#Ceiling paint for sensitive spaces

[kexin-coating]

Why Choose Odor-Free Ceiling Paint for Your Home

Why Choose Odor-Free Ceiling Paint for Your Home When it comes to decorating or renovating your home, the ceiling is often an overlooked area. However, with advancements in paint technology, ceiling paints have evolved to offer not only aesthetic benefits but also enhanced health and environmental features. One of the most notable innovations in this area is odor-free ceiling paint. This article…

[sixeyesonathiel]

what happens when satoru gojo tries to draw you and accidentally confesses five times?

a/n: yayy free throws and figure drawings crumbs. missed writing these two so bad… they hold such a stupidly special place in my heart. like sorry they healed the evil horny in me and rewired my brain chemistry. actually the most powerful duo to ever exist. i am once again simply a vessel.

the first time satoru tries to draw you, he steals one of your half-used sketchbooks like a raccoon with zero shame and far too much confidence, grinning to himself like he's cracked some sort of divine code.

“i’m gonna sketch you,” he announces, already sprawling across your floor like he pays rent, hoodie rumpled and riding up his stomach, hair still damp from practice and poking in every possible direction. he props himself on his elbows, legs swinging lazily behind him, the picture of unseriousness in your very serious, very paint-splattered dorm room.

you don’t even look up from the page you’re shading in. you're curled into your desk chair, hoodie sleeves shoved up to your elbows, pencil smudges on the side of your hand, and shoulders already tense with suspicion.

“you can’t just say that like it’s normal,” you mutter, not bothering to hide your wariness.

“it is normal,” he says breezily, flipping the sketchbook open like it’s his birthright. “i let you draw me all the time. fair’s fair.”

“that’s different,” you reply, glancing at him through your lashes. “you’re an athlete. you’re used to being stared at. modeled. immortalized in sketch form.”

he rolls onto his side with a dramatic little noise, cheek smushed against the hardwood, one hand supporting his jaw as he squints up at you like you're being deliberately obtuse.

“and you’re my girlfriend,” he says, soft and smug. “i’m used to being in love with you. same thing.”

you throw a pencil at him.

it bounces off his chest and rolls under the bed. he groans like you’ve injured him, dragging himself dramatically across the floor to retrieve it.

“rude,” he grumbles, holding it up triumphantly—then frowns. “it’s not even sharpened.”

he tosses it aside and grabs a pen instead. clicking it twice, then once more for flair, he dives in like he’s gearing up for a renaissance masterpiece.

fifteen minutes later, after a symphony of pen taps, frustrated mutters, and at least one full-body sigh, he flips the sketchbook around.

“ta-da.”

you blink.

on the page: a stick figure. it has massive, round eyes that take up a third of the head. there’s a rectangle clutched in your hand—possibly a paintbrush, maybe a sword, possibly a baguette. there are swirls surrounding your head like a storm cloud. the background is a shaky box filled with jagged lines.

he beams like he’s just unveiled a lost da vinci.

“do i have noodle arms?” you ask flatly.

“you have delicate limbs,” he corrects solemnly. “artist arms. sensitive. expressive. obviously.”

“and those spirals?” you point at the mess circling your head.

“your aura,” he says confidently. “you have... radiant vibes.”

“what about the eyes?”

he shrugs. “windows to your soul. they’re big because i see everything in you.”

you squint at him. he grins wider, completely unfazed.

with a sigh, you close the sketchbook gently, fingers brushing over the slightly curled page.

“okay,” you say. “no more pen privileges.”

he gasps, hand clutching his chest. “you’re just intimidated by my artistic vision.”

“i’m admitting you need glasses.”

he groans and flops onto his back, arms sprawled out like he’s been defeated in battle. “and i’m admitting that drawing you is impossible,” he says to the ceiling, voice suddenly quieter, “the original’s too pretty.”

the silence that follows is soft. the low buzz of your tiny desk fan fills the space, blending with the occasional creak of the floorboards and the sound of a pencil scratching lightly against paper. the golden light from your window pools across the room, warming the edges of paint tubes and tangled limbs.

you glance over your shoulder.

he’s watching you—chin in hand again, head tilted slightly, blue eyes sleepy but impossibly bright. there’s a smudge of ink on his cheekbone. he hasn’t noticed.

your chest tightens.

“what number sketch is this?” you ask quietly, the corner of your mouth twitching.

he hums, pretending to think, then shrugs. “first one of you. but i’m still winning. two hundred fifty-four to one.”

he taps the sketchbook once, then looks back at you with a flash of something uncharacteristically sincere.

“actually, make it three hundred,” he adds, voice dipping lower. “you just blinked in that lighting and i fell in love all over again.”

you throw another pencil.

this time, he catches it one-handed, barely looking.

“deadly reflexes,” he says, cocky and glowing. “i’m unstoppable.”

you shake your head, trying and failing to suppress your smile, and he sees it—of course he does.

he always sees it.

he doesn’t stop smiling the rest of the afternoon. even when you grumble about your ruined pencil. even when he tries to steal another sketchbook. even when he falls asleep on your floor, cheek squished into your hoodie sleeve, mouth parted, dreaming of something soft.

additional a/n: if you’ve made it here and haven’t read free throws and figure drawings… what are you doing bestie. go meet the disaster basketball boy and the overworked artist who accidentally steals his heart. if you want more of this soft chaos—this fluffy, smitten, mildly feral kind of love—that’s where the madness began. they’re so special to me it’s stupid. i think about them more than i think about my responsibilities. go. read. fall in love too.

[cvnt4him]

just like sex things w shoyou hinata

Literally just him having his arms behind his head, mouth hanging low as he watches you have a hard time in his cock. Slowly and hardly even bouncing while you're a moaning mess head hanging low as you writhe and whine struggling to keep going, you can feel his bulbous tip rubbing the edge of your cervix so sweetly making you squeeze your eyes shut as your cunt just convulses around his thick cock. He groans beneath you a small smile painting his tanned and sweaty skin, staying in Brazil for those years really did him well. A tan just suits him so damn much. You can hardly even look at him while you....attempt. to ride his dick, your thighs shaking as you shiver above him an orgasm taking you by surprise. Shoyou could tell you've cum not just by the way your pussy is tightening around him, but given how your breathing has changed, your moans as well. A high pitched whine filled breathy moan leaves you as you come to a complete stop, occasionally grinding your hips down so your clit can rub against his itchy slightly hair ridden pelvis. You groan and shake, your body jolts forward as your eyes flutter and roll. It seems as if you were spent, unable to go forward, he seemed slightly disappointed. A small pout forming onto his face as he sighs timidly. You fall forward and lay on his chest, your sweaty body against his ass you catch your breath brows furrowed and sweat slicking down your forehead. He stared up at the ceiling and blinked a couple of times before speaking.

“ can I eat you out?”

You lay back against your couch with your legs open and one hoisted up over shoyous shoulder, hes such a messy eater getting your juiced all over his face and chin. His tongue touched and tried its hardest to reach everywhere that it could, assuring no space in your cunny goes left untouched. He suckles and licks and slurps all that he can while he grinds intensely and desperately into the rough material of your couch. His aching cock head occasionally catching a glimpse of the rough material and getting grazed by it causing him to speed up with a whine but ensuring to bury the noise into your dripping cunt. You were so overstimulated, your poor cunt just quivering beneath him.

Shoyou keeps rutting his hips and humping the couch until he feels his high approaching at such a high speed, he didn't want to cum into the couch cushions so....what else was he supposed to do other than quickly bury his cumming cock into your wet walls. He groans loudly and deeply, a rasp lacing his voice as he throws his head back and thrusts his hips. You moan just as loudly as tears fill at your waterline, he couldn't possibly think about the fact you've cum so many times the pleasure of him being inside of you felt painful when you were still squeezing his cock so terribly tightly! He slowed the painful thrusts of his hips and let his cock twitch inside of you, making sure every last drop gets inside before he slowly pulls out of your walls, the sensitivity of feeling every inch of his cock slowly and gently slide out of you making those tears finally fall down your warm cheeks. You passed out the second your body could rest. Meanwhile shoyou was just lying on top of you, heavy and sticky with your combined sweat and your cum all over his mouth, chin, and neck. His eyes were heavy and it was as if he could not get enough air in his lungs, despite how warm it was he was at peace.

[princesseilish]

QUITE LIFE

Billie Eilish x Fem!Reader

Warnings: readers sensitive, no mentions of y/n? Billie is in love

Synopsis: in an interview things dive deep into billie’s wife who she mainly talks about but never shows

The studio was calm, the air filled with the faint hum of production equipment. Billie sat in the spotlight, her blue eyes shadowed with something unspoken, though her posture remained steady. The interviewer, a seasoned journalist known for navigating both the light and heavy topics with grace, leaned forward, voice warm but curious.

“Billie, you’ve always been vocal about mental health, authenticity, and protecting your space, but I have to ask—your engagement and wedding, both of which you managed to keep incredibly private, came as a surprise to many. Why did you decide to keep something so personal away from the public eye?”

Billie tilted her head back slightly, as if searching for words on the ceiling, her lips pressing together before a quiet exhale escaped her. “Because she’s my world,” she said softly, her voice cracking just enough to betray her emotion.

The interviewer didn’t interrupt.

Billie’s hand rose to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear, her gaze dropping momentarily to her lap. “Look, I’ve been in this industry long enough to know how it works,” she started. “And I know what happens when people think they’re entitled to every piece of you. I signed up for this; she didn’t. And I’ve seen what the world can do to someone who isn’t prepared for that kind of… attention, especially someone as sensitive as her.”

A faint, almost wistful smile curved her lips. “She’s not built for it. Like, she can’t even handle the car radio being too loud without constantly feeling overwhelmed.” Billie let out a small laugh, though it sounded more like a sigh. “I used to tease her about it—how her world is so quiet, so calm. But now I see how much better that is. She’s taught me to appreciate that quiet.”

The room seemed heavier now, Billie’s words painting vivid images of the love she carried for her wife. The interviewer hesitated before speaking, sensing the depth of what Billie was sharing. “It sounds like you’re very protective of her.”

“I am,” Billie said without hesitation, her voice firm but tender. “She saved me. And I don’t mean in some cheesy, fairytale way—I mean she literally saved me. She loved me when I couldn’t even look in the mirror. When I was at my lowest, when I felt like I was drowning and dragging everyone down with me, she stayed. She didn’t have to, but she did.”

Her voice broke slightly, and she swallowed hard, taking a moment to gather herself. “I don’t think people realize how terrifying it is to be loved like that. It’s… humbling. And it makes you want to do everything, anything, to deserve it.”

The interviewer’s voice softened. “Do you feel like you deserve it now?”

Billie’s laugh was quiet, almost self-deprecating. “I’m trying,” she admitted. “But I know one thing for sure: I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her. The thought of her being overwhelmed, of people shoving cameras in her face or saying cruel things about her online—it would break her. And if that happened, it’d be my fault for not shielding her from it.”

The interviewer nodded, her eyes glistening. “That’s a lot of love, Billie.”

“It is,” Billie agreed, her voice barely above a whisper. “But she’s worth it. Every single bit of it.”

The conversation drifted to lighter topics after that, but Billie’s words hung in the air, raw and heavy with emotion. Fans who watched the interview would later flood social media with their admiration for her vulnerability, but in that moment, Billie wasn’t thinking about the audience or the cameras.

She was thinking about her wife—her quiet, sensitive wife who was probably curled up on the couch at home, reading a book or humming softly to herself.

And she meant it. Protecting her wife wasn’t just a choice—it was a promise, one she’d keep for the rest of her life.

[hopelesslygaysstuff]

October 01 - Hickeys

pairing: dom!Wanda x Sub!Natasha

summary: Wanda really likes to mark her girlfriend up.

content warnings: hickeys, possessiveness, fingering

word count: 1k+

masterlist

comments and reblogs are always appreciated! happy reading ♡

���Oh fuck, Wanda.” 

Natasha lets out a moan, throwing her head back and hearing a soft thump as her skull meets the mattress. Her hips rut up, seeking direction from the warm body above her. The knees around her waist tighten, preventing any more movement. 

“Stop moving and let me mark you up,” Wanda murmurs, her lips dragging across her skin. Her warm breath hits Natasha’s collarbone, and she suppresses a moan at the feeling of sharp teeth nipping at her neck slightly. 

Sucking, Wanda lets out a moan of her own, feeling her girlfriend’s muscles clench as she attempts to thrust her needy hips up. Her hands are hot around Wanda’s waist, fingers gripping as her breath hitches when Wanda’s lips connect to her flushed skin. 

Her tongue flattens, dragging up the side of Natasha’s neck. She moans at the taste, the salty, damp skin tasting like heaven in her mouth. Wanda licks some more, swirling her tongue around the redhead’s earlobe briefly before biting softly into the sensitive spot behind Natasha’s ear. 

“Holy-”

Wanda bites down harder, sucking the skin into her mouth as Natasha cuts herself off, letting out a breathy moan that borders on a whimper.

“Such a good girl, letting me paint your skin with bruises,” Wanda whispers, watching goosebumps erupt on that perfect, flushed skin as her breath hits it. It spreads, traveling down Natasha’s neck as her breath stutters. It's a beautiful sight, her chest heaving as she sucks in shaky breaths, her eyes wide and pupils dilated. 

“Please,” Natasha says, her voice quiet, a silent plea hidden behind the word.

“Continue that sentence, baby. Please what?”

“Oh, fuck. Um…”

Wanda moves her lips lower, biting into the soft skin where Nastasha’s neck meets her shoulder. The woman beneath her shudders and gasps, her hands squeezing tightly around Wanda’s hips. Her back arches, thrusting her chest towards the ceiling and pressing her hard nipples into Wanda’s. 

Those plump lips move silently, uttering nonsense as Wanda sucks more dark bruises into her skin, each touch of her lips sending heat straight to her core. It feels like a thousand bolts of electricity traveling beneath Natasha’s skin, wrapping around her throbbing center and pulsing solidly. 

Closing her eyes for a moment, Wanda loses herself in the sensation of her lips sucking harshly on Natasha’s skin. She moves lower, a bruise forming on her girlfriend's right breast as a soft whine escapes Natasha’s lips. 

Pressing her tongue against a hard nipple, Wanda smirks as she sucks, her teeth biting into the nub as Natasha lets out a loud moan. It's unusual for her girlfriend to let out such a noise, the stoic woman typically reserved with her volume. Her actions are controlled carefully, her strength downplayed so as not to show her true capabilities. 

However, in this private space of theirs, the sanctuary of their bedroom, Natasha doesn’t have to worry about that. Wanda has made sure of that, her powers restraining the woman and pressing down on her limbs to ensure that she remains still. Lingering traces of scarlet magic hover around the room, languid but alert. 

“Please, I-” Natasha falters, her words dying in her throat as Wanda leaves another hickey near the base of her neck. “Hurt me more, mark me up.”

Releasing a moan of her own, Wanda grinds her hips harshly into Natasha’s. The friction sends a pulse of hot pleasure straight to Natasha’s core, curling around her clit as she bites her lip, a moan mere seconds away from escaping.

“Well,” Wanda murmurs, her teeth nipping near her jaw, “Since you asked so nicely.”

Sinking her teeth into Natasha’s neck, Wanda sucks roughly, relishing in the strangled sound that pulls from her girlfriend’s throat. She pulls back for a moment, her fingers tracing the fresh mark with a feather-light touch, her pupils dilated as she pants slightly. 

“Fuck, darling. You’re so pretty like this.”

Natasha lets out a whimper at that. She tries to smother it, but Wanda hears the choked sound as it claws its way from her throat. A wide smile makes its way onto her face, the look in her eyes almost predatory as she leans down, her lips just barely grazing Natasha’s ear. 

“You like that? You like being marked up by me?” Wanda’s tongue licks along the shell of Natasha’s ear, sending shudders down the woman’s spine. She chokes back another whimper. God, her girlfriend wasn’t playing fair. 

“I never play fair, sweetheart. You should know this by now,” Wanda murmurs before she moves her lips towards the base of Natasha’s neck and lightly sucks. 

“Please…”

Wanda hums, sucking yet another hickey into the soft flesh of Natasha’s breast. She closes her eyes, letting herself get lost in the sensation of skin beneath her lips and tongue. She can feel her girlfriend’s hips attempting to roll against hers, and smiles when she smells how desperate and wet Natasha is. 

“Let me finish marking you up, darling. I want everyone to know that you’re mine.”

Sharp teeth dig back into Natasha’s skin, and she doesn’t even attempt to muffle the moan that erupts from her lips. She loved how possessive Wanda was, and holy fuck did it turn her on when her girlfriend claimed her over and over again. 

A hand slips between their bodies, Wanda’s fingers easily slipping under her girlfriend’s shorts and finding her protruding clit. She gathers some of the copious amounts of arousal coating Natasha’s pussy on her fingers, before rubbing tight, fast circles around her clit. 

“Go on, sweetheart. Cum for me. I want you to come undone beneath my fingers while I mark you up as mine.” Wanda growls the last word, and Natasha’s back arches from the stimulation. 

Those teeth sink in once more, right on the sensitive spot at the base of Natasha’s throat. She cums, Wanda’s mouth hot on her skin as waves of pleasure cascade over her trembling body. It's perfect and possessive and everything Natasha has ever wanted. She grins as her mind starts to go blank, Wanda’s fingers moving over her twitching clit.

God, she couldn’t wait to see those marks on her skin in the morning. 

[princessedesfleursss]

LH44E1

Pairings: lewis hamilton x fem!reader

Genre: smut

Warnings: profanities, p in v, unprotected sex, hickies, public sex, groping, making out, fingering, overstimulation

“Lewis stop grabbing my ass,” you warned your boyfriend through gritted teeth.

In a crowd full of tourists, Lewis would be the last person to say no to sex. In fact he would be the first to say yes and wouldn’t ever say no to that request. And right now you knew he was horny and he would do the deed right here if he could but your warnings was what held him back.

“Babe, don’t ignore me like that,” he murmured against you, “You can’t dress up all pretty and then leave me hanging.”

You simply laughed and walked over to the next stop, where a marble statue stood proud and tall. Turning around, you push your phone onto Lewis’s hand and ask him to take a picture of you which he dutifully does.

After several more stops like that and increasing demands from Lewis’s end for a quick visit to the loo for a quickie, you turn around and give him a quick peck on the lips.

“Lew you have to wait until we get back to the hotel.”

Lewis grumbles and then looks around. He grabs his smoothie and murmurs that he’ll come back and turns over to leave to the opposite direction.

You nod and continue looking at the artifacts displayed and the information cards at the bottom explaining what each piece was.

When Lewis comes back which he does with a finished smoothie, he has a proud grin on his face which you can’t seem to understand why.

He comes over to you and swiftly kisses you almost blowing you away from your feet.

“What’s gotten into you?” you ask but he simply dodges your question with a smirk.

Ignoring his antics you pull him over to a corner where there are several statues lined up in a semi circle. A closed space where it’s surprisingly empty. You were sure there were people around a while ago but now that you walked over to this area there seemed to be no one around. Before you could walk over to the open area you came in from Lewis grabs your hand and pulls you in for a kiss.

Giggling, you reciprocate the kiss. Letting him grope your ass since no one’s around.

“I guess we could do a quickie here now that we’re all alone, by ourselves.”

You nod while giggling and looking around at any cameras. Lewis is quick to pull you into a blind spot. Amused at how enthusiastic he is about this quickie you don’t question him and follow his guide.

He pushes you to the cool marble wall and dives into your open neck. You look up at the painted ceiling and slightly squeak when he bites into the tender skin of your neck. You run your hands through his open arms and hold onto his biceps while he works on your neck and collarbone.

Lewis comes back up from the hickey session and locks in your lips with his. Almost bruising your lips as well.

“Fuck me please,” you whined at him.

“I thought two minutes ago there were two many people?” he questioned mockingly.

“Ughh please Lewis, stop teasing me and her to work.”

Lewis smiled at your request and wedges a knee between your legs. Whilst he kisses you deep and nice, kissing every square inch of your face he makes sure to press on to your wet cunt. You in turn grind on his knee and feel yourself get wetter.

“No panties?”

You murmur back, ”It’s too hot to wear any.”

Biting onto the shell of your ear, Lewis whispers, “Naughty girl”.

He then pushes his fingers into your cunt with no notice, making you almost scream before his hand comes up to cover your mouth, muffling the screams. He drills his fingers in and out of your sensitive hole while you hold onto his bicep.

“I’m so close, keep going please.”

Lewis stop almost immediately and pushes his fingers that were just inside you, into your mouth. He forces you to gag on his fingers and mockingly whispers, “You don’t get to decide what you want when you didn’t want sex in the first place, babydoll.”

Once you’re done licking his fingers clean, he zips open his shorts and pushes his raging dick into you. Your knees give out from the unexpected entrance and Lewis holds you onto him. Within a few strong and short strokes inside your velvety walls, you come gushing out onto his dick.

He doesn’t stop here, knowing you were very sensitive he keeps going, you could feel the overstimulation build up, another orgasm on its way. This time morning loudly onto Lewis’s hand you release your high, too exhausted and too into the pleasure to stop him from continuing his energetic strokes.

As he comes closer to his high, Lewis pushes in and out of your cunt at slow but deep strokes. His hand leaves your mouth to grope your breasts and leave more hickies over your soft skin. He plays with the erected nipples through the thin fabric of your dress and finally lets go of himself inside you.

You feel the white liquid gush inside of you and you let yourself fall into that mess too and fall into Lewis’s arms as you let go of yourself.

Minutes pass by and you walk out of the museum with Lewis holding on to you. You pray deep inside that your long dress covers up whatever’s dripping down your legs and that the two of you didn’t look like you just had a desperate fuck.

Lewis on the other hand, passed a wink onto the guards and the receptionist at the front desk to whom he had passed on a few notes to help him out with his act.

[pichichuu]

Pretty Purple Paint!

pairing: rafayel x reader –MDNI!

tags: honestly just a steamy makeout sesh with hickeys hehe reader has no visible/minimally visible neck/back tattoos, reference to reader having medium/long hair, gn reader, use of "beautiful"

m.list

the sun streamed through open floor-to-ceiling windows, breeze billowing in your hair as you sat modeling for rafayel's latest painting. you loved sitting for him; unlike other models he's used in the past, you two make conversation while he paints. the warm afternoon passes by peacefully, your discussion overlapping gentle birdsong as you watch the clouds, careful not to change your gaze too much.

rafayel steps back from his easel, evaluating his work. you're eager to see the piece, and tell him as much, but he stops you before you can get up.

"it's missing something. lemme take a picture and i'll show you. maybe you can figure it out."

he snaps a photo with his phone. he stands behind your shoulder, presenting you with a photo of the colorful canvas he's been working on. your profile is in the center in full color, and you're astonished at how he manages to make you look so beautiful. you're wearing a papery white dress which sits just off your shoulders, and he's surrounded you with blooming hydrangeas on all sides, like you're one of the flowers.

"raf-" you gasp, "it's so beautiful!"

he won't hear any of it until it's perfect, though. beautiful isn't enough for one of his paintings. he know's he's chosen the most perfect subject, it's just...

"I know!" he exclaims, pointing excitedly. "there's this open space on the sides of your neck and your upper back." he starts pacing. "because of the hydrangeas in the background, your skin looks so empty. I want the eye to be drawn to your face..."

"what about covering me with a hydrangea? or adding a tattoo?" you suggest, but he shakes his head.

"i'm happy with the hydrangeas as they are now, and it wouldn't be you if i just go adding tattoos whenever it's convenient, cutie," he replies, smiling.

he appears behind you again, looking at the phone from over your shoulder. he brushes your hair aside, gazing at the skin on your neck and brushing it with his fingertips. he pulls up a stool behind you, resting his head on your shoulder.

"at this rate, i'll never get this done!" he whines, tucking his face into the base of your neck. his lips move across your skin like a match striking an idea in your mind.

"hey raf," you start, cradling the back of his head with your hand. "i have an idea"

and that's how you found yourself where you are now, sitting on his lap in his studio, arms wrapped tightly around one another and lips making wet smacks that resound in the brightly lit room. his hand rests firmly on your waist, trying to pull you impossibly close to him. your arm is looped around his neck as if you're afraid of falling away from him.

your mouths make messes of one another as tongues glide over tongues and teeth nip at lips, a mix of sensations dancing between your mouths. webs of saliva are woven between the two of you when rafayel pulls away, gazing deep into your eyes with a mix of wonder and lust before peppering a string of tender, loose-lipped kisses along your jawline and under your ear.

taking your earlobe in between his teeth, he breathes out a "so beautiful" into the shell of your ear. he tugs on the soft flesh, releasing it from his gentle hold. his lips brush against a vein in your neck, sending a shiver down your spine that doesn't go unnoticed.

"don't worry princess, i'll be gentle," he promises, wet lips smacking against the base of your neck as he sliiiiides his warm tongue across the unmarked skin. "i'll make you feel good, promise."

with his right hand supporting your head, you fully melt under his touch. his mouth attaches to the side of your neck, lips spelling wordless promises across your skin. canines gently catch your sensitive spots, making you whine, but his comforting tongue is oh-so-soothing.

his kisses turn into sweet suckling, the suction from his mouth making you painfully aware of your growing wetness. you moan softly, leaning into the kiss, hands slithering up and into his hair. your nails scratch along his scalp, making him shudder and moan into the kisses.

you can feel deep maroon flowers bloom onto your flesh, beautiful marks unique as each petal in his painting. you count as he sucks one, two, three, four sweet markings into your neck, tenderly tracing each one with your fingers as he finishes.

your skin is glossy with his spit and burns red at the fresh markings, the sensitivity sending a flush of heat between your legs and across your cheeks. rafayel kisses you again, panting, and gazes into your eyes. not wanting to leave your mouth untouched, he kisses you between words, suggesting, "cutie... it's gonna... be a while... before, hah" he swallows, going back for another kiss, "those pretty, hah... flowers... are the right color... for my painting,"

you look at him with wide doe eyes, excitedly waiting for the suggestion you know is coming.

"why don't we, mm, come back to the studio later?"

you nod, and he hoists you up, carrying you bridal-style towards his room.

"i figure we have a few hours"

m.list

[peachesvault]

Gentle Hands guide the Gentle Hands

Part 1 || Izuku faces another issue after getting back to sketching

Izukus sketches had slowly but surely improved. Nowadays he could draw more intricate designs and adorn the pages like he used to. Except for one small detail.

He actually couldn’t. (YET as his middle school teacher would say).

Sure, some lucky days, his lines looked smooth, clean, pretty even. But in honesty, he had far too many ink blotches and holes ripped into his numerous notebooks, doubling in amount from how many he had to replace.

His movement was back, he could control how he wanted it to look, but he still couldn’t control how it actually ended up on paper.

Laying out in its ugly truth, Izuku had zero pressure sensitivity. Either half the pen would bleed and puncture a whole through the page, or it would seem like he was writing with a skewer.

So, he did what any sane person who totally hadn’t destroyed dozens of books out of frustration would and decided to try something even harder! So smart of him!

Pottery.

He was embarrassed to say the least. He could hardly even the clay on the potter's wheel, and more often than not he ended up with berserk chunks of clay in his clothes, hair and face.

Really, he was concerned with how familiar clay tasted now.

But that's the thing about being rich from fighting in a war isn't it? He bought a whole pottery studio, that wouldn’t see any action by anybody except him.

The walls were covered in plates. Wobbly ones. Uneven ones. Collapsed ones. Cracked ones. And a singular perfect plate framed on the wall.

Honestly, despite the fact izuku was improving, he couldn’t help but feel... offended for a lack of a better word.

He had spent a lot of money on a pretty studio in a pretty location, and it was covered in ugly plates that were so blandly... clay coloured it made him seem like some kind of sad beige mom. If he was going to have uglily made pottery, it should at least be painted well.

---------

Miffy wallpaper is basically what your walls had become. If anybody new was to ever walk into your home office, that's exactly what they would have thought it was with how it genuinely went from the floor to the ceiling.

But lately something else had been taking up space, not just in your home office but the whole house.

Plates. Bowls. Really any type of ceramic to be fair.

Ones that Izuku would bring home, and you would paint on, no matter how ugly. Every week like clockwork, two or three new pieces of pottery would pop up in your room. You would take them down to your little creative studio (Really just an unused bedroom that you made into a studio), sat down and picked up your paintbrush.

It was a nice way to take your mind off the busy week as you quietly talked to your boyfriend. You had seemed to take a liking to flowers. The vibrant colours as you moved your brushes freely, just letting the shape of whatever you were painting guide you.

Sometimes you would take inspiration from whatever izuku was grinning happily about as he talked. Sometimes what each flower represented. And sometimes (most times) Hibiscuses because they’re pretty.

The miffys dwindled down. This became your guy’s new thing.

Soon there was far too many ceramics, you had no choice but to sell some.

At least you could wow guests when they started looking professional.

And of course, you kept Izukus very first few wobbly ugly plates on the wall in your office, right next to his first few wobbly ugly miffys.

What could you say? It was a love language.

And you fell in love with Izuku all over again. For a third time.

DO NOT COPY OR POST ELSEWHERE. REBLOGS AND LIKES APPRECIATED

A/N: Wrote this in five mins pls tell me if something is glaring or stupid <3 || Series Masterlist

[nayziiz]

Ghost | LN4

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader (you)

Author's note: I'm trying something a little bit different with shorter form fics, so please send through any requests or feedback. These one shots will likely not have a second part unless it really speaks to me to continue with it. Thank you!

Masterlist

You loved Lando's apartment, from its scenic views over the city to the beautiful features. The large floor-to-ceiling windows provided a breathtaking panorama of the bustling city below, each sunrise and sunset painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. It was a beautiful home, blending modern aesthetics with a touch of rustic charm, perfectly embodying Lando's refined yet adventurous spirit.

The open-plan living area was your favourite, with its sleek, contemporary furniture and tasteful decor. The walls were adorned with art pieces that told stories of far-off places and thrilling adventures. You especially admired the collection of Lando's helmets on display, each one a testament to his daring exploits. The helmets, meticulously arranged on custom-built shelves each with its own unique history.

You were more than happy to move in with him in that stunning home when he asked. The thought of sharing such a magnificent space with someone you loved was beyond thrilling. It was a dream to live with him, to wake up every morning to the sight of his smile and the breathtaking view of the city. The spacious kitchen, with its state-of-the-art appliances and cosy breakfast nook, became a place where you both enjoyed cooking, or at least where you cook and he watches offering limited help.

In the evenings, the living room transformed into a haven of relaxation. You and Lando would cuddle up on the plush, oversized sofa, the city lights twinkling outside as you watched movies or discussed your day. The ambiance was always warm and inviting, thanks to the soft lighting and the gentle hum of the city below.

Living with Lando was an adventure in itself. His spontaneous nature meant that some days were often filled with impromptu trips or fun activities. Yet, there was also a comforting routine to your lives. The morning runs through the nearby park, the coffee brewed just the way you liked it, and the quiet moments of shared contentment made it all the more special. Lando's apartment was more than just a place to live; it was a home filled with love, laughter, and countless memories waiting to be made.

You had spent ample time in his apartment before, but when you moved in, things were just a little bit different. The first couple of weeks were fine, then suddenly, you heard doors slamming shut whenever Lando was away for a race weekend. The sound echoed through the empty apartment, sharp and jarring, disrupting the peaceful silence you had come to cherish. You couldn't explain or justify the sounds, since nothing seemed out of place, so you let it go, brushing it off as your imagination playing tricks on you. Then you would enter the kitchen or bathroom and find cupboard doors and drawers open, items seemingly displaced from where you remembered leaving them. You wrote that off as you forgetting to shut it previously or perhaps absentmindedly leaving things open. It was little, subtle things, but it was wearing you out. Each unexplained occurrence chipped away at your sense of security.

You could barely sleep at night because it sounded like someone was walking down the hallway. The soft creaks of the floorboards, the subtle shifts in the air, all played into your growing unease. Your mind conjured images of shadows lurking just out of sight, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end at the slightest noise. Your paranoia was out of hand, a constant, nagging presence that gnawed at your peace of mind. You didn't know how to tell Lando that you now hated the apartment, that the once beautiful home had become a source of dread and anxiety. The fear of being seen as irrational or overly sensitive kept you silent, even as the unease grew.

You tried to rationalise it, to find logical explanations for the things happening around you. Maybe the building was settling, you told yourself. Maybe there were drafts causing the doors to move. But the explanations felt hollow, unable to quell the growing sense of something being off. Lando's absence during race weekends only exacerbated the feeling of isolation. The once thrilling independence now felt like a burden, the empty spaces of the apartment amplifying your fears. You longed for his presence, for the comfort and reassurance he brought, but you didn't want to add to his stress or distract him from his career.

Every time he asked how you were, you forced a smile and said you were fine, hiding the sleepless nights and the creeping dread. It became a silent struggle, one you faced alone, hoping desperately that it was all in your head and that things would go back to normal.

The strange thing was, whenever he was home, nothing would happen. It would be the most peaceful time, the apartment returning to its former serene and welcoming state. The sounds that haunted you, the mysterious movements, all ceased as if banished by his presence. You found solace in those moments, the warmth and safety of his company dissolving your fears.

When Lando was home, you felt the apartment's true charm come alive once again. The panoramic views of the city seemed even more breathtaking, the gentle hum of the urban landscape outside a comforting background to your conversations and shared laughter. His presence brought a sense of normalcy, making you question whether the unsettling events were just figments of your imagination.

Yet, this peace came with a shadow of dread. You knew that the tranquillity was temporary, lasting only until his next departure. Each time he prepared for a race weekend, a knot formed in your stomach, a mix of anxiety and reluctance to face the eerie silence alone. You dreaded the moment he had to leave you there by yourself, the impending solitude amplifying your fears. As he packed his bags and went through his pre-race routine, you tried to mask your apprehension, offering supportive smiles and encouragement. Inside, though, you braced yourself for the nights ahead, mentally preparing for the return of the inexplicable disturbances.

When the door closed behind him, the apartment's atmosphere seemed to shift almost immediately. The once cosy and inviting space took on an unfamiliar, almost oppressive feel. You tried to keep busy, filling your days with work and hobbies, but the quiet evenings brought back the unsettling sensations. You avoided certain areas of the apartment, particularly the kitchen and bathroom, where the unexplained occurrences were most frequent. Your nights were restless, every creak and groan of the building fuelling your paranoia. You kept the lights on, hoping that the brightness would ward off whatever seemed to lurk in the shadows.

During one of Lando's streams, you were in the kitchen preparing some of his favourite snacks. The familiar hum of his voice filtered through the apartment as he interacted with his fans, his enthusiasm infectious even from a distance. You felt a sense of pride and contentment, knowing how much joy he brought to others.

As you sliced some vegetables, your mind wandered, replaying the inexplicable events that had been plaguing you. Lost in thought, you didn't notice a knife teetering on the edge of the countertop. Suddenly, it slipped off, crashing to the floor with a sharp clatter. The unexpected noise jolted you, and a scream escaped your lips before you could contain it. In an instant, the peaceful moment shattered. Lando's voice cut off mid-sentence on the stream, and you heard the hurried sounds of him abandoning his setup. Within seconds, he burst into the kitchen, eyes wide with concern. He found you shaking, still reeling from the shock, tears brimming in your eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked, concerned.

"We need to move, Lando, for fuck's sake. I can't anymore," you tell him, your voice shaky and with tears threatening to fall.

"What happened?" he asked again, trying to understand your reaction. "Are you hurt?"

"We have a ghost in the apartment," you inform him.

"A ghost?" he repeated, almost chuckling at the thought of you being scared of a ghost.

“Lan, now is not a good time to patronise me,” you warned him. “Things keep moving or blowing over. There are no windows open and the wind is not blowing, so what could it possibly be?”

His expression shifted, the hint of a smile fading as he saw the genuine fear in your eyes.

“I'll start looking for a new apartment, I promise,” Lando countered, seeing the turmoil brewing in your eyes. You wouldn't have reacted that way if you weren't truly freaked out.

“You believe me?” you asked, confused by his sudden change of heart.

“Honey, if you say there is a ghost, there's a fucking ghost, and we're not staying with a ghost,” Lando told you and cupped your cheek, calming your restlessness with a minor touch.

His words and touch brought a wave of relief. You leaned into his palm, feeling the warmth and comfort that only he could provide.

“Thank you,” you whispered, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. Lando pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms a fortress around you.

“We'll find a new place, somewhere you can feel safe and happy,” he assured you. “In the meantime, I'll stay with you as much as possible. If not, we book you into a hotel or get someone to stay over with you.”

As your heartbeat slowly returned to normal, you felt a mix of relief and embarrassment. You looked up at him, your eyes searching for reassurance.

“I'm sorry for interrupting your stream,” you apologised.

“Don't worry about that,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You come first, always.”

For a moment, the kitchen felt less daunting, the shadows less threatening. With Lando by your side, the fear seemed more manageable, the inexplicable occurrences less overwhelming. He helped you clean up the mess, his calm demeanour a stark contrast to your earlier panic. As you worked together, the familiar rhythm of your routine returned, the bond between you strengthening with each shared task.

[saphig-iawn]

Made to Play, Forced to Watch

My weekend plan for this doll was set, we were to have a narrative hypnosis session.

I adore these sessions because it not only involves incredibly deep and long form hypnosis, but it treats my subject to an experience unlike anything else.

The last time I had this doll for a narrative session, I sealed her inside a painting, and hung that painting in my bedroom so she could observe the little things I'd get up to in there.

Well, the thought of being on display but completely unable to partake consumed this doll. The whole week fed this fantasy and it grew into something that she just needed to feel.

So, after some gentle fractionation, bringing her down so softly on my lap, she found herself in front of those tall wooden doors.

She knocked, that familiar tremble in her hands. A tremble that knew it was on the cusp on something powerful.

The doors opened on their own, unveiling the grand hallway she had visited before, the warm light of the rustic kitchen aglow at its end.

Then she heard the sound of footsteps coming from the spiral staircase.

A hand gently glided down the bannister, emerald green nails caught the sun spilling in from the skylights.

I came into view. A long satin robe graced the steps, its hems lined with feathers. It was open, revealing a deep green corset, adorned with bows and lace. Stockings and suspenders completed the look.

She felt her heart beating faster.

I alighted the stairs and approached her, my dark auburn hair cascading down my shoulders.

She could feel herself slipping into my eyes, but the feeling my hands taking hers grounded her, like a puppet's strings going taut.

Tacitly, I gently pulled at her hands to bring her with me upstairs.

She was speechless, completely lost in being guided. Her mind was racing but her thoughts were raw. No words could describe the maelstrom that was raging inside her.

We moved into the bedroom, an intimately dark space that felt like it hugged very curve of her, like everything inside those four walls was designed to heighten her senses.

I positioned her in front of the grand poster bed, and with a gentle press at the centre of her chest she sat on the edge of the bed.

Instinctively, she pooled her hands in her lap, but a snap of my fingers caused them stir.

A rubber clad woman walks in. Her posture is straight, her movements are deliberate, like a finely tuned clockwork doll.

She moves swiftly to bed and pulls my doll back in recline, as I mount my doll.

The gasp that escapes her lips is caught by a rubber hand and returned to her lips as the rubber woman restrains my doll.

With meticulous efficiency, I undressed my doll, savouring how she squirmed beneath me.

Then I began to rub and stroke her. Her rubber gag turned her moans into sweet music.

She could feel that ache building, that sweet pressure swelling, but then it... plateaued. It felt restrained, confined, like a balloon trying to expand in someone's grip.

She rutted against my hand nonetheless, her eyes rolling back, and that was when she saw a grand mirror suspended from the ceiling.

Her rutting stopped as it finally clicked in her mind why her pleasure was been toyed with.

Underneath my hand was no longer her sweet dolly parts, but a rubber null bulge, the reflection of the room was warped beneath my hand.

That was when she felt a kiss.

My face took up her whole vision, my green lipstick glistened in the warm light.

There was a danger in my eyes.

Her lips began to tingle.

She watched as the her in the reflection's lips began to glisten, and then shine with gloss, as my lipstick began to spread. Soon her lips were so sensitive as her mouth began to shift into a pleasurable rubber cocksleeve. She tried so hard to utter a sound but only deep moans came out.

The rubber woman restraining her plunged her fingers into the doll's mouth. She began to suck on them like that was the only thing she was made to do.

Her mind was on fire. She was questioning everything, pleading why this was happening to suddenly, why she felt compelled to, why it felt so good.

Another finger snap split the soundscape of the room, and the rubber woman removed herself from the bed, keeping her fingers in the rubberising doll's mouth.

She began padding at her plump latex lips, seeing if it was a dream. The latex felt so smooth, so good.

Her fingers began to tingle.

They began to glisten.

They began to shine with gloss.

Her skin was becoming alive with pleasure, and she just couldn't help but run her fingers over her body.

The rubber spread even more.

Slowly her legs began to straighten out and part. Her fingers gently pulled together, as her elbows began to bend into position.

Her thoughts began to rubberise too. Soon her own name became lost to the latex, thinking herself as only Doll. The focus of her thoughts changed from analysing the changes and trying to reconcile with the magic talking hold to wonder why Owner wasn't using her, why Owner was playing with her, where Owner was, why was Owner using her.

Soon she could do nothing but moan through her open rubber mouth, and stare at her immobile new form in the suspended mirror.

The room began to move and spin around her, as a gentle pressure gained purchase on her hips.

She was being moved.

Her mind was still trying to call out to Owner, trying to plead.

Only moans came from her hole.

She found herself now facing the bed, the rubber woman stood to attention in front of her.

The new blow-up doll lit up in delight at seeing Owner.

She hoped Owner was finally going to play with her.

But then her pleading blossomed with a deep yearning as I began to explore the rubber woman in front her. Tracing her curves, and savouring every part of her.

Doll moaned in protest as I made my move.

I rubbed my hand across the rubber woman's mouth, sealing it in more latex. Her eyes widened and she began to moan with twinned arousal and trepidation. I smoothed her arms into her sides and firmly began to shape her. Each pass over her body made her moans deeper but ever so quieter

Her figure became a suggestion of her former body. Her features vague in their femininity.

All the Doll could do was watch as the new rubber cock, quietly moaning and still, was delicately picked up and gently inserted into myself. The Doll was screaming inside her rubber head, begging Owner to use her instead, to use the new toy on her too, she wanted it, she needed it. Hearing the quiet moans of the rubber toy disappear inside me drove her even wilder.

But she couldn't do a thing about it. Just sit, and watch, and listen. Her rubber nullge aching, her inflated breasts yearning to be groped.

I used that new rubber cock in its entirety, letting every curve of her feel me and my pleasure. I could feel her moans like a gentle vibration.

My moans heightened, my bucking and rutting picked up, and the frozen expression of lust on the Doll's face was bringing me closer and closer to climax.

Doll could tell, but her mind was being ever more consumed by the rubber. All she could think was of Owner, she was barely begging any more, just voicing simple pleas into the void of her rubber mind over and over: Owner fuck Doll... Owner fuck Doll... Owner fuck Doll...

Her mind sparked back into life as my load graced her glossy body. The yearning and begging trembled into existence like a rising chorus.

I snapped my fingers, and outside of the Doll's vision, another rubber woman enters the bedroom holding a velvet cushion.

I retrieve the toy and delicately place her on the cushion. Trained ears would've been able to hear gentle breathing and whimpering.

Doll's ears were full of her own lust.

With a grin, I glided over to my Doll and gripped her nullge in my hand.

Like a wind-up toy, her mind began to rattle through the very few phrases still left in her mind; phrases drenched in rubber and lust.

In an instant she could feel a climax building, how she was finally being used by Owner.

And then she felt a sagging. A pull. An inexorable folding inwards, little by little.

If she was able to look down she would've seen my eyes ablaze with mischief as I had just undone her air valve.

The throes of her pleasure began to stretch, achingly so. The rushing air slowing her thoughts, making each grope of her nullge feel like a plunge of a hand into molasses.

But the pleasure kept building. I kept rubbing and groping and using my rubber Doll as her form slowly deflated in my grasp. I could feel her climax getting closer and closer.

Doll was still near the beginning, as the pleasure continued to distort and bend in her perception, her pleasure separating like chromatic abberation and recompiling.

She was both so close to orgasm but also so far. She was caught and spread across the timeline of her climax, feeling it all, yet to feel it, already felt it.

Then, as the last bit of air left her rubber body, her pleasure recomplied one last time, culminating in a unified, all body orgasm.

But there was no movement.

No gasps.

No moans.

She was just limp, spent rubber.

Ablaze with pleasure but helpless to do anything about it.

I wanted something for her to remember this by when she woke up so I didn't even wipe her down before folding her back up and slipping her into my panty drawer.

But then again...

Who says I have to turn her back when I reinflate her.

I'm sure she wouldn't mind.

But she was oblivious to my little musings, swimming in a blissful dream of post-orgasm bliss, tucked away in my drawer.

(This writing is about a real hypnosis session with real hypnosis and real people. If you would like to see more writing like this, then please support me over at https://ko-fi.com/saphig, where you can also commission 1-on-1 hypnosis sessions and have your own piece of writing just like this!)

[bump1nthen1ght]

A Very Monstrous Kinktober (2024) Day 21 - Dub-Con

Kink: Dubious Consent

Pairing: GN!Reader x M!Ghost

Other Kinks: Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Shower Sex

Warnings: Aforementioned Dubious Consent

Word Count: 1601 words

Kinktober Masterlist

Rodrick is starting to think you’re doing this on purpose

It is natural that, in the comfort of your own home, you’d be more relaxed. That

you’d feel comfortable wearing those sinfully short pajamas and nothing else, watching porn without headphones, or reading those smutty romance novels on your ipad, brightness all the way up. You think you’re alone in this big ole house, no neighbors for miles, and have the luxury of being naked and indulging in some pleasures.

At the start, Rodrick felt guilty. Like some kind of pervert, even though this was his house to begin with. He almost wished there was someone way to communicate with you without scaring you, let you know that your private space isn’t so private. Sure, he thoroughly enjoyed watching you, seeing your bare body so relaxed as you lounged nude on your bed. But it still felt icky.

But then you started flaunting yourself, practically throwing yourself at him. Your relaxed nudity felt more poised, more languid as you’d stretch out on the bed and rub your hands down your chest. You’d trace down your stomach and to your crotch, eyes darting around the room as if looking for someone else. You’d bend over in the kitchen and stay there, wiggling your hips with a smug smile on your face. By the gods, you looked downright pornographic, fucking yourself open on your sex toy, mouth open in a wide o as your moans echoed across the high ceilings.

Rodrick thinks that maybe you aren’t so innocent after all.

He decided long ago to stay outside of the bathroom, even as he peeped he felt residing in there was crossing a line that he couldn’t quite define. You may strut about the house in only a towel, devil may care, but he wasn't going to be the sorry sap actually watching this stranger shower.

Now, as you saunter into the shower, a sly smirk on your face and something big and wrapped in plastic in your hand, Rodrick thinks that maybe there are worse things to be.

Rodrick never got over the feeling of being alive. He still found hisnelves hiding around corners whenever you walked around, knowing you couldn’t see him. Now he stalks behind you slowly, as if you could hear his non-existent footsteps on the bathroom tile. Maybe you can, with the way you throw aside the towel like you’re starting a strip routine.

You bend seductively slow as you turn on the showerhead, rubbing the back of your neck as you rip open the plastic bag around the stuck-on dildo, the heating water starting to steam up the bathroom. Rodrick’s breath would’ve faltere if he still had it, noticing how confidently you stick the thick toy onto the bathroom wall.

Slut.

He thinks as he steps in even closer, watching you step in the shower let the water wash over you. It drips down the curve of your back, paints lines between your ass cheeks, as you grab the soap and begin to scrub away. It’s just as seductive as everything else you do, slow and indulgent.

Rodrick phases through the shower door, this large house coming with an appropriately large shower with plenty of space for you both. He’s close enough to touch you.

You turn your head and eye up the stuck-on dildo, biting your lip. One of your hands sneaks down to your crotch as the other pinches your nipple. You let out a breathy moan and spread your legs, just lining the dildo up as you continue to fondle yourself, fingers dipping past your entrance and scissoring you wide open.

Fucking whore.

Rodrick watches your back arch, watches your hands twist your sensitive nipples and tug. He’d seen you tease your nipples before but he never realized how rough you like it.

Your hand picks up its pace, wrists arching to get your fingers as deep inside as you as it can, but it’s just not enough. No, you crave being fucked properly, by something large and huge.

Rodrick palms his own bulge and dreams about the last time he touched someone. He had copped a feel of a hot real estate agent once, but was too ashamed by how hard it got him to try again. He could touch people, but they couldn’t touch him, so what was the point?

Seeing you bent over, just begging to be filled, Rodrick sees the appeal now.

You’re slow as you sink down onto the dildo, mouth open wide as you moan with abandon. Your now free hand moves up to twist your other nipple, the nerves heightened as you’re opened wider and wider on the thick base. You’re taking the thick girth easily.

Stretched out little fuck toy.

Rodrick bites his bottom lip, enough that ectoplasm drips down his jaw and onto his chest. The pain is one of the few things he can still feel, along with his cold palm now jerking himself off. More ectoplasm beads at his head, running down the base of his shaft. He’d wonder if your warm hole wrapped around his cock would make it feel better, make it all the more shocking.

You pause once you’re seated to the base, knees knocking together as you grind your hips down, letting the plastic head rub at your insides. You moan again, chest pushed out as you just let it feel.

So fucking desperate for it.

That’s all Rodrick needs.

Your eyes go wide as an invisible force grabs you by the hips and forces you off the dildo, robbing you of the fullness only to be slammed against the bathroom wall face first. Your cheek stings as something like a hand pushes on the back of your neck, icy-cold and sending goosebumps across your skin. Your gasp when something equally as cold notches at your hole, still sensitive from being stretched open.

The grip around your hips grows tight as Rodrick forces himself inside you, cock barely having to bully open your hole with one good thrust. The breath gets knocked out of you, barely having time to realize what's going on before something starts pounding at your insides.

“You feel better than I i-imagined.” Rodrick pants, ectoplasm sticking the back of your ass to his thighs as humps into you like a dog in rut. He knows you can’t hear him, but he can’t break the habit of talking aloud. “So fucking horny, you’re such a degenrate, you know that?”

All a bystander would hear is the slapping of skin, the water running, and your debaucherous moans as your fucked open by your ghost roomate. Even with your lips smushed against the wall, you can’t help but scream around the thick ghostly cock pistoning into you. Lightning shoots up from your lower back, core twisting as Rodrick easily finds the deepest part of you and abuses it.

“Seriously, so many people have lived here and none have masturbated as much as you. It’s fucking ridiculous how fucking slutty you are.”

All you can do is take it, eyes rolling back and clenching down on invisible dick. The hand pressing your head onto the tile scrambles down to your chest, grabbing at your nipple and yanking.

“Oh fuck!”

���Yeah, I knew you’d fucking like that, slut.” Rodrick leans his body against yours, watches your skin shiver from the contact of his cold chest encasing you. The warm water begins to steam on your skin, the temperature difference causing little bubbles of precipitation to form on your stomach. “You’d take whatever I gave you, huh? You’re that much of a fucking-” Rodrick digs his fingers in enough to bruise, yanking you back onto his cock, “-slut!”

“Fu-uck!” Your voice quivers, drool slipping past your lips and onto the tile. You brace your hands on the slick walls, now rolling your ass on Rodrick’’s hips. “Right there! Right there!”

“Take it! Take my cum, whore!”

Rodrick’s thankful he no longer has a reason to breath, sure that his alive self would be dying form the amount of force needed to fuck you this long and this hard. But this form is unstoppable, only the rubber band in his stomach putting a limit. It doesn’t help that your insides have begun to clamp down on him, your toes curling as you babble out moans.

“Shit! Cumming!”

“Oh my god!”

Rodrick forces himself all the way to the edge, feels his icy ectoplasm shooting deep inside you. Your eyes roll back as you whole body trembles, spasming around his cock as you orgasm as well. You go limp on his dick, your upper half resting on the cold tile of the walls when your arms give out, too numb and shaky.

The high of his climax is beginning to fade, but Rodrick finds no regret in his actions. Not with that dumb smile on your face, hearts practically beating in your pupils as you look around, trying to spot your invisible lover.

Rodrick pulls out his soft cock, just moving an inch or two away so you no longer feel his presence. Your head whips around, a pout on your cute lips as you reach out and try to grab him. Your hands phase right through, though you wouldn’t know it.

You spend a couple more minutes trying to find him before giving up, letting out a sigh and actually washing yourself off in the shower. It’s only when the shower is off, the towel wrapping around you when you notice the heart drawn in the fogged up mirror.

My name is Rodrick.

[peariote]

request^ reader helps Cate cope with her lost arm. angst, hurt/comfort. a lot of cuddles

cate is casually a biter and you cannot convince me otherwise. give that girl an arm while you're watching a movie and you'll have teethmarks by the end of it. 1.1k words.

“Fuck!”

Here we go again.

Cate’s vexed voice, in your ears and stinging like nettles, echoes across your Vought provided apartment, right in the tower. It’s too big for the two of you. The ceilings, high as Cate’s hackles, are unnerving compared to the comfort of your dorms. There, the ceiling pressed down at an appropriate height, the space enclosed and cradling you in painted drywall. Now you’re surrounded by concrete and polished stone, everything gleaming unnaturally under cool lights.

Another hiss from Cate echoes through the space, spurring movement from your prone form. This had never been a problem before—hm. The incident. A curling of shivers collects at the base of your neck and scurries down a taunt spine. Breathe. One, two. Help her.

You’ve made a habit of counting. Breaths, steps, meals.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven until you reach the generic door to your joined bathroom. It’s about four too many for comfort. Four too many than you’re used to.

“Catey?” Rings out with your knock, through the reenforced door to startle a tangled mess of clothes and human inside. “You okay?”

“Uhm—” The anxious note, echoing defensively is commonplace at this point. Her voice keeps its shake through most days—today no exception, unfortunately. “N—yea-yeah. Totally… fuck.”

The door clicks open to invite you in. Totally not okay.

Pushing through, you find her fumbling with her bra—trying to be rid of the garment, bath already filled and steaming. Her one hand, non-dominant, too, makes it a clumsy motion. Her arm is tiring, pale fingers struggling to undo the simple front clasp. What’s more pressing, though, is silvery tracks blooming along rosy cheeks—one tear drip-drip-dropping down to darken a circle on the cotton of her undergarment.

Oh, this sight is much more familiar than it ought to be—this time plagued with asymmetry and smooth, sensitive scar tissue. (Should you even touch it?)

“…you need help?” Comes your softening murmur. It’s no good trying to help her without permission—her freedom’s the most important thing to her, and it’s shitty taking that away just because she’s disabled. It shouldn’t be one thing after another, from her mother’s fear to Indira’s control to, now, this. You’re determined to be better.

“…” She hesitates for a long time—ten, twenty, thirty seconds spent contemplating your offer before she acquiesces.

“…yeah. Sure.”

Your hands reach out slowly. A step closer, and your fingers meet the plastic clasp. A visible shiver runs up her shoulders. Her pink mouth parts around a breath; black eyelashes, heavy with tears, flutter at the warm graze of your fingers against the skin of her chest. It almost seems she'll cry again, just at the touch. Her waterline is almost overwhelmed by a thick emergence of tears before she blinks them away and averts her eyes towards the sterile-looking ceiling.

The bra comes apart with a soft snap. Your hands are overwhelmingly warm as they push it off her shoulders, coaxing it over the remnant and her one whole arm.

"Good?" Your words are so gentle, reaching her ears as a muted murmur. She can only nod. She's not good. You both know it. But she can do this.

What panics her is when you turn to leave. Her shoulder shifts forward, like she tried to reach with the arm that no longer remains. She reaches out the other, catching your wrist.

"Stay? Please." Her voice is quiet. She sounds pained, asking for your presence. For her, company was a luxury, not a given—and something that was taken away from her at any whim.

Your silent nod makes her exhale with relief. You're staying. When you start to join her in nakedness, she realizes you intend to bathe with her.

The idea startles her. She hadn't done it since she was in her mother's porcelain tub, splashing around with her brother and washed by caring hands. She was their angel, then, all toothy-smiles and chubby cheeks.

Now she has no family. She's lost her friends, her boyfriend, even a part of herself. Everyone but you. So she realizes she's grateful for your presence.

Aiding her into the tub, you slip in behind her. Despite Vought's endless budget, it's not the largest tub—big enough to comfortably fit her lengthy limbs, at least.

She settles back against your chest with an exhale. This was new, intimate. She'd never been so open with you, even after three years of friendship that survived her rampaging genocide and bloodshot eyes. You stuck with her, even then.

She finds she relishes in your touch. It's unsurprising. She was always so starved for contact, and you don't make her wear her gloves.

Your motions are leisurely as you wash her hair, wash her body, wash away her sorrows. The soft hand you bring to her skin also tips the cup, washing suds and sadness from her form with a rush of warm water.

She looks a bit like a cat out in the rain, sitting pliantly in the full, steaming tub. All water-darkened, flattening hair and wet eyelashes, a few drops of water flicking from them when she blinks. You kiss her eyelids and call her beautiful, in your perfectly soft timber.

Her center of gravity is still off, not quite recovering after her injury and subsequent surgeries. Your palm is warm when it presses into her lower back, aiding her up and out of the slippery, draining tub.

You swing a towel over her shoulders, dry her tenderly. Ruffle her hair maybe a bit more than necessary, the messiness you soon smooth out making you smile widely.

She follows closely behind you as you guide her to her room. She's taken to sleeping with you more nights than not—the high ceilings, white walls and open air only bringing nightmares of bright, bloody explosions and trapped girls in small, small rooms.

She lets you dress her, help her arm through the soft long-sleeve (that's tailored to only have one arm, the fabric gently cupping the abrupt mass of scar tissue,) and pull a pair of panties up her legs. She's quick to tug you down onto the plush mattress, to burrow into your side like a territorial tortoise and gently bite at your collar.

The feeling of your skin carefully held between her teeth and the warmth of your arms around her reminds her that she's alive, and there's someone with her that trusts her. Trusts her touch and her raging mind. Trusts her to keep them safe, to not take advantage of any and every vulnerability.

She finally lets herself cry, silent sobs into your neck soothed by your gentle hands and comforting, sweet coos.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Eighty-Four

The large hall in Dragonstone was an imposing space, with high ceilings and walls of dark stone that bore the weight of centuries. A massive hearth dominated one end of the hall, its fire blazing warmly, tended by diligent stewards. Lamps hung from iron sconces along the walls, casting a soft, golden glow that flickered as the evening settled in. The sun was setting outside, painting the sky with hues of deep orange and pink, visible through the tall, narrow windows.

In the center of the room stood a long stone table, adorned with an array of food. Platters of roasted vegetables , fresh bread, pies, and soup a were laid out invitingly. The abundance and variety were meant to impress, but to Maera, the smell was overwhelming. Her pregnancy had heightened her sensitivity, and the rich aromas of the feast threatened to turn her stomach. She took a deep breath, steadying herself and attempting to conceal her nausea.

As Maera observed, Hugh and Ulf took their seats at the table. It quickly became apparent they were not of highborn blood. They handled the cutlery with a lack of familiarity, their movements awkward and unsure. Instead of waiting for servants to serve them, they filled their own plates, heaping food onto them with a casualness that spoke of their common origins. There was no pretense of decorum or the polished manners of the nobility, just a straightforward approach to the meal that contrasted sharply with what Maera was accustomed to.

Aemond was the first of the couple to approach the table, his movements precise and deliberate. He pulled out a chair and gestured for Maera to sit, ensuring she was two seats away from Hugh and Ulf. Maera smiled to herself at his slight jealousy, limping slightly as she made her way to the chair. She sat down carefully, grateful for Aemond’s assistance as he pushed the chair in for her.

The Prince then began to serve Maera’s plate before even taking his own seat. He selected a slice of pie and placed it on her plate, but the minute it touched the dish, Maera quietly wretched. Aemond’s concern was immediate, his eye locking onto hers with worry. She shook her head slightly, prompting him to remove the food from her plate quickly.

As her husband took his seat beside her, his posture rigid and formal, Maera picked at the items on her golden plate, choosing the least aromatic items to merely nibble on. She kept a careful eye on Aemond, who was similarly restrained, his wariness evident in the way he handled his knife and fork.

Hugh jumped a seat closer to Maera, his eyes twinkling with interest despite Aemond's efforts to maintain the space between them. He cocked his head, noticing Maera's lack of appetite. “Is the food not to your liking, Princess?” he asked with a teasing smile.

Maera laughed softly, shaking her head. “No, no, forgive my rudeness,” she apologised, rubbing her belly soothingly as she felt the child move beneath her leather dragon riding skirts. Hugh’s gaze lingered on her hand, captivated by the sight. Aemond's glare was sharp and protective, his jaw tightening as he watched the interaction. “The child makes it difficult to stomach certain foods,” Maera added, her tone light but her eyes flicking cautiously towards her husband.

Ulf, seated across the table, leaned forward slightly. “We wouldn’t be very good hosts if the Princess did not eat,” he remarked with a slight exasperation in his voice. “If you could have anything, what would you like?”

Maera’s eyes lit up. “Raspberry tart with custard is my current favorite,” she said almost instantly, a genuine smile spreading across her face.

Ulf nodded, and Hugh rudely barked across the room, “Bring the Princess a bowl!” The servants complied immediately, though Maera noticed a subtle eye roll and a huff from the steward as he exited the room, as well as some glaring at the men from the serving girls. It was clear these dragonseeds were not well liked.

A short while later, a bowl containing the tart and custard was brought in. The tart looked delicious, its golden crust perfectly flaky, while the custard was rich and creamy, its sweet aroma mingling with the tartness of the raspberries. Maera licked her lips, anticipation in her eyes as she picked up her silver spoon to take a bite.

But before the first spoonful could reach her mouth, Aemond’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist firmly. His warning glare spoke volumes, his distrust palpable. Maera looked at him, confused at first, but then understanding his wariness. What if the food was poisoned?

“Oh, for Gods’ sake,” Ulf groaned, rising from his seat and striding over to Maera’s side. He snatched the spoon from her hand and ate the contents, swallowing it down to prove there was no foul play. “See? No poison,” he said, his tone edged with frustration.

Maera sighed, offering an apologetic smile. “Forgive my husband’s reaction. He is just very protective,” she explained, trying to ease the tension.

Ulf nodded curtly, glaring at the one-eyed prince before returning to his seat. “A loyal husband you have there,” he muttered, though the atmosphere in the room had shifted, an awkward tension settling over the table as they continued their meal.

Maera could feel Aemond’s anger simmering beside her, but she forced herself to focus on her food, determined to glean whatever information she could from their hosts.

She knew speaking with Hugh would be more productive than trying to break through the soured demeanor of Ulf. With a warm smile, she turned her attention to the giant and politely inquired about his upbringing. He responded with a hearty laugh, explaining he was raised by blacksmiths and joked how he might have passed for the blacksmith’s true-born son if it hadn’t been for his violet irises.

Ulf scoffed, his expression bitter. He muttered something under his breath about how at least Hugh didn’t have white hair in a family where the seven other children had red hair. Maera chuckled at this, remembering her own upbringing with many siblings, and began to share her past. She spoke of the chaos and camaraderie of growing up in Rain House, recounting funny stories and playful rivalries among her brothers and sisters. Ulf seemed to warm to her, a flicker of understanding in his eyes as he realized she too had been inundated with siblings to compete with.

The atmosphere at the table gradually relaxed as Maera continued her tales. Hugh and Ulf’s rough edges were evident: they talked with their mouths full, reached across the table without hesitation, and displayed a certain honesty in their manner that intrigued her. How freeing it must have been to live without the constraints of highborn etiquette.

Aemond observed the interactions quietly, not uttering a word or eating any food but sipping every so often on his wine. His presence was a silent sentinel, his sharp gaze assessing every move and every word exchanged.

Maera noted the brutish behavior in Hugh, particularly in the way he spoke to the castle staff, barking orders with little regard for their feelings. Ulf, on the other hand, indulged a little too much in the wine, his laughter growing louder and more raucous as the evening wore on. Maera knew these men controlled dragons, and to have them as enemies with nothing to lose would be dangerous indeed.

Once the meal had finished, the wine continued to flow. Hugh and Ulf indulged themselves, their cups never empty as they settled by the hearth. The guests, Maera and Aemond, were invited to join them, but they merely sipped on their cups, keeping their wits about them amidst the increasingly loose-lipped dragonseeds.

As the wine made their tongues more liberal, Hugh and Ulf revealed much about the Blacks’ plans and their own roles in the war. Ulf spoke with a certain pride about how Rhaenyra had encouraged Targaryen bastards to her service, offering them the opportunity to tame dragons and support her claim to the throne. In return, she promised them land and titles once the war was won.

Hugh laughed darkly, recalling how many of those recruited had been burned, killed, or eaten by the wild dragons, leaving only a few bastards still alive. His laughter sent a shudder through Maera. The gruesome fate of those unfortunate enough to fail at taming the dragons highlighted the perilous nature of Rhaenyra’s plan.

The pale-haired bastard continued, revealing that the recent invasion of King’s Landing had been prompted by the death of Jacaerys. Maera’s heart sank with guilt, knowing she had inadvertently contributed to his demise. As a future mother, she couldn’t help but sympathize with Rhaenyra’s pain to an extent.

The giant then explained that Rhaenyra’s strategy to conquer the city included her husband Daemon, her step-daughter Baela, and two dragonseeds, Nettles and Addam, along with all of their dragons. He added that the gold-cloaks remained loyal to Daemon and would assist in claiming the capital. King’s Landing, he boasted, did not stand a chance against such a formidable force.

Maera listened intently, piecing together the gravity of the situation. The hearth’s warmth contrasted sharply with the chilling revelations being laid bare before them. The two dragonseeds, with their uncouth manners and harsh laughter, painted a vivid picture of the brutal reality of the war. Maera’s mind raced, contemplating the dire implications of the Blacks’ plans and the peril that lay ahead.

As the fire crackled in the hearth, Aemond broke his silence with a sharp question. "What did my cunt half-sister ask you to do once I arrived?"

Ulf chuckled darkly, leaning back in his chair. "She asked us to behead you and fly your body to King's Landing to be displayed before the Realm."

Maera felt a chill run down her spine, but she drank deeply from her cup to mask her discomfort. The pale-haired man continued on, explaining once the job was done, he and Hugh were to fly to the town of Tumbleton, a region in the Reach that supported Rhaenyra’s cause.

The giant man, sipping his wine, added, "Rhaenyra sees us as pawns, blindly following orders. She did not anticipate your wife arriving on her own dragon with you, Prince Aemond. Nor was she aware of her grace and charm."

Maera smiled, raising her cup in Hugh's direction. She decided to massage their egos further in order to get more information. Leaning sideways in her seat, she reached out with her hand and danced her fingers along Hugh’s arm. He welcomed the touch, a smirk forming on his lips, while Aemond boiled with rage beside her.

"Why did you not kill us then?" Maera asked, her voice soft and curious.

Ulf scoffed, "It's best to keep our options open."

Hugh nodded in agreement. "Especially after Rhaenyra kept breaking her promises."

Maera noted the bitterness in their voices, recognizing a potential advantage. She maintained her charm, hoping to extract more valuable information. The tension in the room was palpable, but Maera's calm demeanor and strategic flattery kept the situation under control, even as Aemond seethed quietly at her side.

The Princess swilled the wine around in her cup thoughtfully before commenting, "A good queen should not break promises to her subjects without good reason. What was promised to you both?"

Ulf leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips. "I was promised a marriage to Lady Stokeworth and Storm's End, while Hugh was promised a marriage to Lady Rosby and Casterly Rock. But Rhaenyra rescinded the offers after Lord Corlys advised against it."

Hugh scoffed, his expression darkening. "The only reason Rhaenyra gives a shit about the Sea Snake’s opinion is because he threatened to leave after learning of his wife’s death." Maera raised a brow as the giant man took a swig from his cup and then slammed it down in anger. "Not only did Rhaenyra elevate Corlys to Hand of the Queen, but she even legitimized his bastards so he would have heirs to inherit Driftmark. And what did Ulf and I get? Mere knighthoods."

Maera glanced at Aemond, who looked back at her with understanding. There was a clear disgruntled attitude from the men towards Rhaenyra, and both Ulf and Hugh struck them as men motivated by payment rather than honor. This presented a potential opportunity to secure their allegiance.

She smiled gently at the men, her mind working quickly. She needed to tread carefully, but if she could turn their dissatisfaction to her advantage, it could shift the balance of power in their favor. "Promises should be kept, especially to men of your valor and strength," she said, her voice smooth and persuasive.

The Princess heard her husband hum in agreement beside her, his gaze fixed on the flames of the large hearth. He very matter-of-factly told the men, "You were fools to think bastards could hold such kingdoms as the Westerlands and Stormlands."

Ulf glared at the one-eyed prince, his anger palpable, but before he could argue, Maera interjected. "Bastards can rise to high stations in this world," she said, her voice calm yet firm. Hugh cocked his head to the side in curiosity, and Maera continued, "Lord Unwin's bastard brother, Meryn, is a knight. And my uncle Friedrick’s bastard son has become a Maester. And in Dorne…” Leaning closer to Hugh she added in a low voice, "Bastards become kings."

Ulf scoffed, his skepticism evident. "Do you truly believe bastards are worthy of such honors?"

Maera countered quickly, "I believe a good queen should make good on her promises."

Aemond couldn't help but add another dig, "The lords of Westeros would never have accepted you to have claim over Casterly Rock and Storm's End. Mayhaps it was the Blacks' fault for offering such large prizes in the first place."

Maera nodded in agreement, her tone conciliatory yet strategic. "But a more realistic offering with the promise of a secure future? I think that is indeed possible.”

Hugh's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he considered her words, while Ulf's expression remained guarded. Maera knew she had planted a seed of doubt about Rhaenyra's character, and now it was time to nurture it into something more beneficial for their cause.

The pale-haired dragonseed raised a brow and asked, “What are you suggesting?”

Maera turned her head to look at her husband, catching the subtle signs of his irritation—the way his tongue swiped across his teeth, his jaw clenched tightly. She knew Aemond well enough to anticipate that his pride would get in the way of offering the men something they would actually accept.

As Aemond opened his mouth, Maera butted in first, her tone confident. “The war is sure to wipe out many noble houses who have fought against us. When our dragons burn their lords, there will be plenty to offer.”

Aemond’s glare was intense, but Maera ignored it. She pointed at each of the men in turn. “Lord Ulf the White of Horn Hill,” she said, then moved her finger across to the giant. “And Lord Hugh Hammer of Harrenhal.” Maera giggled, adding, “I like how those both sound.”

Hugh’s eyes lit up with interest, a greedy glint in his violet irises. Ulf’s demeanor softened as he considered the offer, the tension in his shoulders easing. Maera could see that the seed she had planted was taking root.

She felt a hand on her leg, lightly squeezing her thigh. Turning, she met Aemond’s stern gaze. He said her name with a warning tone, “Maera.”

She responded calmly, “Even you cannot deny that Vermithor, Silverwing, and their riders would make a great addition to our cause.”

Hugh’s broad face split into a grin, his brutish features momentarily softened by the prospect of power and wealth. “Lord Hugh Hammer of Harrenhal,” he repeated, savoring the title.

Aemond’s expression was unreadable, but Maera could feel the tension in his grip. She had taken a bold step, one that could either secure their allies or incite their wrath. But she believed in the strength of their position and the allure of the promises she made. After a moment, the one-eyed Prince nodded in agreement, indicating his support for her plan.

A contemplative silence settled over the hall, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant calls of Ēbrion and Vhagar. The flickering flames cast long shadows, adding to the heavy atmosphere.

Ulf, still guarded in demeanor, finally broke the silence. "You present a generous offer," he said, leaning forward in his seat, his tone suspicious. "But would you truly entrust such estates to bastards who would betray their original cause?"

Maera was momentarily speechless. He had a good point, and her mask of confidence slipped slightly. Before she could embarrass herself by stumbling over her words, Aemond interjected. "The Realm will never accept a Queen," he stated matter-of-factly. "Rhaenyra will not last long." He tilted his head to the side, his gaze piercing. “Better to be on the winning side with a legitimate claim to the throne, is it not?” He took another sip of his drink, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

Ulf and Hugh exchanged a look, their expressions hard to read. The tension in the room was palpable, each side weighing the implications of the conversation.

Maera promptly rose from her seat, her hand resting protectively on her bump. Aemond stood as well, helping her to stand fully. "We will not trouble you to come to a decision tonight, my Lords," Maera said light-heartedly, trying to ease the tension. "The hour is late."

She politely asked the servants across the room to lead them to a chamber where they could spend the night. The maid and steward nodded, and the guards moved to open the doors of the hall. As they departed, Aemond looked back at the dragonseeds. "I expect an answer on the morrow," he stated firmly.

The dragonseeds watched them leave, the flickering firelight reflecting in their eyes. Maera and Aemond stepped out of the hall, the weight of the night's negotiations still hanging heavily in the air.

“Daor dokimarves pāsagon zirȳ?” You cannot seriously trust them?

The room Aemond and Maera were shown to was modest yet comfortable. A large, canopied bed dominated the space, its dark wooden frame intricately carved with dragon motifs. Rich tapestries depicting scenes of dragon battles hung on the stone walls, adding warmth and a sense of history to the chamber. A fireplace was already lit, casting a soft glow and gentle warmth throughout the room. A small table with a pair of chairs was set near a window, offering a view of the now darkened sea.

Maera assumed this was not Rhaenyra’s or Daemon’s chamber due to its size and simplicity. It lacked the grandeur and opulence expected of the ruling couple’s quarters. Instead, she surmised it was either Prince Jacaerys’s or Prince Lucerys’s old room. This realization made Maera’s heart sink; she had inadvertently caused the death of Jacaerys, and her husband, Aemond, had directly killed Lucerys. The weight of these past actions settled heavily upon her as she moved further into the room. The shadows seemed deeper, and the room, though warm and welcoming, felt tinged with sorrow.

Aemond remained guarded, even as the servants of the castle helped the couple prepare for bed. His watchful eye followed the serving girls closely as they attended to Maera, his posture tense and alert. He was insistent on staying nearby, as if he did not trust the women. After everything they had been through, Maera could not blame him for his wariness.

The One-Eyed Prince did not even wish to speak the common tongue in front of the servants, fearing they might relay any information to the dragonseeds. Instead, he chose to converse with his wife in High Valyrian, confident that the bastards would only know the basic dragon commands and not understand their private discourse.

As he sat on the edge of the bed, his violet eye remained sharp, Maera laughed softly in response to his question as one of the serving girls began to undo her hair, the dark strands falling loose around her shoulders. “Jaesi daor,” Gods no, she replied, her voice light yet tinged with pragmatism.

The other serving girl worked on loosening the strings at the front of Maera's dragon riding gear, careful with each movement. Maera looked at Aemond, her green eyes meeting his intensely. “Yn nyke zoklākogon zirȳ lo īlva skoros īlon jaelagon,” But I shall indulge them if it gets us what we want, she added, her tone firm and resolute.

Aemond's jaw tightened, and he gave a single nod, acknowledging her strategy. The servants continued their tasks, oblivious to the deeper meaning behind the words spoken in the ancient tongue.

As the serving girl undid the final lace at the front of her leather bodice, Maera let out a sigh of relief. Her tender, swollen breasts from the pregnancy had been constrained for too long, and the release brought immediate comfort. The serving girls then guided her to a stool in front of a dressing table. One brushed her hair with gentle, rhythmic strokes, while the other began to carefully remove her boots.

Maera glanced at Aemond, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and determination. Speaking softly in High Valyrian, she said, “Se oktio iksos ojūdan, Aemond. Nyke gaomagon daor gīmigon se vējes hen aōha lentor. Isse nūmāzma nyke daor naejot pendagon bē.” The Capital is gone, Aemond. I do not know the fate of your family. In truth I am trying not to think about it.

She winced as the servant accidentally knocked her upper arm, before she offered her sincere apologies. Maera nodded with a sad smile before looking at her reflection in the mirror. Her heart ached in that moment, unable to suppress the vivid images that came to her mind. She could almost see the horror on Helaena’s and Jaehaera’s faces, hear the sound of Maelor’s cries, much like the night Jaehaerys was murdered. Silently, she prayed that Thena had managed to get them out safely, sparing them from further horror.

Aemond's face remained stoic, but his eye betrayed a flicker of shared pain at his wife’s words Once her hair was brushed, the serving girl set down the comb and retrieved a folded white nightgown, its delicate fabric a stark contrast to the tension and sorrow in the room. It might have been Rhaenyra’s, adding a layer of irony to the moment.

Maera sighed, the exhaustion of the day and the weight of her burdens pressing down on her. "“Yn lanta tolī zaldrīzoti naejot dohaeragon īlva ērinis sagon beldan.” But two more dragons to help us claim it would be advantageous, she murmured, the pragmatism in her voice a thin veil over her underlying despair.

The Prince nodded, his expression hardening with resolve. “Xaldrīzes kipagīrosi bona daor hen īlva ānogar hinittan naejot emagon sōvegon dāero.” Dragon riders that are not of our blood are dangerous to have flying freely. Before Maera could reply, she yelped out in pain. As the servants peeled off her black leather coat, it quickly became clear that the healing wounds on Maera’s arm had split. The skin was raised and red, her arm and underdress stained with dried blood.

Maera raised her eyes from her wounds to her husband. She could not help but scowl at him; the wounds would not be there in the first place if he had not been so foolish to entertain the witch of Harrenhal. But instead of verbalizing this, Maera hissed in pain before suggesting, “Pār mazverdagon zirȳ hen īlva ānogar?” Then why not make them of our blood?

The servants moved with practiced efficiency, carefully removing her skirts, leaving Maera in her blood-stained underdress, her enormous belly protruding under the fabric. The sight of her wounds reopening filled her with a mix of pain and helplessness, but she refused to let it show too much. She groaned in frustration, noticing the healing wound on her leg had also split open, the blood seeping through the fabric.

The servants moved quickly and efficiently, bringing forth a bowl of warm salted water and setting it aside on the dressing table. Maera sat down, carefully shifting her weight to avoid aggravating her wounds further. The servants began to prepare to tend to her, but Aemond intervened, snatching the rag from one of the serving girls. He submerged it in the water and approached Maera to clean her arm. She flinched, stepping back, refusing to let Aemond touch her. After a moment of tense silence, he handed her the rag, and Maera hissed as she cleaned her arm herself, the salt stinging her wounds.

“Skori se vīlībāzma iksos ērinagon, lo pazavor umbagon, īlon se ābri Baela se Rhaena, se emagon Ulf se Hugh dīnagon.” When the war is won, and if they remain loyal, we should spare the ladies Baela and Rhaena, and have Ulf and Hugh wed them, Maera suggested through gritted teeth as she scrubbed at the skin of her left arm.

She pulled her white dress to the side, rinsing out the rag and dipping it back in the bowl before scrubbing harshly at her left thigh. Aemond watched on, captivated by the sight of her, his gaze intense and unwavering. The firelight cast a warm glow on her figure, highlighting the strength in her movements despite the pain she was enduring. But Maera looked away from him, focusing on the task at hand.

The servants offered her the new nightgown, a soft, white garment that seemed almost out of place in the harsh setting of Dragonstone. As Maera attempted to lift her arms and pull off her underdress, she screeched in pain. One of the serving girls tried to assist in pulling it over her head, but Maera could not cope. She was sweating from the jolts of pain, her breath coming in sharp gasps.

She then felt a strong, warm presence behind her, followed by the unmistakable sound of a dagger being unsheathed. Aemond’s calloused palm rubbed gently down her right arm, a touch that was welcome in this moment of vulnerability. With his dagger, Aemond gently cut the back of her underdress, the fabric falling to the floor in a heap, leaving her curvaceous body bare. He asked her, while remaining behind her, “Ao pendagon Corlys Velaryon mazōregon lī irūdan syt zȳhon jorrāelagon talanni?” You think Corlys Velaryon would accept those terms for his dear granddaughters?

The servants helped Maera into her nightgown, gently putting it over her head and guiding her arms through the holes. The fabric was cool and soothing against her skin, and Maera sighed in relief as the pain subsided slightly. She then turned to her husband and raised her brow, stating with a determined edge, “Konīr kōrī gūrotir syt qrimpālegon.” There are worse fates for traitors.

Aemond’s gaze met hers, a mixture of pride and concern in his eye. The servants offered to assist Aemond in readying for bed, but he merely looked at them with a look that could kill, a low growl escaping his throat. They jumped, quickly bowing their heads to both him and Maera before scurrying out of the room, their footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Aemond dragged one of the chaises across the room to the foot of the bed as Maera sat on the bed, watching him. He removed his long black leather coat, his movements deliberate and precise. “Nyke pendagon se rōva mēre vaoresagon dīnagon ao,” I think the big one would rather wed you, he remarked sarcastically, his tone dripping with jealousy. Maera couldn't help but smile to herself, sensing the bitterness behind his words.

As she settled against the pillows, she watched Aemond slowly unbuckle his doublet. His fingers worked deftly, loosening the clasps one by one. The flickering light from the hearth highlighted the hard lines of his body, the scars that told stories of past battles. Maera bit her lip, feeling a familiar ache. She was mad at him, she hated him, yet she could not help but want him. Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer before she tore her gaze away, adding with a touch of sarcasm, "Kostilus nyke ojenilla zirȳla jorarghutan zȳhon pazavorve,” Mayhaps I should bed him to ensure his loyalty.

She giggled to herself, stroking her swollen belly as the child within her kicked out, a small reminder of the life they had created. When no other laughter came, Maera looked up to see Aemond staring at her, his expression as stoic as ever. An awkward atmosphere settled into the room, the air thick with unspoken words and unresolved tensions. Maera picked at the sheets nervously, her fingers tracing the delicate patterns embroidered into the fabric. The silence was heavy, the only sounds the distant crackle of the fire and the soft rustle of fabric as the one-eyed Prince slipped into a night shirt.

Maera heard the wind rustling through the curtains and glanced out the gap to see the black sky adorned with a canopy of stars. The night was quiet, save for the occasional whisper of the breeze. Turning her gaze back to Aemond, who had settled onto the chaise, she voiced her concern softly, “Lo pōnta gaomagon daor obūljagon, pār skoros īlon gaomagon?” If they do not bend the knee, then what shall we do?

Aemond's response was blunt, his voice carrying a weight of resolve tinged with frustration. “Skoros īlon emagon gaomagon mirros,” What we should have done anyway, he replied, his tone steady but edged with a hint of bitterness. He met Maera's gaze evenly as he continued, “Ossēnagon zirȳ.” Kill them

Maera nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful as she processed his words. It struck her how straightforward it was for Aemond. To him, it seemed, the solution was clear-cut—kill or be killed. It was a mentality that had defined his actions throughout the escalating conflict, a testament to his uncompromising nature. She adjusted her position on the bed, her brown and silver curls cascading over her shoulder, framing her face as she cocked her head slightly to the side.

In that moment, Maera realized anew the stark differences between herself and her husband, particularly in their approach to resolving conflicts and securing alliances. For Aemond, the path forward often seemed paved with swords and bloodshed, driven by a fierce loyalty to his cause and an unwavering determination to uphold his family's honor. As she looked at him, she couldn't help but wonder if there could be another way, one that didn't always lead to violence and death.

During Maera's contemplative silence, Aemond finally broke it, speaking in the common tongue. "I will not find sleep this night," he stated, his voice a quiet rumble in the room. Maera stared at him from the bed, her gaze unwavering. It had been two moons since he had laid beside her, and she still did not feel ready to offer him an invitation to share her bed.

Aemond seemed to understand her unspoken message. He nodded slightly, accepting her silence as a response. "Rest," he told her, his tone softening a fraction. "I will stand watch." With that, he picked up his sword and procured a sharpening stone from his pocket. Settling on the chaise, he began to sharpen the blade with slow, methodical strokes.

Maera lay down against the pillows, pulling the sheet high up to her chin. She watched Aemond for a while, his movements hypnotic in their rhythm. The sound of the blade being honed was strangely soothing, a constant reminder of his presence and his protection. Gradually, the tension in her body eased, her eyelids growing heavy. The steady rasp of the sharpening stone became a lullaby, and soon, Maera's eyes shut, and she drifted into a deep, much-needed sleep.

Notes: Hello! How we all feeling? 🖤 Did we watch episode one? I have many emotions about it 😅 some parts I loved, some parts I did not, and others I thought were not needed. It also kinda felt a bit rushed, and we missed out on so many different scenes I would’ve loved to see (this is coming from the girl who’s written a 100 chapters on a fanfic like 🫠)! But I’m taking it as a positive. I thought seeing the new series would make it hard to write as I would have a difficult time distinguishing the two, but so far so good 👌 and remember friends; it’s 👏 not 👏 real 👏 we don’t need to hate on each other for having different opinions, we don’t need to hate on the actors for how the show is different to the books. If it makes you unhappy, don’t watch it. Same with my fic! You are in control of your own destiny and should let fiction on the internet or TV shows dictate your life 💅🏼

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[jamiewintons]

Here it is, everyone, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! It’s the Fickelgruber’s wife AU wedding night snippet! The 'snippet' ended up being nearly 3000 words, but oh well 🤣

I hope it was worth the wait!!

Warnings: Smut (Minors do not touch!!), virgin!reader, shy!reader, vague mentions of forced/coerced marriage, praise kink, Fickelgruber is pretty soft in this tbh.

~~~

Your new bedroom was far more beautiful than anything else you’d ever seen. The walls were painted the same shade of dark green that your new husband nearly always wore, and the bedding matched as well. The room was lavishly decorated, demonstrating Fickelgruber’s wealth and surprisingly good taste. You had expected a man like him to not have much in the way of taste, but the room was far less garish than you’d initially imagined.

While you were laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, you didn’t notice your husband enter the room until he cleared his throat. You sat up quickly, seeing him remove his jacket to reveal the waistcoat beneath. He folded it neatly and placed it on top of the chest of drawers.

“Good evening, sweetness,” he said with a smile, his eyes trained on your body, which was barely hidden by the thin, green material of the nightgown he had bought for you. Fickelgruber walked over to the bed, sitting down on the edge and removing his shoes. “You look lovely. Green definitely suits you.”

“Thank you,” you responded, your voice barely louder than a whisper. You were married now, but you still barely knew the man, and weren’t really sure how you were meant to talk to him. All you could hope for was that you would learn in time.

Fickelgruber let out a quiet laugh. “Such a shy little thing, aren’t you?” He patted the spot on the bed beside him, looking over his shoulder at you. “Come and sit beside me.”

After a few seconds of hesitation, you did as you were asked, though you left a little bit of space between the two of you. Fickelgruber scooted closer so you were touching, his hand coming to rest on your thigh. He rubbed it up and down, making your nightgown ride up a little. His fingers brushed against your bare skin and you couldn’t help but let out a little gasp.

Then, he grasped your chin firmly, turning your head so that you were looking into his eyes. You could see the hunger behind his gaze. Your heartbeat quickened, but you weren’t sure whether it was from anxiety or excitement. Before you knew it, he’d leaned in to press a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips. You closed your eyes, kissing him back to the best of your ability. It seemed to last for an eternity - but was probably somewhere closer to a couple of minutes - before he pulled away, though only briefly.

“Tell me my dear, have you ever been with a man before?” Fickelgruber asked, leaning in to press some gentle kisses against your neck. You shivered, letting out a shaky breath as his mustache tickled your sensitive skin.

You shook your head. “I… I haven’t,” you admitted, your face flushing. You hadn’t even kissed anyone before your wedding. In your defence, you’d been working in Mr. Scrubbit’s laundry since you were a girl, and you didn’t exactly have a wide selection of prospective partners down there. This admission seemed to please Fickelgruber, as you could feel him smiling against your neck.

“Mmm, good,” he murmured, before sucking a mark into your skin and pulling a surprised moan out of you. He laughed again, before pulling back to look into your eyes. “Don’t worry, my dearest. I’ll be gentle with you.”

In that moment, everything finally hit you. Mr. Fickelgruber— Felix, rather, was your husband now. You were his wife. It was your wedding night, and the two of you were going to have sex. Part of you was terrified, though there was another, hidden part of you that felt somewhat excited by the prospect. You weren’t sure why, perhaps it was simply your mind trying to protect you from the fear?

While you were having your realisation, Felix had returned to kissing your neck, bringing up his hands to slip the straps of your nightgown down. His lips trailed from your throat to your shoulder, and he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself judging by the gusto he employed.

He pushed your nightgown further down, baring your breasts to his hungry eyes. You weren’t quite sure what he was going to do next, but before you even had time to really consider it, he was squeezing one of your breasts in his hand, while he gently sucked on the nipple of the other.

“Mr. Fickelgruber…!” you moaned, louder than you expected, not having expected that to feel so good.

“We’re married now, sweetness, I think you ought to call me Felix,” he murmured against your breast, sounding quite pleased with himself to have elicited that reaction from you. Then, he got straight back to business, sucking on your nipple until it was a hardened peak before switching sides to give the other the same treatment. “Mm, you like it when I do that, don’t you?”

After a few moments, you opened your eyes and realised he was looking at your face, expecting an answer to his question. “Yes,” you breathed in reply, hoping that he’d continue once you’d responded to him.

“Good,” Felix replied, grinning. “Lay back for me then, dear.”

You did as you were asked, and once you were laying down on the bed he climbed half on top of you, tugging your nightgown a little further so that he could trail kisses from between your breasts to your lower stomach. The thought of him being so close to your most sensitive area made your stomach flutter.

“I will make sure to teach you all about how to please me another night.” He was getting lower and lower, and once again, you tried to anticipate what he was going to do next. “But since tonight is your first time, I suppose I should make it special for you, hmm?” With that, Felix pulled your nightgown down all the way, leaving you dressed in nothing but a pair of emerald green panties.

“Oh, you are exquisite…” he mused, his voice slightly deeper than it usually was as he sat up to admire you properly. Judging by the look in his eyes, he wanted to devour you. Felix’s large hands trailed up your thighs, making you let out a quiet whimper. Once he reached your hips, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly began to pull them down your legs.

The cool air of the room hit your sensitive parts, and you instinctively tried to close your legs to keep yourself from getting embarrassed. However, before you could do so, Felix gripped onto your thighs to keep them apart.

“There’s no need to be shy,” he told you, looking down at the area he had just uncovered. His tongue darted out to briefly lick his lips. “I won’t do anything to hurt you, sweetness, you’re far too precious for that.”

You nodded, signaling your understanding. “Okay,” you replied meekly, relaxing your legs.

“That’s a good girl,” Felix purred, and for reasons you didn’t quite understand, you felt a tingling sensation down there. You moaned softly and Felix smirked, making a mental note to remember that you liked that.

All of a sudden, Felix dipped his head down and licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance right to the top of your pussy. You were about to say something about how you were pretty sure his mouth shouldn’t go down there, but all of a sudden he sucked on your clit and all thoughts left your mind.

“O-oh my God!” you called out, bringing your hand up to clap over your mouth and stop anymore embarrassing sounds from escaping. Before long Felix grabbed onto your wrist and pulled your hand away from your face.

He pulled away from your pussy for a short moment so that he could speak. “I want to hear how good I’m making you feel, sweetness. No covering your mouth.” Once you nodded, he returned to what he’d been doing previously.

It felt so good that you just couldn’t keep quiet, or still. You let out a series of whines and whimpers, gripping onto the sheets as you writhed beneath Felix’s ministrations. Never had you felt anything close to this kind of pleasure in your entire life.

Felix hummed against you, utterly overjoyed that he was managing to get this reaction out of you. Keeping one hand on your thigh to spread your legs a little further, the other moved to your pussy. He rubbed a finger against your entrance, teasing you for a few seconds before slowly and carefully slipping the finger inside of your wet heat.

It felt strange and slightly painful at first. You’d never had anything inside of you before, and it was quite the adjustment. But it only took a few moments for it to begin feeling good, and once Felix began using it to stroke you inside, you almost felt like you were going to lose your mind.

“Felix…!” you gasped, and he was glad to hear you calling him by his given name without having to be told. When you bucked your hips up off the bed, he used the hand that had been holding your thigh to press down on you to keep you from moving. Once he felt you could take it, he added a second finger inside of you, wanting to get you nice and ready for what came next.

The noises you were making were getting Felix unbearably hard, so he wanted to make you cum as quickly as possible. He went back to sucking on your clit, while crooking his fingers, brushing against the sweet spot inside of you. It only took a few more moments for you to fall over the edge, crying out his name as your walls clamped around his digits like a vice and your body trembling in pleasure.

“That’s it, sweetness, such a good girl for me,” he murmured, pressing gentle kisses to your thigh as he fingered you through your orgasm, aiming to give you as much pleasure as possible. Once he could tell that you were becoming too sensitive - Felix wouldn’t be opposed to overstimulating you, but he knew he probably shouldn’t do that just yet - he slipped his fingers out of you, and brought them up to your lips. “Open up, darling. I want you to know how sweet you taste…”

Your mind was practically blank at this point, so without even thinking you parted your lips, taking Felix’s fingers inside and licking your essence off of them. The two of you moaned in tandem - you because you were surprised at the pleasant taste, and Felix because of the feeling of your tongue swirling around his fingers - and once they were clean he left them for just a few more moments before removing them.

Felix smiled, leaning down to give you a gentle kiss on the lips. “Now, I want you to help me undress,” he told you, and you nodded. Both of you sat up, and with shaky hands you began to slowly unbutton his waistcoat. He watched you intently as you worked, and you felt your heart fluttering.

Once you’d removed both his waistcoat and his shirt, Felix instructed you to sit up by the headboard while he took care of the rest of his clothing. You weren’t sure whether you should watch so you turned your head, though you did peek at him a few times in the corner of your eye.

Felix climbed up on the bed where you were once he was fully nude. You’d never seen a man naked before now, and you only had very minimal knowledge of what they looked like beneath their clothes, but you thought that he was rather attractive. He wasn’t a muscular man by a long shot, but you found that you quite liked it.

He kissed you again, his hands roaming over your bare skin until he reached your thighs. Felix took one of them so that he could hook your leg around his waist.

“This may hurt a bit at first, sweetness, but I assure you that it will fade,” he whispered in your ear, and you could feel his cock nudging against your entrance. Felix started to kiss your neck as he carefully pushed inside of you, and your breath caught in your throat.

Felix’s cock was certainly thicker than his fingers, and it stretched you out more than they had as well. Though, you were grateful for the fact that he’d already fingered you and brought you to orgasm once, because you imagined that the pain might have been worse if he hadn’t.

“Sweetness, you feel incredible,” Felix murmured against your skin. Once he’d bottomed out inside of you, he stayed still for a bit to allow you - and himself, as it had been a lot longer since he’d last had sex than he’d care to admit - to adjust, before he started to move.

His hands caressed your hips as he began to thrust inside of you, and you whimpered in a way that you would have found embarrassing if you’d been capable of thinking right now. Your hands came up to hold onto Felix’s shoulders, and he hummed, sounding pleased.

“Good girl,” he breathed, bringing his head down to gently nip at your neck and shoulder. There was something about the way his voice wavered while he was buried inside of you… it made you feel almost powerful to know that you had this affect on him. You moaned louder, wrapping your legs around him tightly and gripping onto his shoulders.

You were driving Felix crazy. Only in his wildest dreams did he imagine tonight would go this well. He had even considered the possibility that you might not even agree to consummate your marriage immediately - considering the fact that you only agreed to become his wife in exchange for your friends’ freedom - and he hadn’t been planning on pushing you too hard.

But you were his now - willingly, it seemed - and it made him happier than anything else could have. With you, he had everything he ever needed: money, a perfect wife by his side, and - once he and the Chocolate Cartel disposed of Wonka - a lack of genuine competition that would allow him to become even more powerful than he already was.

Felix drew back from your neck to look into your eyes again, and your face flushed even more if that were possible. One of his hands came to rest on your cheek as he leaned in to capture your lips in yet another passionate, hungry kiss. This muffled your moans when his other hand snaked down between your joined bodies to begin rubbing your clit, wanting to tip you over the edge again before he himself succumbed.

When you cried out and began to tremble beneath him, Felix knew that he had succeeded. Your climax triggered his own, and with one final thrust he released deep inside of you, before collapsing onto your chest.

It took a few minutes for the both of you to recover from your highs, and Felix found that the sound of your heartbeat was quite comforting. He’d never experienced this kind of warmth before. Of course he’d had lovers in the past, but they’d never meant that much to him, but you… you were his and only his, and he intended on making sure you stayed that way.

“Well, my darling,” Felix murmured, carefully pulling his softening cock out of you and rolling the two of you over, so that you were now laying on his chest. You looked up at him with your sweet, sleepy eyes and he felt yet another wave of possessiveness washed over him. “It seemed like you enjoyed that, hmm?”

You nodded, still seeming somewhat shy even after all of that. Felix smiled, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your slightly sweaty forehead.

“I did too. You were wonderful, my sweetness.” Felix began to stroke your back slowly and gently, and your eyes began to droop closed. “You cannot fall asleep just yet, I must get you cleaned up first, and then you can sleep as long as you wish. We have nothing to do until we leave for our honeymoon the day after tomorrow.” Secretly, Felix hoped you wouldn’t sleep for too long. He had thoroughly enjoyed himself tonight and was looking forward to teaching you about other ways to please him before the two of you left for your trip.

The two of you laid there for a bit in near silence - apart from a few whispered compliments from Felix - until he ushered you into the ensuite bathroom to get you cleaned up before bed.

Once you were back in your nightgown, comfortably wrapped up in both the blankets and your new husband’s arms, you smiled to yourself. Maybe this wouldn’t end up being as bad as you feared?

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Love and Sex and Magic | Mr & Mrs Laufeyson AU | Loki x Reader

Loki tries a new spell on you, but he requires a key ingredient before the spell will work, your pleasure.

Warnings: 18+ for sexual content & language. Pregnancy talk, hint of breeding kink, p in v, unprotected sex, sex magic, slight d/s undertones (dom Loki), dirty talk, creampie.

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Mr & Mrs Laufeyson Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

Loki studied his notes carefully, the faded runes and symbols swirled across the page, bunching together at the edges where space had run out. He was sure this was how it was done, he'd studied it enough times that he knew it was correct but doubt kept creeping into his mind.

Most of Frigga's texts, the documents she so carefully kept for him, the records she kept, were lost during Ragnarok. But he had a small book about his person with basic symbols and short hand to work from and slowly he'd been able to piece this paticular spell back together.

"Lie still." he swatted at your bare thigh, the paper on your stomach sliding off onto the bed when you giggled.

You sat up on your elbows so you could look at him properly, "how am I meant to lie still when you're writing on me! I'm sure you're tickling me on purpose, is all this really necessary?" You sat up higher, craning your neck down to see the intricate ice blue swirls traced up your legs and hips, over your stomach.

"I don't have to explain myself to you!" Loki snapped, and to anyone else maybe he could sound harsh, but you merely laughed at him again, poking him with one delicately painted toe. He tipped his head a little examining the patterns on your skin, his mussed hair dropped to one side in elegent curls, elongating his already elegent neck and you smiled at him expectantly. "I think you're done anyway, just need to wait for the ink to dry. He sat back on his haunches and fanned at the ink, watching the wet shine fade. "Excellent, you're done!" He clapped his hands together with finality.

"Is that the spell? Is the spell cast?" You dropped back onto the bed, arms spread wide, gazing at the ceiling and waiting to feel something.

"No darling, not yet," he leaned over you, his eyes darkening to a predatory glint, "there's one more thing you need to do first." He whispered into your ear, the warm air tickling your sensitive skin, his nose traced the line of your jaw, tongue flicking out briefly to feel your pulse beating wildly.

"Lo - wha- " he nosed across your collar bone, breathy and soft until he reached your other ear, biting at the lobe until you whined.

"For the magic to work, you need to cum for me," just his words sent tingles through your body. How could you deny him such a simple and pleasurable request.

"So make me cum, Loki," your hands searched his body desperately, trying to manhandle him closer while you reached up to kiss him.

He was so gentle, his delicate fingers teasing pleasure across your hip and between your legs where you ached for him.

"My darling, I will give you everything, just be patient," he kissed your temple as your head thrashed against the downy pillows of your marital bed, "hush, just be calm." He kissed down your neck again, feeling your pulse speed up against his lips, "I'll give you everything you need and I'll take your pleasure to seal the spell."

Loki lifted one of your legs and hooked it around his muscular back, tracing his hands back down to your hips and lifting you against him. You arched your back, trying in vain to get closer.

"I'm going to fill you with my cock and then, when you can take no more, I'll fill you with my cum until you're dripping with it." He cupped your sex with his palm, running his fingers through the arousal gathered there, tracing over the runes on your thighs with your own essence, sealing their power into your skin.

"Please, Loki, I want it, I want your cock, I want your cum." You begged, canting your hips up towards his and gasping at the feel of his cock running between your folds, nudging your clit.

"My darling, my own," he growled, notching the head of his cock at your entrance. "Do you want it? Or do you need it?" He teased, toying with you, allowing you only the barest stretch around his glorious cock before drawing back and revelling in your mewls of desire.

"I need it, I need it! Please, Loki, please!" You begged, eyes watering with your desperation, fighting against the grip he had on your hips, holding you still against the bed, unable to seek the mercy of pressure, friction, where you most needed it.

"My poor wife," he cooed, "cupping your cheek, my perfect, wonderful wife, I would give you everything, all you have to do is ask." And he slid home, burying himself in your warmth.

Loki was a passionate lover, ferocious in the pursuit of your mutual pleasure. But he could also be focused, driven and deeply loving. His palms cupped your face as he poured every ounce, every speck, of his devolution into your union. Aching to see you satisfied he kept his thrusts deep and sure, rolling his hips against your own and brushing your sensative clit with each movement.

"Loki" you whispered, over come with your love for him and this tender side of him so rarely shown to anyone but you. His cheeks were flushed, dark curls of hair sticking to his forehead and his eyes, almost black with desire, focussed solely on you.

"That's it my darling, I know you're close, I want to feel your beautiful cunt squeezing me, milking me, and then I'll give you everything you need." His voice, like black silk, tipped you over the edge. Your back arched and your toes flexed into the sheets, ink smudging into the fabric. Loki took the opportunity to slide a hand under you, holding you up against him as he too reached his climax, pressing inside of you and spurting ropes of thick, hot cum deep inside. He held you there, hips tilted upwards, while he decorated you with kisses.

In the afterglow he held you close still, buried inside so not even a drop would be wasted.

"Do you think...could that be it?" You asked, scared in the darkness, only a few guttering candles still lighting the room.

"I don't know, it could be. All the spell does it make it possible. But we may have to try many times, both Midgardians and Jotuns are rarely able to conceive on the first try." He winked, finally allowing you to relax onto the bed. He watched your legs, making sure that even the smallest dribble of cum was scooped up and tucked back inside of you with his long fingers.

"Oh, okay," you touched one of the intricate designs on your leg, trying to distract yourself from the sensative feeling of Loki's hand, moving slowly and gently through your folds.

"We should wash you now," Loki sat up and held out his hand to help you up too, he waved his other hand, green magic glittering from his palm towards the ensuite where the unmistakable sound of running water bounced back.

"Let's leave it a little while," you took his hand and pulled him back to the bed, guiding him over you and lifting your hips again.

[innerworlds-imagined]

Could we request a high fantasy headspace? Our innerworld is very reminiscent of Dungeons and Dragons but we have a hard time processing what actually exists within it, so we thought this might help!!

Hey, Anon! We're so sorry for the wait on the headspace - there has been soooooo much going on, and it's left us quite burnt out. While not super knowledgeable with D&D, we've been trying to learn recently, so we hope that this suffices!

High Fantasy

Headspace

(D&D Inspired)

The Castle

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You stumble across a castle that acts as the Main Headspace. With the space having been around for many, many years, some overgrowth may be present. However, it is far from an eyesore - it's actually a rather beautiful sight to behold. Banners are hung about the exterior of the castle, some torn, some simply worn with a burnt orange colour that has faded with time. The castle itself seems to sit upon a floating island surrounded by many other, smaller, floating islands. All of them are connected by bridges that allow you to behold the clouds and world below you. Let's just hope no one is afraid of heights.

The Meeting Room

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The room where all of the important discussions take place within the headspace. With a few dragon heads mounted on the wall around the room made from various types of stone, it provides quite a fantastical vibe. The steel chandelier that hangs above the table is lit by candle light, allowing the space to have enough lighting to see, but not enough light to be overstimulating - this may be good for any headmates who have trouble with light sensitivity and may get overstimulated by bright light. The table is round with chairs placed around the circumference, providing a sort of Knights of the Round Table type feel. There's space for everyone here, and plenty of room for any demonstrations that may need to be performed. The stone walls enclosing the room keep the room cool so it doesn't get too warm and clammy while these meetings are occurring. Depending on if anyone in the headspace practices religion, this may also be used as a place of worship.

The Garden

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In the garden, there are many things growing. From fruits to vegetables to spices galour, there's nothing that won't grow in this garden! Little garden gnome statues are scattered around the garden, and rather large mushrooms of all shapes and colours sprout around as well. Vines and plants grow up and over stone arches and arbors within the stone garden walls, and there seems to be a working system around said garden. Various types of handcrafted pulley systems and similar technology allow for harvesting and watering of plants as well as the transporting of these goods from one floating island to another if need be.

The Bedrooms

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The bedrooms consist mainly of beds made from natural gathered materials weaved and put together in a way that forms both a comfortable and aesthetically pleasing place to sleep. They hang from the ceilings, though usually not too far off the ground, depending on how comfortable some of your headmates may be with heights. Above you is a sort of skylight that allows for natural sun and moonlight to shine into the room. This also makes stargazing quite a wonder for those who may enjoy that as a hobby. Another pulley system may be in order for pulling up a sort of curtain to cover the skylight window if one doesn't want to be woken up by sunlight in the mornings. Though, it's a fantasy headspace! So this could also very well be done with a simple thought from one's brain. In the closet may be varying types of handcrafted clothes that fit each headmate's individual personality. Paintings of different scenery from around the headspace or elsewise may be hung around the room depending on the preference of the headmate(s) that are staying in the room. One thing is for sure - freedom of expression is clear in these rooms.

The Kitchen / Dining Area

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The kitchen and/or dining area within the headspace may hold a bar for drink making. Now, these don't necessarily need to be alcoholic drinks (though they can be) - this can simply be for making variations of different and fun non-alcoholic drinks. A long table that is meant to hold a feast of different foods is definitely in order as everyone has different food preferences in some way or another, we would imagine. Here, there's a seat for everyone to dig in and talk about their days or anything else. We get the sort of vibe that there may be heads and hides of differing animals displayed around the room here. Hung overhead are numerous lanterns that illumiate the room and add the feeling of home and company, making it the perfect place to share a warm meal with your family of headmates. Once the meals are done, there also could be a space directly off from the dining area and bar that allows for hanging out, dancing, and just generally having fun! A space to be rowdy and crazy without it disturbing those who may not be as keen on that behaviour.

The Armoury

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As you enter the armoury, you're met with everything that may be needed by headmates who relate to the interests of paladins and barbarians. Mounted upon walls, shelves, and racks are weapons of various types and sized. Greataxes, handaxes, javelins, shields of all shapes and suzes, etc. Armours crafted from many different materials are provided and displayed here as well, kept for a time where anyone may need them.

The Library

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What would a fantasy headspace be without the library? This grand space allows for imagination to run wild among headmates of any age. With books of every genre, there's something here for everyone! Sometimes, this library knows what you want before you do, books from the seemingly endless shelves of this room floating their way down into your hands. You may even find some magic scrolls lying around or tucked into some crevices around the room. Accompanying the magic and wonder of this library, though, is the perfect space to curl up with your book and read or research. A fireplace that emits a wonderful light and the perfect amount of heat to keep you comfortable provides the warm and fuzzy feeling one often looks for when settling down to read a good book. In front of this fireplace are a few different chairs made from only the comfiest and most cushioned material, embroidered with ancient designs. A few of these chairs are rocking chairs, allowing headmates who may like to rock or move during their journey into another world to do so.

Post Divider Credit: @saradika-graphics & @sweetmelodygraphics