t you go grab some clean clothes from his room while we get him warmed up and conscious again.”

“Fine,” Lambert spat. But he took off at a quick trot, regardless.

“Geralt, get his wet clothes off and get him wrapped up. Eskel, you come with me to the kitchen. I’ll need help carrying things and I’m sure the bard would prefer some privacy in this particular matter.”

Eskel nodded his agreement and followed Vesemir from the room, leaving Geralt alone with Jaskier. The White Wolf hurried to undress and swaddle the bard with a warm, heavy wool blanket and several furs, talking all the while in a low, worried voice. “Fuck, Jaskier. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this happened and that you- Why did you hide it? Why wouldn’t you- Are you afraid of me? Is that why you didn’t come to me for help?”

Jaskier’s lids fluttered open and Geralt watched with nervous anticipation as two of the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, blue as cornflowers and brighter than the spring sky, tried their best to focus on his face. “Geralt?”

“I’m here, Jaskier. What’s ailing you? Please, tell me how I can help you.”

“Hurts,” the bard managed to groan. “To breathe.”

“Fuck,” Geralt growled. “We need to get you warm. Lambert should be back with your clothes by now.”

Jaskier’s head lolled back against the pillow and he struggled to reach for his Witcher, “Hold me.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll warm up-” he gasped between words, as if every syllable pained him to expel “-faster if… you hold me.”

“Hmm,” Geralt’s brows furrowed in frustration. He knew Jaskier was right, that he’d feel better faster with skin-on-skin contact, but he also wanted to hold Jaskier for other, less emergency-based reasons. That was unacceptable. Losing Jaskier to death or sickness or other human reasons was intolerable but losing him, in all senses of the word, because of Geralt’s impossible feelings? That would be truly horrendous.

The warring factions of his heart were still clamoring over a decision when Eskel and Vesemir re-entered carrying two large trays. One was covered with foodstuffs and the other held an enormous clay teapot and mugs. A small pot of honey, gathered from Vesemir’s very own beehives, was the most obvious sign of affection Geralt had ever seen the older man display for a near-stranger.

“I’m gonna… get… spoiled,” Jaskier gasped. The eldest Wolf shot Geralt a glare.

“Why aren’t you in there with him? You know the best way to warm up a hypothermic person is skin contact, Geralt! I certainly taught you better than this.”

“I didn’t-” he stuttered. “I wasn’t-”

“He’s afraid,” Jaskier smiled sadly, cuddling himself deeper into the furs as he turned his gaze towards the fire. All three of the Witchers could smell his sadness, even more potent than the illness ravaging his delicate human body. Geralt winced when his brother and father glared at him in tandem, expressions nearly matching in fury. The bard was still looking away, watching the flames send dancing patterns of light against the stone walls. “Don’t worry… won’t ask… for any more.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. “May I hold you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s our cue to leave,” Vesemir smiled beneath his mustache. Jaskier was too tired to blush, and opted to bury his head in Geralt’s shoulder instead. “Come along, Eskel. Let’s see what Lambert has gotten up to.”

“What about Jaskier’s clothes?”

“He can borrow Geralt’s for now. I’m sure our White Wolf won’t mind sharing; he’s the possessive type, after all.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and grumbled out of habit more than disagreement.

When Vesemir and Eskel had gone for good and the door was closed, Geralt pulled Jaskier out of the furs and removed his own shirt. He settled the bard against his chest and buried his nose in Jaskier’s dark hair, breathing in the scents of sweat and sickness and now, thank the gods, tangy-bright happiness. “Gods, Jaskier. Don’t scare me like that ever again. I can’t lose you.”

“I didn’t… want… to disappoint.”

“You never do and never will,” Geralt intoned. He pulled the furs over them both and splayed his large hands across Jaskier’s back. The bard’s skin was overly hot in some places and freezing in others; Geralt buried his panic in order to care for... for the man he loved. He took a deep breath and rubbed slow circles between the bard’s shoulder blades. “I… I love you, Jaskier.”

“Hmm,” the bard hummed tunelessly. “Love you… too.”

Geralt helped him sit up and drink a mug of tea. He listened, slowly allowing himself to relax, as Jaskier’s breathing eased and his heartbeat balanced. When the tea was gone and the fire was re-built to Geralt’s satisfaction, the Witcher tucked Jaskier’s head beneath his chin and wrapped his arms around the bard’s shoulders. “Oh, my little lark. I’ve been so foolish for too long.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier grinned into the Witcher’s warm pectoral. “Me... too.”

“Well, we’ll have plenty of time when you feel better,” Geralt murmured, lips pressing over and over to the top of the bard’s head. Jaskier couldn’t keep himself from smiling, even as he drifted back to sleep. The Witcher felt something settle in his chest when he whispered: “Rest up, dear heart. There are many more adventures to be had.”

#geraskier #sickfic #geraskier sickfic #geraskier fluff #getting together #bouncey's endless getting together fics #jaskier whump #winter at kaer morhen #wifey's prompts #comfy's prompts #anything for you boo #geraskier fluffiness #geraskier ficlet

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spidercakes · 3 years

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A/B/O somnophilia AU in which alpha!Tony absolutely rails omega!Peter.

Warnings: age difference (Peter is in his early 20′s and Tony is in his late 30′3/ early 40′s- imagine whatever you like lol), dub con (somnophilia), rough sex, A/B/O, Very Strong Dom/sub vibes, fem!Peter.

Tony wakes up with Peter curled up in front of him, his back against Tony’s chest. In his sleep he’d leaned in, face buried in the crook of Peter’s neck where it connects with his shoulder and he kisses it lightly as he stretches out some, careful not to disturb Peter. The dorm room bed is awful, but its exam week and Peter is sort of tethered to campus at the moment, and Tony’s not an ass, its not like he’ll die in this bed. He’ll just feel like he wants to in the morning.

Peter makes a soft noise in his sleep, wiggling his ass directly into Tony’s dick. He chokes on his gasp, hand grabbing Peter’s hip as he presses his forehead to Peter’s bare shoulder, exposed by his shirt slipping down. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks, if not for the fact that Peter had admitted, rather shyly, that he’s always been curious about sleep sex and Tony never would have guessed that Peter would share that particular kink. To be fair Peter seemed surprised that he was so into it, but somnophilia happens to be at the top of the list of things he’s into.

Its more of a bad habit he’s developed, sliding his hand up Peter’s thigh and under the too big sleep shirt he’s wearing, but this is the first time he’s found what he was looking for. He moans softly into Peter’s shoulder, considering the possibility that this is some kind of fluke, but they’ve discussed it before. Several times. But then its Peter’s normal habit to sleep without underwear anyway, the fact that he’s slept with them on is weird and- he’s overthinking it. Peter isn’t stupid, and he might be stressed but he’s never really been forgetful- he highly doubts Peter just forgot the time he’d mentioned the easiest consent mechanism for somnophilia. Underwear, no. No underwear, yes.

“Fuck,” he whispers, kissing Peter’s shoulder, continuing his path until his teeth are grazing his neck. Peter makes another small, soft noise in his sleep and Tony can feel his cock twitch, getting hard fast now that he knows what Peter is offering. “Bet you’re already wet for me,” Tony murmurs, reaching down and feeling himself through his flannel pajama pants for a moment before he reaches out and slides Peter’s shirt up over his hips. His ass is gorgeous, and when Tony shifts Peter’s leg to the side to give him better access to his hole Peter cooperates, moving a little and resettling himself with one leg hitched up, hips and ass still pointed in Tony’s direction.

So fucking perfect, just like always. He slides his hand over Peter’s ass, gripping one cheek and spreading him open, cock twitching again when he finds exactly what he thought it would. He lets go of Peter’s ass, leaning in and scenting him as he grabs his hip, rutting his mostly hard cock along his ass and moaning when he smells how fucking hot Peter must be for it. Arousal is practically falling off him in waves, even asleep, and Tony can’t hold back anymore. He doesn’t bother taking his pants off, he just pulls the waistband under his cock and balls before leaning back in and rubbing himself against Peter without anything in the way.

Peter, ever so cooperative, tilts his hips back into Tony’s. He laughs softly, “that’s right baby, give me that pretty little hole,” he murmurs, feeling at Peter’s wet hole for a moment before he pulls back to jerk himself off. Peter looks fucking delicious laid out in front of him, horny and wet for Tony and he isn’t even awake. The small, desperate noise he lets out as rubs his cock between Peter’s cheeks, catching the rim of his wet hole really can’t be helped. He feels so fucking good against Tony’s cock, slick already starting to get messy as Tony uses his cock to play with Peter’s hole.

It sucks his head in greedily, gripping him tightly and Tony lets out a choked moan as he pulls himself back out, rubbing his cock against Peter’s hole for a moment before sliding back in. His moan is louder this time, nose buried in Peter’s neck as he scents him, sliding himself in deeper as he begins to move slowly at first, but his patience doesn’t last very long. He’s wanted Peter to let him do this since the moment they met, and he brought it up over a month ago. Its been fucking torture knowing Peter wants this as much as he does, and he can’t help the way he buries himself inside Peter.

The sound of Peter’s slick makes him harder as he moves, grabbing Peter’s hip as he settles himself between his legs, pinning him down as he fucks into him enthusiastically. It doesn’t take long for Peter to wake up moaning, hand flying back and settling over Tony’s on his hip as he grinds his ass back onto his cock. “That’s it baby, show me how much you like my cock,” Tony tells him roughly, teeth harshly biting at Peter’s neck.

“Fuck,” Peter all but yells, back arching as he grinds himself back onto Tony again, wiggling his ass as he pants loudly. “Oh my god Tony please,” he says desperately, gasping as Tony pulls his hand out from under Peter’s, grabbing his wrist and pinning it above his head.

“Fucking take it,” Tony basically growls, “you make my cock feel so fucking good,” he adds, biting at Peter’s shoulder roughly.

The sharp yelp Peter lets out as his hips involuntarily tip up to take Tony in further encourages him, grip on Peter’s wrist tight as he takes what he wants. Peter is so good, so fucking good as Tony fucks him hard and rough, bed shaking enough that Tony might wonder about its structural integrity if he were in the right state of mind.

“Please, Tony,” Peter begs, voice high and desperate with arousal, moaning loudly when Tony lets go of his wrist and wraps his hand around the back of Peter’s neck instead, pushing him hard into the mattress as he fucks into Peter deep. Tony watches his cock move in and out of Peter’s hole, slick dripping down his thighs he’s so wet and he knows he has to knot him.

He smacks Peter’s ass hard with his free hand, moaning as potent scent of horny omega drives him closer to the edge. “Gunna knot that pretty little ass of yours, make sure you know who owns it,” he tells Peter, fucking into him fast.

“Yes,” Peter breathes out softly, “need it Tony, please,” he adds between all these hot little noises he keeps making.

“Mmm not gunna last much longer, sluttly little hole is so god damn tight on me baby, make me want you so fucking bad,” Tony tells him, leaning in and biting at Peter’s shoulder before resting his head against it as he pumps himself in and out of Peter’s hole, mouth dropped open in pleasure because this might be the best Peter has ever felt.

The way Peter feels when he wiggles underneath him is divine, “oh my god I’m cumming, I’m cumming Tony ah-” Peter’s voice is muffled due to being pressed into his pillow and Tony can fucking hold back knowing Peter came on nothing but his cock.

“Fuck yes, baby, s’what you’re fucking made for,” Tony tells him, knot swelling in Peter’s ass, helped along by Peter grinding back onto it panting like he can’t get enough even after cumming. It takes a few minutes of him rocking gently into Peter for him to calm down enough to let Peter up, scenting at his neck immediately and making a pleased noise when Peter immediately tilts his head to the side for him.

“Mm, thanks,” Peter murmurs, moaning softly as Tony’s teeth graze his neck.

Tony laughs, nipping at Peter’s neck again just because it feels so damn good when Peter’s muscles clench down on his knot, “my pleasure.” Like it’s a hardship to fuck Peter on the best of days let alone when he’s been handed his favorite kink on a platter. As a reward he sucks lightly at the sensitive skin on Peter’s neck, biting at the spot before sucking at it again, intent on leaving a mark.

The soft noises Peter makes as Tony continues to stuck marks into his skin encourage him, making him moan as he rocks into Peter. The knock on the door, however, does not.

He sits with his head in his hand, embarrassed. “I can’t believe i had the campus cops called on me,” Tony says.

Rhodey doesn’t even look up from his newspaper, flipping the page casually even though Tony damn well knows he’s not reading it. He’s just a dramatic bitch. “That’s what you get for cradle robbing,” he says, shrugging.

He sputters, betrayed by Rhodey so he turns to Nat, who grins. “I don’t feel bad for you either but only because its funny,” she says.

“Someone thought I assaulted Peter, that is so not funny,” he tells her. In their defense, when he’d played that back over without knowledge of what was going on he guesses that whole thing did sound pretty suspect but still.

He looks to Pepper, his last resort and he knows he’s going to get dropped on his ass but he’s still got hope. “Don’t even,” Rhodey tells him, still not looking up from the paper he isn’t reading. “She has common sense so she’s on my side.”

Tony turns back to Pepper, who pauses long enough for Rhodey to look up at her, giving her a suspicious look. “To be fair, Tony and I had that happen once when we were together and it was awful I’m so sorry you managed to do that twice,” Pepper tells him.

Vindicated he stands up, “ha!” he says to Rhodey, who is staring between him and Pepper like he’s just been told that they’re aliens, and they know because bees.

“Wait, what the fuck am I missing you two had what happen to you?” he asks.

“To be fair,” Tony says, “i completely forgot about the time I got the campus cops called on me with Pepper.”

#starker #tony stark x peter parker #starker fanfiction #abo starker #somnophilia starker #somnophilia tw #consensual somnophilia

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angelicyoongie · 3 years

Text

everything i brew, i brew it for you

⤷ 1.2k follower event request: Familiar!Seokjin x Witch!Reader + “I should’ve told you back then, but I didn’t want you to leave.” + Fluff/Angst ⤷ @softescapism said: seokjin x reader or OT7 x reader + prompt C8 + witch/familiar, fluff, sfw (hi! could you write a drabble/scenario/short fic for the follower event based on this, please? 💓) ⤷ word count: 2.1k ⤷ a/n: this is a little angsty in the beginning, but the ending is all fluff! i hope you like it!!

“There you are!” You grumble, snatching up a vial from the back of your cabinet. The little thing is covered with dust, the label yellowed with age and barely clinging on to the glass. But even then, there’s no mistaking the content. The shimmering pink powder inside makes you stomach flip uneasily, but you know it has to be done. You uncap the bottle before you can talk yourself out of it, carefully sprinkling the powder counter-clockwise into the boiling concoction in your pot. You can’t help but frown as it slowly turns from clear to bright pink, the stark colour mocking you as you throw in a pair of four leaf clovers with a little more force than necessary. The kitchen is quiet aside from the bubbling brew and the rhythmic tapping of your impatient fingers against the counter, your eyes resting nervously on the dark garden outside your window. You promised Seokjin years ago that you would never make this particular potion again, but you’ve run out of options.

You love being a potions witch, but truth be told, it’s probably the worst financial decision you could have made. All witches have to choose their niche the day they turn eighteen, and you, driven by the long list of potions witches in your ancestry, wanted to follow in their footsteps. What you didn’t account for however, is just how drastically the times have changed. Larger covens have started selling their potions online, making them in big batches to cut down on the cost and shipping them all across the country. There’s no longer a need for a town to have their own potions witch, not when you can get them delivered to your doorstep for a cheaper price. The mass produced potions are definitely not as potent as a singularly brewed ones, but it seems people care more about price than efficiency these days. Well, at least most people don’t care. And considering business has been dwindling so alarmingly fast over the last four months that you’re barely scraping by, there’s not a chance that you can lower your prices anymore than you already have.

You shake your head, trying your best to ignore the tendrils of guilt wrapping around your chest. As long as your familiar doesn’t find out about this order, there will be nothing for him to worry about. That's why you’re hunkered over the stove in the first place; desperately hoping that it will be done in time before he comes home. Tonight is Seokjin’s monthly familiar night with Hoseok and Namjoon, and the only window of alone time you have to make something like this. You murmur a quick incantation under your breath as you give the potion one last stir, watching as the pink brew slowly darkens to red. The sickly sweet smell that whiffs up from the cauldron almost makes you gag, but at least it tells you that the potion is almost complete.

You take a step back, throwing another glance towards the window as you count down the seconds in your head. Five minutes. That’s all you need. It’ll be finished, and you can finally hand over the love potion to your customer tomorrow. Despite your reservations and Seokjin’s hatred for that particular brew, it’s actually not that bad. It can’t force someone to fall in love, but it does make them more .. loose-lipped around their crush if they happen to have one. If anything, it’s honestly more of a rebranded truth serum. It does make you want to confess your feelings, and that’s also where the dubious morality of the potion comes in. Even if the person is already in love with someone, it still forces the recipient to act on emotions that they might not be ready to, or even want to share with their crush. You’ve turned down requests for this potion numerous times in the past, but this time, you truly can’t afford to. Seokjin might be older, but he’s still your familiar. Your responsibility. It’s not his fault that he decided to create a bond with you – a witch who can hardly sell enough potions to keep food on the table. You have honestly no idea how you managed to end up with a familiar like him, one that’s so utterly selfless and helpful. Seokjin’s guidance and assistance feels a little wasted on you, and you can’t help but think that your familiar should’ve ended up with a different witch. One that would actually be able to repay him properly for everything he does. You let out a deep sigh. You’ll just have to do better. Maybe you can try to set up one of those witchgram accounts Taehyung is doing so well on, after all, the ritual witch’s sales has been increasing.

The brew suddenly releases a puff of red smoke, signaling its completion. You hastily grab an empty bottle, scooping up as much as possible as you fill the vial to the brim. ”Shit, not yet,” You can suddenly feel the familiar itch behind your right ear, a telltale sign that Seokjin will be home soon. You scramble to turn off the oven as you hear your familiar open the back door, just about managing to shove in a cork at the top of the bottle and hide it behind your back as Seokjin steps into the kitchen.

”Hey! How was your night out?” You lean awkwardly against the counter, bottle digging into your back as you press it flush against your body.

”It was good,” Your heart flutters as Seokjin comes closer, the handsome features never failing to make your heart skip a treacherous beat. ”How was your night?” Your familiar raises an eyebrow as he takes in your awkward posture, the lingering scent of magic in the air betraying what you’ve been up to while he was gone.

”Boring! You know, just very normal and .. boring,” You wince. You breath hitches as Seokjin stalks closer, the frown tugging on his lips causing another wave of guilt to crash through you. You brain shuts down as he cages you in against the counter, and you swear you only blink before you find yourself staring at a red vial in front of your face, your hand grasping around air.

”I see,” Seokjin huffs, ”It’s so very boring and normal to brew a potion we agreed we wouldn’t sell.” As Seokjin stares down at the bottle with disdain before he places it on the counter, you can’t help but shrink against the wood, wracking your brain to figure out a good excuse. You can’t explain why you did it without exposing Seokjin to yourfinancial issues, and you have no plans of doing it – but, then you catch your familiar’s gaze, his kind eyes filled with saddened disappointment as he says, ”Y/n, why would you do this behind my back?”

The reason bubbles up your throat before you can stop it, the words bitter on your tongue as you blurt out a panicked, ”I had to! Business isn’t going well and we need the money, I couldn’t turn the customer away.” You register the flash of shock in Seokjin’s eyes, the purple tint around his brown irises brightening before he gets it under control. Your familiar runs a hand through his hair, leaving the dark locks messy and disheveled as he let out a deep sigh.

”For how long has this been going on?” You slump against the counter, adverting your eyes down to the floor as you mumble, ”Four months. I should’ve told you back then, but I didn’t want you to leave. I thought I could fix it before it became too much of a problem .. I just didn’t want to make you regret choosing me.”

Seokjin’s eyes soften, an exasperated huff of air leaving his lips as he places his fingers under your chin, tilting your head back up. ”Y/n, I would never regret choosing you as my witch,” Your familiar keeps his gaze locked with yours, his eyes urging you to understand the sincerity behind his words. "I just wish you had told me, we could have worked this out together much earlier.”

”I didn’t want you to worry,” You frown. "You already do so much by making deliveries and gathering ingredients, and I didn’t want to burden you more." You feel your breath hitch as Seokjin’s hand moves from your chin to cup your cheek, his touch gentle as he runs his thumb across your skin.

“That’s what I’m supposed to do as your familiar, Y/n. I’m here to help you and guide you, but I can’t do that if you don’t tell me when something’s wrong.” You know that, you really do, but it’s still hard to accept sometimes – the fact that you can’t solve everything on your own.

“I’m sorry,” You pout.

”I know,” Seokjin nods, a faint smile on his lips as he moves his hands to your back, pulling you into a hug. ”Just talk to me next time, yeah?”

”I will, I promise,” Your voice is muffled by the thick material of his sweater, but you know your familiar hears you as his arms tighten around your waist in response.

”Good,” Seokjin’s voice is fond as his fingers draw small patterns against your back. You feel yourself relaxing into Seokjin’s hold, your body melting against his as he rests his head on top of yours. ”How are we going to fix it though? I’ve tried almost everything I can think of. There’s nothing that beats low prices and convenience,” You sigh.

”Of course there is,” You pull back at the affronted tone in Seokjin’s voice, your familiar looking down at you like you personally offended him. Seokjin releases you from his hold, his hands flying up to cup his face as he says, ”I can beat that. This–” He points wildly at his face, ”–is sure to bring business in again. No one can resist the opportunity to glance upon this handsome face.” You snort at the expectant expression on his face, rolling your eyes so hard it feels like they’re close to popping out. As much as you like teasing Seokjin for his confidence, he’s not wrong. There’s no one in this town that can come close to Seokjin’s handsomeness, and well, everyone knows it. That’s the biggest reason you have Seokjin running errands and making deliveries, because it means he won’t have to deal with being ogled by all the customers that stop by. For all the banter and smiles he would flash at your customers, you could tell it made your familiar uncomfortable. You could see the way he gently tried to pull away when touches lingered a little too long on his arms, his ears stained a permanent red the days he worked out in the shop.

”Making money isn’t worth it if means you’ll have to do something that makes you uncomfortable,” You shake your head, ignoring the flutter in your chest as you grasp Seokjin’s hands, pulling them away from his face.

”I’ll be fine,” Seokjin says. It’s your familiar’s turn to roll his eyes as he sees the doubtful look on your face. ”I mean it. Please trust me just this once? I’ll let you know the moment it gets too much.”

You hesitate, using the extra seconds to search his face for any uncertainty. ”Fine,” You grumble. You owe it to your familiar to at least extend the trust he has given you back to him.

”Don’t look so sad Y/n, you know you’re the only witch that gets unlimited access to my handsome face,” Seokjin grins.

”Shut up,” You groan, pushing lightly at his chest. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck as Seokjin looks down at you, and you find yourself thankful that familiars don’t have enhanced hearing, otherwise your heart would’ve surely given you away years ago. Something flickers in Seokjin’s eyes, and your familiar’s grin turns heart wrenchingly soft as he ducks his head down.

”I do mean it Y/n, you really are the only witch for me.” You freeze as Seokjin leans in, your blood rushing in your ears as you feel your familiar’s plush lips press against the corner of your mouth. As your brain finally catches up to what just happened, Seokjin has already pulled back. The spot he kissed is burning against your skin, and you barely manage to make sense of Seokjin’s warm gaze lingering on your lips before his eyes flicker behind your back, eyebrow quirking as he says, ”Now, what should we do about that potion?”

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hellomynamiseglaf · 3 years

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🌰Chestnuts and Warm Milk🍂

My List of ~Favorites~ for Interactive Fiction and Visual Novels

(This is a work in progress so please bear with me)

Interactive Fiction:

The Wayhaven Chronicles (WIP Series in Development) - @seraphinitegames (Look,,, I’m just... obsessed.. I can’t stop thinking abt it,,, and I'm..... sometimes, I read and I think I feel like I know what love is.)

Mind Blind (WIP) - @mindblindbard (I just,, UGH it’s so good. I can't even say that much because my feelings about it are so potent that everytime I see an update I try to tell myself to leave it alone to play larger portions of updates as a treat and everytime my willpower FAILS and I replay the demo like twice in a row)

Demon: Recollect ; Forsaken (WIP) - both by @bathalafiction (whew...WHEW!!! Are you kidding me?? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? Look. I was attached to Demon: Recollect. I loved it. And then I played the Forsaken WIP and now I can't get over my absolutely BOMB character design for my player persona. Also it's kind of fun being considered a jerk in the game, because it opens up a lot of different options that I usually feel bad about taking)

Shadow Society - @carawenfiction (the concept is so interesting,, I dream of more. Also Quaiel...baby...)

The Soul Stone War - @intimidatingpuffinstudios (also whew!! I really enjoyed it and the characters all picture themselves really vividly in my mind for some reason.)

Greenwarden (WIP) - @fiddles-ifs (reading this is like thick fog.. but in a good way? I don't know how to describe it without pictures but this IF smells like fog over wet grass)

Divine Intervention (WIP) - @divineinterventiongame (the concept?? UGH SO GOOD. For some reason it's always the first game I click to check for updates)

Golden (WIP) - @milaswriting (😈😈😈😈)

Blood/line (WIP) - @bloodlineoffical (simply put,,, LARRY)

Supernatural in New York ; The Bastard of Camelot (both WIPs) - @llamagirl28 (UGH Both of these are so good in their own ways but equally as exciting to see updates for. I haven't consolidated my feelings much further than "my MC for SiNY is so cute" and "Mordred is a child" but they're all generally positive.)

Ace of Spades (WIP) - @steph-writing (I keep thinking about,,, con........)

Nevermoore (WIP) - @asteristories (AHHHHH.... let me say it again for those in the back: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH)

Son of Satan: The Mortal Coil (WIP) - @sosthemortalcoil (YES.)

Shepherds of Haven (WIP) - @shepherds-of-haven (yes. I just have to sigh because it's very good and I like saying those funny little words of power. But also outside of the game I can only picture this game as a great, grey border collie)

Attollo (WIP) - @attollo (Also a very interesting concept, whoo... I almost forgot how immersive it was untill I played the demo again and was reminded of how 'into it' I was straight off the bat. Also the seperate, short little piece on the blog with Sysba was also really good and I had a dream about it the other day)

Into the Shadows (WIP) - @wynnakang (whooo.... I'm sighing again, but louder. I press restart and play the demo again)

A Comedy of Manors (WIP) - @sviyaginthegreat (I kept replaying options that I hadn't chosen before because I wanted there to be more lmao)

Fallen Hero: Rebirth - @fallen-hero (I think there's a sequel coming up? I haven't stopped thinking about this storyline since I finished it omg... the.. the details are really good and I've become ridiculously attached to my tragic villain? Character... she IS the standard for my reusable IF persona, or at least one of my most prominent ones ;-D )

Samurai of Hyuga (WIP series) - (I'm pretty sure multiplechoicestudios.com is the development blog for this game, or at least what I've been checking for updates..... this is a series with four book currently out.... and I've been playing through book 4 at slower than a snail's pace in a desperate attempt to prolong my experience. I really didn't think I was going to like it as much as I did but I got a little too into it and now I'm horribly attached to all the characters)

The Porthecrawl Witness(WIP) - @porthecrawl-witness (I'm pretty sure this is a WIP?? But ugh. SCREEEEEE- it's so good. It's SO GOOD. I really want to punch Talbot in the face. And Asher, if for a different reason. And sort of Staci just to try. Quinn is just a cutie I could never hurt him like that. Ugh but they're all so good and I forgot that I was reading a WIP untill it suddenly was over..... I'mfeeling really aggressive rn as I'm writing this, so please just note that the punch comment is meant as a statement on how interesting the concept and immersiveness of the characters and story is)

Forgotten Names (WIP) - by Alexandra_Zorila on the CoG Forum (turn the volume up. AHHHHHHHHHH!!! Look, look. It's..... delicious. It's SO interesting and I obsessively have a tab open on my computer to check for updates)

OFNA: Birds of a Feather (WIP) - @ofna (the vibes are so grey and smoky but the fog is definitely from a party smoke machine and the room is only dark because the walls are taped with those huge sheets of black construction paper that teachers use to cover their bulletin boards with... the game definitely falls in the 'dark and mysterious' genre but something just strikes me as really funny when I play it. Anyway it's good and it's in a lot if recommended lists for a reason. Also I'm very attached to my American Goldfinch)

More Things in Heaven and Earth (WIP) - @morethingsgame (in the same way that it's fun to play Guenevere in the Guenevere game or Mordred in The Bastard of Camelot, playing Ophelia in the sort-of Hamlet story is really fun. If anyone has read the Missing collection- which I absolutely love- by Margaret Peterson Haddix, this gives me similar vibes for some reason. Anyway, I really want to give Hamlet a hug and make him a flower crown or something)

A Tale of Crowns (WIP) - @ataleofcrowns (It's kind of not even funny how much I love this game... It's hard to even describe why I like it, just that it's so well rounded in terms of the story, characters, dialogue, and relationships. It's such an interesting plotline and it's pretty immersive. Also the first time I read the demo, there was an update as I was reading and the high that sent me on has very rarely been matched. Also Dara running to save my Crown in the tunnel?? 🤚😩🤭💓 ugh. UGH!! That's good food for my fool heart)

Scout: An Apocalypse Story (WIP)- @anya-dev (I'm usually not that into apocalypse themes/plots but I really enjoyed this game, and the plot was very good and intruiging... it really pulled me in and I like my character in the story a lot. I don't know why but it tastes like chikuwa, atsuage, and this specific type of carmelized onions that my mom makes sometimes)

Nothing left to burn (WIP)- @clowdee-works (......ouch. I *knew* what was going to happen and I STILL became attached to Drew)

Smoke and Velvet - @roast-ifs (It's good. And I am VEDY much into my character design. Also the story is really interesting, and I enjoy the setting a lot somehow)

Speaker (WIP)- @speakergame (very fun to play, and each update gets me more interested in the aspects of the plot. I also really like the little descriptions of what the characters think of the player)

The Nameless (WIP)- @parkerlyn (interesting plot, I like the characters a lot, and The aesthetics of this world are so interesting. Definitely had a good time visualizing what everything looked like)

Fields of Asphodel (WIP) - @asphodelgame (I think it's really cute so far!!! I like mythology in general, and the persephone/hades dynamic is *mwah!*... I like the way the story progresses in the beginning, and I think it works well in drawing the reader into the world. I also very much enjoy petting large dogs.)

...there are so much more.. and I have followed so many blogs.........

I'm not sure why I can't find it rn but there's this one WIP game that I really like where the MC buys a manor for like dollar and moves to go live there with her best friend and shenanigans ensue as they try to settle in and fix up the estate

Harbringer (WIP) - @harbringercog (....are you KIDDING me?? I was fully planning on just enjoying the demo and keeping a mental note to update the list sometime later,,, but this game... THIS GAME really made me fold. It's very immersive and regardless of how nervous the author claims to be after releasing the demo, it's of my humble opinion that those nerves can be calmed. It's very good. I was planning on procrastinating and reading a little bit and then going back to this essay I need to write, but somehow I got pulled in and ended up reading through the whole demo and it's apparent that I honestly had no chance of getting through this without becoming invested in the plot.... just... so good.. I'm very excited to see how this will progress)

Visual Novels:

Andromeda 6 (WIP) - @andromeda-six (I repeat: Obsessed, I come back every few months to see an update and I fall deeper into the hole every time...)

To the Edge of the Sky (WIP,, probably) - by Ajané (??) on Steam (I think, it’s been a while)

Next on my list to check out: Perfumare by pdrrook

Does.... does The Arcana game by Nix Hydra count as VN?? If so, then yes.

Similarly, the FictIF games are all entertaining, although Last Legacy and Heir to Love and Lies are my favorites rn (and.....unfinished....)

I also don't know if this counts, because I kind of consider Otome games to be their own genre, but on the Love 365: find your story by Voltage Inc. There are a bunch of fun stories, my favorite of which are: the Shinichi Kagari route on After School Affairs and the Saejima and Keiichiro routes on Bad Boys do it Better

..To be continued...

#IF_VN #fis fic recs #interactive fiction #visual novels #game #recommendations

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