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bardic-inspo · 2 months

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Blood in the Mortar

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

Rating: Explicit (Smut!!)

Key Tags: Vampire/Blood Bride Lore, Service Dom Astarion, Sexy Use of Telepathic Bond, Evil Power Couple, Torturing a Captive, Choking, Biting/Blood, Masquerade, PIV, Cunnilingus

Summary:

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” Astarion whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.” It started on Naomi’s knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Astarion didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of his ascended blood.

Cross-posting from my AO3 account. This is my first BG3 smut fic. If you like it, I'd love to know! Click here if you'd prefer to read on AO3.

“To whom can a vampire bare its soul and admit its fears? From whom can it receive consolation for the past, comfort for the present, and hope for the future?...The vampire is drawn emotionally to a mortal and decides, because of the strength of this emotion, to make her his bride…The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers.”

-Van Richten’s Monster Hunter’s Compendium, Vol 1

Astarion twists the stem of his wine glass, idly tilting the contents within. His assorted guests warp in the bulb of it, swaying between rosy red and clear crystal.

A gravelly voice interrupts his game. “Quite the menagerie you’ve gathered here, Lord Ancunín.”

Astarion doesn’t bother to stifle his sigh. There’s no mistaking him as the lord of the house, even masked as he is. Astarion’s ensemble this evening is pitch dark velvet swirled in crimson thread and snaking silver. His mask glimmers in the same shade of scaled metal, set to complement the curve of his cheekbones, with only miniscule, twinkling rubies encrusting the edges. Nothing meant to outshine the searing color of his eyes. The mask might be silver, but it’s a red dragon Astarion embodies for this particular masquerade.

This party’s for more monstrous company, after all.

No expense was spared for the ‘menagerie’. A grand piano, polished to an opalescent white, plays under spectral hands at the heart of the ballroom alongside a string quartet. A starlit Baldur’s Gate glistens outside the windowed east wall, framed in gold drapery to match the shimmering flecks in the white marble floor. Lavish wine and better blood pour freely; his guests have only to lift their empty glasses to have them brimming again.

Even with all the ornate masks, in the shapes of creatures exotic or fierce, none of the fangs in the room are fake. All the titles are, save for his and his consort’s. Astarion’s lip curls with distaste.

This masquerade was meant for nobility of a supernatural stature. Vampires, warlocks, lycanthropes. Those who lead them. But what his doors received were lowly spawn. Servants sent in their masters’ stead to get just a glimpse of the one and only vampire ascendant, and then to scurry back and tell tale of him. Cowards.

There’s only one human here who’s just human.

Astarion offers him a well-practiced shrug of a laugh. “I do hope you don’t feel out of place among us more…colorful sorts. Lord…? Forgive me, what was it again?”

“Isn’t the point of a masquerade not to bother with such trivialities?” The stranger chuckles hastily. “In any case, I am not lord. Only a humble apprentice to the most renowned wizard Waterdeep has to offer.”

Ah, yes. The invitation was sent for the newly named archmage, filling the god-shaped hole Gale left behind in the wake of his own ascension. Astarion’s eyes flit over the lanky, unkempt apprentice who addresses him instead.

His hair hangs in honey blonde waves past his shoulders, like the mane of the beast he seeks to imitate. It’s a lion’s mask the apprentice wears. Perhaps a poor attempt at humor. The effort would’ve been better paid towards penance, and a sheep’s head would’ve suited him far better than the guise of a predator. Anything would’ve been more fitting than the baggy business he calls a shirt.

Astarion clicks his tongue. “That still doesn’t give me a thing to call you.”

“I am Enrik, if it pleases you.”

“No surname?” Astarion asks with an arched brow.

“None of consequence, my lord,” he replies with the uneasy edge Astarion’s entitled to.

“Well, Enrik, I hope you find our masquerade pleasing.”

“It has certainly been enlightening thus far.”

“And how’s that?” Astarion asks brusquely. He never did like wizards.

He doesn’t like the look on this one’s face, either. The lion that should be a sheep surveys the room with a pitying expression, like he’s watching some petty amusement. A zoo. Gods, or a circus. And what would that make him, Astarion the Ascended, if not a clown? Astarion’s fingers tighten on the stem of his glass, an imperceptible change to any eyes not keen enough to catch it.

“Why, it’s been only a year since your ascension,” Enrik says. “You’ve accomplished much in short order. It’s quite remarkable.”

Astarion’s nose twitches. Praise. From cattle. How quaint, and ill-fitting.

His expression abruptly eases. A refined, familiar scent carries to him from across the crowd. A note of lavender, twined with his favored bergamot.

“And you’ve already enthralled some truly magnificent specimens,” Enrik carries on, oblivious. “Take this fine creature, for example. What a pretty thing to have strung along on your leash.”

Astarion feels her before he sees her. She wipes a palm down the sheath of her skirt, smoothing out some infinitesimal wrinkle. The music smooths, too. With that one simple motion, it bends and blends into something deeper, fuller. All of the lesser spawn of Astarion’s making straighten their slouched shoulders.

He feels the tug of her in his head, and then the cool stroke of her hand to his back, the soothing feel of her fingers combing through his hair, and the gentle scrape of her nails against his scalp. It takes a concerted effort to suppress the pleased groan that bubbles in the back of his throat. All this from across the room, without so much as a glance, let alone a touch.

Hello, darling, he thinks, and she hears it just as if he’d spoken aloud. Aren’t you ravishing?

Her skirt is snow-white crepe that clings taut to her shapely hips before fanning out at her feet. It’s the same lovely shade of ivory as her hair, twisted in a braid like a crown around her head, with the rest falling sleek down her back. A black lace bodice sets just off her lilac shoulders, with gloves to match. Floral stitching vees down from her waistline. The same embellishments decorate the skirt’s edges.

His dark consort, his Naomi once-Tavriel-now-Ancunín, weaves leisurely through the partygoers. The thorny prickle of Astarion’s irritation inspires a little lift at the corner of her mouth.

I’ve been called so much worse, she thinks. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. I think you called me ‘creature’ just yesterday. Should I not have taken it as a compliment?

Astarion’s scowls. He should be grateful to have your name in his mouth. To even set foot in our home. Let alone speak to me like that. Or at all.

But think of how much fun he’s started, she answers, chipper. You were so bored before.

She’s not wrong.

If they’re not the guests you wanted, Naomi continues, cool and calm, then they’re intruders, aren’t they? Whatever should we do with them?

A slow smile steals its way onto his lips. Just when I thought I couldn’t love you more. Miracles never cease.

“Do you know what they call her?” Astarion says aloud, to worse company. “Other than mine, of course.”

“She was the hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion waves a manicured hand irritably, as if swatting away a stray fly. “One of them, true, but isn’t there another name that comes to mind?”

The man swallows thickly. “The Siren of the Sword Coast.”

"And yet here you are," Astarion sneers, "ready to dash yourself upon the rocks like a little ship blown astray. I can hardly blame you."

His eyes soften, just past the shoulder of Enrik’s gaudy doublet. In the low flutter of candlelight, he spies the sheen of amethysts set among delicate feathers wrought from silver. He'd had the mask made for Naomi with the likeness of a swan in mind.

Still, as pretty as it is, his favorite gleam is those eyes. She still kept the kiss of violet in them, even in death. It mingles with the red in her irises, like a rich, dark wine.

"She is captivating, isn’t she?" Astarion sighs, a faint smile grazing his lips. "My beautiful bride."

“Forgive me my lord, I meant no offense,” Enrik says, eyes down with deference. “I’m merely an admirer of fine things. And a messenger for my fine master.”

“Do your duty, then,” Astarion says tersely, his smile evaporating.

“My master understands that power is the only currency that holds any weight for men of your making. He has much of it to share, if you're likewise inclined.”

Astarion laughs coldly. “And what does your master wish for me to share with him, exactly? I don’t bite just anyone, after all.”

A swallow bobs in Enrik’s throat. “He only means to make mutual use of your shared arsenal. Like you mean to make of his, my lord. He could work wonders with even just one scream. He could bottle it--”

Astarion clenches the wine glass in a chokehold. He could kill this wretched cretin here, now, bare-handed. Or have him drawn and quartered. Or--

No one knows their manners these days, Naomi sighs inside his head. But if you want to play along and see what this archmage would pay, I’ll--

Astarion’s jaw clenches. You won’t be screaming for him, little love.

It earns him an eyeroll. It wouldn’t be like that--

It won’t be at all. Astarions sends his answer with the weight of a stone.

He sips his wine, boring into Enrik with a hard stare. “Don’t you know swans make the most achingly beautiful music?”

Enrik’s eyes dart anxiously over Astarion’s burning ones. “Only just before they die, so the stories go.”

“Before someone does,” Astarion drawls, as the vintage seeps sweetly down his throat. “You see, my beloved, oh, she’s a monster, too. She so does love the taste of blood in her mouth, now that she’s supped of mine.”

Enrik edges back, shoulders hunched small like the prey he is. “I-I’m just a messenger my lord. Killing me after you’ve so graciously offered your hospitality would be the same as breaking a mirror. It would only cast ill luck on you and your house.”

A gloved hand wraps Enrik’s shoulder. He shirks from that delicate grip like it's scalding. At long last, he finds the decency to shut up.

Naomi’s fangs gleam like the bottle in her hand. “More wine?”

The white marble of the ballroom shimmers like freshly fallen snow. All the curtains are drawn back, cinched aside for good measure. Shadow and sunlight slice the floor in slanted strips. Gritty ash piles where the light lies, coils of rope strewn among the gray dust of guests gone for good.

Only one remains.

Sprawled motionless across the floor, Enrik lies nose-to-nose with the knife edge of day and darkness. It’s only a silhouette that keeps him from being swallowed by the glow. Only Astarion’s grace shades him.

The vampire ascendant cuts a sharp shadow before the arched windowpane. Brightness clings, soft as clouds, to his curls, his lean edges, and his jaw. His velvet coat crumples at his heels as if it were nothing more precious than the ash heaped around him. He’s blessedly bare from the waist-up, resplendent in the sunlight while he surveys his domain awash with it.

It calls to mind the man who took Naomi out into the woods all those months and nights ago. What he looked like when she woke and found his back arched, chin tilted skyward. What she’d do, and what little she wouldn’t, to see Astarion slip into bliss every day as easily as slipping out of a coat.

It’s Naomi’s grace that finally rouses their disheveled company. A rolling melody, played on piano, pours from her fingertips and crests with the morning birdsong drifting in. Enrik groans against the grain of it.

At once, the music cuts to quiet. Naomi’s hands hover over the keys, knuckles twitching in faint longing. Then, she turns on the bench and turns her attention towards her restless audience.

“Good morning,” she says brightly.

Enrik squints up at her. His brown eyes leak with the light, even though he’s sheltered from it. They dart across the room, skimming like stones over water, before they sear into Naomi.

“You.”

“Who else were you expecting? You’re in my home.”

Rope binds Enrik’s hands and heels. He tugs at the ties, or tries to. He hasn’t yet figured out it’s all for not.

Naomi stands, her heels clicking staccato to the tile. As she goes, she paints a palm over the piano keys, stroking each octave from root to rise. Music flows freely again all on its own, even when her hand falls away.

She comes to loom over her captive, lips pursed. “I hear you said some very rude things to my husband.”

Enrik folds against the floor, panting for breath.

“You should be so grateful for our hospitality,” she says. “Should have been. That’s all behind us now, isn’t it?”

Feral noise rips from his throat. Like a dog, he lunges, snapping for her ankles. She side-steps into the light, not bothering to flee any farther than an inch. He freezes, ogling the shiny toe of her shoe now parallel to his nose.

“You don’t fear the sun?” he gasps, quivering.

“I need not fear anything.”

Naomi lifts her head, meeting a scarlet stare brimming in equal measures affection and amusement. Sunlights melts over the bare of Astarion’s chest, spurring her tongue to wet her lips. He leans against the glass, head angled back, eyes slitted in satisfaction. A slow smile unfurls on his face.

“You should be grateful, too,” Naomi says with a sneer, “to lay here and not just a little to the left.”

“W-What do you mean? What did you do to me?!” Enrik’s eyes bulge. He squirms in a sudden panic, to no avail.

Naomi tilts her neck to the side and taps at the scar Astarion’s teeth marked her with. Her fingers fan down on her own throat, savoring the shape of that succulent memory. Of the last bite he gave her in life. Of his lips swirling comfort into her skin before sucking her down to the last drop. Of the look on his face, the awe he had, when she next woke.

The faintest leak of breath, soft as down, passes from Astarion’s mouth.

“You--you--! You turned me!” Her hostage sputters. Naomi frowns darkly.

“Oh not me,” Naomi snaps, incredulous. “I’m only a weak little spawn puppet, according to you. According to you, the only good thing I can do is scream. How could I manage to turn you without choking on my own leash?”

She gags for good measure. He doesn’t get the joke. He hasn’t caught on to the other joke yet. Which means she’s safe as can be, even this close. So long as she stands on the other edge of Astarion’s shadow.

Astarion turns. His silhouette twists with his movement. Enrik shrieks like a swine.

“Oh, that wasn’t good at all. You can do better.” Naomi presses out a strained sigh, crouching down to fist a hand in his hair and yank his head upright.

Enrik bares his teeth as if they aren’t dull and flat. “Filthy bitch!”

The insult doesn’t so much as chip Naomi’s serene composure, but it puts a twang in her head, along the invisible string that links her and Astarion. His anger lashes in her mind like a restless tail.

“What a vile little ingrate,” Astarion snarls.

She lets her hostage’s head roll from her palm, cheek smacking the tile. Enrik writhes against his restraints. Naomi clicks her tongue in reproach. I’ve barely even touched you yet.

Green magic threads between her gloved fingers, glittering. She snaps them and says, “Scream.”

And he does. Loud enough to drown out the crescendo coursing from the grand piano. Inside of Enrik’s skull, the song isn’t nearly so sweet. His back jerks up and away from the floor, head bent back, eyes torn wide in terror.

His cries pitch with the slink of Astarion’s shadow stretching nearer. Sunlight clings close behind his heels. Naomi’s fingers flex and the spell recedes.

Her magic leaves Enrik sniveling, inching like a worm away from the slice of light between Astarion’s legs. Astarion huffs softly. With a wave of his hand, a ghostly one apparates behind him and snags the curtains closed.

Astarion’s scent sweeps with his sleeve -- the sweetness of brandy, mingled with the woodsy smell of rosemary. His knuckles gently brush the side of Naomi’s cheek. Instinctively, she leans towards the touch.

“Precious thing,” Astarion chides with a pout. “You’re being far too sweet to him. Here I thought you only had room in your heart for me.”

Naomi inclines her head, eyes narrowing by a hair. “My sire would see me be crueler?”

Astarion’s thumb grazes her lips. At once, she parts for him, teasing the pad of it with her tongue while he toys with the tip of a fang. He presses in, watching his skin bend to near-breaking, as if to test her sharpness. Before any blood’s drawn, he draws his hand down to cradle her chin. His voice is smooth as satin, though his stare is a hardened one.

“Your sire would see you spoken to with the respect you’re owed. And he needs you to kneel, dear one.”

The words are a weight to her shoulder, easing her down. But the heft is a comfort, not a compulsion. He could compel her, if he wanted to.

He hasn’t yet.

One day, she thinks, he will. And he’ll feel the weight of whatever chains he’d wrap her in through the bond that binds them tighter than the tadpole did. He won’t do it without good reason. Naomi doesn’t need a reason to kneel for her lover. That he wishes it is enough.

When her knees meet the ground, she feels the shape of Astarion’s smile pressed against their bond like it’s pressed, wet and wanting, against her mouth. She feels the dainty tug of his teeth coax her lips apart. Tastes the coppery tang of her own blood and the velvet undercurrent of his within her veins. The heat of him, still such a novel thing in his ascended body, bleeds from his skin to hers, fanning the newfound ache between her thighs.

In her mind, and his, his lips pour down her bare shoulders. His fingers fist in the fine fabric of her dress, ripping it to ruin. He leaves none of her untouched. To anyone else’s eye, they’re not even touching.

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. She downs a hard swallow. Good girl, he says, just for her.

To their captive audience, he spares no such kindness. Astarion raises his foot above Enrik’s ankles, letting it dangle for a moment. It drops like a hammer to an anvil. Enrik bucks with a fresh scream and a sickening crack.

“I’d never give a miserable little wretch like you the gift of immortality,” Astarion spits. “You wouldn’t know how to appreciate it.”

Confusion flits between the pain and panic in Enrik’s eyes.

“That’s right,” Astarion seethes. “You’re not a vampire. You aren’t worth my consort’s teeth. Or mine.”

Crunch. Another ankle shatters. Another shriek claws the air. Astarion strolls, leisurely, to Enrik's hands next. He grounds his heel into the pop of fingers breaking beneath his boots. Their hostage heaves a broken sob.

“Sh, sh, sh, oh, it’s all right,” Astarion croons. “I happen to have just the knife for you.”

Astarion crosses back to his coat piled near the window and draws a dagger from its folds. Rhapsody. Cazador’s blade. Naomi hasn’t seen it since they claimed the Crimson Palace for themselves.

Brightness glints off the twined edge, a match for the harsh and singular focus gleaming in Astarion’s gaze.

So that’s what Astarion was smiling about, as he basked by the window. What had him so peacefully quiet and content. Murder was on his mind, even then.

Not the only thing on my mind, little love. She feels the slant of his smirk in her head, as if it ghosted past the hinge of her jaw. There’s no trace of it on Astarion’s stony exterior.

He plucks the crystal wine glass from the sill while he’s there, rotating the stem as he saunters back over. Blood flecks the fine leather of Astarion’s shoes. He plants them on either side of Enrik’s torso. He seizes Enrik’s collar, yanking harshly until he’s kneeling, too.

“Fuck you,” Enrik spits. “Fuck you both! My master will--”

“Darling,” Astarion trills, grip unwavering, “Would you..?”

Magic swirls sticky across Naomi’s tongue. “Ad Lapidē.”

Violet runes blaze to life beneath their captive’s knees, capturing him in perfect stillness. His mouth hangs agape with unspent vitriol. Astarion’s hands recoil, twisting the dagger in one, and the glass in the other.

“Your master,” Astarion sneers with a dark laugh. “Too much of a coward to show his face, so he sends you. His sacrificial lamb, sent to speak to me about sharing my dearest treasure, like he isn’t the scum beneath her shoes. He had to know I wouldn’t hear of it. But he didn’t care enough about you to even taint your blood. That’s right. My lesser spawn sampled you just like they would any cattle. But my beautiful bride hasn’t had one bite, not yet. Not until I was sure you were sweet enough for her palate.”

Astarion strokes Rhapsody down the man’s outstretched neck. The barest streak of blood leaks from the scrape. Astarion’s eyes skate over the ash piles around the room, wistful.

“All it took was a sleeping potion,” he muses. “Just a few drops. Now all of the spawnlings sent by all of my lessers are dust. You’ll wish to join them, before this is done. And you will. When I decide we’re done.”

Naomi’s eyes fasten to the blood beading down Enrik’s pallid throat. Astarion digs in ever-so-gently with Rhapsody’s tip, just enough to start a stream running. He presses the cup beneath it. Slowly, the crystal fills red to the brim. Her mouth waters.

Astarion looks up abruptly, eyes wide and soft as his malice dissolves to fondness. “Darling, you do look famished. Open up for me, dear.”

Naomi’s chin lifts, lips parted. Astarion tilts the glass to meet her with the utmost care.

“I won’t have your grime and sweat on her lips,” Astarion hisses in Enrik’s ear. “Only your blood. You don’t deserve that…” He sucks a sharp breath in. Naomi watches with rapt attention as it stutters through his chest. “...pretty little mouth.”

Blood, rich and smooth as cream, slips across her tongue. Her eyes slip shut with it. With each swallow, syrupy warmth spreads slowly through her chest, down her legs, through arms, to her every inch. Too soon, it’s taken from her. Naomi’s eyes flutter open. She’s taken all of it, already.

“More, my love?” Astarion hums happily. “You only have to ask.”

“More,” she says at once, lips still wet.

Astarion carves. The insolent apprentice bleeds without a sound. Again and again, the cup fills. He tips it to her lips, and Naomi drinks until her eyelids grow heavy.

Her body thrums like it remembers the pulse that used to play through her veins. She’s warmer than a dead woman should be. Even the air itself feels like the kiss of steam tingling against her skin.

It’s then that Naomi feels Astarion’s lips in her head again, sucking little marks down her throat that match the rosy flush heating her cheeks. She pants out of habit, out of instinct, and not of need. Out of want for him to watch what he does to her. As if he doesn’t already know.

One twist of Astarion’s wrist turns the little leak of blood from Enrik’s throat into a fountain. Naomi’s spell dissipates in violet sparks. His body slumps over, lifeless. Blood runs from him in little rivers, rushing to fill the grout lines between the tiles.

Astarion cradles one last glassful in a delicate grip. His face clears of any clouded rage as he gives the glass an experimental swirl. Wordlessly, he tilts the cup to her mouth once more.

Naomi gasps. Wetness paints her chin. It streams down her neck, drips down her sternum and between her breasts, still bound in lace. Astarion drips with it, down to his knees in fluid motion. Somewhere behind him, the wine glass shatters. In her periphery, she sees the shards glitter like frost.

“Oops,” he says, low and shameless.

Barely any blood made it to Naomi’s mouth this time, but she doesn’t mind one bit. Astarion crawls to her, catlike. She’s only spared a moment to admire the lithe muscle flexing through his naked chest before he leans into the hollow of her throat. Silver curls brush soft beneath her chin. And then, she feels the tip of that devilish tongue take a tentative lick of the mess he’s made.

And gods, what a mess she must be. Blood smears from her neck to her navel, near-black on her blue-gray skin. Dark like Astarion’s eyes, with pupils blown wide and hungry. A flare of heat twists low in Naomi’s stomach. Her thighs shift, wet with it.

Thread rips in her ears. Rhapsody drags delicately down her side, scratching faint like a quill. The lace of her gown splits without resistance. There's none to be had against that mouth of his, just as busy as his nimble hands.

Astarion laps, dainty, down the path of her swallow. His coy smile curves with a petal-soft laugh against her collar bone. Naomi laughs, too, breathless as his tongue chases lazily after the spill. Breathless as the day he took the last breath she needed.

Ever since, Astarion’s given her everything she could want, without leaving her wanting for more than a moment. Now, her knees will never grow numb, no matter how long they bend against the marble. The chill of it can’t phase her, either. Even if it could, Astarion’s drawn the curtains wide. When she kneels for him, it’s only ever on sun-soaked stone.

Astarion treasures her. Cherishes her. Lavishes her with love and pleasure and wealth and power. Preserves her like prized silver, polished with such devotion so she’ll never know the tarnish of time. She’s his spawn. His wife.

But above all else, she’s his pride. The very thing that rules him. The only thing that still does.

Naomi wants to be in ruins with him. To be the last pillars of a broken world already so far beyond repair before they were dragged through it. Aeterna amantes. Until the fall of everything.

Until then, this, the low groan he gives her while her fingers stroke red through the plush white of his hair, the heady hum in her blood, the bloom of someone else’s waking color in her cheeks, the way Astarion looks at her like there’s nothing else at all, the way he tears into a dress he paid a fortune for, the hand he knots through her braids to wreck them -- this is everything.

Astarion tosses Rhapsody over his shoulder to join the broken wine glass, just like any other worthless trinket. His deft hands curl into the tears in her bodice and tug. At once, it gives way to his grip. She would, too, were it not so binding. Naomi grounds out a gasp. Her skirt pools at her knees, leaving her bare but for the warmth of Astarion’s roaming hands and the daylight pouring over them both.

“Do you know why I wanted you down here, pet?” He asks softly.

Astarion’s eyes latch to hers while his teeth toy at the curve of her breast. His tongue slicks over to soothe where his fangs grazed her, and then it melts against a pert nipple, taking it in with a lewd suck.

Naomi paws for a coherent thought, but all she finds is a pleading hum. He nips her again, just enough to see her tit tremble from the pull when he draws away. He leaves her nipple glistening and the underside of her breast peppered in pink before moving on to the other.

“To torture me, clearly,” Naomi pants. Her hands still tangle in his hair. Amusement glimmers in his gaze as he plants a chaste kiss to the inside of one of her wrists and sets them both back at her sides.

“Oh no, my sweet. I would never,” he says, chin resting flat against her navel. He looks up at her with wide, doey eyes, full of faux innocence.

He slinks lower, laying a line with his tongue that ends in a kiss just above where her skirts still shield her. He shifts them aside, ripping where he needs, until it’s only one little piece of black lace covering her cunt. Astarion growls against it, nosing at its edges, his back bowed, stomach brushing the floor. His teeth find the waistband and tear that, too.

Hot breath fans across the other mess he made. Naomi wavers on her knees. From that minute motion alone, she can hear how he’s soaked her.

But Astarion doesn’t disprove her theory; he leans back abruptly, straightening up to his knees again. An arm loops slack around her waist as he circles around to her bare back. Naomi’s lips twitch. If this is the game he wants, it’s too soon to beg. The thought inspires another needy flex through her cunt. His other hand slides to cup the heat of it, and Naomi whines. Reflexively, her back arches. Astarion pulls her still.

He catches the side of her jaw, angling her back into a biting kiss. It’s over before she wants it to be, his lips red and glistening with what he stole from her. Without him, her mouth burns from the cut.

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” he whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.”

For a brief moment, he draws away entirely, leaving her with nothing but a lonely chill. And then, his back comes flush to the floor beneath her. His body splays behind her. The heat of his mouth crests against the heat of her cunt, his face fitted between her thighs, his lips hovering so close, but not close enough. His breath alone snags the one halfway through her throat.

“Oh,” her realization comes out quivering.

The tip of his nose nudges, just barely, against her clit, spurring her hips to roll. But all she gets from that mouth is mischief and a quiet snicker. He shifts his cheek, laving a long stroke of his tongue to the tender crux of her inner thigh before sealing it over with a tight suck. When he bites down, he draws out her blood with a rough moan.

Astarion pulls back, his smirk glazed in her, his eyes aflame. “Oh, darling, I’ve barely even touched you yet. And you’re so very wet for me.”

“Touch me, then,” she hisses between her teeth, raking her hands through his perfect curls and fisting them there.

His eyes spear into hers, hard like the way he clenches her ass and pulls her hips down. Even as it sets her on fire, his mouth gives her mercy. Astarion’s tongue melts hot across her cunt, swiping slow and dexterous. Not for the first time, Naomi thinks she might like to die like this.

It’s not so different from how she died. It started on her knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Even then, Astarion already knew the shape of her body like he knew his own hands. Every curve, every intimate bend, how to make her speak in noise instead of words. The hidden language behind every whimper she makes, every shiver.

So he knows exactly what he’s doing while his tongue teases gentle circles around her clit. He knows, by the time his timid little laps blend into a needy suck, that she’s so, so sensitive. Astarion’s hungry groan seeps into her slickness. She feels him like a current and clenches again, just as hungry.

Every feeling he gives her gives him an echo back just as strong. Every thought in her head is in his head, too. He eats her cunt and feels fed by her pleasure curling in the tips of his toes. He didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of blood back.

But Astarion knew her body before she was his bride. Now, he knows her mind. A part of him lives there, as she does in his. As he drags his pale, elegant fingers between her folds, he drags her head through a dozen depravities. Filling her with nothing but thoughts of how he’ll fill her properly.

He could have her against the arched windows lining the east wall, body pressed so pretty to the glass so he can see the imprint of it even after she peels away. She could feel the heat brimming off the sun outside, washing over their empire. He could taste her sunbathed shoulder while he fucks her senseless. His little love, dipped in honey. So what if someone else sees. Later, he’ll see to them not seeing anything ever again.

He could take her here, on the ballroom floor. Pull her down just as she surfaces from the pleasure he’s paid her, and roll her beneath him to bury her in it all over again. Make love on the marble streaked with the blood of their enemies, where hundreds of dignitaries have danced and dined on countless evenings before. But none of them were ever blessed with such a fine feast as he. The stone would be hard and unyielding against her back, and he would be just the same, driving into her, relentless. At least it’s far prettier than the dirt they used to fuck in.

Or--

A new picture snaps from Naomi’s mind to his, with the dip of his tongue to her entrance, a staggering spike of pleasure, and an unbidden whimper.

The piano. Pearly white with jet black keys, so pristine, so gorgeous with blood spilt red down the sides. Naomi poured over the side, ivory hair tinged with crimson, cascading over her bare, bent back. Astarion’s fingers buried in her hips, planting the promise of bruises, his body bucking wildly into her as he finally--

Naomi’s moan hits the high pitch of the ceiling. She grinds, needy, against the pair of fingers he crooks inside of her. His thumb spreads her slickness back and presses to the pucker of her ass.

So eager for me to fill you up. His voice in her head is a caress. Her hips roll with the sound. His thumb dips inside her ass with the motion, and Naomi gasps as she eases into that delicious stretch.

But darling, I haven’t fed all night, Astarion pouts, mouth moving with agonizing slowness as his eyes flutter shut beneath long black lashes. Naomi’s eyelids grow heavy, too, as she’s lost to that lovely, slick click of his lips. A meal like you is meant to be savored.

He fucks her holes leisurely, with the air of someone who knows he’ll be back for more before long. It brings to mind those long, lithe fingers, folded between the pages of a book to mark his place. All it takes is an effortless flex of them to keep her coaxed open like this. Her body draws taut as he leans her over the precipice of her own pleasure.

If you need more, my dear, by all means. Take it.

He growls into their bond like he’s the one devoured. Like he can plead ignorance to how he’s taking her apart with his hands, his mouth. Naomi catches a whine between her teeth. Astarion’s free hand cups her ass, urging her into the thrust her body bends towards. She parts a hand from his hair to brace flat to the floor beside his face, the other knotting anew in his silver curls.

Desperately, she rides against the flat of his tongue, against that long, refined nose, fucking herself back into the curve of his fingers. Every pull of them pulls her under, deeper into her own ecstasy. Her body grips him back like she means to drown him, too. The tip of his tongue flicks her clit in relentless rhythm, starting off a shudder she can’t stop.

“Don’t stop,” she begs within and without, the jerk of her hips growing frantic.

His mouth is mercy. When she comes for him, she’s wreathed in heat, slick with sweat, every nerve in her body alight with the most blissful burn. A strangled cry breaks in her chest. It buries the song now trembling from the piano. Naomi shivers out a sigh, and the keys shiver with her.

Astarion wraps his arms tight to her thighs, anchoring her through the aftershocks. When she stills again, her body throbs with a heady rush of blood, pleasure, want. Every part of her is limp with it, save the pulsing, rigid press in her mind and in his trousers. She’s putty in his hands even as his fingers leave her. Naomi twitches back towards the touch he takes away, body aching with his absence.

Naomi’s knuckles unfurl, stroking soft through the tangles she wrought. What a sight he is, his hair in utter disarray, his mouth a mess of blood and lust and her. An ease settles into his graceful features, not so different from that quiet contentment he wore while leaning into the light by the window. His eyes simmer with it, lips drawn in a soft smile.

Without warning, his grip tightens. Naomi stifles a huff of surprise as she’s taken down, marble kissing smooth to her spine. A pale hand cradles her head, cushioning her fall. In a blink, he’s hovering over her bare body and dipping down to catch her in a fever of a kiss. It’s a needy, sweltering latch of lips, tangy with her own sweetness as much as his.

“Here?” She purrs to the seal of his mouth.

She lets him feel the way the word alone makes her body tense. Waiting. Wanting. Their bond curls with it, crooked and beckoning in his head. The way his fingers bent a few moments before, buried in the heat of her.

A long breath passes out through his nose, his eyes sliding half shut. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. But his cheek turns by just the barest hair, and Naomi’s attention follows after his.

Music flutters, breathy, off the black and white keys. The piano stays a pretty picture of perfection, among the deaths little and large they’ve littered throughout the ballroom.

His teeth trace the angled edge of her ear. Naomi keens with the sting of it as she’s swept from the floor.

“There.”

She’s caught in his kiss again as he carries her. One swipe of his tongue to where he bit her lip before has her quivering. Has her a world away from the one still around them. Vaguely, she’s aware he’s somehow rid her of her gloves and shoes. She hears a dull, wooden clatter, and then a resounding thud. The piano plays on, but it's muted.

Astarion doesn’t bend her over the way she mused. Instead, he seats her on the polished wood of the piano’s closed lid. His hands leave her back to push her knees apart, scoop beneath them, and pull her spread legs to the strain trapped in his trousers.

Naomi grins, her fangs snagging his lower lip as he tries to part from her. Astarion’s answering groan is rough like a scrape of sandpaper. It leaves her mouth raw, tingling, alive with a pulse that plays to the tune of his pleasure. She wants more of that noise. More of the happy purr it pours into her head from his. One drink of that sloppy, slap happy look on his face sates her more than blood ever could.

You’ve given me everything, he told her, once. But now, all she can think is more. Take more. Take everything.

Astarion grinds his hard length against her in answer. The sweet friction makes sweeter music in their mouths as Naomi moans with the motion, too. Still, there’s far too much fabric for her liking.

Astarion’s fingers make fast work of it. He unlaces his pants only enough to free his cock, parts from her only enough to push her back and clamber up after her. Then, he’s on her again like a second skin. Her cunt throbs with the press of his cock, the tip of it wet and seeping against her thigh. She tries to fit a hand between them, to wrap her palm around his girth and feel with her hands, not just her head, how badly he has to have her. Astarion doesn’t leave her space for it.

It’s not his hands that put her flat on her back, against the body of the piano. It’s the sudden swell of his adoration ballooning from his brain to hers. The weight of his affection pins her there beneath him, utterly paralyzed, as the music flows on under both of them. He’s brimming with it, and it washes over her in a wave, a cup overflowing.

His curls hang down in his eyes, wild with the look of a man starved. “You’re going to scream for me, little love,” he says with the slightest slur. The thought smears from him to her, burning in the back of her mind like a pull of liquor. He brushes her snarled hair back until it tumbles over the piano’s edge, white over white. “I’m going to make you. And I want to see that beautiful face when I do.”

“Please,” she starts to say.

But barely any of it makes it past her lips. Astarion never leaves her wanting for more than a moment.

“O-Oh,” she stammers instead, as her soaked cunt splays to his cock sliding home. Astarion pushes out a moan as he pushes into her. He hooks her legs with his arms, folding them up and back.

“That’s my girl,” he pants, forehead heavy against her own. His thumb circles her cheek, a feather-light counterweight to the thickness he seats inside her. He watches her intently, fixated. Hypnotized. “My good, good girl.”

Kisses and praise tumble from between his teeth, down her cheek, to her throat. Naomi’s head rolls back while she relishes the wet, smacking mantra that’s the mess of them. He’s not tender with his tempo. He doesn’t have to be. You could ruin me. I’d let you ruin me, she thinks again.

And how beautiful he is, in ruins with her. No more composure. No more restraint. Sweat streaks his brow as it bends beneath his focus. All there is is the blend of them, the slow rock of the piano underneath them, and the scattered, stranded pieces of a melody left in their wake.

It could break. The thought cracks through her, through them, with the wooden whine of the piano legs taking the shift of their weight. Astarion crushes her worry beneath the thrust of his hips, any notion of it lost to the head of his cock pressing just where it needs to make her see stars.

Naomi bites down on her own lip, grounding herself in fleeting pain and the tang of blood. He’s not even touching her clit; he doesn’t have to. He floods her with how it felt when he did, when his tongue rolled against the swell of it, just the tip of it teasing that sensitive little bud. How she felt to him, so silky and slick in his mouth. How amazing it feels to finally fuck her, to take what’s his and have her take him so, so tightly.

He could ruin her. Snap her like the creaking legs of this instrument, not long for this world. It would be almost as effortless as the way she spreads for him. But instead, Astarion fills her. Every shift prods the crown of his cock against the sweetest spot inside her cunt.

Naomi’s fingers claw into Astarion’s back as he bucks wildly. Tears sear in her eyes. The tell-tale pressure in her pelvis builds near-blinding.

“Scream for me, darling,” he growls against her neck, out loud this time.

Her cunt throbs with his command. But she doesn’t heed it. Astarion lets out a low, steaming hiss.

“I said scream, dear,” Astarion says, his velvet voice edged in warning. The sparks of his indignation spit flinty in her head alongside a flicker of excitement at her defiance.

He wants to feel the rush of her own power with the spasm of her cunt as she comes undone. He wants her magic to spill into him as he spills his seed inside of her. Wants to taste it with the rest of her. If Naomi was nothing to him, she’d still be the siren; it’s not a power Astarion gifted to her. It was hers without him. It is her. And she’s his.

“I might break the glass,” she whispers, wary of anything louder.

“Oh, my love,” Astarion says tenderly, a husk in his throat as his hand wraps loose around her neck. “You can break everything.”

Astarion kills her hesitation. She’s never felt more whole. She feels holy, feeling her own perfect squeeze around his cock, feeling herself fucked in his body and her own. Feeling what she does to the man who already has everything, but will never have enough of her.

When Naomi screams Astarion's name, it’s everything else in the room that shatters.

Glass crashes from the windows. They burst one after another in quick-fire succession. Astarion buckles against her body with the sudden, decisive snap beneath them. His hips jerk, rutting erratically. Warmth spurts into her with every shudder down his spine, every pulse of his cock.

He cuts her cry with his teeth buried in the crook of her neck. Naomi clings to him as her cunt convulses. It’s the bite that takes her apart, knowing he tastes his own name in her throat and thinks--

Mine, mine, mine.

Naomi’s head drops limp. Astarion’s grip on her neck gives way to soft circles stroked against her cheek again. Mine, she thinks, as his ruby eyes watch her keenly, awash in the soft glow only she knows.

Even after Astarion stills, the room spins dizzy from her upside-down view. She blinks it all back into place, but some pieces won’t fit together again so easily. They’re far closer to the floor than when he slipped inside of her. The piano legs splay at odd, splintered angles. The floor glitters with glass like crystalline teeth, ready to bite the heels of any who dare tread their hall.

Astarion slides out, and she shivers with the fade of his warmth. He sits up, his gaze sweeping the shattered windows, his smirk smug and wet with her. “Perhaps all of the Gate heard you. The gardener did for certain.”

Naomi sits up, too, leaning forward and letting his shoulder take her weight. Her forehead comes to rest against his collarbone. She finds an easy smile while relishing the way his heart still hammers his chest. She did that, in multiple senses. Absently, he tucks the hair sticking to her cheeks back behind her ears.

“I guess I’ll have to kill her,” he adds, chipper. “I suppose, for now, we can spare all the others.”

“She’s already dead enough, dear,” Naomi sighs.

A tiny, discordant note of sadness plucks in her chest, among the pleasant haze settling over her. Astarion stiffens against it, as if she reached out and pinched him. She doubts he’d be so eager to slay one of his spawn for the same crime of hearing her come for him.

The gardener is hers, of a sort. Not a vampire -- Naomi can’t make those. Before Naomi sang her awake again, the gardener was just a sad stack of bones collecting dust in a closet. Now, she rattles along to Naomi’s tune, keeping the flowers trimmed to her liking.

“I suppose you’re right,” Astarion murmurs. His expression softens with fondness, the sort that’s rare to surface unless they’re alone, but never fails to make her chest light and fluttery. “Are you tired now, pet?”

“We stayed up all night,” Naomi laughs faintly.

“Hm,” he nods with a pitying frown. “Let me see to you, my treasure. Don’t you move.” His lips curve, coy, as his eyes flicker back to the wrecked windows. “I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

He saunters back to where his coat lays, now tattered. He returns to settle it around her shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

“You’re such a staunch defender of my honor,” Naomi says dryly, even as the leftovers of their lovemaking start to seep down her thigh.

“Ha,” Astarion shakes with a rolling laugh. “I rather think I’m the thief of it. You were quite the heist. It wouldn’t do to have some debaucherous upstart happen by and think they can make off with what’s mine.”

“I wouldn’t let them live through it.”

“Aw,” he clicks his tongue, “you’re such a romantic.”

Astarion leaves her with her legs strewn over the broken piano, relacing his trousers as he goes. Glass crunches beneath his heels. He stops to ring the bell near the door. A few seconds later, it creaks open a hair. She catches his curt commands to the servant she can’t see on the other side.

“...yes, here, in the ballroom. My consort and I wish to take in the view, and see none of you.”

His lesser spawn are quick to make good on their orders. The door swings open once more a short time later, and in floats a claw-foot tub without another soul to be seen. Magic clings, cloudy, beneath the porcelain belly of it. A pleasant, floral scent curls with the steam from the water within. The tub drifts to the heart of the ballroom and settles with a soft thud before the yawning window panes.

Astarion returns to her as her toes touch the ground again. He frowns tightly, eyes narrowing.

“There’s debris scattered everywhere, my sweet,” he says, saccharine even in reproach. “I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

Naomi sniffs a laugh, picking her path carefully. “If I can’t handle a little sharpness here and there, it’s a wonder how I’ve managed to handle you.”

“Oh, it’s simple,” Astarion says, catching her wrist with an effortless flourish. “We were made for each other. By each other, really.”

And Astarion’s made up his stubborn mind that she’s not to take another step, it seems. With a soft huff, he sweeps her off her feet all over again, strides to the tub with her legs dangling over his arm, and delicately deposits her there.

Water laps at the tub’s edges, splashing as she situates herself. She shrugs from Astarion’s coat, shucking it away to join all the other debris they don’t have use for. Heat tingles across her skin, like little, loving nips of Astarion’s teeth. Naomi eases back into the burn of it as the sting settles sweetly.

Astarion rids himself of his shoes and trousers. He dips a foot into the tub, bidding her to make way for him with a gentle nudge. The water ripples as he settles in behind her. With a satisfied sigh, she sinks back against his chest and deeper into the furling warmth.

The ballroom overlooks the well-kept gardens behind the estate. The hedges are high enough, only a spyglass might have hope of spotting them both bare. Under Cazador’s reign, the garden was little more than a sprawl of weeds and webbed ivy. Now, fountains babble between the blooms of pink and blue and violet. If she strains, she can catch the weave of music in the trickling flow, like tinkling wind chimes.

A soft breeze tickles her ears, sending gritty glass and ash scattering over their floor. Astarion clenches a soft sponge in his grip, wrings it out, and starts to scrub her skin in slow, deliberate strokes. Naomi’s head tilts back beneath his tender care, every rub taking the tension from shoulders.

She turns after a time, and he starts to wash blood from her front, while she wets her hands and works the redness from the white of his hair. Her fingers linger along the slants of his ears, rubbing delicately, until she catches that satisfied hum in his throat that leaves her lifted, floating on the buoy of his happiness.

The water never cools or clouds; magic still swirls in the steam, even long after they’re free of blood and grime. Astarion rakes hand through her hair, his fingernails digging pleasantly against her scalp.

“You are divine as ever,” he rumbles. “Rest now, pet.”

And she does, slipping soundly into a trance, soaked in sunlight and lavender oil with her lover wrapped around her. Only Astarion sends her to the sort of rest that reaches her soul. His presence is sanctuary.

It’s his disquiet that wakes her suddenly. He still strokes her hair just as gently, but he levels a hard-cut stare out over the garden, his lips set with the same stoniness.

“No one will ever take you from me,” he murmurs, as if to himself.

“As if they ever could,” Naomi whispers back, reaching up to graze the edge of his jaw.

Heavens help the fool who tries. Any who dare to hatch such plots, to harbor such ill will in their Crimson Palace, will find themselves laid to rest with all the others. Their enemies’ gravestones are just bricks in their empire, every one of them laid with blood in the mortar.

Astarion dips his head down, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose it might be fun to see them try. In the meantime, my love, I’m of a mind to keep you spread for me for the next tenday.”

Naomi laughs. The sound echoes around the otherwise vacant room.

Astarion’s grin only grows, the tips of his fangs sharpening his smile. “Did I say something funny, dear?”

His lips crush down against hers in a kiss consuming.

#ascended astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #tav x astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #vampire ascendant #vampire lord astarion #bg3 #astarion smut #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfic #my writing #naomi tavriel

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ennabear · 2 months

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professor!abby hcs 😸

daily click | boycott tlou

as i’ve said before, if you have time to read this, you have time to help palestine in whatever ways are possible for you. do your daily click, sign a few petitions, boycott zionist companies, and donate if you can. there are so many amazing resources on tumblr, please please utilize them.

one thing about professor!abby is that she goes crazyyy when it comes to buying more books. her ideal date is strolling around a bookstore together, however, these dates always end with her buying a hundred dollars worth of books.

every single time you let that woman walk into a book store, it’s like you have to keep her on a leash. yes, abby, you can get that one. no, abby, we don’t have bookshelf room for a whole series. she’s unstoppable, she’s like a fat kid in a candy store. but she’s so adorable!!!

her goodreads account is insaneee!!! some of her students follow her, of course. she writes entire in depth reviews about EVERY book she reads. in fact, her favorite part about finishing a book is writing a goodreads review. and you best believe she updates her reading progress every night.

and she’s never not reading a book. she doesn’t prefer to carry a purse or a bag, but she’ll gladly put her book in your bag whenever you go out. she reads EVERYWHERE. at a dinner party? she’s reading. her best friend’s birthday party? she’s reading. at the gay club? reading. and she claims that it’s not rude because “everybody knows i read a lot. if anyone has a problem with it, maybe they’re just not a real friend!!”

she’s a little bit of a coffee freak. a surprising amount of her money goes to buying the most expensive and exotic coffee grounds she can get. there’s nothing she loves more than waking up to you making her coffee before work. sometimes, if she’s feeling extra emotional, she’ll hold your face in her hands and tell you how much she loves you while tearing up. what a big baby she is!!

our girl definitely has anxiety problems. if she ever has to leave the house without you, she’ll text you every 10 minutes asking for advice and reassurance. she trusts you so much, though. your advice is all she’s ever needed.

adding on to the last one, she’s a teeny bit insecure too. her past relationships absolutely wrecked her twenties and she never bothered to start dating again after that. sometimes she thinks she’s too old and unloveable for you, but she’s just being silly. she’s our little kitten princess and she deserves the whole entire world!!!!

on a more positive note, she loves the outdoors. sometimes she’ll wake you up before sun rises and force you to go hiking with her. no matter how much you complain, she knows you still like spending time with her, and the sunrise is always beautiful from her favorite spot.

i think before she became a college professor, she had to student-teach for 3 years, starting with first grade. imagine miss abby with baby muscles going over the spelling bee words with her littles, or playing tag with them at recess. miss abby was definitely their favorite, and a few of her students cried on her last day.

but i don’t think she’d want her own kids, just a dog is fine. it’s too much of a responsibility for her and she wants to dedicate all of her time and energy to you. but she does have a few nieces and nephews from her adopted sister, yara. and she’d be more than happy to babysit.

as much as she loves reading, she likes it more when you read to her. especially because most of the time, she’s exhausted from being awake and grading assignments for so long. so she likes to lay her head on your chest while you read to her, even if you have no idea what’s going on in the book.

watching movies with her is an absolute nightmare. if there was a book version, she’ll keep whispering “god… that’s not what happened in the book.” and then afterwards, she’ll explain everything they changed (aka did wrong) and why the book was so much better.

she definitely has a pair of reading glasses. i don’t think she uses them all the time but sometimes when she’s tired and just wants to read, she’ll use them because they make it easier for her to see the words through her sleepy eyes.

sometimes she so sleepy that she falls asleep while reading. it’s your job to take her book out of her hands and place her bookmark in it before it falls on the floor. on more than one occasion, she’s woken up at 2am to her book face down on the floor, no bookmark, with your head snuggled into her neck. it makes her a little bit grumpy because now, poor poor sleepy abigail has to decide between searching through all of the pages to find the one she was reading last, or taking her girl to bed and tucking her in. such a tough decision!!!

#professor!abby my beloved #aka me on my knees for older women #abby anderson #abby the last of us #abby tlou #the last of us #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson tlou2 #lesbian

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messycunt · 1 year

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So when it comes to your huccow au all I can picture is MC being a little shit when it comes time to milk her. Sure she has some of the best milk, people pay a lot of money for just one bottle of it. She does not care one bit. She has to get held down or else someone's gonna get broken toes or a wrecked kneecap. Her darling little calfs on the other hand? Come here and drink up. Her wonderful bulls? They deserve a treat always working so hard. Crawley? Broken nose.

cw: hybrids(hucows), lactation kink,

characters: kalim, jamil, vil, leona(he's not a hucow in this au but I had to sneak him in somehow), malleus, trey

crowley finds it nonsensical how you allow kalim and jamil to hungrily suck from you like there's no tomorrow or sloppily make out with vil while pushing your breasts together to let precious product leak out and run down your bodies and even sneak into the exotic hybrid facility to let leona take one of his many afternoon naps layed out on top of you using your chest to rest his head but the second crowley even thinks about reaching out to touch your chest he gets bit.

and that's not even to mention the headbutt that almost broke his mask.

there's no reason, he thinks, that it should take atleast him and crewel to keep you calm enough for milkings. and that's on a good day! but malleus is allowed an unlimited supply straight from the tap and you let trey take your milk by the quart to use for making some sweet or cake or another.

#twst #ask!#hybrid au!#twst smut #leona x reader #trey clover x reader #vil x reader #kalim x reader #jamil x reader #malleus smut #malleus x reader #leona smut

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hwaightme · 1 year

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Avaritia

THIS IS 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI FOR CAPTAIN'S SAKE (nsfw tags under the cut) (masterlist)

⚫ pairing: ceo/sugar daddy!hongjoong x assistant/afab!reader ⚫ genre: smut... just smut really ⚫ summary: everything has a price, but sugar makes this truth so much sweeter. no matter what he says, hongjoong will buy that new purse for you, will flaunt you in front of his business partners, and will make sure you know you are his. ⚫ wordcount: 8.3k ⚫ warnings/tags: MINORS DNI, tried to edit - lost it - bon appetit, language, teasing, on a flight, a lot of money, wealth, first world, brand name dropping harder than San in the logs, hj is a sweetheart, mc is needy but in denial, full avarice mode lmk if anything else, nsfw tags and playlist rec under the cut ⚫ taglist: @doom-fics @layzfeelit @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @honey-lemon-goose @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo ⚫ network tags: @k-labels @ateezlovenet @kflixnet ⚫ a/n: Sometimes, I am calm. Other times (read 'all the time) I am getting wrecked by everyone in ATEEZ. Here is what Balmain Joong did to me. Any comments, reblogs much loved; we spiraled into madness (hail sucrose pop, glucose father joong lol)

⚫ nsfw tags: daddy/baby girl dynamic, sugar daddy, reader is a 'doll', soft dom!hj (literally cannot stay mad at mc), overstimulation (seriously what is hj doing to mc...), fingering, mile high club, blowjob, deepthroating, dacryphilia, possessiveness, dirty talk, sex on a desk, unprotected sex (wrap that before you tap that) ⚫ playlist recs: Five Star Hotels by RAYE | Sugar Daddy by Qveen Herby | SAD GIRLZ LUV MONEY Remix by Amaarae | Greed by Shreea Kaul | Mile High by Salina Killa | Do I Move You? by Nina Simone | Money Power Glory by Lana Del Rey

Why was it that when real business was being discussed, the location of choice was always the most extravagant, exotic, luxurious oasis? Everything about the resort screamed unaffordable. 'Exclusive' written in blood on the pristine white sands, only to be washed away by azure blue waves to colour sea foam you could swear was whipped up in a divine patisserie. A perverse flavour inaccessible to the majority but driving the decisions that ruled the world. It was challenging to not become partial to the taboo indulgence when it was handed to you on a silver platter together with a tailor-made career. Anyone would need to acclimatise to what most considered a distant fantasy, but a few flights on a private jet later did wonders in curing the delirium of the average and introducing an insatiable materialism.

Thus, you were not particularly bothered when your boss requested you book another retreat to a private resort in the middle of the ocean - considering the business's cash flow and offshore 'pocket money', this was not too different from your routine trip to the cafe down the street to get his 'coffee' - more sugar than caffeine but this was a secret that you were to keep to the grave; it was written in small print on your contract. It was easy to book when you just needed to send out a few messages to staff and drop a name to any external service people at the right time. Their reaction, stuttering and need for clarification never failed to be amusing; even the most outrageous demands gained appeal once the won, euro, dollars, whatever they wanted from the global wallet, began to stack up. Green bills, green trees - in a twisted way, these boys who liked to play the role of the all-seeing and all mighty were farmers too. And fruits of their labour were always the sweetest.

Sure, you worked hard and had your own path that you could have followed. Even had a degree to prove that you had at least an ounce of dedication. But what would it give you, in fact, what did it give you before your renaissance? Crumbs. Sheer crumbs, student debt and a chronic migraine. But as it turned out, a couple hundred k did wonders when it came to personal health and wellbeing. And on top of that, the myriad of other benefits that your current lifestyle had, had the ability to crush any argument and accusation hurled in your direction, of which you had many. You had figured out soon enough that diamonds were your real best friend, while those who you had considered your ride or die evaporated as soon as they saw you wearing designer. And that had been when the best you could ask for was old collections, and widely available products. You were not lonely. You had too many hats to wear, and a very demanding man, by the name of Kim Hongjoong, to entertain. And one who currently had his eyebrows furrowed, a couple of unruly strands of hair perking up out of his otherwise slick business ‘do, glasses barely holding onto the tip of his beautifully sculpted nose, and was leafing through the papers he had asked you to prepare for the duration of the flight.

For the CEO of a global company, and the heir to an even larger network, he sure as hell was incredibly young. You did not envy his turmoil and exposure to stress one bit, almost feeling sorry and in part guilty, since percentages of his spendings were technically lost on you. There had even been instances when you found yourself sat in a dark room, laptop screen aglow and on a blank page, with you wondering how one crafted a resignation paper. But once you and Hongjoong could have even a couple of moments alone, when he would ravish you, make and call you his and reveal to you all the things he had planned that could not be reflected on his calendar, that document would be promptly deleted and recycle bin emptied. Your ‘relationship’ had been this way since the one meeting, in his main office, on a bright and early morning.

He had called you up into his office and simply told you that he had another ‘job opportunity’ for you. At that point you had been desperate, with financial problems endlessly piling up, from debt to your family’s hospital fees to bailing your estranged brother out of prison. And to make things unethical – Hongjoong had known this. He had done his research – more specifically, he had asked some colleagues in his company, ones who you would never suspect, to snoop around and find out more about you. And as it turned out, you were the perfect candidate for ‘being treated right’ by him, while bearing the title and carrying out the formal façade of secretary and personal assistant duties. In his practice, as well as his father’s and partners’, this was probably the most stable relationship they would ever get in life, so might as well be picky.

Initially, you had simply become a receiver of gifts. Pretending like this was Hongjoong’s love language, you were touched and did not think much of it. Maybe through these purchases he was moving money in ways it should not be moved, but you could not care less – not your problem, not your area of expertise, you had the outcome, and the outcome was something like a crocodile leather bag or a dress fresh off the runway. Hongjoong had insisted on picking every single item out for you, letting his controlling executive side win over. He had explained that you had to look like ‘the prettiest doll in the world’ for him, and for that he needed to check for quality. After a couple of months, however, such sugary sweet presents had been reserved for special occasions, and for the rest, money was wired directly to a new, account, a platinum card he had opened for you and given you. To just step into the consultation room with his portfolio manager and private banking consultant had felt like you were cheating existence. You had been a lowly assistant to an assistant before. And now, decked out in Dior, were sat beside one of the most influential men in the modern era of this industry, letting him hand you eye-watering sums as if it was a couple of coins for a pack of gum.

Now, well, now you were conflicted. As months had turned into a year and were now approaching the two-year mark if you could remember correctly, your ‘relationship’ had started to feel more and more like a real one. Hongjoong had caught himself divulging details of experiences that he had never spoken about with anyone before. And nowadays, when you had sex, it felt less like a mindless fuck and more like making love, with the man expressing more than he ever could with every hot touch, press of his lips to yours, even his lustful intensity had gained a new colour. You could feel that he was confused, but would not dare let go of you – you knew that he put your name down on some very important documents, after all. As such, it was a rare but unbelievable pleasure to push Hongjoong’s buttons and get him all riled up for you, just so he could expel that pressure and that tension from a busy work day out on you. You were that caring of a personal assistant. And wanted him to keep on talking. Keep on telling you his deepest darkest secrets. You wanted to be a part of him, the hedonistic side, the one that seized the day and knew how to enjoy the earthly realm without counting and fighting.

For the flight to the resort and extended series of meetings with key business partners, you had chosen to wear an outfit that you knew Hongjoong was unravelled by. It was a black and white Prada poplin mini dress that did wonders to accentuate your curves and edges, and was paired with some classic, black leather, So Kate Louboutin heels and gold accessories to match the dainty little buttons on the dress. Really, this was dress number two since the last one had been quite literally torn off you by none other than your boss, but he did not want to ruin the night and as such, had promised to contact the house of fashion itself to get an exact replica of the limited edition garment. And this man kept his promises. But right now, even though you were sat in the private office in his jet, with the bodyguards safely outside, lounging and doing whatever bodyguards did to occupy themselves, he was not paying attention to you at all. Only winding himself up more with those compiled quarterly reports that you were now regretting having finalised them and bringing them at all. What was the worst that you would have gotten had you not done the task? A spanking? Oh, how scary… you have had it rougher on a casual and uneventful day. Now you needed to get creative to get his attention, and being needy would not do. So very slowly, gazing out of the window at the clouds your were drifting past, you crossed your legs, revealing the legendary red bottoms of the heels you were wearing, and reached for the notebook and pen that were just peeking out of your handbag. Unbeknownst to you, you already had his attention with your abrupt change of pattern. Normally you would be on your phone, or typing away on your laptop, even remaining idle would be more characteristic, so Hongjoong’s interest was piqued by the little planner that contained all your thoughts and actions. He slouched back in his seat, and raised he papers a little higher, so that he could steal glances at you more discreetly.

You were paying no mind to what your boss was up to, preoccupied by the cream pages and the visualisation of the figure in front of you, but in your mind. Sometimes, when work was slow, you had taken to doodling random people around the office, as well as sketching out a variety of landscapes that took your fancy. Though the main subject was always Hongjoong. You had gotten quite good at picturing his facial features and depicting them even in a few lines, catching his micro expressions and shift in body language. There were also a couple of drawings you had done with him as a live model, though he was asleep and in the nude, so no one was ever going to know about that – you had stashed them away in a safe hidden behind the drawers of your desk. It only made sense that he was in most of your drawings: after all, he was the man who had bestowed upon you such unimaginable riches and a quality of life so drastically improved, that you had no choice but to worship him. He had made you who you were now. A shining diamond.

And this shining diamond was a little too bright for him to keep on focusing on the profit and loss analysis. After about ten minutes of frustrating silence, he dropped the papers onto the table in front of him and leaned to put his elbows on its edge. You had still not raised your eyes at him – something that you normally did nearly on instinct since you were so in tune with his gestures, which made Hongjoong inhale aggressively. His previously neutral expression had turned into a scowl as he raised an eyebrow and gave you a onceover. His precious doll was up to something.

“What are you doing?” though the question was simple, his voice was dangerously low. But you could not be threatened by a good time. You kept your eyes trained on the page as your hand moved methodically to hatching the shadows of his, as of not too long ago, brilliant blond locks, ones you adored to run your hands through whenever you had the chance. Which was a rare occurrence outside of the ‘bedroom’, but still.

“Just noting some things down, Mister Kim.” Though he had insisted that you call him Hongjoong when you two were alone, it had been a challenging transition to get used to. But at least it gave you ample opportunity for… discouraging him further. He liked for everything to run like a well-oiled machine, with his eyes reading a business strategy in anything and anyone. You had no doubt that that was how he was scrutinising you now. Equal parts assessing the attitude and doting on you.

He was a sweetheart treating his favourite toy. Talking competitive analysis and takeovers in the morning, and clinking glasses with you at an exclusive Michelin star restaurant in the evening. And to think that you were the only one, aside from his family, who got to see more than one side of him was an intriguing notion. Actually, scratch that. Certain things you were sure to be the only one taking care of. Take his nasty habit of overworking, which you had called out even if it was just you feeling bored: all work and no play made Hongjoong a dull boy, and thus, less likely to compensate for your presently aimless sitting around.

“By colouring the entire page? Not good to lie to me, you know that.” Of course. When it came to matters of business, for example, this man had ears everywhere, had infiltrated every other competitor and had become a spider in the corporate world. He would probably find out someone was cheating on their spouse sooner than the spouse themselves. When it came to you, however, he did not have your intricate neural network mapped out just yet. He could only fluff up his feathers and put on airs.

“It is only ink, Mister Kim. And surely the ink to paper ratio is not more than the balance sheet on page twenty seven.” You purposefully moved away from his interrogation, subliminally reprimanding him from stopping his concentration. The ghost of a smirk was gracing your lips, hidden by hair that had fallen to perfectly frame your delicate facial features. Hongjoong still had not corrected you on using his ‘work title’.

“I should ask you to start drawing the spreadsheets out by hand then.”

“Maybe next time, as a special treat. In the meantime, we have what we have and must settle for it.” A lot more standoffish than usual, you were brushing your boss off as you continued the sketch. He could not exactly reprimand you, however. You were right in the fact that his suggestion was nothing more than white noise.

“Settle for less, Y/N?” the question rang loudly in your ears and translated itself to a reminder to know your place fairly quickly. You could imagine Hongjoong’s raised eyebrow and playful grin. In addition to him hinting at your arrangements, he switched to calling out your first name. Promising.

There was a customary mention of money and class even when it was not the main topic of conversation. Really, it was what had brought you two together, or rather the stark difference between what you and him had, respectively. Hongjoong enjoyed having financial control over you and ended up dangling it above your head in the form of his not so subtle first-world conduct. You preferred to imagine that it was him wrapping you up in the softest, silkiest Chanel ribbon, like the one you had seen in adverts and on the packaging that, alone, could have probably provided you with enough food to last a week in your life before.

It was not that Hongjoong did not try to ‘stay humble’. Based on your observations, out of all his financial peers, company clients and members of the executive board, he was probably the least likely to boast about the figures that his numerous bank accounts contained. It was possible that when the strings of digits began to look more like a phone number, one grew more tranquil. Money spoke louder than words. But you knew how to make Hongjoong get vocal. Or so you thought.

“More is never enough.”

“Having more takes a lot of work and being on your best behaviour, Y/N.” he may not know all of your thoughts and reasoning but knew that you got extra charming when you became needy. Trying so hard to get his attention that you would invest all your efforts into it. It was only fair after how much he had invested in you.

The Tiffany & Co necklace on your neck that he traced with his gaze was nothing more than a collar, a leash tethering you to him. An Elsa Peretti piece, a golden snake which had cost Hongjoong just under thirty million Korean won, was perhaps the best way to symbolise the chokehold you were beginning to have on him. You were there in business, there in pleasure, and he was contemplating preventing you from taking holidays unless they somehow involved him. It would be easy – just block all of your cards and you would come crawling. He was greedy for your reactions. The way your lip would curl when he would put somebody back in their place during a conference or a meeting. How you enjoyed it when he praised you for completing the challenging, soul-draining tasks that never ceased to pile up – he had never failed to continue scrutinising you through the glass walls of his office as you excitedly returned to your desk, a soft smile always on your face. How you were completely at his mercy when he wanted to give you an extra special present. He loved how the jewellery he had gifted you or sponsored for you to buy rocked back and forth as he took his time to take you apart. Piece by piece. His priceless game.

Hongjoong smoothed his lapels and adjusted his cotton jacket that he had bought in the colour warm khaki, tightening the knot of the wrap belt. Smugly, he took note of how your pretty, made up lips parted. What were you imagining he was doing now? He was not going to care, at least not right away. He demonstratively picked up the reports again, flipping through the bounded pages on autopilot as, what he could only decipher to be a disappointed gasp, reached his ears. It was a relief that the paper hid his growing smirk. Mister Kim was work-mode Hongjoong, after all. What did you expect?

Ignored and rejected, so be it. You knew this interaction well enough to be able to count, down to the minute, when Hongjoong would crack, or you would crack and still come sauntering over. He liked to be needed – the main reason why he had agreed to become the heir to the corporation in the first place, more than you liked to be needy. But sometimes, you were a little too impatient for your own liking – probably a side effect of having been transferred to a silver spoon lifestyle after experiencing hardship after hardship. As such, the dynamic between you and Hongjoong was a constant battle. You could almost taste his pride as he inspected the figures you had compiled for him, a lazy hand moving to adjust the collar of his white turtleneck. Through fluttering eyelashes, you feasted on the dangerously handsome man, determining that he really did look astonishingly captivating in Balmain.

It was frustrating, this ongoing game that you two played and would not quit despite the effect that it very obviously had on all parties involved, but much like with the drugs that made the occasional special appearance in the closed VIP-only events, it was too addictive. Even now, you knew that you should not pay attention to Hongjoong, but your eyes were not obeying you in the slightest. Over the time you had come to intimately know this man, if there was one thing you knew for certain, it was that he had an aura. An enigmatic charm, a magnetism that was so subtle to anyone who you now had the ability and first world clarity of deeming 'average' was unlikely to detect. However, before you knew it, upon locking eyes with Hongjoong, listening to his dulcet tone that would turn to orchestrate the music in your mind, you began to fall hard and fast into the abyss that was his power and control, trapped and even if you wanted out, forgetting the words. Once you fell in, the only words that mattered were the ones that he deemed to be so, and they were so heavily contextual and dependent on his mood that, usually, you did not dare oppose it.

It was fascinating to you how time seemed to pass differently when there was a price associated with it. Be it Hongjoong's net worth or what he was wiring into your accounts, it did not matter. What mattered was the bills that bound you together like the lace of your lingerie, one which was growing tighter around your body by the second as you kept on openly devouring Hongjoong with each shameless gaze, the thoughts cropping up because of the ghost of a smirk that he was wearing only fanning the flame. He was illegal. In all senses. No man should have the right to have such an influence over you as he did, and yet here you were. Working the role of his personal toy, so dedicated that you were on the verge of begging for him to play with you. You needed him. As much as you hated to admit it, since you still did want to retain at least a tiny portion of independence, this man had given you more than what you could ever wish for. Riches, connections, diamonds, sex. And you could not get enough, happily driven to madness by the immense pleasure of being a capricious diva with infantile demands for all the world's sweetness. Or, as your brother had put it, perhaps out of a sick gratitude to you for helping him getting at least a part of his life back on track, before you blocked him for good, you were getting off on being a pampered, prissy sugar baby. Though you saw no issue with simply doing what you were good at, and you still completed your regular duties as a personal assistant. It was just that your 'personal' was a little different from the commonly accepted corporate average. And the business that you carried out in the after hours was not just classified – when you had been faced with the decision of whether to agree to enter such a relationship with Hongjoong or not, you had naively placed your life at stake. That was the level at which you had to operate. But the thrill that it gave you, more than justified it.

Your internal clock was ticking away like a time bomb as you grew more and more frustrated, while Hongjoong, in a manner not too far from that of a cat’s, gave a soft yawn and made himself more comfortable in his chair, spreading his legs further apart under his desk and leaning back to continue his reading. Deciding that he had enough of having to repeatedly push his glasses up, he decisively took them off, and slowly folded them together, holding one of the temple tips very lightly with his lips. In a graceful motion, Hongjoong set them down to his right, beside a couple of pens. You recalled speaking with the designer over the phone, ordering for them to be customised and getting shipped over from the US in record time, and while you were not exactly sure as to why they were so important, the key stakeholders in the company had raved about them on multiple occasions, much to your boss’s delight.

You could feel that he was well aware of your present sensations, and purposefully was not acting on them, just to see you squirm. This was only making you more fixated on getting his attention, which you tried to do by letting out another soft sigh, quickly realising that if you were to get anything out of him, you had to be more rash, and act on instinct. In other words, act out of line. Taking the moment he dived back into the report as an opportunity, you rose from the couch, and slipped out of your high heels while keeping your eyes trained on your boss. A barely noticeable twitch of the eyebrow and you were struggling to fight off a smirk, feeling every bit seductive even though it was most probably a vision of your own design. But a little confidence did not hurt.

This time, you did not make a sound as you slowly moved towards Hongjoong’s desk in a straight line, using your strength to keep your adrenaline-ruined breathing as level as physically possible, and your steps measured out as the plane rumbled beneath you. Head and body in the clouds. All because of the heavenly ruin who was paying no mind to how you rested the tips of your fingers on the edge of the desk, before lowering yourself onto your knees and dropping into a languid crawl. As you inched past his lacquered black boots, and soon found yourself right between his legs, you could see Hongjoong stiffen, but resist the urge of responding to your bold movements. This only played to your advantage, as you let your hands rest on his denim-clad thighs before snaking up to tug on his coat’s belt, loosening it until the material gave way and exposed the waistline of his jeans.

Even as you, with practiced, methodical motions, undid his jeans, he did not spare you as much as a pat on the top of your head, like he usually did when you were being his ‘good girl’. The only sign he gave of his awareness of you was the obviously hardening member that your hands purposefully grazed as you attempted to pull the denim a little further down to give you better access. When the jeans, or rather, their wearer, did not budge to allow you to take them off, you growled in annoyance and gave up trying to be gentle, instead wanting nothing more but attention, not from Mister Kim, not from your boss, but from Hongjoong. From Joongie. From your one and only daddy.

Said man was resisting every urge to yank you from under the desk and to punish you for being such a vixen, but it was clear to him that his disregard of your efforts might just be more painful – a realisation that did little to subdue his arousal. It made him acutely aware of your nimble hand finding the cut in his Armani briefs, and pulling out his erection, giving it a few pumps at the base with your fingers. The sudden caress had made him buck his hips forward, encouraging you to continue admiring his length and running your fingers up and down, not a single bit escaping your touch. He gripped the papers in his hands until they began to get crumpled at the edges, and eventually dropped them to lean back and get a view of the scene unfolding at his feet. All just to catch you as you licked your lips, revealing a thick coating of spit, moved towards his dick, and while keeping it steady with one hand, ran your wet tongue from the base to the very tip, parting with a lewd twirl over the head. Hongjoong bit back a hiss as he locked eyes with yours, half-lidded – you knew all his sensitivities, his pressure points and guilty pleasures, and that was infinitely dangerous for a man like him to share, it only made you more attractive. You had memorised him as if he was your assignment. Your most important test and duty. Never leaving your mind and driving you to insanity as you drifted from wave to wave of uncontrollable desire for him, and him alone. You were his. And you looked so pretty, a queen all made up and dressed in gorgeous rare pieces, kneeling before him and taking in his member between your soft lips. Deeper. Deeper, until he could feel your hot inner cheeks, the back of your tongue and how a rumble emanated from you as you hummed in satisfaction, the vibration forcing Hongjoong to tilt his head back and sigh.

You were greedy for Hongjoong, moving yourself at a slow pace to take in as much of him as you could, hands finding themselves clinging onto the legs of his jeans for support, and to allow you to try your best and continue devour him without his guidance. As you moved away for a couple of seconds to catch your breath, a salacious pop announcing the temporary loss of contact, you noticed a string of what you could only guess to be your saliva, mixed with his pre-cum hanging between his member and your progressively more swollen lips. Once again, you took the throbbing member in your hand and were about to resume its worship, when a strong grip of your hair, nails momentarily sinking into your scalp, alerted you and made your gaze shoot upwards. The sight made you cower, though the thrilling trepidation fuelled your yearning for the glowering man.

There was a demonic quality in how he stared down at you, every bit of the expression demeaning you and demanding your ruin. You knew you had overstepped by disobeying him and taking intimate matters into your own hands, but who could blame you when he was so breath-taking when wearing his favourite brand? When you lowered your eyes he tugged on your locks, sneering.

“Baby girl could not even wait until we landed, huh?” his dulcet tone dropped into a rough drawl as he could feel your breaths washing over the tip of his sensitive dick that was begging for you to finish what you had started.

“I couldn’t.” you purred, batting your eyelashes.

“And so, you resort to being naughty? Do you think that is the right thing to do, especially when I say that I am working, hm?” he was hooking the answers out of you, one of his eyebrows twitching in surprise as you did not respond immediately. He tightened his hold and made your head fall further back so that you were completely face to face, his member pressing against your cheek.

“It isn’t, daddy, but I couldn’t help myself. You just looked so pretty that I could not resist.”

“And I think you are being incredibly selfish, Y/N. Spinning these tales just so you can satisfy yourself.”

“No daddy, I want to make you feel good!” you insisted, a whine escaping you as you could feel your core beginning to grow warmer with the progressing conversation. Pressing your thighs tightly together, you relished at the friction, and bit your lower lip.

“Is that so?” he mused out loud, waiting for your to attempt to utter even a single word more.

“Yes Da-mmfph!” taking the chance, he pushed you right in, his member hitting the back of your throat, the impact making tears spring up. As you struggled against him, he held you in place and watched as you tried to adjust to him. Just as unexpectedly, he yanked you back, leaving your lips to kiss his tip, only to drag you down once more and thrust his hips once, twice against you until he could see the wetness in your eyes building until it was about to spill over.

“You said you wanted to make daddy feel good, yes?” he asked, lust clouding his brain as you mumbled utter nonsense, mouth pacified by the hard erection, “then do exactly as I say, baby girl.”

This was exactly what you missed. Hongjoong coaxing every unholy state out of you, sin setting you ablaze as you began to fail in registering the nuances of this demeanour, tears that were on the verge of rolling down your cheeks blurring your vision. This was how you pinched yourself for grounding, to assure that the lifestyle you had, the gifts which you had been bestowed with were all real and all yours. You did not search for forgiveness when the forbidden fruit was so damn sweet. So, you let yourself be used like an expensive escort by him, comforted by the thought that even though he could definitely afford having anyone else, he had selected you. And let you stick by him for almost two years. A true sweetheart who knew how to treat his girl right. You moaned into the pressure as the low grunts you elicited from Hongjoong let to the climbing of heat in your core. With the abuse of your throat becoming a rhythmic orchestration, you grew brave enough to improvise, and hollowed out your cheeks.

"Ah... fuck, baby girl..." the airy proclamation escaped him as your teeth just barely grazed his member, and he could feel his high building at an accelerated pace. He resisted your bobbing to catch a few seconds' break by pressing you to his hips, barely giving you a chance to breathe. But he knew you would take it. You always did.

Hongjoong's ragged breathing was sending you into overdrive, and you shut your eyes to allow yourself to focus on the lewd music. Barely audible over the jet engines, the loss of control was his primary expression of gratitude. The illusion that he was not, in certain senses, under your heel rapidly evaporated when the adrenaline shot him through the heart, and his frontal lobe shut down to give up the reins to carnal pleasure. Once the barriers disappeared, his one desire and need were clear. You. The one thing in his life that he would never be able to truly own, and as you unwounded him, he comprehended with an unprecedented lucidity. That was why, as you sensed his hold on you loosen and his orgasm inching closer than ever, and were about to give him the sweet release, Hongjoong snapped back to consciousness and nearly ripped you away from himself, your head barely missing the drawers under the desk.

With flushed cheeks and an adorable, innocent pout, you looked up at him, dribble accumulated at the corners of your mouth. He fell for this face every time. Your glistening eyes studying him as you appeared disappointed that you could not get daddy to cum, afraid that you made him mad. That you did something wrong. Oh, how far from the truth this was. Even though you had acted selfishly, and approached him on your own accord, nothing about you could be anything less than right. Right just for him. It was as if the heavens themselves had moulded you to fit him like a glove. Body and soul. And he will be a fool if he did not indulge in that every opportunity he had.

Taking both your hands in his, Hongjoong helped you up from under his desk, careful to not damage your dress - not that he cared for the price, but it was not particularly enjoyable contemplating the conversation you might have to have with dry cleaning. Or with the designers. Again. It was troublesome striking deals with strangers to keep their mouths shut. He rolled back on his chair, taking in your trembling form. Holding your legs together you were fighting your ache for stimulation, knowing full well that your panties were already ruined with your slick and were only serving as a fabric made for rubbing your sensitive clit. Every breath, every sigh from Hongjoong as he took off his jacket and carefully hanged it on the back of his chair, then fully undid his jeans and pushed down his underwear, was a reason for you to start begging. Couldn't he see how anxious for touch his little toy was? Evidently not, for Hongjoong took his sweet time with removing your dress, every button like a special prize that he wanted to cherish, while you were growing hazy as he peppered kiss after kiss with every new inch of exposed skin, crouching down to let the sensation build lower, feeding the knot in your stomach. His pecks stopped just about when he reached your navel and with a lazy smile on his face, he stood up to gaze into your soul with an unbelievable intensity. Hands running up your body, Hongjoong slid the magnificent article off you, hastily draping it over one of the chair's arm rests and not once glancing away from his favourite sight, a sultry oasis, within reach, and so beautifully hungry for him. He stopped your arms from resting on his sweater, muttering that you would mar it with your lusty filth, and rushed to take it off and throw it behind him. Then, there was no barrier for him anymore, and in one motion, his pelvis was against yours, member resting against your black lace-clad heat, and hands kneading your ass, moving closer and closer until they began to toy with the g-string the action turning to torture as he purposefully made the material dig into your pussy, enjoying how you threw your head back and bit back a groan.

"Please daddy, I need you..." you whispered as he increased the friction and proceeded to move his dick in and out between your full, closed thighs, teasing your erect nub until you writhed to seek even more proximity. This, however, earned you a sharp smack on your ass, the lack of anticipation making it sting. Hongjoong did not give you time to recover as he let the pins and needles work their magic and elevate your reception of his steady thrusts. You tried to grab onto him, the table, anything, but as soon as your fingers touched Hongjoong's chest, another hit echoed in your ears, eliciting a frustrated moan.

"You want to... make... daddy really happy and cum... right?" He panted, his nails digging into your flesh so violently that you could not help but wonder if Hongjoong was going to draw blood, but that brief musing only elevated your pleasure. “Then, you are going to be my pretty little fuck doll… understood?” there was only one right answer to the question, and you were not about to get on Hongjoong’s bad side by being a brat. You were too fazed to put up a fight, and merely mumbled a soundless:

“Yes… daddy…”

Hongjoong leaned closer to you, until his forehead was almost touching yours, and moved to wipe some of the lipstick and remnants of his precum from your lips with his thumb, while his other hand hooked the waistband of your panties, slowly pulling them down to reveal your wet core. You wriggled to let them fall and kicked them away with an impatient foot, earning a chuckle.

“So eager, baby girl… I almost want to forgive you for not listening to me. I just said you are to be a doll,” he peered into your eyes, his breath hot on your mouth as he ran his fingers between your folds, covering them in your slick. It was adorable how you tried your best to keep up appearances even now, even when you had signed yourself away to be what effectively was his servant. You trembled as the cool metal of the ring on his index finger hit your clit, and exhaled shallowly as he played with you, “and dolls don’t move, do they? Can you do that?”

As he asked, his fingers curled into your pussy, while a thumb traced rhythmic circles over the nub, the sensation electric, building your high. The lasciviousness flashing in your pupils as your eyes rolled back was a cry to Hongjoong’s darkness. Hands suspended in mid-air, you did not dare act out nor attempt to navigate the intimate act, submitting to your boss, your daddy. Letting him take care of you. As he sped up, watching your face contort as you battled the approaching climax, Hongjoong found you endearing, the corners of his mouth twitching as a soft, radiant smile surfaced. He could never stay cruel with you for too long. He was giving you more than you could ask for, and yet, he still wanted to give you more. Everything would not be enough.

“Oh, my baby girl, are you close?” he inquired, cooing as your breathing quickened in response to his accelerated pumps into your wetness, wild from the addictive sound it produced. “Fine, you can hold onto me, Y/N, daddy will take care of you,” you did not need to be told twice, falling into him as your orgasm was imminent, “doing so well for me, baby girl…” he whispered into your ear, kissing the lobe and pulling you into an embrace as he felt your high wash over you, your sex pulsing around him and muscles contracting uncontrollably. Brushing your hair back, petting it a couple of times before settling on having a hand rest between your shoulder blades, he praised you. But did not stop. Greed went both ways.

Your prior filters completely broken, you moaned and whined as you kept on unravelling, Hongjoong’s fingers abusing your overstimulated cunt. With his toned body, and your ass pressed against the edge of the desk serving as your only support, you draped your arms over his shoulders and wrapped yourself around his neck, rationality leaving with every tremor. As you could feel another scalding fire building in your abdomen, just before the release Hongjoong removed his hand and instead took to gliding his dick against your pussy lips. With the sensation being too much, you yelped and sank into an orgasm, sweet nectar dripping onto, and coating his cock.

“Such a good girl for me, well done… Come on my dick baby girl.”

You were not sure when, due to the fog that enveloped your fucked out mind, but Hongjoong had made you lie on your back on his wooden desk, surrounded by the financial reports he could not be bothered to clear. He wanted you now, and that meant no pauses. Without as much as a warning, the blonde gave you one final teasing flick with his tip before bottoming out, the fullness making you gasp. Your walls were still clenching around him from your climax, which made Hongjoong growl as he grabbed your hips and pulled you closer to him, spreading your legs further apart.

“So perfect for me, Y/N… only mine…”

He mercilessly pounded into you, chasing his own high while you were seeing stars. When you were like this, under him, hair cascading onto and off the mahogany, knuckles turning white as your grasped onto the desk as he thrusted, you were the closest thing to heaven that he could believe in. In a world that was drenched in materialistic attraction, sabotage in the name of another stack, and human lives turning into corporate statistics to improve key performance indicators, this was an ethereal madness that unlocked a primal bliss, untainted by present crises. The sweetest distraction, you took him so well that he liked to pretend that you had been made just for this. Just to become his possession. His gorgeous doll.

With you, Hongjoong had begun to see purpose in his riches, being able to play dress up with you, making the office a private cat walk as you strutted in the latest collections and custom made pieces. Gucci, Versace, Prada… it did not matter to him so long as you were wearing it with the intentions of impressing him, seducing him, and only him. He was fully aware that, technically, you could be dating someone else alongside your so-called partnership with Hongjoong. As a sugar baby you could even have another ‘sponsor’ out there somewhere. Another person to make you cum, to provide you with a sensual paradise. But the notion sent him into an inexplicable rage as soon as he entertained it, and as such, he preferred to isolate visions of you from the rest of the world. In turn, this manifested itself into his real life attempts to do the same. Longer hours spent after work, an unspoken rule that the assistant should not leave until the boss does. Michelin star restaurants and exclusive rooftop bars to lure you into being in his company. And of course, sex. Or making love. However, one wished to call it when the lines began to get blurry. But Hongjoong could not care less. You made him comfortable. You were his, you had to be, otherwise what did the two years mean?

Skin against skin, breath joining breath, sight clouding, going dark. Hongjoong rolled his hips, and lowered himself to a stance where he was hovering directly above you, his piercing gaze not once leaving you. Getting drunk off every moan and gasp that he was the cause of, he relished in the feeling of your pussy taking him so well, the orgasm that he had not allowed you to ride out still making your walls clench repeatedly around his dick, pleading for his intimate, salacious demise. His thrusts got deeper as he slowed the pace, progressively losing his senses to the speeding high.

“Mm… baby girl you are… fucking priceless…” he uttered, words broken apart by each time he bottomed out in you, his balls pressing against your wetness as you could only let out a series of mewls in response, thoughts unintelligible as the repeated hits to your g-spot brought you closer and closer to total destruction.

“Daddy… please, I’m-”

“Going to cum?” he finished your sentence as your try at speaking was interrupted by a wave of pleasure, mixing with the tension from before and making the tears spring up once again. You were a wreck, impaled by Hongjoong’s member as he returned to standing up in front of the desk, thrusts rapid, sharp and finally making a droplet roll down from the corner of your eye. You yelped:

“Hongjoong… ah this is…”

“Is it too much baby girl?” he asked, without any intention to stop as he could sense himself faltering at keeping up the act for any longer. His own climax was within reach, and he was not one to deny himself any pleasures.

“No, daddy, feels…. So ah… yes…” you mumbled, at least you thought you did, but could not confirm for certain.

“Pretty girl crying for me… so cute.” Praises spilled out of him as he groaned into the tightness, and, unsteady, removed himself from your cunt, letting out a low moan as rivulets of cum shoot out from his cock and onto your stomach.

The viscous white fluid decorating you was more than what he could ever hope for. The final marking that you were his to use, you were there to serve him, and he would never get enough. A light shake in his thighs forced him to seek balance in having a hand on either side of you, while his pulsing dick rubbed against your inner thigh.

“So pretty, Y/N. Just for me.” He stated, more to himself, and lowered himself further to give you a soft peck on the lips, which quickly deepened as you responded with an elated sigh. In these moments, you wondered if it was money that you were doing this for.

As he moved away, and with practiced motions began to clean you up with some tissues which you had in your bag, you regained full ability of inhale… count… exhale, and in the clarity, drifted to a post-coital contemplation. Hongjoong knew how to make you do what he wanted you to do. But did he know you? Could he confidently paint the portrait of your desires beyond financial and sexual gain? A man made of sugar, with an alluring physique and a kindness which he showed only to you, but should he be your only one? This thought had been plaguing you ever since last month. An unexpected, shattering appearance of a business card, that was now hidden behind a card you rarely used in your wallet, with gold embossed lettering and an otherwise minimalist design. Tasteful, exclusive, expensive. When you checked the names of those attending the meet on the island, the object had grown considerably heavier, weighing onto your consciousness. Discreetly given to you amidst a kiss of the hand and the reception of a smouldering gaze, it served a similar purpose to a number at an auction. The person whose name the card bore had announced himself as a bidder for your attention and services, a bidder astronomically higher than Kim Hongjoong, at that. It was tempting. Very tempting. And you knew that the conversation would occur at some point during your stay, seeing as even in the business setting, the man would undoubtedly be sat across from you, and would stare you down, right to the avarice festering in your heart wrapped up in designer. But you were caught in a dilemma.

Your eyes travelled back to the graceful form tending to you, forgetting about himself, at least until his baby girl was well cared for. A sweet angel, his face finally rid of tenseness and agitation as his entire focus was on your body, on you. The one who, unknowingly to himself, had shown you unprecedented vulnerability and, endearingly, trusted you much more than he ever should have. A man who walked on people and money, yet wanted a woman who could play with his heart.

It was not that simple anymore, was it? After so many doses, could you give this up? Give up and betray Hongjoong in search for a stronger hit?

What was it that you were truly greedy for?

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teecupangel · 5 months

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i know you have so much on your plate rn but i can't stop thinking about Ezio-era Baker!Desmond and the shenanigan layers of ✨intrigue✨ going on with Ezio and Leo thinking he’s Giovani's bastard, and Maria inviting him to the villa on a whim ’cause she thinks her kids (and Leo) like the pastries, and Desmond misinterpreting absolutely everything because that boy is a Wreck™

what comes of it, tho?? is Desmond trying to alter history more than just pre-inventing exotic baked goods? is he already having to dodge assassins around Italy while trying to protect the Auditore family, getting on Giovani's radar and spooking him ’cause he can't figure out what branch he's from? or is Desmond holed up in his bakery trying very hard NOT to change anything ’cause hey he’d already saved the world he’d like to not fuck things up bad enough to have to do it again?

does Giovani catch a glimpse of him at some point (either just in the bakery or while Desmond’s out being assassin-y), and instead of thinking he looks like himself or Ezio (since this would be before Ezio gets the scar), thinks he looks eerily like the statue of Altaïr? as another layer of shenanigan, he could come to Leonardo with the idea of time travel but thinks that Desmond is from the PAST rather than the FUTURE, and Leo spends the whole convo trying not to blurt that he thinks/knows Desmond is GIOVANI'S kid

just. the confusion of this au speaks to me, since it’s ALMOST crack-y but also these fools are canonically FOOLS, and i love the way you blend angst with shenanigans. im also shippy at heart, so would love to see your take on that in this au if you have the time 👀

(thank you for reading, i hope you're doing well! 🧡)

As long as you guys are find that your asks are getting answered a month later, I’m alright with adding more to my plate XD (just to be clear, this is a first-in-first-out basis for both asks and replies/reblogs and I’m only about to clear Oct 13 XD)

The original Desmond becomes a baker in Renaissance Italy and gets mistaken as Giovanni’s illegitimate child idea for those curious.

In this one, Desmond only went as far as stop the Auditores from being arrested by dropping key documents showing Uberto’s treachery to the Medici. He stayed as far away as he could from the Auditores and only dropped off the evidence in Lorenzo’s bedside table one day, slipping into the darkness. Anyone who saw him actually thought he was a monk since he was wearing a monk’s attire (which he burned afterwards). This does lead to Giovanni and the thieves guild looking for him after since he hasn’t done any other Assassin related stuff and was simply living his life as a baker, they’re hitting a dead end. Desmond doesn’t plan to do anything else since he believes that the Auditores would be able to handle it from here and he’s betting on Giovanni finally starting Ezio’s training after learning that the Templars are after his family.

Giovanni’s first glimpse of him is when he checked the bakery from afar since his family seemed to like it so much. He just wanted to make sure it wouldn’t post any danger to his family and maybe even talk to La Volpe into adding it to the thieves’ patrol route just so they would have eyes on the bakery at all time. It’s gotten so popular that the Medici are even thinking of ordering from them so Giovanni figured he should do reconnaissance before it got to that point. When he saw Desmond, he doesn’t see the similarities between them, he saw Desmond looking a lot like the statue of Altaïr and he freaks out. Because, unlike Ezio or Leonardo, he does have an inkling of how powerful Those Who Come Before were. He has seen the Shroud and he has heard the tales of how Altaïr had mastered one of their weapons. And… if the Shroud could heal all and any injuries then… In this case, Giovanni doesn’t think Desmond is a time traveler, he thinks Desmond is Altaïr himself who has gained immortality thanks to the ‘powers’ of Those Who Come Before.

Thank you! I honestly like writing these ideas where it’s crack but not crack enough that it’s a bit confusing XD

#desmond bakes #giovanni has a mental breakdown #leonardo still thinks desmond is giovanni’s love child #la volpe is just waiting for giovanni’s instructions #assassin's creed #desmond miles #giovanni auditore #ask and answer #teecup writes/has a plot #fic idea: assassin's creed

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pizzpizzapizzo · 9 months

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I think I found the perfect animal for Peppino if you're looking for suggestions? I know most people would make him something like a boar or a member of suidae, BUT i think he's probably an herbivore. Those fellows can and will mess you up. They have nothing to lose and fight with their all. Why not make him a rejected petting zoo ram? He looks soft and sweet but he Will try to maim you if he's upset enough. Anyone who works with a ram can tell you they can be a bastard. Alternatively he could be a random species of goat. They are ornery as a rule. Some species can even be fairly exotic! Have you seen a markhor's horns!?! Prime wreck your shit material.

you know what, i can agree with this take purely based on Peppino's tendency to ram (heh) into things

#thank you this was a great suggestion and very fun to draw #herbivore nation rise up #zoo au #pizza tower zoo au #peppino spaghetti #pizza tower #ask response #art tag

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dasupercarblog · 1 year

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Ferrari 296 GTB & F12 Berlinetta suffer a massive crash in Italy

In a bizarre accident, two Ferrari supercars crashed into the side of the road, somewhere in Italy. A video shared on social media shows both cars travelling at extremely high speeds before smashing into a wall. The video shared by @a1_garage appears to be from a CCTV feed. You can see a red Ferrari 296 GTB and a blue F12 Berlinetta hitting the roadside embankment. Both cars are launched into the…

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#296 GTB #Crashes #F12 Berlinetta #wrecked exotics

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percervall · 3 months

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Mamma mia, here I go again {pt8}

Summary: A summer of poor decisions leads you to having to face the consequences of your actions —and the men involved. Pairing: Kevin Magnussen x fem!reader, Lewis Hamilton x fem!reader, Mark Webber x fem!reader Warnings: angst, descriptions of a crash, mentions of religious trauma Word count: 1246 Taglist: @ashy-kit @averagef1fansblog @barcelonaloverf1life @bradfordbantams @dannyramirezwife-simpaccount@doofenshmirtzevil-inc @exotic-iris13 @goldsainz @iloveneteyam @jaypreshpresh @laura-naruto-fan1998 @monzamash @norrisleclercf1 @opheliaas-stuff @roseseraj @szobosz @topguncultleader@vellicora @ystrolllll

Part 8 of the Mamma Mia series

After Japan, you operate on auto-pilot, the days all blurring into one. At work, your colleagues leave you be, however, your best friend sees right through you, especially after you cancel on her for a third day in a row. So Jasmine does what any best friend would do: she lets herself into your apartment with the key you had given her, only to find you curled up on the couch, staring into space as the sun sets, drowning you in twilight. She forces you to get changed out of your work clothes while she puts the kettle on.

“Talk to me. This is not like you,” Jasmine says, putting a mug in front of you.

“I don’t even know where to start..” you mumble.

“Start with what’s got you so heartbroken that you’ve become a recluse,” Jasmine offers. You shrug, feeling another wave of tears threatening to spill.

“I broke my own heart. I should never have agreed to their plan,” you say. You tell her all about the last couple of weeks, about the dates they had been taking you on. About how you tried so very hard to not fall in love.

“But I did. I fell harder than I think I ever have.”

“How does that lead to you breaking your own heart? Shouldn’t you be over the moon and disgustingly in love with your man?” Jasmine asks you.

“How can I be happy when I love all three of them?” you throw out, a sob wrecking through your body as you bury your face in your hands, “I am such a greedy whore for wanting all of them,” you whisper.

“No. Stop that right now,” Jasmine says, moving her chair next to yours and pulling you against her chest.

“Sometimes I really curse your parents for the religious trauma they subjected you to. Babe, we’ve talked about this. There is nothing wrong with being a slut or a whore, as you put it, as long as it is your choice to be called that term. Nothing wrong with a little consensual degradation in the bedroom. But loving more than one person does not make you a whore. It makes you polyamorous,” Jasmine responds, rubbing a hand down your back.

“P-poly-what now?” you ask as you look up at her.

“Polyamorous. Oh babe, for someone with a double master’s degree, you really are clueless sometimes. It means someone who’s in a relationship with more than one person at a time. It just means you love differently than the heteronormative norm.”

You’re quiet for a moment, letting your friend’s words sink in. She’s hit the nail on the head with her comment about your parents. You went no contact years ago, but your religious upbringing sometimes still haunts you even now that you’re an adult and no longer believe in the church as an institution. A tiny spark of hope flickers alive in your heart at the knowledge that there is a world in which you don’t have to choose between them, before it gets squashed by the realisation that you might have burnt that bridge before you even got to cross it.

“What if it’s too late?’ you voice your biggest worry out loud, “What if they don’t want me anymore?”

“Unfortunately there is only one way to find out. You gotta talk to them.”

Jasmine made it seem so easy, but finding the time to do so is proving difficult during the next race weekend. Due to the sprint race, the weekend is even busier than normal. By the time Sunday comes around you are convinced it won’t happen. Kevin seems to be avoiding you —and you can’t blame him for that—, Lewis is busy preparing for two races, and Mark is filming for Channel4. You throw yourself into your work, trying your hardest not to think about how your chest constricts every time you catch a glimpse of any of them on the screens in the garage. It’s not until Sunday’s race has well and truly started that you can’t use work as an excuse anymore. The latest bits of sim data have already been analysed so you really have no reason to stay in your office. You hide away in the back of the garage, out of sight for most of the cameras but you have a clear view on the screen with the F1 world feed. Your chest feels tight with anxiety for this race; the heat has been brutal for everyone involved and the tyre management put in place by Pirelli doesn’t fill you with confidence either.

The first 30 or so laps go by relatively smoothly, but just as you allow yourself to exhale for the first time in what feels like an hour, things go horribly, horribly wrong. Logically you know the whole thing won’t have lasted for much longer than several minutes, but it feels like everything slows down as you watch one of the RedBulls collide into Lewis’ car while trying to overtake in the straight between corners 15 and 16, sending the latter spinning into the barrier on the right before getting bounced to the other side of the track like a ping pong ball before it comes to standstill against the wall. The RedBull tries to correct its own course but can’t help losing control again and sends the Haas that was behind them into the gravel where something seems to snap from the back of the car, causing the driver to lose complete control and slamming sideways into the barriers. Miraculously, the RedBull remains on the track, although it’s obvious the car has some major front wing damage, and makes it into the pitlane without much of a fuss. You keep watching the screen breathlessly, hoping for any signs of movement while you vaguely hear Lewis’ engineer ask Lewis if he’s okay. Instead of confirmation, it remains quiet. Your chest feels too tight to catch your breath as panic claws its way up your throat when you realise that the Haas currently in the barriers is Kevin. Ripping your headset off, you make your way outside and into the pitlane. Air, you need air. Leaning against the wall, you inhale deeply, trying to use the breathing techniques from yoga to calm down. They’re gone, your brain very unhelpfully supplies and you cover your mouth with a hand to stifle the scream that’s threatening to come out. You hear someone talking to you but the words don’t register as his body blocks you from view. Looking up, you see Mark’s concerned face looking back at you and the realisation that Lewis and Kev got hurt hits you all over again. A sob wrecks through you as your knees buckle.

“I’ve got you,” Mark murmurs, pulling your body against his. “They’re gone and I-.. I will never get to tell them-.. Mark-..” you sob into his chest. Mark rubs a hand down your back, letting you cry into his shirt as he tries to sooth you. You thought the heartache you felt after Suzuka was bad, but nothing could have prepared you for this. You can’t breathe, can’t think; the only thought going through your head is how this baby will never get to see their dads, how you lost the loves of your life and that you will never even get the chance to tell them that, how it’s all your fault. And that thought rips you apart all over again.

For maximum emotional damage, may I suggest playing Gracie Abrams' Cedar on loop while reading this? Because that song broke me

@curiousthyme this chapter would not be what it is without you, so thank you

Please let me know what you think. Your comments, tags and likes mean the world to me 💜

#f1 fanfic #kevin magnussen x reader #kevin magnussen x you #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #mark webber x reader #mark webber x you #mamma mia fic

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soulmuppet · 2 months

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A rogue black hole [Y0109+49155637] rushes toward "civilization." In its gravity well, Y0109 carries the husks of ancient ships and forgotten technologies. A message in a bottle and rotten care package from long-dead progenitors.

Derelict is compatible with Death in Space, but rules light and adaptable to other rules sets (with a little bit of elbow grease). Explore the wrecks in orbit around Y0109+49155637, uncover secrets, and loot everything that's not nailed down.

Black Hole Maps. Nothing better than a good ol' map! It'll come in two versions. A player facing map, showing the location of nine wrecks to explore. The DM map shows additional, secret information. Something for the characters to discover off the beaten tracks.

Encounters. You'll get them. All 22 of them, ranging from mundane (in the outer rims) to truly bizarre (traveling toward the center).

Exotic Locations. Space is vast. Secret locations wait to be discovered, not picked up by any sensors until you visually confirm them. Stumble about them while exploring, or not!

Ships, Stations, Wrecks. Scanners pick up a total of nine derelict vessels orbiting the black hole. Most are decades old, some are new, but all of them are packed with loot and death. Explore, Exploit, Exterminate.

#ttrpg #ttrpg community #indie ttrpg #tabletop #ttrpgs #rpg #osr

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dailyadventureprompts · 2 years

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Campaign: Iron and Brine

Since the beginning, mortal artifice has only had one aim: to stand against the storms and calamities of our world and say “no more”. Sure we get distracted trying to build a better mousetrap, your clockwork armies, your time controlling clocks and the like, but all if it is rooted in the desire to shield those we love from reality’s next ruinous blow.

... and in some cases, to hit back

-Cosimo, chief artificer in service to the Duke of Alanath

Looking for a subtly steampunk maritime adventure? One that begins with a little mystery and a rather daring con, moves on to dungeon delving, subterfuge, pirate raids and ends with a Pacific Rim style clash between a seamonster and a giant robot piloted by the party? You might not have been looking when you started reading but I bet you are now.

Campaign Start: The Duchy of Alanath is a beacon of progress towards the coming age, airships carrying cargo between most major settlements, advanced naval batteries defending the shore from pirates and worse, secret projects up in hidden mountain foundries that will forever tip the balance of power. , but the root of all this industry threatens to come to a grinding halt when the goods exchange in the Harbour of Breeker’s Bay threatens to turn into a riot.

Dispatched by benefactors with concerns about the market, or merely in town and caught up in all the chaos, the party will either have to get to the bottom of what’s caused this gridlock, or figure out a way to turn the crisis to their benefit, without getting taken advantage of by more shady characters looking to do the same. Regardless of where the party end up, they’ll eventually come into the service of a shadowy schemer with unintentionally heroic goals, who will set the party towards all manner of inadvertent good deeds before having them get to the bottom of the conspiracy at the heart of the duchy’s problems.

Early Game:

Preparations to sail out on the evening tide have been completely derailed when the party realizes the crew of the ship they were attempting to board have been slaughtered, and they’ve stumbled upon the killers in the midst of deposing of the bodies. These killers are no mere pirates, but a cult of cuthroats from the deep who’re looking to intimidate local smugglers and pirates into obedience.

Follow a trail of on-land drownings to discover a merfolk priestess cutting her way through the duchy’s exotic animal dealers. Her niece has been kidnapped for a noble’s menagerie, but does rescuing a child really condone such savage methods?

The party’s patron sees a means of getting close to their target, a fretful and oft distracted duke, by hunting a great beast that’s marauding around the borders of his territory. This hunt goes a bit awry when the beast crashes into an ancient ruin hidden beneath the surface of a lake, which the party will need to explore if they want to deliver a killing blow to their target.

Mid Game

A ship of famed treasure hunters has beached itself miles up the coast, the crew scattering to the winds. After delving the wreck and tracking down some of the sailors aboard, the party discover that they defiled an altar to an ancient sea goddess, and now a monster from the depths is due to hit the nearby port any day now.

Break up a fight between two of the Duke’s most trusted advisors, an arcanist and an artificer, and then escort the artificer on an expedition to some far off ruin under mysterious pretenses. This is the party’s best chance to discover what the Duke’s secret project really is.

Foil an assassination attempt against their patron, Racing against time to save his life and track down the source of the attack. Even if the party manage to pull him back from death, they’ll need to seek out a great act of healing or alchemy to permanently undo the damage.

Throughout their adventure, the party will be hounded by the Duke’s all seeing spymaster, a woman with strange powers and an undying loyalty to her liege. Do the party take her out to fulfill their objectives, or can they convince her that their actions are innocent, and earn a powerful ally in the process?

Late Game

Infiltrate a massive, hidden foundry high in the mountains where a titan sized construct is being assembled piece by piece. A kingdom destroying weapon in the wrong hands, the party will face a difficult choice in joining with the duke’s forces to see the construct completed, halting its progress through sabotage, or finding a means of triggering a meltdown in the robot’s arcane engines.

Hitting the self-destruct button on the giant robot might be a bad idea, as the arcane energies that gave the thing both power and defence, once destabilized, will tare a hole through the fabric of reality and give the party many more problems to deal with than just a petty duke and his tin soldier.

Surprise Surprise! That cult that was chopping up sailors back at the start? Turns out they’ve managed to lure a kaiju into working with them, a terrifying beast that’s capable of summoning tsunami-level tidal waves, meaning it’s capable of levelling coastal ports but attacking any settlement connected to the duchy’s central waterways. If the party has been paying attention to the signs of this cult’s escalating threat, they may be able to convince the power players of the campaign to work together to defeat this beast... if not, the party might’ve just sabotaged their primary means of fighting back against it.

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dolcettamagica · 2 months

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𐙚˙⋆.˚ 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ch.3

rick x reader, prime rick x reader

𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴: 𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘩𝘰𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘥, 𝘥𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘺𝘫𝘰𝘣, 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬, 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘥𝘶𝘣𝘤𝘰𝘯, 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 & 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴: 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘴 𝘥𝘯𝘪, 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘸𝘤: 3.0𝘬

The room swayed as you navigated the blurred edges of reality. Laughter echoed in disjointed fragments, and your senses danced in a kaleidoscope of emotions. The world, usually anchored in coherence, now floated in a hazy sea of intoxication. Your laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, a symphony of uninhibited joy. Yet, beneath the surface, a subtle vulnerability lingered, as if the alcohol had unraveled the tightly wound threads of your composure. There was a fleeting sense of detachment, a reminder that the intoxicating elixir could distort both the present and your perception of self.

“D-didn’t I tell you-you…? This shit is fu-fucking good”, Rick took another sip of the glittery green substance. You already forgot what it was called and from where it was – honestly, you didn’t even care. One glass after another has been poured down your throat, five different drinks from five different planets. You were anything but sober just like Rick. Both of you sat crisscrossed on the bed in front of each other. Why did you hate him again? Who gives a shit.

“You’re right, yeah, you’re right”, you giggled as you leaned forward, your hands grabbing into the soft white mattress. Loose strands of hair were falling onto your face as you look up at Rick. Even sitting down, he was more than a head taller than you. “Feels like…hm…feels like I’m on some other fucking planet.”

By your switch of position Rick had a wonderful view before him. Your top was revealing and tight, pressing your tits together, your soft skin glistening in the dim light. His eyes wandered done to your hips and legs. Fucking hell, what a fine piece of ass. Maybe it was the alcohol talking or maybe he was just fucking horny. Lust and desire filled his senses, but Rick didn’t want to do anything…yet. “I am the smartest man alive after a-all. You gotta trust-trust me on this sh-shit, y/n. And you haven’t even tried space weed, y/n, it’s going to bl-blow your fucking mind.” Should be blowing me instead. He watched as you started cackling once again, he didn’t know who was more wasted – you or him.

“Mhm”, you cooed, “Rick Sanchez is the smartest man alive. Be my bartender instead of a scientist, Rick.”

Slowly he laid his hand on yours as he got closer. His touch made your skin burn, goosebumps forming on your neck. He still doesn’t give a fuck about personal space. Quickly you pulled your hand away, a strange feeling clouding your senses and creeping down your body. “I-I could be something completely dif-different than your bartender, little one.” How could his voice sound teasing and seductive simultaneously? Why did his touch feel so familiar every time?

In all honesty, you wouldn’t mind giving yourself to him right now. Both of you were more than just drunk and a little sex would certainly help you destress after this hard, nerve-wrecking day. Something in the back of your head though begged you not to do it. You also had some doubts – What if you’re actually a virgin? What if this is a test? What if it’s a trap and you’ll be kicked out afterwards? Rick would be egoistic enough to do something like that. So, you chose to simply ignore this last comment.

“Tell me more about space-weed, pretty please?”, big doe eyes met his gaze.

Beg for it more. “Never seem to g-get enough, huh?”, swiftly he took a baggie out of his lab coat. Your eyes widened. the containment possessed vibrant colors, exotic patterns, and unique properties that contribute to its intergalactic allure. Grinning he opened the baggy and let the weed fall into his hand. “Wh-what type of girl are you? Bong? Joint? C-can’t bake some br-brownies for you now, princess.”

“Bong sounds like a vibe”, it didn’t take long for you to catch your composure. Rick also seemed to just ignore what happened a fee seconds ago.

Carefully packing the bowl with space-weed, Rick adjusted the water level in the bong. With a flick, he sparked the lighter, bringing the flame to the bowl's edge. Inhaling deeply, he brings the bong to his lips, igniting the substance and creating a milky swirl of smoke. As Ruck pulled, his eyes focused on you. Right after the bong left his lips and was placed on the bed, Rick grabbed you by your neck and forced you closer to him. His lips were almost touching yours. “Wait, what, Rick?!” Rick blew smoke into your mouth, coating your mouth with a sweet yet earth taste.

“It’s c-called shot gunning, baby”, his hand, which was previously grabbing your neck, was now tucking your hair behind your ear, “Wish you could see your slutty expression right n-now, y/n.”

Every cell in your body was yearning for more, your brain on the other hand “Stop fucking around, old man.” It wasn’t teasingly, you were stone cold and serious.

All of a sudden Rick seized you, his grip unyielding as he forcefully pinned you down onto the bed. The air crackled with tension as his eyes bore into yours, filled with a raw, primal hunger. You gasped, caught off guard by the sudden ferocity of his actions, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and excitement. Rick’s touch was rough, his body pressed against yours with a commanding urgency. In that moment, you realized the depth of his desire, as Rick claimed you with an undeniable passion that left you breathless and powerless to resist. “D-Didn’t I tell you that next time you call me an ol-old man, I’ll make you scream it, dumb brat?”

Only now did you realize in what kind of position you were. One hand was gripping your throat while the other was groping your ass. He was lying between your legs and something hard – and big – was pressing against you. “Fu-fuck, look at your fucking f-face. Needy girl. Makes me want to ruin you.”

His fingers almost dug into the soft skin of your buttocks as he finally placed his lips on yours. His tongue quickly found its way into your mouth as soon as you wanted to protest his behavior. The kiss was chaotic, full of desire and lust. His tongue closed around yours again and again and he began to roll his hips against you. His hard cock rubbed against your yoga pants-covered vagina. It caused the perfect friction for your clit, you felt how wet you were getting. After what felt like an eternity his lips parted from yours.

“What are you doing, R-Rick?!” Your intention was to sound angry or at least not as excited as you actually were. Instead, your voice sounded breathy and even worse, like you loved what was happening. Ashamed of your own arousal, you bit down on your lip and hoped Rick wouldn’t notice how fucking horny you were.

"Ri-Rick? No. You must call me sir, master or Mr. Sanchez, dirty-dirty whore," he let go of your throat and ass to literally rip the white tank top off your body. In one quick motion, he pulled your breasts out of your bra. "Do y-you think I'm stupid? Senile? Have you for-forgotten that I'm the smartest man alive? I know exactly what you want, little one, even before you realized it." The whole time he was talking he didn’t stop dry humping against your pussy.

His lips enveloped one of the nipples, sucking and sucking on them while the other tit was squeezed by his hand. It was all too much for you, it was overstimulating. Your tits were extremely sensitive to Rick's tongue and hand. You moaned louder and louder, unable to form words, let alone sentences. “wai-…ah, w-wai-…plea-“

Rick's cock seemed to get even harder as your sugary moans fell on his ears. "Y-You like that, don't you? This old man makes you moan-moan like a bitch in fucking heat. You dirty little slut. Have you been provoking me all-all this time to make it end like this? Did you want to be punished, li-little one?" You could do nothing but shake your head. He was the one who had provoked and embarrassed you all this time, right?

"Are-are you really innocent o-or are you just pretending? I can see the looks you give me during our…hot mo-moments. The way your c-cheeks turn bright re-red, your heavy breathing and those eyes filled-filled with dirty fantasies. I've already noticed. I warned you…y-you didn't listen, so now you have to obey. Take your clothes off." He ordered while sitting up.

Tears filled your eyes. Was it the situation or was it the fact that Rick's fat cock was no longer pressing against your clit and sending your body into a state of ecstasy? You weren't sure of the answer yourself. Your brain and body were at odds - your pussy craved Rick while your brain begged you to leave the room. His power-hungry eyes stared at you as if he was waiting for your reaction to further assess the situation. Are you going to play along or are you going to stop? "Did you not hear me, whore? Undress, now."

"Y-yes..."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

Maybe it was wrong, maybe not. Maybe it was the alcohol or weed, maybe you just wanted to keep being touched by this disrespectful man. While you threw your bra and pants as well as your thong on the floor, Rick undressed as well. The two of you watched each other. Rick took in every curve of your body – you were exactly what he wanted. Rick was thin but fit at the same time and – oh God – his cock... His cock was huge.

"Do you like what you see, p-princess?" a dirty grin graced his lips. "I like the sight too. Lie-lie down again and spread your legs. I want to see your little cunt." This time he didn't have to repeat his command twice. Slowly (and somewhat reluctantly) you lay back down and spread your trembling legs, not sure if you wanted his cock inside you. Shyly, you looked up at him and your breathing hitched. Rick's hand was around the tip of his member, moving it up and down as he eyed your most intimate area.

“Fu-fucking hell, you’re so fucking wet already. Jesus. I-I didn’t even touch you for real an-and yet you’re soaking. Desperate little thing.”

Out of nowhere and without any warning, Rick grabbed you by your thighs and pulled you effortlessly towards him. "Wh-wait! Please...please don't go in..." You were aware of how your voice was shaking and there was still a hint of absolute desire in it, you were ashamed of it. Would Rick even listen to your plea?

"I-inside? My cock inside you?" He threw your legs over his shoulders and slapped his hard member several times on your clit. “Do you really think th-that you’re actually worthy of my fucking cock?! I’m not rewarding you, this is a punishment, sl-slut. Even if you end up begging me to r-ram my cock inside your lil-little cunt, I won’t.” Mixed emotions filled your heart – relief and sadness. This man was driving you insane.

Rick took his cock into his hand once again and rubbed his tip and and down between your pussy lips, feeling your wetness. “F-Fuuuck, baby, that’s what I do to you, huh? Some dry humping and nipple play and you’re all hot and bo-bothered for this old man.” His cock never touched your clit and you felt yourself almost begging for it. Subconsciously you moved your hips, hoping it would somehow help.

“Lo-look at that. What a little greedy who-whore you fucking are”, Rick understood what you wanted, and he was kind enough to grant you wish. This pre-cum leaking tip circled your clit, causing you to whimper and moan beneath him. “You love this old man’s cock, do-don’t you? Mr. Sanchez is taking such good care of you.”

He leaned down, his chest hovering above yours as he started to grind against you. How could it be that his cock was satisfying you without actually being inside you? He kept rocking his hips – hard and aggressive – your wetness served as some kind of lube as his shaft kept rubbing over your clit again and again and again. It was driving you crazy.

“You’re such a fucking wh-whore”, he hissed into your ear, his hand smacking your ass red, “I bet-bet you want me inside you now, huh? Want-want me to abuse that small cunt and put you to some go-good fucking use. Mmh…fuck, fucking shit…”

He was right. Rick was always right. You wanted him, no you needed him buried deep inside your clenching, pulsating walls. He was rough and dominant. Choking you, spanking your ass, slapping your cute face while staring deeply into your eyes and calling you a worthless whore.

“Please, sir, I-I’m begging you…”

“Oh, sweetheart, didn’t I tell you this was a punishment?”

And then he was gone, his back leaning against the wall as he sat on the other edge of the bed. No, he can’t be serious. “I actually w-wanted you to scream old man but I think denying you to cum is faaar worse for a dirty bitch like you.” He is actually serious.

“You’re an absolute fucking asshole! O my God!”, rage took over your body and shame slowly crept up. Instead of replying to you, Rick started to put his clothes on again. Even though he was still hard as a rock. Lazily he tossed your clothes over to you.

“Listen, princess, I-I told you I was going to punish you. How would it be pun-punishment if I let you squirt all over my dick? Besides”, he paused for a moment, “You were so fucking wet and begging for my cock that I was about to pound you like so-some fucked up wild animal. Wouldn’t want that now…or maybe you would, right, little one?” Yes, Rick was one second away from ramming his shaft inside your soaking pussy and fuck you to oblivion and back without giving two flying shits about your feelings. The angel on his shoulder – which barely showed up – advised him not to. He didn’t want to break your mind after all he just wanted to tame you and make you his fucktoy.

“Oh…”, dumbfounded you pulled your thong over your ass and your tank top over your head, didn’t really need anything else. You understood where Rick was coming from but you also senses that he wasn’t telling you the whole truth. Awkwardly you pulled the covers over your lower body and lowered your gaze.

A sigh fell from Rick’s lips, “y/n, chill out. I didn’t even fuck you. Here, take the bong.” He really didn’t have to tell you twice. In hopes to forget what just happened, even if it’s just for a fleeting moment, you first took a big gulp of some space-alcohol which was next to you on the workbench before taking a hit of the bong.

“We got five drinks down, another five to go!”

“What the actual f-fuck do you mean another five?! It’s like 2am, Rick!”

“I t-told you, y/n, we’re-we’re getting wasted tonight! No sleep just drinking and smoking, y/n! Let’s fucking goooo!”

His eyes narrowed with an unsettling intensity as he watched you, the woman he desired, moaning for C-137 on a large monitor. A surge of jealousy and possessiveness gripped him like a vice, his heart pounding with a mixture of anger and despair. Every fiber of his being screamed in protest, unable to bear the sight of you in the arms of another – whimpering and squirming, needy and horny. His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as he fought to control the seething jealousy that threatened to consume him whole. With each passing moment, his obsession with you intensified, his mind swirling with thoughts of reclaiming what he believed to be rightfully his. He couldn't bear to see you with anyone else, couldn't fathom the idea of you belonging to another. In his eyes, you were his and his alone.

“How could you?! How the fuck could you?!”

With fury blazing in his eyes, he slammed his fists down onto the table with a force that reverberated through the room. The sharp sound of his anger echoed off the walls, punctuating the tense silence that enveloped the space. Each blow echoed his frustration, the intensity of his rage palpable in the way his knuckles whitened with each strike. His jaw clenched, muscles tensed, as he unleashed a torrent of pent-up emotions, his entire being consumed by a fiery wrath that threatened to consume him whole. The table trembled under the force of his fury, bearing the brunt of his unleashed rage as he struggled to contain the tempest raging within him. In that moment, he was a man possessed, his anger a primal force that demanded to be heard, leaving no doubt of the depth of his turmoil.

Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he should have fucked your brains out before sending you off. Maybe he should have written in his notes that you are his. Maybe he shouldn’t have given you a last chance at all. He always yearned to see the face that you made just a minute ago. He wanted to beg you beg for his cock, soaking wet and desperate enough to not refuse him.

How did C-137 get that far within a few hours?! “Maybe her subconscious is bound to me”, he whispered to himself. That must be it. After all you were his and C-137 just happened to be a version of him. For a split second he thought about bringing you back to him, so that C-137 would never touch you again or fuck you right in front of that bastard to show him who you belong to. But he couldn’t do that – not yet. C-137 didn’t achieve what he wanted him to. Sex was something which could also be taken by force (or under dubious circumstances like C-137 did), what he wanted could not be forced onto you.

“I will kill you for this, C-137.”

#𓂃⊹ ִֶָ 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 #rick and morty #rick sanchez #rick sanchez x reader #rick sanchez x self insert #rick sanchez x y/n #rick sanchez x you #rick sanchez x oc #rick x you #rick x y/n #rick x reader #smut #degredation kink #master #sir #fanfiction #x reader

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