#bask in the rage

[your-local-depressed-fangirl]

hey go to bed

😒 aren’ we in the same time zone (i’m 90% sure)? Why don’t you go to bed!

[cyberphuck]

Seriously I wish there were some succinct way to say "all people should have the right to state their opinions without fear of punishment or ostracization because it is important that we communicate with each other about issues that affect our daily lives but you specifically should shut the fuck up forever"

[harlequin-kermit]

my kill list ever grows, just like my CIRCUS MUPPET RAGE

micheal disney mouse for his crimes against muppanity as the 1%

jason, my roommate’s ex that killed her puppy like a fucking asshole

and now @the-elmo-batman. there can only be ONE ELMO KIN! and I am He. (also batman sucks and wonder woman is better.)

[snail-noodle]

shadow milk cookie x reader headcanons

having the beast of deceit as your lover was not something you had planned to happen in your life. funny how life works, huh?

the main thing you had learned from him was that he's desperate for physical touch. being sealed away for thousands and thousands of years hit him the hardest out of the five beasts.

he wept when you gently cupped his faced the first time. you whispered reassurances as you planted soft kisses on his cheeks, nose, and lips. this man is so touch-starved... please give him a ton of kisses! (he really enjoys it when you place kisses on the scar on his eye)

dark moon magic has a cold-like feeling to it. since shadow milk practically depends on that magic, his entire body is cool to the touch. it's also a reason why he enjoys cuddling you and sleeping with you at all costs! he enjoys basking in your warmth and he makes sure to let you know.

during his imprisonment, he came to realize how much he missed the touch of another. ever since the beasts fell and joined forces, they were never as close as they were before. comforting hugs and gentle touches ceased to exist among them after their fall.

hope you like pranks, because shadow milk enjoys pulling them on you! he finds your reactions so funny and cute <3 his cute little cookie.

when the others are around, the both of you pair up to pull pranks on them as well! the others can only sigh in frustration at the two of you constantly teaming up together to mess with them.

even after his fall, shadow milk enjoys stargazing every night. it calms his raging thoughts and gives him comfort. now that he has you with him, he makes sure to stargaze alongside you whenever you're able to.

if you're ever in danger, he's quick to react and will (usually) be quick to get rid of whatever threat is near you. he hardly even cares if it's a cookie or not, he goes in for the kill and asks questions later.

"shadow milk cookie.. that was just a ball..."

"pfft so?? it was about to hit you!"

out of all the beast cookies, shadow milk is by far the most overprotective and powerful of them all. it both scares you and captivates you at the same time. it gets your heart beating quickly knowing that someone that overpowered cares about your wellbeing.

just as he cares about you, you do the same back to him. he tends to get carried away with learning new spells or spying on others. he sometimes forgets to feed himself or take small breaks when he's focused on something. you always pull him away from his works to get a good rest or to eat the delicious meal you just made <3

he swears he falls in love even more with you every day whenever you do these kind actions for him! he sometimes wonders how he got so lucky to have someone like you around...

[aeralux]

"Bet You Wanna (love me now)" - Aemond Targaryen

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader (Targaryen!Reader)

Summary: Alys Rivers, the bastard whore who has plagued your arranged marriage to Aemond from the very start. But every woman has her limits, and you have reached yours. In a harsh ultimatum, you finally get her banished. But from whom was Aemond to seek pleasure now?

Warnings: SMUT 18+; targcest; mentioned infidelity; profanity; degradation; intense sex scene; fingering; breeding kink; angst; mentions of murder; canon mean Aemond

Words: 11.1 k

Notes: The reader is Targaryen with white hair (mentioned as Daemon's daughter), no other description is mentioned. If you do not like this content, do not engage with it.

𐔌 . ⋮ aera .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

Alys. It has always been Alys Rivers—the baseborn witch of Harrenhal, whose allure captured the heart of Aemond Targaryen.

In the noble life, it was hardly an anomaly for a highborn Lord to indulge in the pleasures of mistresses and whores, particularly a Prince of the realm. Yet Alys was no ordinary concubine. She had trapped your husband's affections long before you had even graced his side as his wife, and now her ghost continued to haunt you in the halls of the Red Keep. Her presence plagued not only your marriage but threatened the very fabric of your family.

You could endure the role of the resentful wife, having inherited your father's indifference—Daemon taught you all too well that a woman's worth was often measured in the fickle affections of men. However, misfortune struck when you bore a daughter. A daughter, born in a time that could not be worse, coinciding with the moment Alys also delivered an heir to your husband—a bastard boy with black hair.

You had given the Prince a sweet, delicate child with the striking features of Valyrian heritage and silver-gold hair; you had hoped that his devotion would grow anew with this gift of lineage. Oh, how mistaken you were.

In the wake of your child’s birth, Aemond turned his back upon you—a move both cold and calculated. Once you had fulfilled your purpose as a wife, you found yourself and your precious daughter cast aside as though you were no more than commoners unworthy of his regard. After the difficult experience of childbirth, your husband’s visits reduced to a mere whisper of presence. He had no further reason to seek your bed.

Meanwhile, Alys basked in Aemond's undivided admiration. He lavished her and their bastard child with affection and attention, caring for that boy of hers with an affection that often seemed to eclipse the rightful love he should have shown your trueborn daughter. The irony was not lost on you.

As your daughter's first name day drew near, you could feel the rage within you reach its climax. That wench had enjoyed the delight of your husband's affections for nearly two years now, and your patience had frayed to its end. It was far past time that you seized control of your fate—and the fate of your daughter—whether your husband would consent or not.

Fights were all too common between you and Aemond. You refused to remain silent while he insulted your dignity and that of your precious daughter. His bold displays with his mistress, treating her as a cherished lover, were a constant insult, especially as he neglected his rightful heir and wife.

Once again, he had opted to waste an afternoon with his two bastards instead of honouring the presence of his legitimate daughter. Fuelled by resentment, you strode intentionally into the gardens, ready to confront him and demand the respect your daughter deserved.

"How dare you act this way after showing such disgust for Jacaerys and his brothers?" You hiss, your gaze boring into him like a dagger.

You take a step closer, and your smaller frame does not diminish the threat you pose. "Now you go and bed a baseborn harlot, and she bears your son, no less!" You spit out venomously.

Your voice rises to a scream as you get right up in his face. "Treat me however you wish, but if you continue to treat our legitimate daughter with disregard..." you growl, your words dripping with barely contained rage. "I will gut your whore and feed your bastard son to Cannibal, make no mistake. And our precious girl and I will watch him scream as he burns."

You lean in close, your breath hot against his ear as you whisper the promise, your tone low and deadly. "Do not test me on this, Aemond. I am not some meek little maiden to be trifled with. I am a Targaryen, the daughter of the Rogue Prince, and I will stay true to my words. Choose your actions wisely, or face the consequences."

With that, you push past him roughly and storm off, your heart pounding and your mind already plotting your next move. This cannot stand. Your child will not suffer at the hands of that vile creature - not if you have anything to say about it.

Aemond's eye narrows dangerously at your threats, his jaw clenching as he takes a menacing step towards you. The violet of his good eye seems to darken, swirling with anger and desire.

"You dare threaten me, wench?" he growls, his voice low and menacing. He grabs your arm roughly, yanking you back towards him. "I am a prince of House Targaryen, and you will show me the respect I deserve!"

His grip on your arm tightens painfully as he leans in close, his hot breath ghosting over your face. "Your daughter is a pitiful whelp, just like her mother. She's lucky I acknowledge her at all."

"As for that 'baseborn harlot'..." he sneers, his lips curling in disgust. "She provides me with pleasure that you never could. At least she knows how to obey her prince."

Suddenly, his hold on you shifts, one hand sliding down to grab your ass possessively. "Perhaps I should remind you of your place, wife. Maybe then you'll learn to keep that sharp tongue of yours in check."

You push Aemond away forcefully, your eyes flashing with rage and defiance. Your slender fingers dig into his chest as you shove him back.

"I find no pleasure in feeding a dog that gets his treats from someone else," you scoff, your voice dripping with disdain. The corners of your mouth curl up into a smirk.

Your long white hair whips around your face as you turn your head, a mocking laugh escaping your lips. You step closer, your form exuding an aura of dangerous grace. Leaning in, you purr, "If you dare show Alys in court... trust me, her little powers have nothing on fire. After all, witches burn, my dear husband."

You pull back, your gaze boring into his with unwavering intensity. Your hand reaches up to stroke his cheek, a falsely tender gesture that belies the threat beneath your words. "Choose your actions carefully, Aemond. A Targaryen princess is not so easily cowed."

Aemond's eye narrows at your defiant words, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He grips your wrist tightly as you stroke his cheek, his nostrils flaring in barely restrained anger. Suddenly, he spins you around, slamming you against the nearest tree trunk. His body presses against yours, pinning you in place as he leans in close, his voice a menacing whisper.

"Careful, little girl," he hisses, his breath hot against your neck. "You may be a Targaryen, but I am still your husband. And husbands have the right to punish their wives when they misbehave."

His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip possessively. "Perhaps I should remind you of your duties. You're here to bear me, sons, not make empty threats."

Aemond's lips brush against your ear, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr."And if you think I'm afraid of your father's reputation, you're mistaken. I've faced dragons, little dove. What makes you think you can threaten me?"

He nips at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "Now, why don't you run along and tend to your brat?"

With a rough shove, Aemond steps back, his eyes gleaming with a mix of anger and desire. He adjusts himself, his posture strong and commanding as he looks down at you. "Remember your place, wife. Or I might just have to take drastic measures to ensure your obedience."

You walk away without another word, a cruel plan already taking shape in your mind. You stride purposefully towards the kitchens, your long white hair flowing behind you.

Inside the bustling chambers, maids scurry about, preparing dishes and tending to various tasks. But your sharp gaze locks on Lyra, one of your servants. You approach her discreetly, pulling her aside.

"Lyra," you whisper urgently, your light violet eyes boring into hers. "I need your help with something important. Tonight, before Aemond retires, ensure that his bastard drinks Hemlock tea. Not enough to kill him, but to make him very ill. And keep this between us."

You press a purse heavy with coins into her hand. "You'll be handsomely rewarded for your service."

With that, you turn and leave as abruptly as you arrived, your mind already turning to the sweet revenge that awaits.

The maid's eyes widen in shock at your whispered instructions, fear and curiosity dancing across her features. She nods silently, a small, nervous smile playing on her lips as she watches you leave, clutching the promise of reward.

Satisfied that your plan is in motion, you make your way back to your chambers. But as you step inside, you're greeted by an unexpected sight - Aemond, lounging on your bed, a smug grin on his face.

"And where have you been, my dear?" he drawls, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "I was beginning to worry that you'd run off with another lover."

You glare at him, your violet eyes flashing dangerously as you cross your arms over your chest. "Unlike you, I don't parade my lover through the castle halls. And unlike you, my lover is a Lord, not some bastard."

You spit the words at him, your voice dripping with loathing. Rolling your eyes, you let out a mocking laugh. "Going through the motions of being a doting husband must be so tiring for you. Why don't you run along and spend some quality time with your precious little Alys? I'm sure she's waiting for you eagerly."

Tonight, he'll learn the foolishness of undervaluing you. He'll see that you meant every word and that if he continues to neglect your daughter, his bastard son will pay the price.

You incline your head, a fake smile playing on your lips. "Well? Are you going to leave, or do I need to call the guards to remove you? I wouldn't want to cause a scene. You might be a prince, but I'm a princess, and my guards listen to me."

Aemond's face darkens at your words, his jaw clenching as he rises from the bed. He stalks towards you. His movements are predatory until he's standing mere inches away. His good eye bores into yours, filled with a mix of anger and intrigue.

"Careful, little dove," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "You play a dangerous game. You think you can manipulate me with your words and your petty threats?"

Suddenly, his hand lashes out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you closer. His other hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing you to maintain eye contact. "I am a dragon rider, a prince of House Targaryen. I've faced worse than you and your little schemes."

Aemond leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "But by the gods, I admire your spirit. It's been far too long since anyone dared to challenge me like this."

He pulls back slightly, his gaze intense as it roams over your face. "So tell me, my feisty wife, what do you propose we do about this... tension between us?"

Your smirk widens into a wicked grin as you deliver your parting shot. "Well then, seeing as you've repeatedly said how I 'fail to pleasure you', I suppose I'll simply have to take matters into my own hands."

You raise an eyebrow, your eyes gleaming with mischief. "My guess is you'll scurry off to Alys' quarters, forcing her to cater to your every whim. And while you're busying yourself with your precious whore..."

You pause, letting the anticipation hang in the air between you.

"...I'll be here, enjoying the company of my lover. We'll fuck on every surface of this room until I can't walk or speak. Until the only word I can remember is his name as he brings me to ecstasy again and again."

You lean forward, your voice dropping to a sharp whisper. "Have you ever stopped to consider that perhaps the problem isn't me, but you? That maybe a man who appreciates my skills, who shows me the respect and appreciation I deserve, might find me to be quite satisfactory indeed?"

You toss your head back and chuckle, the sound tinged with bitterness. "But then again, I doubt a man like you would ever understand the concept of mutual pleasure or satisfaction. You're far too focused on your desires to bother with mine."

With that, you turn on your heel and stalk towards the door, your long white hair swishing behind you. You pause and glance back over your shoulder, motioning for him to leave.

"Enjoy your evening, my lord. I certainly intend to."

"You think your little lover can satisfy you more than I can?" he mocks. "You forget, wife, that I am a man who has taken cities and slain men. I don't need to be grateful for anything." He strides over to you.

Suddenly, he spins you around, pressing your back against his chest as his arms wrap around you in an iron grip. His lips brush against your ear as he whispers, "But perhaps you're right. Perhaps I haven't been... attentive enough in our marital duties."

One hand slides up from your waist, cupping your breast roughly through your gown. "Let me show you what a real dragon can do, little dove. I'll fuck you so hard, you'll forget your name, let alone your lover's."

Aemond's teeth graze your neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. "What do you say, my wife? Shall we put your claims to the test? Or are you all talk and no action?"

"How do you know he isn't a 'dragon' as well?" You question him, your tone dripping with disdain as you break free from his grasp.

"If you had been a good husband and father, you'd have at least three children by now. But you decided to bed a bastard whore instead. Who has provided you with only one son, with black hair and no dragon. He is no Targaryen. He is a Rivers. And he always will be."

You fix him with a cold stare, your eyes flashing with barely contained rage. "I will have your son, do not worry your empty head... but only once the whore is gone from King's Landing."

Aemond's face contorts with rage at your words, his good eye blazing with fury. He advances on you, backing you up against the wall with the sheer force of his presence.

"You dare speak of my son that way?" he snarls, his voice low and dangerous. "He is the son of a Targaryen prince, and that makes him a prince as well. More than you can ever claim for yourself."

His hand shoots out, wrapping around your throat as he leans in close. His breath is hot against your face as he continues, "Perhaps I should remind you of your place, wench. You are my wife, and you will bear me more children, whether you like it or not."

Aemond's grip on your throat tightens slightly, not enough to cut off your air entirely, but enough to make breathing difficult. "As for Alys... she stays where she belongs. By my side."

He releases your throat suddenly, shoving you away from him. As you stumble back, he straightens his waistcoat, his posture regal and commanding. "Consider this a warning. Keep your tongue in check, or face the consequences. I am not a man to be trifled with."

You let out a loud, mocking laugh as Aemond released you from his bruising grip. "Oh, Aemond," you say, your voice dripping with disgust. "The very notion that I would fear you is hilarious. Believe me when I say that I am the last person who would be frightened by your empty threats."

Your eyes flash with a wicked gleam as you fix him with a knowing smile. "As for your precious whore, Alys... her days of bearing your bastards are numbered. Her last birth nearly killed her. Her womb is weak, Aemond. She won't survive another pregnancy."

You take a step closer, your voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "Now, I suggest you leave my chambers."

Your hand rests on the hilt of the dagger at your belt, a silent threat hanging in the air between you. "Run along, my dear husband. Go play with your mistress and your bastard child. Just remember..." you hiss, your eyes narrowing. "You underestimate me at your risk."

With a dismissive wave, you turn your back on him. "Out. Now."

Aemond's face contorts with rage at your words, his good eye blazing with a mix of anger and... respect? He takes a stepforward, his hand reaching out as if to grab you again, but stops himself. After a moment of tense silence, he speaks, his voice low and menacing.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" he growls, his jaw clenched tight. "Playing your little games, threatening my mistress, my son..."

Aemond's eyes roam over you, a predatory gleam in his gaze. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I have been too lenient with you. A dragon needs to be handled firmly, after all."

He steps closer, his hand reaching out to grasp your chin, forcing you to meet his intense stare. "I will deal with Alys myself. She is mine, and no one threatens what's mine."

He turns to leave, pausing at the doorway to look back over his shoulder. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot. Consider this a warning - cross me again, and you'll regret it."

With those ominous words, Aemond strides out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the lingering threat of his presence.

With shaking hands, you ring for your maid as soon as Aemond leaves your chambers. When she arrives, you issue your orders in a clear, even voice, though inside your heart races with anticipation and trepidation.

"Double the dose of hemlock in the son's cup tonight," you instruct, your tone bearing no argument. "Leave him teetering on the brink of death's door."

As the maid scurries off to fulfil her mistress' dark command, a wicked smile plays across your lips. They will never suspect that you alone hold the key to saving Aemond's precious bastard from a slow, agonising demise.

And what a neat little trap you've set for your dear husband. Poison his son (but not to kill him, you're not that cruel), give him an ultimatum, and then dangle the antidote before him like a carrot. All he must do is love you, truly love your daughter, and you shall release him from his desperation.

As the day wears on, you find yourself unable to focus on anything but the impending confrontation with Aemond. Every fibre of your being is tense, waiting for the moment when your plan will come to fruition.

Evening falls, and you're seated in your solar, pretending to read a book, but your mind is miles away. The sound of approaching footsteps catches your attention, and you look up to see Aemond bursting into the room, his face pale and eyes wild with panic.

"Where is he?" he demands, his voice frantic. "Where's my son?"

You set aside your book, a cruel smile playing on your lips as you stand to face him. "Oh, Aemond. So concerned for your bastard, are you?" you taunt, relishing the fear in his eyes.

"He's ill," you continue, feigning concern. "Very ill. The maids tell me he's been vomiting all evening and can barely keep anything down. It's a shame, really. He's always been such a healthy boy."

You take a step closer, your voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Of course, I have something that could help. A special remedy passed down through generations on my mother's side. But..." you pause, letting the tension build. "I'm not sure I want to share it. Not until you give me what I want."

Aemond's face contorts with rage and desperation, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "What do you want?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Name your price, and it's yours."

You stare at him, your violet eyes locking with his sapphire one. The moment has arrived, the power is yours. What will you demand of the man who has wronged you for so long?

Your frame radiates an aura of controlled rage as you speak, your voice low and deadly.

"Send. Them. Away," you enunciate each word carefully as if speaking to a slow-witted child. "Alys and your bastard by dawn's light. They will never set foot in this city again, and you will never breathe their names aloud. If you fail to comply, I will ensure that your precious 'son' suffers a fate worse than death."

You pause, allowing the weight of your threat to settle over him. When you continue, your voice is dripping with scorn. "I will not be made a fool by a man who cannot control his urges. Your prick may wander where it pleases, but your illegitimate offspring is a reflection upon me. This...this abomination will be removed from sight."

Your lip curls in disgust as you look upon Aemond, the realisation of your words sinking in. "Do this, or face the consequences. The choice is yours but choose wisely. I am not a woman to be trifled with."

Aemond's face contorts with rage at your ultimatum, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he struggles to contain his anger. After a moment, he speaks, his voice low and menacing.

"You think you hold all the cards, don't you?" he growls, taking a menacing step towards you. "You think you can threaten me and expect me to bend to your will?"

"Fine. You want Alys gone? She'll be on the first ship out of Blackwater Bay come morning. But know this - if anything happens to my son, if he so much as sneezes out of turn, I will rain down hell upon you and everything you hold dear."

Aemond leans in close, his breath hot against your face. "And as for your little 'reward'..." he hums, a dangerous smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I hope you enjoy it. Because it's the last taste of victory you'll ever have over me."

Aemond is not a man to be underestimated, and you know that he will not forget this transgression easily. But for now, you have what you want. Tomorrow, Alys and her bastard son will be gone.

With a cold smile, you rise to your feet, your form exuding an aura of controlled power. Your striking eyes lock onto Aemond's as you reveal, "Give me your son. I know how to help him."

In your years at court, you've secretly studied botany and alchemy, learning to cure even the deadliest poisons, along with the knowledge of your mother's ancestors. This wisdom is your secret weapon, one that you've kept hidden until now.

You step closer to Aemond, your long white hair cascading over your shoulders as you tilt your head to the side. "Let me be clear, Aemond. I am the only one who can save your bastard son. Whatever your son has contracted seems to be fatal, but with the right ingredients and a skilled hand, he can still be saved."

"You have two choices. You can continue to play this game of power and risk losing your son forever, or you can hand him over to me. Alys might have premonitions of the future, but that is useless right now, isn't it?"

Your voice drops to a dangerous whisper as you lean in close, your faces mere inches apart. "What will it be, Aemond? Choose wisely, for your son's life hangs in the balance."

Aemond stares at you for a long moment, his face an unreadable mask. Then, slowly, the tension drains from his shoulders, and he nods once, sharp and decisive.

"You win," he says, his voice heavy with reluctance. "My son is yours. Do what you must to save him."

Without another word, he turns and strides from the room, leaving you alone with your triumph. You allow yourself a moment of satisfaction before setting your mind to the task at hand.

You make your way through the castle, your heart pounding with anticipation and a hint of fear. You know what you're doing, but there's always a risk when dealing with poisons and cures. As you enter the nursery, you find the bastard child writhing in pain, his small body wracked with convulsions.

Ignoring the concerned looks of the maids, you set to work, mixing various herbs and tinctures with practised ease. You feed the concoction to the child, holding him steady as he chokes and sputters. It's a long, gruelling process, but eventually, his breathing begins to even out, and the colour returns to his cheeks.

Exhausted but triumphant, you rise from the bed, stretching your stiff muscles. Aemond enters the room then, his face etched with worry and gratitude. You hold the black-haired boy gently in your arms, cooing as you set him on the bed, caressing his hair as a mother would.

Aemond stands in the doorway, watching as you carefully tend to his son. His expression is a mix of relief and bafflement, his single eye roaming over the scene before him. He takes a hesitant step forward, his voice is soft and uncertain.

"He's... he's going to live?" he asks, his usual bravado stripped away, leaving only a concerned father.

You look up at him, your gaze is steadfast as you meet his stare. There's a moment of charged silence between you, the weight of your actions hanging heavy in the air.

"Yes," you finally respond, your voice carrying a hint of triumph. "Your son will live. But only because I chose to save him."

Aemond's jaw clenches, a flicker of anger crossing his features before it's replaced by a grudging acceptance. "Thank you," he mutters, the words difficult for him to say.

He moves to the bedside, gently taking his son into his arms. The boy stirs, his small hand reaching for his father's face. Aemond's expression softens, love and pride evident in his eyes as he gazes down at the child.

"You did well," he says, glancing up at you briefly before focusing his attention back on his son. "I... I underestimated you. Perhaps there is more to you than I realised."

It's not exactly a declaration of love or devotion, but for Aemond, it's as close to an apology as you're likely to get. You incline your head slightly, acknowledging his words without comment.

You smooth the damp cloth across the boy's feverish brow, your fingers lingering on the soft skin of his cheek. You'll never know it was I who made you sick, little one. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. And neither will Aemond know.

You pull back, your violet eyes hardening as you look at Aemond with a stern stare. "I've changed my mind on one thing," you say curtly, tucking the quilt snugly around the child. "The boy can stay... if you treat our daughter with the same affection as you have him. If not..." your voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "He will be sent away to Harrenhall."

"This is the best offer you will get from me," You say, your voice laced with finality. "Your beloved son's fate rests in your hands."

Without waiting for a response, you turn and stride from the room, your heels clicking sharply against the stone floor. The game has changed, and now, you hold all the cards. Let's see how long Aemond's pride can withstand the weight of his new reality.

Aemond watches you go, his jaw clenched tight as he struggles to contain his anger and frustration. He knows he's been beaten, and by his wife, no less. It's a bitter pill to swallow, but he's not a fool. He knows when he's been outmanoeuvred.

Over the next few months, a strange new dynamic settles over the castle. Aemond is more attentive to you and more concerned with your opinions and desires. He's trying to make amends to ensure that you don't turn against him again.

For your part, you remain aloof and distant, content to let Aemond squirm under the weight of your power. You spend your days tending to your duties, meeting with advisors, and always keeping a close eye on the bastard child.

Your daughter, meanwhile, seems to thrive under the new arrangement. She and her brother have grown closer, and you often catch them playing together with their maids, their laughter echoing through the halls.

One evening, as you're preparing for bed, Aemond enters your chambers without knocking. He's dressed in his riding leathers, his hair still damp from getting caught in the rain. He looks tired, but there's a new light in his eye.

You gasped sharply as Aemond burst into your chambers without warning, your heart leaping into your throat. The flimsy silk of your black nightgown clings to your curves, leaving little to the imagination, as the oppressive summer heat makes the sheer fabric stick to your skin.

"What do you think you're doing, barging in here like that?" You demand, your voice is icy despite the flush creeping up your neck.  Crossing your arms tightly over your chest, you try to conceal your breasts and hardened nipples from his bold glare. "What brings you here at this late hour, husband?"

Your tone is crisp and unwelcoming despite the warmth pooling low in your belly at the sight of him. You've trained yourself to maintain this frigid facade, never letting him see how his presence affects you. But deep down, a part of you yearns for his touch, his approval, even as you keep him at arm's length.

Aemond's single eye rakes over you hungrily, taking in every inch of exposed skin. You refuse to let your posture falter, even as desire simmers beneath the surface.

"Well?" You demand, arching a brow imperiously. "Unless you have an urgent matter to discuss, I suggest you leave me to my privacy."

Your voice wavers slightly, betraying your unease. You're acutely aware of how thin the silk is, how easily he could shred it away with one tug. The thought sends a shiver down your spine.

Aemond's lips curl into a slow, wicked smile, and you feel your knees go weak. Gods, what is he doing to you? You are a princess of House Targaryen, and yet in his presence, you feel like nothing more than a mewling kitten, desperate for his attention.

"This is highly inappropriate," you manage to grit out, even as your body betrays you.

Aemond's gaze rakes over your form, lingering on the curves of your body as they're revealed by the thin silk of your nightgown. He licks his lips, his desire is evident in the hungry look in his remaining eye.

"My apologies, wife," he purrs, his voice low and seductive. "I didn't mean to startle you. But I couldn't wait any longer."

He takes a step closer. "I've been thinking about you. About us."

His voice drops to a husky whisper, and he brings his face close to yours, his breath hot against your skin. "We've been at odds for too long."

Aemond stands even closer to you now, you can feel the heat of his body, the hardness of his muscles beneath his clothes.

"I know I've been an arse," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear.

You're conflicted as you stand before Aemond. You want to scoff at his attempt to win you over, but the raw desire in his eyes is unmistakable. He looks at you like he wants to devour you whole, and it both frightens and excites you.

Stepping back, you try to compose yourself, but the heat of the summer night seems to intensify, leaving you feeling hot and breathless. Aemond hasn't seen you like this in Gods know how long, not since you fell pregnant and he no longer needed to lay with you.

"Is that so?" You ask, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "You've been thinking about me, have you? Now that your mistress is gone and I'm finally good enough for you?"

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to ignore the way your heart races at his proximity. You've always found Aemond repulsive, his cruelty and infidelity driving a wedge between you. But seeing him dote on your daughter these past months has softened some of the ice around your heart.

"You're not fooling me, Aemond," you continue, opening your eyes to meet his gaze. "I know your games. But I'll admit, this newfound interest in me is... intriguing, to say the least."

Aemond's lips curl into a smirk, his good eye glittering with amusement and desire. He takes another step forward, closing the distance between you once more.

"Intriguing, huh?" he purrs, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the delicate line of your jaw. "Well, maybe I'm just realising what I've been missing."

His other hand comes to rest on your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh through the thin silk of your nightgown. You can feel the heat of his touch, the promise of more to come.

"I've been a fool," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your throat. "I've let my pride and my lust cloud my judgment. But not anymore."

He pulls back slightly, his eye searching yours for any sign of resistance. But he sees none, only the flicker of desire that matches his own.

"You're a force to be reckoned with, my lady wife. Beautiful, intelligent, and deadly when crossed. How could I not be drawn to you?"

His lips find yours in a searing kiss, demanding and passionate. It's a kiss that speaks of pent-up desire, anger and passion.

As he pulls you closer, you feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against your stomach, a reminder of the power you hold over him. It's intoxicating, the way he wants you, the way he needs you.

But even as you melt into his embrace, a small part of you whispers a warning. Aemond is a master manipulator, and this could all be just another one of his games.

The worries in the back of your mind fade away as you feel Aemond's rough hands grip your rear, kneading the soft flesh. He's never touched you with such raw passion, such primal hunger. Reluctantly, you admit to yourself that you love it.

You whimper into the kiss, your hands tangling in his still slightly damp hair. You need him to know exactly what he's been missing out on all this time. You want him to regret every moment he spent with that whore in the tower.

Breaking away from his lips, you trail bites along the pale column of his throat, marking his skin with dark purple splotches. With your tongue, you soothe each spot, leaving no doubt as to who now claims him.

"Now the whole court will know that the prince has finally come to his senses," you murmur against his skin, "and bedded his beautiful lady wife."

Aemond groans, his hands roaming your body with a newfound urgency. He grips your hips, grinding against you, his hard length throbbing with need.

"Fuck," he growls, his voice ragged with desire. "I've wasted so much time, chasing after foolish fantasies. You're the one I should have wanted all along."

He tears your nightgown open, baring your body to his hungry gaze. His calloused hands cup your breasts, thumbing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. His mouth latches onto one breast, sucking and biting.

Your breath catches in your throat as Aemond's mouth closes around your nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. You gasp and moan, arching into his touch, craving more.

"So fucking perfect," he rasps, leaning down to take the other nipple into his mouth. He sucks hard, grazing the sensitive bud with his teeth.

Aemond steps back, his eye raking over your naked form. "Beautiful," he breathes, his gaze heavy with lust. "I've been a fool to deny myself this for so long."

When he releases your nipples, stepping back to admire his handiwork, you feel empty, aching for his mouth back on your sensitive flesh.

You stand before him, your torn nightgown hanging off your shoulders, exposing your breasts and stomach to his heated gaze. The fabric clings to your hips, the tear running down the front, barely concealing your most intimate place. You're flushed, your chest heaving with anticipation, waiting for his next move.

Aemond drinks in the sight of you, his eye dark with desire. "Exquisite," he breathes, his voice rough with want. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the path of the tear, teasing the edge of the fabric. "I want to rip this off and feast on you until you scream."

You shudder at his words, liquids pooling between your thighs. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling with need. "Don't tease me, Aemond."

He grins, a predatory, hungry look on his face. "Oh, I intend to, my lady wife. I intend to make you forget all about that mistress of mine."

In one swift motion, he tears the remains of your nightgown away, leaving you bare before him. His eye travels the length of your body, taking in every curve, every dip, every inch of creamy skin.

"What an idiot I’ve been," he groans, his hand reaching down to palm himself through his breeches. "Seeking pleasure in another when my own wife could put all of the whores in Westeros to shame."

He walks you backwards until your legs hit the edge of the bed, pushing you down onto the silken sheets. Aemond stands over you, his tall frame looming above you, his gaze burning into you.

"Then why did you?" You demand, your voice sharp with disdain. "I'm not the naive girl you married. I've become a woman since we last shared a bed."

Your legs fall open as you sprawl before Aemond, baring yourself to his hungry gaze. The cool air kisses your heated skin, raising goosebumps across your flesh. You need him to see what he's been denying himself, to foolishly chase after lesser women.

Aemond swallows hard, his eye roving over your body, drinking in every inch of exposed skin. "A woman indeed," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "A goddess."

"Do you have any idea how many lords and knights in this realm burn with envy?" You purr, your voice dripping with bitter amusement. "All because they'll never have a chance at a wife like me. Yet you, my husband, were too blind to appreciate the treasure right in front of you."

You arch your back, pushing your breasts up and out, an offering to the god of war. Your long white hair spills around you like a dark halo, framing your face. You can see the regret and longing in Aemond's eye as he drinks in the sight of you.

He moves to stand at the foot of the bed, his hand trailing up your calf, over your knee, and along your inner thigh. "I was blinded by lust, my lady wife. Blinded by pride, by jealousy, by my own need to prove something."

His fingers brush against your slick folds, and you gasp at the contact.

Aemond's fingers delve deeper, parting your folds, teasing your entrance. "I saw the lust in their eyes, the way they looked at you when they thought I wasn't watching."

Aemond's touch is electric, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. You moan his name, your hips bucking up against his hand, desperate for more.

Aemond chuckles darkly, his fingers continuing their maddening dance against your most sensitive places. "Did you like that, my dear? The way they stared at you like a piece of meat? The way they ached to have you?"

"Yes," you breathe, your chest heaving with each ragged inhale. "They made me feel desirable when my husband couldn't."

The words escape your lips before you can stop them, fueled by the hurt and anger still simmering beneath the surface. Your hips buck up desperately, seeking the satisfaction Aemond's teasing fingers deny you.

"Fuck," you snarl in frustration, your nails raking down his forearm. "Stop playing games and give me what I need."

You fix him with a defiant glare, your eyes flashing with challenge. "Unless you're too fucked up to perform now that you've realized what a prize you've been neglecting all this time."

Your lips curl into a sneer, a cruel twist of your mouth. "It would serve you right if I also paraded my lover around. Maybe then you'd understand— "

Your words are cut off by your cry as Aemond places a harsh slap against your sopping cunt.

The sound of your cry, of the wet slap against your flesh, sends a bolt of lust straight to Aemond's already throbbing cock. He's never seen you like this, so wanton, so uninhibited. It's intoxicating.

"You want to play dirty, do you?" he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Threaten me with your infidelity? You want someone to fuck you senseless, to claim this sweet cunt as their own?"

He rewards your crude talk with another sharp slap to your pussy, the sound echoing obscenely in the quiet room. You cry out, your back arching off the bed, a fresh flood of wetness coating his palm.

He plunges two fingers into your dripping channel, setting a brutal pace as his fingers pump in and out of you. His thumb circles your clit with a pressure that borders on painful. He leans down, his breath hot against your ear.

"You feel even better than I remember. Gods, if only I had known this tight little cunt was waiting for me," he growls, his fingers pumping harder, faster, stretching you open.

The bed creaks beneath you as Aemond moves, his fingers still pumping into your soaked cunt. You can feel every ridge, every callus as he drives into you relentlessly. It's almost too much, the sensation bordering on pain, but you crave it.

You try to form words, anything to snap back at him, but his fingers are relentlessly hitting your soft spot with each thrust, making you gush all over his hand. Your mind goes blank, lost to the overwhelming sensations. All that escapes your lips are incoherent mumbles and high-pitched whines.

Your brow furrows as you watch him abuse your tight pussy with his long fingers, pumping in and out of your dripping cunt with brutal force. "Fuuuck... Aemond..." you manage to gasp out, your voice ragged and desperate.

Aemond grins wickedly at your desperation, at the way you're clawing at the sheets, your hips bucking up to meet his punishing fingers. Your pussy clenches around him, trying to draw him deeper, greedy for more.

He curls his fingers inside you, rubbing mercilessly against that sensitive spot deep within. Your cries grow louder, more desperate, and he smirks at the sound.

"Fuck, you're so tight. So perfect. I could play with this pretty little pussy all night."

Aemond adds a third finger, stretching you impossibly wider. He curls them just so, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes. Your juices coat his fingers, dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you.

"Fuck, look at you," he rasps, his eye drinking in the debauched sight of you spread out before him, his fingers buried in your cunt. "My perfect, filthy wife. So desperate for my cock."

You clamp your hand over your mouth, stifling the whorish moans that threaten to escape. You won't let him see how easily he can unravel you, how a few skilful thrusts of his fingers can have you writhing and begging like a common whore.

Your eyes screw shut as he pounds into you relentlessly, his filthy words washing over you, stoking the fire building in your core. You can't help the way your pussy clenches greedily around his invading digits upon hearing his dirty words.

It's humiliating, the way he can so easily turn you into a mewling, desperate creature with just a touch.

But gods, it feels so good. Too good. You squirm underneath him, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, begging for more even as you hate yourself for it. You are losing control, slipping further into the haze of lust with each passing second.

Aemond smirks as he watches you struggle to maintain your composure, the battle written plainly across your face. He can feel your pussy fluttering around his fingers and can hear the muffled moans vibrating against your palm.

"Shh, don't fight it," he croons, his voice a sinful purr. "Let go, my lady wife. Let me hear those pretty sounds."

He withdraws his fingers suddenly, denying you the stimulation your body craves. You whine in protest, your hips chasing after his hand.

Aemond brings his drenched fingers to his lips, tasting your essence with a low groan. "Delicious," he purrs, his eye glinting with wicked intent.

He brings his fingers back to your face, painting your lips with your juices before thrusting them into your mouth. "Suck," he demands, his voice brooking no argument. "Get them nice and wet for where they're going next."

As you obey, dutifully licking and sucking his fingers clean, Aemond works at the laces of his breeches, freeing his hard, aching cock. It springs forth, thick and angry, the head already glistening with precum.

"Look at what you've done," he growls, gripping himself in his fist. "You're mine. This cunt belongs to me."

Aemond's arrogant declaration snaps you out of your lust-fueled haze, and you roll your eyes at his audacity. "Do you think I'd forgive you that easily?" You scoff, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "It seems you don't know your wife very well, husband."

You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as he grips his leaking cock. "This cunt belongs to me," you remind him coldly. "And if I recall correctly, you didn't even like this cunt in the first place."

You huff out a bitter laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. "You'll have to do more than just rut into me like a beast in heat."

Aemond's eye narrows at your words, a flash of anger sparking in their depths. But it's quickly extinguished by a wave of lust as he takes in the sight of you propped up before him, your full breasts heaving with each breath, your hair tumbling around your shoulders.

"You're right," he concedes, his voice rough with desire. "But I do now. And I plan to worship it until you scream."

He stalks towards you, his cock bobbing with each step. He grips your thighs, pushing your legs apart, forcing you to lie back on the bed.

"And I know you all too well, my lady wife," Aemond purred, his voice a dangerous rumble as he settled between your legs.

Aemond's hand snaked out, wrapping around your throat in a firm but not crushing grip. "You're a woman scorned," he growled, his eye boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart race. "Angry and bitter. But I intend to change that. Make you into a dutiful and docile wife."

His fingers tightened just a fraction around your throat, not enough to cut off your air supply, but enough to make your pulse jump in alarm. You tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding, keeping you pinned beneath him.

"After I'm done with you," he continued, his voice low and menacing, "you'll be as obedient as a puppy. You'll beg for my touch, crave my attention. And you'll forget all about your anger, your resentment. All you'll know is the pleasure I can give you."

He hooks his arms under your knees, pushing your legs up and back, folding you nearly in half. The new position leaves you completely exposed, your dripping pussy on full display.

Aemond takes in the sight with a low groan, his cock twitching in anticipation. "Look at you, spreading yourself open for me like a whore."

He lines himself up with your entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against your swollen folds. "Beg for it," he demands, his voice a dark command. "Beg me to claim what's mine."

He doesn't push inside, doesn't give you any relief, just holds himself there, teasing, tormenting. Your pussy clenches around nothing, empty and aching for his cock.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you struggle to regain your composure. Aemond's dark promises hang heavy in the air, making your head spin with desire and indignation. You try to remain logical as he presses your knees practically next to your ears, your most intimate parts completely open for him.

Despite the way your body aches for him, craving his touch, you force yourself to meet his gaze, your eyes blazing with defiance. "I think it's you who should be begging," you retort, voice steady despite the situation.

Through the haze of lust that threatens to consume you, the old anger still simmers, fueling your resistance. You won't let him break you so easily, won't let him reduce you to a mewling, submissive creature with just a few pretty words and a hard cock.

A twisted smile appears on his lips. He shifts his hips, rubbing the head of his cock against your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. The teasing friction makes your hips buck up involuntarily.

"Oh, I'm going to enjoy breaking you," he purrs, his voice a dark promise. "Watching that fire in your eyes fade as I drive you to the brink of madness."

Aemond's smile widens, a predatory gleam in his eye as he watches you squirm beneath him. He knows your body's betrayal, the way it craves his touch despite your protests.

He places his hand from your thigh to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a silent reminder of his control.

"Last chance to beg, my lady wife," he growls, his voice a dark rasp. "Beg me to fill this greedy cunt, to make you mine again."

He applies just the slightest pressure, his cockhead nudging insistently at your entrance. Your pussy clenches, eager, aching to be stretched and filled.

"Or shall I just take what's mine?" Aemond's voice is a sinful purr, his eye glinting with dark promise. "Claim this sweet little pussy whether you want it or not?"

The heat of Aemond's cock pressed against your entrance sends jolts of pleasure racing through your veins. Gods, you need him to break you open and claim you as his. But your pride holds firm, refusing to let you beg like a common whore.

You stare up at him, your gaze defiant, even as your body betrays you with each quivering breath. "Don't pretend you don't want this," you bite out, trying to sound unaffected. "You're just torturing yourself."

It's difficult to sound assertive when he has you pinned, your legs pushed back towards your chest, completely at his mercy. Your pussy throbs, aching to be filled, to be stretched around his thick length.

Aemond lets out a dark chuckle, clearly amused by your feeble attempt at defiance. He shifts his hips, grinding his cock against your slick folds, painting your entrance with his precum.

"Torturing myself? Oh, my dear wife, you flatter yourself," he purrs, his voice a sinful caress. "I'm simply enjoying the show. The way your body trembles, the way your pretty little pussy leaks all over the bed, despite your best efforts to resist."

Aemond's lips curve into a wicked smirk, his eye glinting with mischief and dark promise. He rocks his hips, sliding his hard length through your soaked folds, coating himself in your arousal. Each pass of his cock brushes against your swollen clit, sending sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. You can't stop the moan that escapes your lips, your body betraying your desire.

"Fuck, listen to you. So loud, so desperate." Aemond growls, his voice rough with lust.

He pulls back, removing the delicious friction, leaving you empty and aching. You whimper in protest, your hips bucking, twitching, searching for his touch. But he ignores your needy movements, his focus solely on your face, drinking in your frustration.

"I wonder," he muses. "How long will it take to break you? How many times will you cum on my cock before you're begging me to fill you? To breed this fertile little cunt?"

Aemond's words are filthy and vulgar, and they send a shiver down your spine. You hate how much you love it, how much you crave his dirty talk, his rough handling. He owns you, body and soul, and you both know it.

"I'm going to fuck you now," he declares, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I'm going to take you hard and fast, just like a beast in heat. And you're going to take it like a good little wife because that's all you are to me. My property, my plaything."

With that, he lines himself up with your entrance once more. His cockhead nudges at your slick heat, teasing, taunting. "Open your eyes," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Watch as I claim what's mine."

You try to look at him, but your eyes are glossy and unfocused, clouded with the haze of lust. Then, with one hard, brutal thrust, he sheaths himself inside you, stretching you wide around his thick length.

Aemond groans as your tight heat envelops him, your slick walls clenching around his throbbing length. He stills for a moment, savouring the feeling of being buried inside you, your body stretched and full of his cock. Cursing himself for not fucking your tight wet heat earlier. For wasting time with his bastard mistress after your marriage.

"Ahhh!" You let out a kittenish scream as he filled you completely, your walls clenching around him, trying to adjust to his girth. It feels as if he is splitting you open, not even moving yet, but the stretch alone is enough to make you go mad.

Your eyes flutter, rolling back in your head as a wave of intense pleasure crashes over you. You feel so full, it's almost too much to bear. Aemond's cock pulsates inside you, hot and hard.

You can feel every ridge, every vein of his thick shaft as it throbs within you. He's so deep, buried to the hilt, his pelvis pressing against yours.

His hips twitch, a reflexive movement, driving his cock deeper still. The sensation is overwhelming and exquisite, and he has to grit his teeth against the urge to pound into you with abandon.

A moan tears from your throat, raw and primal, as your body struggles to accommodate his size. Your fingers scrabble at his back, your nails digging into his skin, holding on for dear life as he impales you on his cock.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Aemond groans, his voice rough with pleasure.

He starts to move, pulling out until just the tip remains inside you, then slamming back in, burying himself to the hilt. He sets a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours with each powerful thrust. The bed creaks beneath you, the frame shaking from the force of his movements.

"Take it," he growls, his voice commanding, demanding. "Take my cock, you filthy little slut. This is what you were madefor, to be used and fucked like a whore."

His filthy words and powerful thrusts make you lose yourself to the pleasure, your mind going blank as he fucks into you with wild abandon. You feel like a rag-doll, legs thrashing next to you as he uses your body for his pleasure, driving into you with a ferocity that borders on violence.

"Look at you, taking my cock like a good little wife," he praises, his voice a dark rumble. "So obedient, so eager to please me."

You let out a pathetic mewl, unable to form any words. Your cheeks burn with a mix of embarrassment and intense pleasure as Aemond's grip on your thighs remains unforgiving, pressing your knees into the mattress.

He abuses your sopping pussy with brutal thrusts, each one driving you closer to the edge. Screams of ecstasy pour from your parted lips as your brows furrow in pleasure. His thick cock stretches you impossibly wide, filling you to the brink as he claims your body with wild disregard.

Aemond smirks down at you, revelling in your wanton moans and the way your body submits to his brutal pace. He can feel your walls fluttering around him, your slick arousal easing his way as he pounds into your tight heat.

"That's it," he growls, his voice thick with lust. "My beautiful little slut wife."

Gods, had your pussy always felt this divine?

Aemond continues to pound into you relentlessly, his hips pistoning back and forth as he fucks into your tight cunt. Each powerful thrust drives the air from your lungs, leaving you gasping and moaning like a bitch in heat.

Your body is lost to the sensations, consumed by the feeling of Aemond's thick cock stretching you wide, filling you so completely. You're nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure. Your only purpose is to take his cock and milk it for all its worth.

"Fuck, I love this cunt," Aemond growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his release. "Love feeling you squeeze around me, love how wet and ready you are for me."

Aemond's mind races as he fucks into you with abandon, his thoughts consumed by the exquisite sensation of your tight heat gripping his cock. He can't help but marvel at how your body yields to him, how perfectly you fit around him like you were made for his pleasure.

"I can't believe I wasted all those years fucking that Rivers whore when I could have been ruining this sweet cunt every night," Aemond growls, punctuating his words with a particularly harsh thrust. "Gods, you're so much tighter than her. So much better."

The degrading praise stings, igniting a fire in your gut despite the intense pleasure. "I hope you regret every second of it," you grit out through clenched teeth, your voice strained and shaky from his cock stretching you open. Each brutal thrust sends shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your veins, making your back arch off the bed. You scream your next words, lost in a daze of lust and anger. "Would've had all of your heirs! Taken your seed into my womb every single night!"

The thought of carrying his children, of being filled with his seed night after night, sends a shiver down your spine. Why did he waste his time with whores when he could've been breeding me, claiming me?

"I was meant to be the mother of your heirs," you hiss, your nails raking down his back. "Should've been bearing your children, ensuring the Targaryen line."

The words are punctuated by gasps and moans, your body betraying you even as your mind rages.

"Regret it," I pant, your thighs shaking. "Regret wasting your seed on common whores when you could've been filling me."

Aemond throws his head back with a roar, your words stoking the flames of his lust. The thought of you swollen with his child, carrying his heirs, drives him wild with desire. He fucks into you even harder, his hips slamming against yours with bruising force.

"You would've been perfect carrying my babies. Dropping their siblings so I could fill your fertile cunt again and again." He snarls, his eye wild with passion.

The image plays out in his mind, a tantalising fantasy that makes his cock throb inside you. You, round and ripe with his child, your belly stretched and full. He, driving into your fucked-out hole, pumping you full of his royal seed, ensuring his line continues.

"I'll make it up to you," Aemond promises, his voice a dark growl. "I'll fuck a dozen babes into you, let your belly swell with my children."

The idea sends a thrill through him, his balls drawing up tight as he imagines it. He'll keep you barefoot and pregnant with his offspring, his cock buried in your pussy every chance he gets.

"You want that, don't you?" Aemond demands, his thrusts growing erratic, his climax approaching. "To be bred like a bitch, to carry my children? To give our daughter sisters and brothers?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, furious at yourself for desiring exactly that. To be round and heavy with his child, constantly full of his seed. But gods, you do want it. You want it so badly it hurts.

"Yes," you whimper, your vision blurring as your cunt clenches erratically around his thick shaft, drawing him in deeper.

You meet his gaze, your eyes wild and pleading. The unshakable, unfriendly wife he once knew is gone, replaced by a desperate, needy whore.

"That's it," he growls against your lips. "My little wife, begging for her husband to fill her up."

A shameful part of you hopes this new side of you will make him see you differently. Make him desire you, want you, maybe even love you. The thought is intoxicating, to be truly wanted by him.

Your cunt spasms around him, gripping his cock like a vice as you imagine it. He is constantly buried inside you every night, pumping you full of his seed, ensuring his heritage while you serve your true purpose.

Aemond's eyes blaze with triumph as he sees the desperate need reflected in your eyes. He knows he's broken you, reduced you to a quivering, wanton mess, begging for his cock and his seed. It's a powerful feeling, knowing he has this control over you, that he can make you crave his touch above all else.

He leans down, capturing your lips in a brutal kiss, his tongue plundering your mouth, claiming you from the inside out. His hips continue their relentless pace, pounding into your tight heat, driving you closer to the edge.

Aemond's cock twitches inside you, his climax building, his balls drawing up tight. He's close, so fucking close to spilling himself inside you, to marking you as his once and for all.

"I'm going to flood this pussy," he promises, his voice a dark, seductive purr. "Paint your insides with my seed, make sure it takes root. You'll be dripping with my cum, and everyone will know who you belong to."

The thought sends a shiver down his spine, his cock pulsing with need. He wants to ruin you, to claim you so thoroughly that you'll never crave another man's touch. He wants to fuck you into submission, to make you his in every way possible.

His filthy words, combined with the brutal, near cervix-pounding thrusts, finally push you over the edge. You throw your head back with a keening cry, your body wracked with violent shivers as you come undone beneath him. Tears stream down your face, your eyes rolling back from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of it all.

Aemond groans as your pussy clenches around him, the rhythmic squeezing of your walls pushing him over the edge. His hips stutter, his thrusts becoming erratic as his climax crashes over him.

"Oh, Gods!" You sob, your voice high and broken.

Your pussy clamps down on his cock like a vice, rippling and fluttering as you ride out the waves of ecstasy crashing through you. At this moment, you are not a princess or a lady, but a wanton slut, put in her place by her husband's cock. And gods help you, but you love it.

"Fuck, yes!" he roars, his cock pulsing and twitching as he spills himself inside you, painting your walls with his hot, thick seed, your pussy clenching down on him like a fist.

Jet after jet of hot cum shoots from his cock, flooding your womb, painting your insides with his seed.

"Take it," he snarls, his hips jerking with each spurt of his release. "Take my cum."

Aemond's mind goes blissfully blank as he empties himself inside you, his whole world narrowing down to the feel of your pussy milking his cock, greedily swallowing every drop of his cum.

You whimper softly as Aemond's hot seed fills you, your insides warm and tingling from his release. You can feel it trickling out around his still-buried cock, the evidence of his claim dripping down.

He rocks against you, grinding his pelvis against yours, ensuring every last drop is pumped deep into your fertile core. The thought of you, swollen with his child, carrying his heir, sends a primal surge of satisfaction through him.

Your mind is blissfully empty, thoughts scattered in the aftermath of such intense pleasure. You gaze up at him with wide, glossy eyes, your lips parted in a breathless pant. The world around you fades away, leaving only him.

Aemond leans down, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. He nuzzles your skin, breathing in your scent, the musky aroma of sex and sweat clinging to your bodies.

His softening cock twitches inside you, a residual shudder of pleasure rippling through him at the feeling of your cum-filled pussy clenching around him. He rolls his hips lazily, grinding against you, savouring the sensation of his seed sloshing inside you.

Aemond's lips curl into a satisfied smirk against your neck. He can feel your body, pliant and sated beneath him, still grasping his softening cock as if reluctant to let him go. The knowledge that he's thoroughly conquered you, reduced you to a quivering mess of pleasure, sends a thrill through him.

He pulls back slightly, his single eye raking over your face, drinking in the sight of you - cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes glazed with satisfaction.

You're a vision, a goddess laid out before him, and he's drunk at the sight of you.

Aemond's eye roams over your body, taking in every curve and dip, committing the sight to memory. Your breasts, heaving with each breath, nipples pebbled and begging for his touch. The sheen of sweat on your skin, glistening in the candlelight. The way your thighs are splayed open, your pussy still stretched and dripping with his cum.

It's a feast for the senses, and Aemond is a starving man.

[11keu]

DO WHAT YOU WISH | P.SH

SYNOPSIS. Sunghoon loves to take advantage of the free-use terms you gave him.

PAIRING. Park Sunghoon x Fem! Reader

GENRE. Smut. Established relationship. No dialogue, just vibes. Reader is too real in this one, girl me too.

WORD COUNT. 591.

WARNING. Smut under cut, minors do not interact.

CONTENT. Profanity, free-use, fingering, nipple play.

Watching a movie with Sunghoon never actually meant watching a movie with Sunghoon.

It was all of five minutes before your shirt was bunched up above your tits, and your panties had been discarded onto the rug. With your back to his chest, his thighs caging you in, he had two fingers buried in your cunt. His other hand was on your breast, playing with your hardened nipple as you squirmed about in his lap.

He couldn’t help himself. You looked so pretty and so cosy, and he just wanted to eat you up. But for the sake of the movie, he decided on the least amount of disturbance. You didn’t even blink when he started kissing on your neck and sliding his hands up under your shirt. Considering you agreed to be there for each other sexually, no matter what. (But of course, you still decided on a safe word for when either of you really weren’t feeling it.)

Your eyes were still trained on the living room TV, actually invested in the plot of the movie for once. He wasn’t going to force your attention back onto him. After all, you wanted to watch the movie. He just wanted to touch you.

But you didn’t mind it at all. Sunghoon’s thick fingers could make you cum in record time. It was a feeling you craved, a feeling you enjoyed experiencing almost every day. With how full you felt when his fingers were fucking into you like how they were now, your pleasure evident in how your arousal spilled out of you helplessly. After touching you so many times, he knew your body better than you did yourself.

Your head lolled back against his shoulder as he picked up the pace of his fingers, the sound of your pussy squelching filling your ears. Soft moans didn’t go unnoticed by your boyfriend, nor did the way you bucked against his hand. He squeezed your tit, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. You breathed out shakily, eyes falling closed.

He loved how soft and warm you were in his arms. How pliable you were, letting him touch you whenever he needed to.

He could happily ignore the raging boner beneath his sweatpants if it meant hearing you whine and moan for him. His fingers slid out of you and he spread your slick across your clit, groaning quietly beside your ear. His hand previously on your breast was gripping your thigh, spreading you open further. A sensual hum left your lips as he began to rub your clit, before your body began jerking — chasing that release he’d made you crave so badly by rocking your hips.

It was up to you to keep your legs spread as his hand moved to feel you up. Gripping your waist and under your breast, occasionally toying with your nipple.

Your moans became louder, more desperate when he pushed his fingers back into you. Your body convulsed, hips moving so desperately against his fingers that you were trembling and shaking all over. After just a minute, his two fingers rubbed your clit back and forth with the speed he knew would finally make you cum. Your back was arching, pleas for him to keep going morphing into breathless whimpers.

Sunghoon basked in the feel of you shaking in his hold, thighs threatening to close around his wrist as he rubbed you through your orgasm. A final pat to your clit made you whine and tense up, before you slumped back against his firm body.

Published by 11keu on Tumblr, 28th January 2025.

NOTE. im just a slut for free-use and also sunghoon (i was sunghoon biased for 3 years before converting to jakeism)

[wordsofwhimsy]

─✧ 𝒞𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂 𝒐𝒓 𝑹𝒐𝒕 ✧═

Pairing: Retro!Mark Grayson x fReader

Warnings: None

Tags: Slow burn

Word Count: 2,007

Synopsis: You were the glossed-up, diamond-dripping queen of his empire—the only thing he ever treated gently in a world he tore to shreds. But lately? You’ve been feeling more like an afterthought than royalty. So after two many fights, you finally do what no one else in the multiverse dares: You leave.

You don’t slam the door.

You don’t scream.

You just roll your tiny suitcase across the marble floor like it’s a runway and you’re doing a final walkout in six-inch heels and Chanel gloss. And he—he—is standing there in the doorway like the apocalypse showed up early.

“Where the hell are you going?”

You adjust your sunglasses. Indoors. “Out.”

His jaw clenches. That stupid perfect jaw, carved like it was meant to be clenched. The goggles are still on his face even though he’s home now, but you can feel his eyes boring into you like lasers through your mini skirt.

“Out,” he repeats, voice low. Dangerous. “You’re not serious.”

You scoop your Pomeranian into one arm, brush a fleck of lint off your jacket. “Baby, I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he says, low and cold, like the threat isn’t in his words but buried under them. “What are you even mad about?”

You pivot halfway, just enough to flash him a smile so sweet it curdles.

“Oh, I don’t know—maybe the fact that I haven’t seen you in eight days? Maybe the part where I had to Google whether you were dead or dismembered because you’re too busy playing Mortal Kombat with alternate versions of yourself to answer a damn text?”

He flinches. Just barely. But you catch it. And it gives you just enough juice to keep going.

“Or maybe,” you hum, adjusting your grip on your suitcase handle, “it’s the fact that the only person who touches me lately is my nail tech.”

His jaw tightens so hard it pops.

You step into the elevator like it’s a throne room. Gaze straight ahead. Not giving him the dignity of one last look. Not until—

“Stop.”

His voice hits you like a gunshot.

You turn, slowly.

He’s halfway to you. Gloved hands clenched at his sides, goggles still hiding everything but the rage. That seething, helpless, desperate fury that only ever comes out when you remind him you’re not his possession.

“You leave,” he says through his teeth, “and I’ll find you. Doesn’t matter where you go. Doesn’t matter who you’re with. You think someone else can give you what I can?”

You shrug. Innocent. Airy. Theatrical.

“I mean… maybe not the private jet,” you say, twirling a strand of hair around your finger. “But, like, I don’t need that. I could be happy with something simple.”

He laughs. Short, bitter, and sharp. The goggles tilt as he shakes his head.

“Oh, sure. Something simple.” His tone is mocking at this point. “Like what? A two-bedroom condo in the suburbs? Sunday Target runs with some guy named Brad who drives a hybrid and calls you ‘babe’ while he loads organic groceries into the back of his Prius?”

Your smile widens. “Sounds kinda cute.”

His hands curl into fists.

You press on, basking in it now. “Maybe I’ll get a desk job. Something stable. Quiet. We’ll get a golden retriever. Host wine nights. I’ll get really into throw pillows.”

He steps forward. One slow, heavy footfall that makes the elevator creak.

“You. Wouldn’t. Last. A week.”

You giggle, like he’s complimented you. “You think I’m too high maintenance?”

“I think you’re full of shit,” he snaps. “You wake up in silk sheets. You don’t even own a microwave. You once cried because a hotel didn’t have truffle fries on the room service menu.”

“That was an emotionally vulnerable day,” you sniff, wounded. “And I missed lunch.”

He’s pacing now. Eyes blazing behind the goggles. Voice rising just enough to make the little dog in your arm tuck its ears.

“You don’t want ‘normal.’ You want worship. You want someone to carry your bags and buy you diamonds and treat you like a goddamn princess every minute of the day.”

You tilt your head, batting your lashes. “And yet here I am—unloved, underfucked, and walking out the door.”

The elevator shudders when he slams a hand against the wall.

You don’t flinch.

Because you know him. You built this man. And you’re the only thing in this universe he’d never lay a hand on—except to hold.

His voice is lower now. Hoarse.

“Tell me what you want.”

You meet his gaze, your own voice suddenly smaller. But not weak.

“Just you,” you whisper. “All of you. Not this half-assed, war-hungry ghost version that flies in and out like I’m some layover between battles.”

And that’s when you see it. The crack. Right behind the lenses. In his posture. In his chest. Like someone just took a crowbar to the armor and he didn’t even try to stop it.

His shoulders drop, just slightly. A breath punches out of him, and you can see it all now—the fear. The confusion. The twisted little knot of boyhood grief and grown man rage all tangled up behind those stupid silver goggles.

You’d feel bad for him, maybe. If it weren’t always you left holding the pieces.

“If you want me,” you say, soft but sure, “then act like it.”

You wait. He doesn’t move. So you nod. Just once. Like you’re sealing something off inside yourself.

Then you step back, gripping the handle of your suitcase before rolling it over the threshold of that elevator like it’s the closing shot of a music video.

“You’re not really going,” he says.

You pause. Turn just enough for him to see your beautiful lips curve upward—quiet, worn, and finally tired.

“I wasn’t really staying.”

The elevator doors begin to slide shut.

He lunges again—but it’s too late.

Too slow. It had to be intentional, didn’t?

The last thing you see is his silhouette.

Tall. Still. Lost.

The last thing he sees is you.

Gloss poppin’. Heels sharp. Gone.

—

TWO WEEKS LATER…

The walls are beige. The countertops? Granite. There’s a bowl of decorative lemons on the table and a man named Kevin humming while he washes wine glasses.

You’re in hell.

You sip from your oversized glass of “locally sourced” white wine and stare out the patio window of Kevin’s perfectly normal condo. It’s got a view of the community pool and a sad little grill he’s “meaning to use more often.” There’s an HOA newsletter on the fridge.

You’ve made a huge mistake.

Kevin walks up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist like he’s done it a million times (it’s been four days), and nuzzles into your hair.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I’ve been thinking... maybe we could hit that couples’ painting class I told you about. You said you like art, right?”

You smile. The kind that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“That sounds… sweet.”

Kill me, you think.

And outside? Just out of view? Hovering mid-air in a hoodie and not even a shirt?

Mark is watching. More wrecked than ever.

He’s been watching.

Every date.

Every dinner.

Every saccharine little handhold.

At first, he figured you'd come running back. Wait it out. Miss the lifestyle. Miss him.

But now?

You're wearing sundresses. Laughing at jokes. Acting like some housewife version of the woman he built a goddamn empire around.

It was driving him insane.

And tonight, you see him.

It’s subtle—a flicker of movement past the glass, a shadow too fast to be a bird. And you know. You feel it.

He’s here.

You straighten.

Fix your gloss.

And turn around like a woman with a mission.

“Kev, babe?”

He perks up immediately. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

You straddle his lap with the type of pointed purpose that would be obvious to anyone but him. Slow. Sultry. Ridiculous.

His eyes go wide.

“Thought you said you wanted art,” you purr, cupping his face. “Wanna paint a memory?”

Outside?

Mark’s already punched through the side of the building.

CRASH.

The drywall explodes in a burst of dust and splinters, sending Kevin yelping backwards so fast the recliner tips over. Your Pomeranian screams like a tea kettle from his little bed in the corner.

You stay exactly where you are—legs crossed on the couch, unbothered.

“Oh,” you say casually, blowing gently on your wine. “You found me.”

Mark steps through the wreckage like he owns it. Sweats flapping. Hair tousled. Chest bare and dusted with drywall. He doesn’t look at Kevin. Doesn’t even acknowledge him.

Just stares at you.

“You done playing house?” he says, low.

You raise your glass. “You gonna pick up the tab for the wall?”

He’s at your side in a blink. Not touching—but close enough that the air between you goes electric.

“You think this is funny?”

You sip. “A little.”

Kevin, somehow still alive, makes a sound like he’s trying to find his spine. “Hey—what the hell is your problem, man?! You can’t just—”

Mark turns his head once.

One slow, deliberate look.

Kevin’s mouth snaps shut so fast his teeth click.

“Go take a walk,” Mark says without even looking at him again. “Take your lemons with you.”

Kevin doesn’t argue.

The door shuts behind him a second later, and now it’s just the two of you. Well—three, counting the dog, who is absolutely trembling under a decorative throw pillow.

Mark doesn’t sit. Doesn’t pace. Just stands there like he might self-combust.

“You wanted me here,” he says. “Didn’t you?”

You set your wine down. Smooth your skirt. Meet his eyes. “I wanted you to care.”

“I’ve always cared.”

“Then show it.” Silence hangs for a moment, and you’re looking at him with an expectation to deliver.

He doesn’t disappoint,

“I tore a guy’s face off last week because he used your name like he knew you.”

You smirk. So pretty.

“...hot.”

Mark’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like a threat disguised as one.

“Come home,” he says.

You lean back, slow and deliberate. Cross your legs. Rest an arm on the couch behind you like this was just a casual discussion.

“And what happens if I don’t?”

He takes one step forward. Still not touching. But close enough for you to feel the warmth rolling off his skin.

“Then I stay,” he says. “I’ll sit right here. Watch every night you kiss him like you mean it. Watch every fake little laugh. I’ll rot this whole building if I have to.”

You stare at him, a quiet moment passing before you feel your  nostrils flare. You explode.

“NO!” Your hands fling up, all but levitating off the couch as you stomp your heel into the ground.

“NO, no, no, no, NO—what the actual hell, Mark?! That’s not what I wanted!”

His brows knit under the goggles. “You just said—”

“I KNOW WHAT I SAID,” you screech, jumping to your feet and pacing in tiny rage laps. “But you’re supposed to be, like… mister tough guy!!” You whirl around and jab a finger into his bare chest. “CLAIM ME, DAMN IT! I’m not your ex, your coworker, your emotional support idiot—I’m the love of your psychotic little LIFE and you’re over here acting like I’m furniture you’re emotionally attached to!!”

He opens his mouth, but you barrel on before he can get anything out. “I left so you’d get MAD! So you’d come tear the sky apart looking for me! So you’d crash through a window and kiss me like you own me! Not sit in my ugly little rental like a depressed raccoon with boundary issues!”

“I broke the wall—”

“THAT’S BASELINE BEHAVIOR FOR YOU.”

Mark just stares at you. Then, slowly… that deranged little smile starts to stretch. “You wanted me to drag you back by your hair,” he says, low.

You throw your hands up. “YES!! Preferably onto a private jet, but I would’ve settled for a rooftop!”

He takes one step forward.

You step back.

He steps again.

You back up right into the arm of the couch—and stop.

“You really want that?” he murmurs, tilting his head. “You want… the worst of it?”

You swallow. “…Yes.”

Then his hands are on you.

[monstersholygrail]

The Mist Switch

Male Fairy x Elf fem!reader— aphrodisiac mist, dub con, nipple play, bondage (vines), clit play, tentacle penetration (vines again), voyeurism

As Elves, neither you nor your elf friend you were secretly crushing on knew just how long your prank war had been going on for. You had started it, of course, after chickening out of your attempt to kiss him and instead pushed his face into a pie.

Ever since then you two had been pranking each other every now and then whenever the mood strikes. The last prank was done by you when you put meat in his trousers and got a beast to chase him around for a bit.

Now was his time to prank you back. He had it all planned. He hired a little fairy to spray you with a magical mist that for 24 hours would turn you into the size of a fairy. Oh he’d torture you until you cracked and finally confessed your love for him.

Could he just admit he loved you too? Yes. Would he? Not when this option was so much more fun.

The little fairy flew and flew until he found you frolicking in a nearby meadow. You looked so beautiful, your soft curves glimmering in the sunlight. As he flew closer he couldn’t stop himself from imagining the way he’d suck on your hard nipples, bringing you to release from that one touch alone. Before he’d move down and stuff his face against your entrance just so he can taste how sweet you are straight from the source.

His mind was hazy with lust as he reaches you, his eyes unfocused on anything beside your gorgeous plump body. Blindly reaching into his bag of magic he sprays some mist in your face at the same time you spot him.

“What just happened?!” You ask in alarm, looking at the unknown fairy who’s staring at you like he wants to devour you.

A warm buzz begins to flood through your body. Making you tingly and aroused. Your eyes widen as you rub your thighs together for some friction. Your pussy gushing with arousal.

“W-what did you do? Who are you?” You ask breathlessly, wanting nothing more than to take this strange fairy suffocate him with your pussy.

The fairy looks at you in shock over your reaction, having no idea what went wrong. You’re not shrinking at all! He looks down at his hand and only now notices he sprayed you with the aphrodisiac mist instead of the shrinking mist! His cheeks burn red from embarrassment.

“I-I was hired to prank you with a shrinking mist but it seems as though they got mixed up,” he explains bashfully, showing you the bottle.

You internally curse your friend for hiring such a dumb fairy but also god do you wish he was here to take care of you. Your eyes fall back on the fairy… the incredibly sexy fairy. Fuck, you just needed something to ease the fire burning hot inside you and soaking your panties.

“Well you caused this so you need to take care of it. Now!” You say with a huff.

You lay in the bed of flowers, throwing your robes off recklessly. Not caring about anything other than this fairy getting you off. The fairy looks down at you in awe, all his recent fantasies coming true. He wonders if he subconsciously did this on purpose just so he could fuck you, but he wouldn’t think about that right now. Not when you need him so badly.

The fairy’s wings flutter and he’s flying down on top of you before you can change your mind. Not that you would with your need so unbearable. He lands on your soft belly and he could just melt into you, your skin is so warm and lovely. You hiss the moment he touches you, you’re so sensitive you could cum just from his little body grinding onto you.

Using his strength he picks up your breast and opens his mouth wide to suck on your hard nipples just as he imagined. You moan loudly, hips jerking in the air. The little fairy holds on tight and sucks greedily on the bud, basking in the way you writhe against the grass.

“P-please! I need more,” you beg, your mind lost to the lust that rages through you.

The fairy releases your nipple with a loud pop. He flies down to your glistening cunt, your folds all lovely and wet and waiting for him. His cock tents in his small pants, getting harder and harder the longer he touches you. Using his body he spreads your fat lips and you moan, trying to rock closer to him. He cries out, holding onto you so he doesn’t fall off.

With a bit of his own magic he commands vines close by to wrap around your arms and legs, tying you firmly you to the ground. You gasp and squirm against them, their rough caress only turning you on even more.

The fairy pulls down his pants and lines his aching cock up against your clit. He grinds into you and you both release long ragged moans. His own mind begins to cloud over and all he can focus on is giving you both the pleasure you need so bad.

Your body twitches and shakes with deep pressure of the fairy’s cock rubbing your clit so nicely. You can feel his hips snap against your core, short grunts leave you every time his balls slap against your over sensitive clit. The vines stopping you from moving with him or moving away from the unrelenting pleasure.

Yet you still have a deep rooted need to be filled to the brim and you throw your head back, the fire inside you only getting hotter without your release. Sensing what you need, the fairy uses more of his magic and a second later you jump as long thick vines slide deep inside your hot wet cunt.

The fairy and his vines work in tandem to bring you higher and higher. The fairy digs his fingers into your wide waist and ruts into you like a madman, wildly desperate to feel you come undone because of him. All while his vines plunge deep into your depths, brushing along your gummy walls and hitting you just right.

You cum with a fierce scream that echoes throughout the meadow. The fairy releases soon after you, his hot cum jolting outward and spraying all over your delicious belly.

The fairy sags against you, completely spent. The two of you lay there, your limbs still tied to the ground as you both shake with the force of your release. You can feel the heat inside you start to settle a little yet it’s still there, just waiting to ignite.

The sudden sound of a branch snapping in the distance has your head jerking up in surprise. You come face-to-face with your elf friend, a smug smirk on his lips. He crosses his arms and leans against a nearby tree. Looking up and down your plump form you can see his own eyes cloud over with lust.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” He asks, pushing off the tree and heading toward you both.

[dipperpepper77]

LADS side character adventures

Tags: Chaos that's all.

Greyson (Zayne): Everyone seemed to think HE was Zayne. The one day that Zayne wasn't at work (on a date with you). People just had the idea that someone of Zayne's status would be older... like Greyson. So? What does he do? Doesn't correct them. He smiles and nods. He spent the lovely day of basking on the compliments Zayne gets. "Oh you are as attractive as they say Dr.Zayne!" Man was bashful from Snow White instantly. Only to hear the clearing of someone's throat. Greyson turned to stone... "the real Zayne is behind me.. isn't he?" He was. Forgetting his stupid sunglasses in his office.

Thomas (Rafayel): Poor overworked babysitter man. He went to a rage room. With you of course. Both needing to get pent up Raf anger out. You both wrecked things. But, he was in SERIOUS need of this. He chucked things to the cardboard cut out of Rafayel. "WHY CAN'T YOU MAKE MY JOB EASIER AND GET YOUR DEADLINES ON TIME!" Thomas was a rabid animal for the first time. You rubbed his back to soothe him as he continued to rant. "If I didn't want to save my job.. I'd throw a paint jar at him Y/N I mean it."

Charlie (Xavier): Something's been lurking. HE SWORE IT. He felt paranoid. Ever since he brought you bread... Can't a guy be nice? Now he saw shadows everywhere with the brightest eyes. He was damn near contemplating calling a priest. What has he ever done to deserve this? He locked his doors and windows at night. But, he still heard something from the vent. Soft whispers? "Count your days Charlie .."

Luke and Kieran (Sylus): They were watching Cat and the Hat with you before halloween. Both looking at each other with the most mischievous glares known to man. SO! That's how everyone ended up in this mess. They were thing one and thing two. Of course. Sylus was frozen in pure and unadulterated anger. You all ganged up on him to dress him as the cat in the hat himself (So much for "kitten"). You were Sally. Man.. did you have such a good night. (Also headcannon that they only have like ten outfits total and switch them with each other. Not because they aren't spoiled... they just can't be trusted with fashion. Two of those outfits are those halloween costumes).

Gideon (Caleb): So posting isn't safe anymore? He made ONE post. "Everyone was gone when I woke up.." and who had to respond? You. Gideon was clutching his pearls. Avoiding Caleb for as long as he could. "Hey can you go with Caleb on a mission?" "Ah! I'd would love to! Oh! CRUNCH... Just broke my leg.. right now. I have to cancel." When he did finally see Caleb.. he was holding his legs Usher style. "I DIDN'T KNOW Y/N WOULD RESPOND PLEASE! I'M SORRY ". Caleb laughed. Assuring him that it was all okay. They went inside the air craft. Caleb whispered softly. "No one could hear you scream in the air." HELP! HELP!

Editors Note: This all stemmed from the twins. Gootbye.

[seresinhangmanjake]

What He Has To

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Reader

Summary: Despite being betrothed to Rabban, you've been having an affair with Feyd for months. The two of you agreed to stop once you're married, but Feyd decides that doesn't work for him.

Notes/Warnings: Sort of smut, i guess (so 18+). Arranged marriage. There was a request for a fic with Rabban, and though there were a lot of other details included in that request that did not make it here, this was what the request inspired. It kind of took on a life of its own. Sorry.

Words: 3300

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist

Feyd POV

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. He only intended to take something valuable from Rabban. But in the process of the theft, Feyd tasted the thing that rightfully belonged to his brother, and once he tasted you, he couldn’t stop. He hasn’t stopped. 

He’s enjoyed having you too much. He likes that your eyes always search for his if the two of you are in the same room. He likes that you spend more time in his bed than in the one in your guest quarters. He likes that all of your touches belong to him, and only him. He likes that you don’t speak his brother’s name.

When Feyd convinced you one night to fall into his bed, he imagined the look on Rabban’s face upon learning that his most desired object had been defiled by another. He planned to call Rabban to his room the following morning and show his brother exactly what he’d done, presenting you with his bedsheets pooled around your hips, displaying your bare back as you slept on your stomach. The thought alone was enough to keep him up the whole night in anticipation. 

But once the time came, he couldn’t do it. Where Feyd’s rage rests at a sizzling, low boil, bursting when necessary, Rabban’s is a constant overflowing wave. He would’ve killed you on the spot. Shoved a blade into your spine before your eyes had opened for the day. Your blood would’ve seeped into Feyd’s mattress before he’d gotten an opportunity to kiss you one final time. So, instead, he proposed that what had formed between you remain a secret, and to his satisfaction, you were willing and wanting the same.

“Just until the wedding,” you told him as you rocked back and forth on his cock for the second time. Between kisses and moans, you said, “We can’t continue this once I’m married. I can’t risk anyone suspecting that his heir might belong to someone else.”

In a lust-addled haze, Feyd agreed. But ever since, his clear mind has heavily protested. 

Would you pretend to enjoy being with his brother? Would you moan for him? Whimper? Bite your tongue when Feyd’s name threatens to tumble from your mouth? Or worse, would you like it, and bask in the attention enough to find pleasure. Is it possible that your eyes could squeeze shut and lips could part with shallow breaths without the memories of Feyd rolling around in your mind? Could his brother really learn your body better than he has?

Thoughts of you in Rabban’s arms, Rabban’s lips attached to yours, Rabban’s fingers grazing over your skin, turn Feyd’s stomach each time they slither into his head, so aggressively he nearly loses whatever meal most recently consumed.

If he could change the rules of his world, if the future Baron of Giedi Prime was decided based on skill and intelligence, not age, then he would have you. You would have him and the title of Baroness. Agreements between Houses would be kept, and all involved, with the exception of his incompetent brother, would be pleased. But altering a hierarchy is not easily done, if possible at all.

—

Reader POV

It’s the last night. Tomorrow, you will be married, and what you and Feyd have will cease to exist, leaving you only with captured memories of how he feels, of how he makes you feel. 

You pray those memories can sustain you through a lifetime wedded to his brother. You beg whoever is willing to listen that time does not shrivel those memories to scraps. You can’t allow every bit of him to be taken from you. If you can’t be with him, then you deserve the remnants of what you’ve shared to remain fully intact and accessible whenever you need them. 

Turning your head, cheek meeting pillow, you watch him sleep. He’s unnaturally peaceful, and the sight of it tightens the organ in your chest. So handsome, beautiful lines and edges that make up the features of his face. Not like Rabban, whose features seem to bulge off of his rounded head. 

It is those differences that will make it impossible to sneak around with Feyd behind Rabban’s back once you are married. Should you fall pregnant with Feyd’s child instead of your husband’s, upon birth, it will be much too obvious. You will undoubtedly be put to death, your baby discarded, and Feyd likely shamed in front of all of Giedi Prime for disrespecting his uncle’s strategic arrangement between House Harkonnen and yours.

You twist onto your side, placing your palm on Feyd’s cheek and stroking his sharp cheekbone with your thumb. His skin is smooth, soft, and you always find it fascinating. While most people learn to harden their outer coating to protect their squishy insides, Feyd’s hardened insides are protected by a supple shell—one more difference between him and his brother that you cherish. 

You lean in closer and press your lips to his. One second, two seconds, three, then he’s replying to your kiss, groaning, tangling his fingers into your hair, and flipping you onto your back. 

He slides into you. Rests his forehead on yours. Your eyes stay locked together, exhales playing and curling around one another. 

It’s on the tip of your tongue—the declaration. Just a few words that sum up what you know you’ve been feeling for a while. But you can’t give it to him. To do so will only make it harder to cleave the two of you apart when morning comes. It will make him all the more unwilling to let you go. And should he repeat those words back to you, all hope, minuscule as it is, that you might one day find peace without him will vanish. 

Feyd thrusts deep. Your walls pulsate. You feel him fill you. 

He stays there for a moment as he rests his comfortable weight on top of you, lips hovering a half-inch above yours. 

“Don’t drink it,” he whispers.

You blink. Your brow pinches. Your body squirms the slightest under his. He’s never asked that of you. “I have to.”

Finding purchase on his muscles, you push him off of you, and despite despising the emptiness now between your legs, it doesn’t stop you from sitting up and reaching for the tonic on the bedside table that ensures no child will plant within you. 

Feyd sighs and falls onto his back, forcefully dropping his head into the pillow. He stares at the ceiling as the rim of the bottle touches your lips.

You pause to look at him, and for a moment slip back into the recurring dream of what might come of you putting the bottle down, leaving your tongue untouched by the liquid. Something lovely could grow inside of you. Menacing, but lovely. And were it truly a choice, you would make it, pray for that outcome. But it isn’t a choice. You both know it.

You take a deep breath, then swallow the bitterness in the bottle. 

Feyd turns over. His back faces you.

—

Feyd would have kissed you once it was announced in front of the Great Houses that you were officially man and wife. Rabban doesn’t, and you are thankful for that. 

You don’t want his mouth near yours. Nowhere near your body. Earlier, when his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he whispered what he intends to do with you once you’re alone, you flinched and clasped your fingers together to keep their trembling unnoticed. 

This morning you believed it would be fine, that you could settle into the role of the agreeable, dutiful wife. Despite knowing you will always love another, your priorities remained set on fulfilling your purpose for being sent to Giedi Prime in the first place. But that was before you were married. Now, you’re not convinced you can play the part required of you without great difficulty. Peace between Houses no longer feels as vital to you as it once did. However, you’re not so selfish as to neglect that the opposite is true. 

From across the room, Feyd is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed and eyes fixed on you. You’ve seen him angered before, you’ve seen him indignant; you know what that looks like on his face. But the downward curve of his lips and the divet between his brows display those emotions more clearly than ever. 

Internally, you will him to stop. Should anyone notice him staring at you for too long, they will catch on. You’ve been on Giedi Prime for months—everyone is aware of it—and, as rumor has it, you wouldn’t be the first child of a Lord to stray from their betrothed before the day of their wedding. Months are enough time to partake in a premature affair, enough time to develop an obsession. And obsession, possessiveness, is written all over Feyd’s hard-set features; it bleeds from the tension in his body. Anyone with half a brain could guess what is going on, and no one in attendance tonight is a fool.

Should your affair be discovered, or even suspected, there will be harsh punishment awaiting you, and you can’t begin to imagine what horrors a Harkonnen could inflict. But when Feyd gives you a final steely look before disappearing from the party, you, too, slip away.

You’re just going to talk to him, set him straight, tell him to get it together if he cares for your life. When you find him, though, he appears too erratic to listen to anything you might say. Back and forth he paces, mumbling and shaking his head as long, aggressive strides carry him up and down the hallway. 

And then he notices you, and he stops short. His chest is rapidly filling and deflating. You open your mouth, but before you can utter a word, he is stomping toward you, grabbing your face in his hands, and slamming his lips onto yours. 

He swallows your noise of surprise as each of his steps forward pushes you back until your spine hits the wall. The impact shoves the air out of your lungs and you break the kiss to release it. 

Your heart is throbbing, beating so violently you think it may burst and coat your ribcage. It nearly does when he leans in to kiss you again, but you turn your head away before lips can connect.

“Don’t,” he says.

“We discussed this. We agreed.”

He holds your head firmly in place, forcing you to look at him. The sheer determination in his glare is overpowering. You couldn’t break your locked gazes if you tried. “I don’t care.” 

“It doesn’t matter if you care,” you retort, grasping his wrists and ripping his touch from your face, only for his hands to plant firmly on the wall on either side of your head.

The stare between you is dense, thick, but then it begins to shake, shake more recklessly with each second until it shatters, and you have to look away once more. If you don’t, you’ll give in completely. And you can’t give in. 

To solidify your decision to have last night be the last time you’ll ever have him, you drew a line between you. And that line is the sole method you have to ensure mistakes will not be made. If you cross it, you know you’ll forget the existence of the line altogether. One mistake will become two, two will become three, and it will only be a matter of time before those mistakes are uncovered. 

With your eyes to the ground, you swallow hard enough to strain your throat. “I’m not doing this,” you tell him. Then you duck under his arm, intent on heading back into the party.

Before you can get three steps in the right direction, his fingers wrap around your bicep. You’re jerked backward. Chest flush with his, your mouths meet, and this time, as you feared, you’re made a fickle fool of. Your body gains a mind of its own. It conquers and rebels against your brain, making you rise on your toes, link your arms around his neck, and kiss him with as much fervor as he is giving, as if to negate the idiotic things that left your mouth moments ago. 

Your back hits the wall again. Hands graze down your waist to the swell of your hips. Fingers fist the fabric of your gown and pull the material up your legs. Cold air touches your thighs, partially shielded by the warmth of one of his palms on your skin. As that warmth inches toward your center, you hear the unfastening of his pants. It’s that sound that shocks you out of your drunken state. 

You tear yourself apart from him and shove at his chest until he stumbles out of your space. Your dress falls back down your body.

“I can’t,” you mutter, unable to look at any part of him other than his boots, and even that proves to be a challenge. Seeing where he stands just four feet from you, you could grab him and pull him close, kiss him some more. But you don’t. 

He doesn’t make another move toward you, so you command your legs to stop their wobbling before heading back down the hall and reentering the reception.

—

As you wait to be escorted to your husband, you run over the list you’ve compiled, the options you have laid out to aid you in getting through the night. Alcohol consumption being one. Feigning illness, another, though you’re not sure how effective that would be.

You decide that you’ll think of Feyd. You’ll shut your eyelids and imagine it’s him. His mouth, his grunts, his fingertips digging into your waist as Rabban holds you and thrusts over and over. You’ll do that every day for the rest of your life if you have to, praying that Rabban never does anything to dispel the trick you intend to play on your mind. You hope he doesn’t speak, his voice not quite the same octave as Feyd’s. You hope he doesn’t kiss you, his lips not close to the fullness of Feyd’s. And as horrified as you are to think it, you hope his cock is similar to Feyd’s. If too large or small, too thick or thin, it will be a struggle for you to mentally replace him with the man you love.

A knock breaks through your racing thoughts. You stop picking at your cuticles and make your way over to the door. When you open it, a Harkonnen guard is on the other side.

This is it: your final moments of knowing only Feyd’s touch and taste. Your nose stings as you tamp down the budding tears. The guard doesn’t notice the glassiness of your eyes as he turns his back to you and starts down the hall. Or maybe he does notice and simply doesn’t care.

Following like an obedient child trailing after its mother, you walk from the guest rooms to the adjoining section of the fortress that holds the rooms of the Lords. Your gut somersaults when you pass Feyd’s room. That’s where you should be going. That’s where you belong. 

You wonder if he has locked himself in there for the night, if he’s drinking himself stupid to forget the reality of your fate, as you would be doing had he married another woman. You picture him throwing things, fragile items flying across the room, glass shattering. You picture his fists bloodied and bruised from slamming into walls. You continue to picture him as Rabban’s room comes into view.

With a straightened spine, you prepare yourself for what’s to come, but when the guard does not stop, confusion creases the space between your brows. “We’ve passed it,” you tell him.

“Baron’s orders,” is all he says, and you trek onward.

Minutes of being led through the fortress finally come to a halt outside the council room. Important things happen in there. Decisions are made. Discussions are held that you would not normally be privy to. Married to a Harkonnen or not, you’re still a foreigner, and foreigners' opinions hold little weight with any matter concerning Giedi Prime. Everyone, including the guard in front of you, knows you have no purpose here. So why are you here?

The guard pushes through the door. He enters first, his broad back blocking your sight as you step in behind him. 

“Ah, and here she is,” the Baron says in his gritty voice. The guard moves aside, allowing you to take in the space: the Baron seated on a throne placed at the top of a short set of stairs; Feyd standing at the base of those stairs, facing his uncle. “Come closer, girl.”

You feel your blood rushing, fuzzing in your ears, but you do as you’re told, your legs carrying you to Feyd’s side. You both keep your eyes forward. Your head briefly dips in the Baron’s presence. “My Lord.”

A grumbling sound acknowledges the gesture of respect, then he wastes no time getting started. “I have some troubling news,” he says, weaving his fingers together and resting them on his swollen stomach. “We have been informed of an unexpected...tragedy.”

Your heart stops. He knows. He must know. You and Feyd stand before him at this unusual hour, and for what other reason would there be than to face punishment for your lewd acts of defiance and disrespect? Tragedy is the foolishness, the idiocy of brazen behavior that will snuff out the rest of your life. Any moment, guards will take you by the arms and drag you to a cell to await public execution. 

Death is a fate you once thought preferable to marriage with another man. However, much worse is knowing you will never look upon Feyd’s face again, you will never be in his presence, and that is a thought so unbearable you realize you would rather survive, even if survival means a miserable existence without him in your arms. 

Your shoulders tense as you listen for Baron’s final judgement. But it doesn’t come. Instead, he crooks his finger at the servant to his left, ordering her to bring him his pipe. As he shoos her away, his lips wrap around the tube, sucking in deeply, then heavily releasing a plum of smoke.

“My nephew, it seems, has met his unfortunate end,” he says.

Bits of shock trickle through and taint your composed expression—brows raising, jaw slacking and lips parting. Surely that does not mean what you think it means. Your head snaps to Feyd, but he still doesn’t look at you, so you refocus your attention on the Baron.  

“I don’t understa–” you start.

“A poisonous substance was consumed,” the Baron says, taking a long draw from the pipe and holding it in his lungs. “And death is the consequence of ignorance and weakness; that is all you need to understand.” He coughs, clears his throat. “Fortunate are we to have a competent spare.”

“A spare?”

“You will wed Feyd-Rautha,” he tells you. “Our arrangement with your House will remain intact.” Your muscles go rigid. Suffocation follows the collapse of your chest. You’re not sure you’ve heard him correctly, but then he says, “The ceremony will take place in a week’s time,” and your knees just about buckle under your weight. 

You get yourself together enough to dip your head once more in agreement. To your right, Feyd does the same, and for the first time, you notice the calmness radiating from his body. Not once did you hear a shift in his breath; his fists did not clench at the discussion of his brother’s untimely death. He had done nothing but stand there in silence.

“What did you do?” you whisper.

A beat goes by before he answers.

“What I had to,” he says.

[solxamber]

Supervillain's Guide to Romance || Rook Hunt

You, Supervillain, planned for a lifetime of rivalry, but instead, the Hero, Rook Hunt just keeps breaking into your lair with snacks.

Where did it all go wrong?

(Villain! Reader x Hero! Rook)

You have waited for this moment forever.

The world has been terribly dull as of late. Sure, your evil empire is thriving, the peasantry cowers at the mention of your name, and several major institutions have crumbled beneath your perfectly polished boots.

But without conflict, without an opponent, it’s just… paperwork and infrastructure maintenance. And while managing the economy after singlehandedly obliterating capitalism is hilarious, it does not provide the visceral thrill of a good old-fashioned deathmatch.

But now. Now.

The Goddess has finally chosen her Hero.

And you are so ready for this.

Your Ultimate Doomsday Device™ is primed. Your Evil Lair is bathed in appropriately dramatic red lighting. Your constructs—hulking, ominous, heavily armed—are lined up in terrifying symmetry, all enhanced with freshly sharpened weaponry and, crucially, eyeliner. Because aesthetic matters.

And you?

You are a vision of villainy. Cloak billowing, sword gleaming, boots heeled just enough to exude power but still practical enough for dramatic combat maneuvers. You spent three hours in front of a mirror perfecting your “I’ll kill you and laugh about it” smirk. You are prepared to be an absolute menace.

And then he arrives.

Standing atop the nearest cliff, silhouetted by an impossibly well-placed moon, is him.

The Goddess’s Chosen Hero.

Rook Hunt.

He is posing. His bow gleams. He looks like a romanticized painting of a hunter-king about to declare war on a stag. And then—

“Ah-ha!” he cries, pointing dramatically at you. “At last, we meet, O Dark Jewel of the Night’s Malevolence!”

…What.

Rook places a hand on his chest, eyes alight with unhinged enthusiasm. “What poetry! What drama! What an exquisite monologue that must have been as you awaited my arrival! Tell me, mon cher adversaire, how long have you rehearsed this glorious moment?”

…What.

You were expecting many things.

A clash of ideals. A heated battle. Perhaps a reluctant respect forged in the fires of combat.

You were not expecting your mortal enemy to sound like a theater major experiencing religious ecstasy at the sight of your properly villainous cape swish.

You squint at him. “You’re… excited?”

Rook nods so fervently his hat nearly flies off. “But of course! To stand against one so resplendently wicked! To trade blows—nay, souls—in this eternal dance of justice and villainy! C'est magnifique!”

He’s smiling.

Why is he smiling.

This is a deathmatch, not a wine tasting.

You clear your throat, lifting your chin in the most intimidating way possible. “Do you have any final words before I bring ruin upon you?”

Rook inhales deeply, eyes glimmering like a man utterly in love with the idea of his own demise.

“You are radiant in your menace! A blinding star of destruction! Smite me, O Harbinger of Dread! Let me bask in the beauty of your malice!”

He spreads his arms as if to embrace the impending carnage.

You slowly lower your sword.

“…What the hell is wrong with you?”

You shrug it off, maybe the Goddess likes them unhinged.

You had prepared for this moment your entire life.

The darkness swirled dramatically around you as you stood atop your obsidian throne, gazing down at the battlefield below. Your constructs—your beautiful, eyeliner-wearing minions—were poised, weapons gleaming, capes billowing, eyes smoldering with unholy (and stylish) rage.

The sky rumbled, lightning cracked, your "smite-a-city" device hummed ominously, and a general sense of doom and destruction filled the air.

This was it. The fated clash between good and evil. The battle that would shake the heavens, rend the earth, and—

"Ah, mon cher, your stance is exquisite! But tell me, would you rather have dinner instead of world domination?"

You freeze mid-swing, sword inches from his throat.

Your constructs freeze mid-battle, one still mid-air, about to deliver a flying kick. The thunder hesitates, the lightning awkwardly fizzles out, the wind that had been howling through the battlefield just kind of... stops, like it forgot what it was doing. Even your "smite-a-city" device lets out a confused beep.

Rook Hunt—the Goddess’s Chosen Hero, The People's Champion, The Bringer of Light and Justice, The Reason You Haven’t Been Able to Have a Peaceful Afternoon in Months—gazes at you with sparkling green eyes, utterly unbothered. He is smiling. He is batting his eyelashes. He is somehow more dazzling than the lightning.

You, in contrast, are short-circuiting. "HUH??? WHAT??? NO???"

"Magnifique." He lunges again, sword clashing against yours, his grin only widening. "Then I shall vanquish you with the elegance you deserve!"

The world unfreezes as if someone hit 'play' on reality again. Your constructs return to attacking, the wind resumes howling, thunder remembers how to be intimidating, and you—still reeling—dodge a particularly poetic strike from the overly enthusiastic Hero of the World.

You're not sure what just happened, but you do know one thing:

You absolutely refuse to die without getting some answers first.

And maybe, just maybe, you need to recalibrate your entire life plan.

You had been prepared for a worthy opponent. You had been prepared for grand battles, for expertly crafted schemes, for a rivalry that would echo through the annals of history.

What you had not been prepared for was Rook Hunt.

You take a sip of your tea, relishing a rare moment of villainous peace. The sun is setting, your latest evil scheme (a devastating tax loophole reform) is progressing smoothly, and—most importantly—Rook Hunt is not around.

Or so you thought.

Because the moment you relax, you feel it. That unmistakable tingle of being observed.

Slowly, you lower your cup.

And there he is. Peeking through your window.

His stupid hat. His stupid cape. His stupidly enchanting green eyes shining like a cursed emerald in the dim light.

"Bonsoir, mon cher!" he greets cheerfully, dangling upside down from your roof like a particularly well-dressed bat.

You nearly drop your tea. "WHAT THE FU—"

You're exhausted. Emotionally, physically, spiritually. You decide to dedicate an entire day to self-care. Face masks, fluffy robes, a villainous bath bomb infused with the souls of the unjustly rich—you are determined to ignore the world.

As you stretch luxuriously in your grand lair, you hear a faint thunk.

You pause.

Slowly, you turn your gaze toward the door.

There, pinned straight through the wood by an arrow, is a neatly wrapped face mask.

You take a deep breath. You count to ten. You fail to count to ten because you are seething.

You yank the arrow out and unroll the note attached to it.

"Self-care is crucial, mon ami! Hydrate well and let your skin glow like the celestial heavens! À bientôt~!"

There is a little hand-drawn heart at the bottom.

You have never known rage like this.

At this point, you’re convinced the Goddess chose him purely to fuck with you.

There is no other explanation. None.

Because every time you turn around, he is there.

He is watching.

He is smiling.

He is way too into this.

You are a responsible supervillain. You do your own paperwork.

This is crucial.

Do you have minions? Yes. Constructs? Absolutely. Are they efficient? Of course. Do they understand the fine intricacies of tax-deductible lair maintenance expenses? No.

So here you are, suffering, hunched over your desk, reviewing budgets for your upcoming Doomsday Apparatus™ (pending patent).

Your shoulder aches. The price of evil, you suppose.

Then, hands.

You sigh, assuming it’s one of your constructs trying to be helpful, but the texture is all wrong. Not cold. Not metallic. Not vaguely threatening.

You freeze.

These are human hands.

You whirl around so fast you nearly fall out of your chair.

And there he is.

Rook Hunt. The Menace of Your Existence.

Wearing that same infuriatingly pleased expression he always has when he manages to unnerve you.

“Mon trésor, you are so tense! Do not fret, for I am here to ease your burdens—”

Your hand is already on your emergency drawer.

Because of course you keep a glock in there. You’re a responsible supervillain.

But before you can make him truly holy, he lifts a plate of your favorite cookies.

You squint.

You squint harder.

The cookies look perfect.

You hate him.

But you love those cookies.

“...Fine,” you grumble. “Dining room. Now.”

And that’s how you end up having the most awkward tea party of your life.

Your constructs—tall, looming, deadly—stand against the walls like confused statues.

You glare at Rook. He beams at you.

You eat a cookie. He sips his tea like he’s the most welcome guest in the world and not your mortal enemy.

Finally, you break the silence.

“I’m going to destroy an entire city district next time.”

Rook hums, interested. “Hm. But which one? Have you considered an aerial attack for maximum devastation?”

Your constructs shift uncomfortably.

You blink. “...What.”

“If you truly wish to inspire terror, mon cher, a coordinated offensive utilizing shadow and fire would be most spectacular. Oh, imagine the fear in their eyes! The poetry of destruction!”

Your constructs are now visibly uncomfortable.

You stare at him. “...You realize I am trying to defeat you, right?”

“Oui.” He takes another dainty sip of tea. “But what is a villain without a hero? What is a hero without a villain? We are locked in the most beautiful dance, and it would be a shame if your evil was anything less than... magnifique.”

You hate how good that sounds.

Your constructs, sensing the sheer unhinged energy at this table, collectively decide they are done.

You’ve had it.

Rook Hunt has been breaking into your lair every other day, treating your villainous empire like it’s some kind of all-you-can-antagonize buffet.

So tonight? You strike back.

Your plan is perfectly petty. You sneak into his house, bypass his defenses, and leave a nasty little surprise—a copy of his stupid hat, but without the feather. Symbolic. Brutal. Devastating.

It’s dark inside. Suspiciously dark. You move silently through the halls, your villain senses tingling, when—

A hand grabs your wrist.

You let out the most unvillainous, undignified little squeak known to man.

A candle flares to life.

And there he is.

Rook Hunt. Smiling. Smug. Suspiciously pleased.

And behind him?

A fully set candlelit dinner table.

What.

You yank your wrist free and glare at him. “How did you know I was coming?”

“I didn’t!” He laughs, delighted, as if this entire scenario isn’t absolutely deranged. “I’ve merely been setting this up every night for the past week, hoping one day you would.”

You stare.

Your brain buffers.

Your evil plan—your brilliant, petty, symbolically devastating evil plan—is completely ruined.

But also.

You are weirdly, deeply flattered.

Which is so annoying.

You grumble and stomp over to the table. “Well, I’m not wasting a perfectly good meal.”

Rook positively beams as you sit down, pouring you a glass of something fancy.

You stab at your food aggressively. “You suck, Hunt.”

“Ah, mon amour, flattery will get you everywhere.”

You contemplate murder.

You also contemplate dessert.

Your life is hard.

As a renowned and feared supervillain, you have many responsibilities—world domination, economic destabilization, overthrowing the bourgeoisie—but even the greatest of evildoers need time to unwind.

For you, that means art.

Tonight, you sit in your grand lair, sketchbook in hand, dreamily doodling while fantasizing about the day you will finally, unequivocally, beat Rook Hunt.

Perhaps you’ll trap him in an inescapable dungeon.

Perhaps you’ll trick him into an elaborate psychological game that will break his very spirit.

Perhaps you’ll put a single grain of sand in his boots and let nature take its course.

The possibilities are endless.

You’re so absorbed in your creative villainous process that you fail to notice the cryptid himself materializing behind you like some kind of woodland horror story.

“Ah, mon trésor, what are you drawing?”

You freeze.

Your villain instincts kick in, but it’s too late. Before you can shove your sketchbook under your cloak and play it off like a true mastermind, Rook Hunt has already peeked.

A beat of silence.

You watch as, for the first time in history, Rook Hunt blushes.

You look down at your sketchbook.

Oh.

It’s a doodle of him.

With a heart drawn near it.

Obvious context:

It’s a threat.

Clearly, you meant “I will rip your heart out with my bare hands.”

Obviously, this is not romantic.

Clearly, he should know this.

And yet—

Before you can explain this very normal and absolutely not embarrassing drawing, Rook makes a strangled noise—and then, without warning—

He launches himself out of the window.

Full-speed.

No hesitation.

You stare blankly at the gaping hole in your wall.

The night breeze drifts in.

A loose paper flutters off your desk.

Your jaw clenches.

You pull out your calculator.

“Alright. How much is this repair gonna cost me this time?”

It had been months. Months of what was supposed to be an intense, dramatic rivalry, full of mortal combat, fire, and the kind of operatic duels that would make even the gods weep. Months where the world should have trembled at the very mention of your name as you and the so-called Goddess’s Chosen Hero waged battle across the land.

Instead, what had actually happened was this:

Rook had become a persistent, feathered plague upon your life. Every time you so much as breathed, he was there. If you drank tea, he was peeking through the window like some kind of blonde cryptid.

If you took a relaxing villainous bubble bath, he left a scented candle by your doorstep with a little handwritten note.

If you tried to sleep? Oh, well clearly that was the perfect time for him to send a love arrow straight through your pillow, just narrowly missing your skull.

This was not how hero-villain dynamics were supposed to go.

And apparently, the Goddess had finally taken notice, because today, as you and Rook clashed swords atop your usual scenic cliffside battlefield—lightning flashing, your cape billowing just right—a new hero arrived, looking exactly like the bootleg discount protagonist you’d expect from a last-minute recast.

“Villain!” he bellowed, dramatically pointing his sword at you. “Your reign of terror ends—”

You vaporized him on the spot.

Your constructs, standing dutifully in formation, collectively gasped.

Rook, who had been mid-flourish with his sword, stopped and blinked at the rapidly dissipating ashes of what had, just seconds ago, been an eager new recruit in the grand war of good versus evil. Then, he turned back to you, smiling fondly.

“Ah, mon trésor, how dashing you are when you wield your power with such effortless grace!”

You scowled, pointing your sword at him this time. “Why are you acting like I just did something romantic? I murdered that guy.”

“Oui! And beautifully so!” Rook twirled his own blade, utterly unbothered. “Like a star snuffing out another in the vast cosmos! Poetry in motion! Ah, my heart beats faster just thinking of it.”

Your constructs, meanwhile, were losing their collective minds.

One of them, a hulking, six-armed behemoth of enchanted steel, hesitantly raised a hand. “Uh. So. Boss? Just so we’re clear—”

“Don’t,” you warned.

“No, no, just a quick question,” it continued, with the slow, careful tone of someone addressing a very temperamental god. “You just smote a hero instantly. Like, zero hesitation. Which means you can do that. So, um. What exactly is stopping you from smiting him?” It pointed at Rook.

Rook, the absolute menace that he was, waved cheerfully.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Considered your options.

Then, in a show of supreme villainous dignity, you turned on your heel and dramatically stomped away.

Your constructs stared after you.

Rook sheathed his sword and sighed wistfully. “Ah, such passion. Such fire. Such restraint! Truly, they are the one chosen for me.”

The constructs turned to him in absolute horror.

“What have you done to our boss?”

You were having a perfectly normal evening.

By "normal," of course, you meant that you were lounging in your grand, candlelit villainous dining hall, sipping a glass of expensive wine (stolen, obviously), while Rook Hunt, your mortal enemy and frequent dinner guest, debated you on the finer points of mid-air combat.

"Mon trésor, think of the artistry!" Rook exclaims, gesturing wildly with his fork. "A battle in freefall—two souls clashing against the endless sky, the wind whipping our capes, the suspense of who will deploy their parachute first!"

You scowl, jabbing a piece of steak. "No. That’s impractical. There’s no stable footing, gravity ruins your attack trajectory, and if one of us dies before hitting the ground, there’s no dramatic final duel."

Rook gasps. "But what of style, mon cher? What of the poetry of two destined foes plummeting through the heavens, locked in the embrace of battle?"

You roll your eyes. "What of the reality that I’m not breaking my legs just so you can fulfill some mid-air fencing fantasy?"

Before Rook can counter with another unnecessary metaphor, there's a knock at the door.

You pause. Rook tilts his head. Your constructs—the ones assigned to not be traumatized by your ridiculous rivalry—shift uneasily.

No one knocks on the door of the Evil Overlord.

You cautiously rise, striding toward the entrance, adjusting your cloak. If this is some dumb assassin, you’re going to vaporize them before they finish their opening monologue.

You throw open the door.

Standing there, shimmering with divine light and looking deeply, deeply exasperated, is the Goddess.

You blink.

Rook, behind you, immediately bows with theatrical reverence. "Ah, my divine patron! What honor do we have to—"

She shoves a hand in his face, shutting him up. "Not a word from you."

Rook makes a delighted noise behind her palm, as if being personally scolded by a deity is the highlight of his week.

Then, the Goddess turns her gaze to you.

"You," she says, voice layered with millennia of barely restrained frustration.

You raise a brow. "Me?"

She points accusingly. "You are not even a villain."

You stiffen. "Excuse me?"

"The people adore you!" she snaps, throwing up her hands. "Your so-called empire? Has better infrastructure and social services than any kingdom in the world! Your so-called evil policies? Fixed the economy! Your supposed tyranny? Universally beloved by the peasantry!”

You gape at her. "I run a dictatorship."

"A benevolent dictatorship!"

Your eye twitches. You glance back at Rook, who is absolutely vibrating with amusement.

The Goddess rounds on him next. "And you!"

Rook straightens, looking delighted to finally have her attention. "Oui?"

"You are the worst hero I have ever chosen."

His smile widens. "Merci!"

"That wasn't a compliment." She pinches the bridge of her nose, like she’s developing divine stress migraines. "You were supposed to defeat them. Not take them to dinner, deliver self-care gifts, and give them advice on better city destruction tactics."

"But, my Goddess, what is heroism if not—"

She holds up a finger. "Finish that sentence, and I swear on the cosmic balance, I will smite you myself."

Rook, wisely, shuts up.

Your arms cross, and you scowl at her. "So what do you want, exactly?"

The Goddess sighs. "Nothing. I am done. I am sick of this. I gave your world a clear narrative, and you two have turned it into—into—" she gestures wildly at the two of you, "whatever this is."

She looks exhausted. You take a slow sip of wine. Rook sips his tea. Your constructs, still lurking awkwardly in the background, look on in silent horror.

Finally, the Goddess rubs her temples and lets out a long, world-weary sigh.

"I give up," she declares. "I abandon this world."

You blink. "What."

Rook gasps. "Mon Dieu!"

She throws her hands up. "No. Not your "Dieu" anymore. Do whatever you want. I don’t care anymore. Conquer the world. Get married. Build a flying opera house of destruction. I do not care."

She turns on her heel, divine light flaring around her, ready to vanish back into the heavens. But before she fully ascends, she pauses, turns back, and levels one last glare at you.

"And fix your damn roof. I know he broke it." She jerks her head at Rook.

Then, with a flash of light, she is gone.

Silence.

Your constructs do not move. You do not move. The air is thick with the weight of divine abandonment.

Then—

"Mon trésor," Rook breathes, eyes sparkling. "Did you hear? We have divine permission to wed!"

You throw your wine glass at his head.

You were going to prove a point.

The Goddess’s words still echoed in your mind:

"The people adore you."

"Your so-called tyranny is beloved."

Absolutely not. You are terrifying. You are a villain. You are the Dread Overlord of Shadows and Eternal Night, not some beloved community figure.

So, naturally, you stormed into the city streets in full dramatic regalia, determined to strike fear into the hearts of the people.

And, of course, they were absolutely terrified.

(There are children braiding flowers into your hair.)

Their knees knocked together in terror.

(The baker personally handed you a warm loaf of bread, saying, "It’s your favorite, dear. Fresh out of the oven.")

They shrank away from you, trembling.

("Can we get a selfie, Overlord of Shadows? You look so cool today!")

They screamed in fear.

(M’overlord, would you consider attending our town’s Harvest Festival? It wouldn’t be the same without you.")

By the time you made it back to your lair, the weight of reality had crushed your entire soul into a fine powder.

Your constructs barely had time to move out of the way before you collapsed onto the cold stone floor, sprawled dramatically, staring blankly at the ceiling.

It was not normal.

Nothing about today was normal.

You were supposed to be evil. The darkness lurking at the edges of civilization. The terrifying ruler who demanded obedience, not… not fan interaction.

You reach up and pull a flower from your hair. A daisy. A cute little daisy.

You stare at it.

Then, slowly, you sit up and reach into your pocket.

You pull out the loaf of bread. It’s still warm. It smells amazing.

You take a slow, deliberate bite.

You chew. You swallow.

You scream into a pillow.

Your constructs watch in silence, wisely choosing to let you process your existential crisis.

Then—

A slow, steady clap echoes through the lair.

You groan, rolling onto your side, as Rook Hunt steps into view, absolutely beaming.

"Mon trésor," he breathes, looking so unbearably pleased. "Did you have a revelation?"

You almost hurl the loaf of bread at his head.

You wake up with a revelation so profound it shakes you to your very core.

You don’t have to fight Rook Hunt anymore.

Not because you won—oh no, if anything, it’s because you never actually fought him to begin with.

This so-called “battle” had always been one-sided. You, pouring your very soul into villainy, scheming, plotting, monologuing—only for Rook to respond with enthusiastic admiration instead of righteous fury.

You had never been fighting a hero. You had been performing for a very intense fan.

And you are so tired.

So you get up, summon your constructs, and announce with all the dignity of a fallen monarch:

"I’m retiring."

They blink.

Your war construct, a towering mass of steel and death, hesitantly raises a hand. "Uh. What?"

"I’m retiring." You rub your temples. "I was never really a villain, apparently. The people adore me. The Goddess abandoned this realm. And my greatest enemy is currently sitting on my chandelier, smiling at me like a particularly pleased house cat."

A collective glance is shared. The constructs all look up.

Indeed, Rook is perched there, grinning like the absolute menace he is.

A few seconds of silence.

Then, your constructs all just nod.

"Yeah, okay. That makes sense."

"Honestly, I think we all saw this coming."

"So what now?"

You sigh and gesture vaguely at the lair. "Do whatever you want. You’re free. Find a new purpose. Go live your lives."

And, to your eternal exhaustion, they do.

Your once-feared War Construct? Now bakes delicate cream puffs.

Your impenetrable Shield Construct? Wears a frilly little apron and dusts the rooms.

Your Lurking Shadow Beast of Eternal Horror? Manages the garden.

You watch all of this unfold with a blank stare, feeling your villainous reputation crumble into nothing. And you?

You don’t even care anymore.

You sit at your grand villainous dining table, Rook across from you, smiling, victorious, insufferable.

He raises a teacup in toast. "To the end of an era, mon trésor."

You sip your tea.

Then, with all the resignation in the world, you simply mutter—

"...Yeah."

Rook just winks.

If you were going to commit one last act of villainy, it had to be grand. Poetic. Fitting for the infuriatingly ridiculous story that had become your life.

And so, you decide.

You were going to steal Rook Hunt’s heart.

… Metaphorically. Probably.

So you don your best dramatic cloak, grab the most intimidating bouquet of flowers you can find, and march to wherever Rook is lurking (which, statistically speaking, is either your lair or right behind you).

But before you can utter a single villainous declaration, you stop.

Because Rook is already kneeling.

Already holding out a ring.

Already smiling like he knew this would happen.

"When’s the wedding, mon trésor?" he asks, eyes gleaming.

You stare at him. Stare at the ring. Stare at the flowers in your own hands like an idiot.

And then—

You laugh.

You laugh so hard you nearly double over, because this is your life now.

The Goddess abandoned your world. Your constructs run a quaint domestic empire. The people adore you. And the so-called Hero?

The Hero beat you to the proposal.

You shake your head, still chuckling, before pulling him up by the front of his shirt and pressing a kiss to his lips.

"Maybe," you murmur, "we can have the wedding on the anniversary of the day we met."

Rook exhales something close to a sigh, grinning against your lips before kissing you again, soft and victorious.

"Magnifique," he whispers.

And, honestly?

Yeah.

Magnifique indeed.

Masterlist

[dannyriccsystem]

max verstappen 10 & 11 for the 1k special please!

THAT’S BECAUSE I’M A GOOD OLD-FASHIONED LOVER BOY!

1K SPECIAL - MV1

Awkward first date + Wearing their clothes

SUMMARY: A rather ridiculous first date ends with you crashing at his apartment. Whoops!

WORD COUNT: 680

WARNINGS: Very cringy first date, waitress flirting with YOUR man, borrowing clothes.

FEATURING: Max Verstappen x Reader

NOTE: MEOWWWW MAX VERSTAPPEN MEOWWW

YOU WEREN’T SURE WHY YOU AGREED TO THIS. You were close friends with Victoria Verstappen, the sister of a famous Formula One driver. The two of you met when you were adults, which meant you only heard about Max through stories and occasional pictures from their childhood. Other than that, you knew nothing about him, which was why you were somewhat surprised when she set you two up together.

You met at a quaint little restaurant with a cheap menu. It wasn’t the type of place he’d visit frequently with the fear of being recognized, but things seemed fine so far. Save the occasional fan walking up to ask for an autograph, or the waitress fawning over him.

Yeah, actually, it wasn’t fine. You sat there quietly, watching as Max awkwardly avoided every flirty remark from the woman taking your orders. She brushed against his arm, praising him endlessly for his four world championship titles, and his incredible, hard working mentality. You were getting tired of it.

“We should go,” He suddenly stated, his voice firm as he locked eyes with you. You blinked in surprise, sitting up straight. “Yeah, remember? You said you needed to be home in about…” He checked his watch. “Ten minutes.”

He raised his brows at you. You understood. “Oh, yep. Yep, I do remember. Too bad, I was really excited to eat here.” You huffed, standing up and collecting your things. In a fit of quiet rage, your waitress ‘accidentally’ knocked over your glass of water, sending it flying across your lap. You gasped, shuddering at the cold.

“Oh, no…” She cooed. “Let me go grab—”

“No need.” He grabbed your waist, pulling you to his side. Your eyes widened, but you tried to relax and look casual. “We were just about to go home anyway. I’ll clean her up.”

Your waitress stared with silent shock as you both exited the restaurant, giggling amongst yourselves. “Nice save.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make you something.” He pulled you outside of the building, and you both groaned. It was pouring down rain, and you were both left without any sort of coverage.

“Damn. I parked far away… Where’s your car?”

“No, I walked. My house is just down the road. We can walk?” You hummed and nodded, though you seemed hesitant. You were already covered in water, so what harm could it do?

A lot.

You were freezing when Max ushered you into his home. Thankfully, it was warm inside, offering you some relief. He scurried off down a hall, emerging with some clean clothes. “Here, you can get changed. I’ll get you a towel and blanket.” He smiled at you gently, and your heart fluttered while you accepted the clothes. You entered his bathroom, in awe at the pristine interior.

When you exited the bathroom a bit later, you felt refreshed and warm. Max had laid out some blankets and a towel on the couch for you. You could hear him in the kitchen, shuffling around. “Can I help with anything?” You called out as you grabbed the towel, using it to dry your face and hair.

“Nope. I’m just gonna make something simple,” He replied. You were satisfied with that response as you sat yourself on his sofa, burying yourself in a pile of blankets and basking in the heat they provided.

Moments later he came out with some pasta on a plate. It likely came from a box, but you didn’t care. You were starving. He also offered some hot chocolate, which was a very exciting spectacle. You both ate on the couch, using the coffee table for support. When you were full and happy, you relaxed back against the cushions, leaning against him.

“It’s still pouring down rain,” You commented softly.

“I can drive you home, if you want.”

“Yeah…” You trailed off. You didn’t really want to leave, you were enjoying his company. Your eyelids grew heavy.

“Or…” He pulled up a fuzzy blanket, tucking it in at the sides. “You can stay here?”

He took your soft snores as a response.

[aeragan]

ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴍᴇʀ ɴꜱꜰᴡ ʀᴀᴍʙʟᴇꜱ

✭ pairing(s): messmer x gn reader

✧ a/n: chat is it like financially acceptable to buy a $260 collectors edition when you already have the game just for a statue of a guy You Like Too Much (do i have a thing for redheads?) also before anyone says "you can do anything you put your mind to" i can but also all i imagine is him splitting me in half so penetration... i know that he's messmer the impaler but not of this boypussy he aint

🗒 cw: SMUT, SHADOW OF THE ERDTREE SPOILERS, gn reader, tarnished reader, size difference, a little ooc, frotting, thigh jobs, handjobs, oral, accidental manhandling, hair pulling, praise, pesudo-bondage(?), not proofread

✎ wc: 1.1k

MINORS DNI, 18+ ONLY

Intimacy is a long abandoned thought within the lands between. Long gone are the days of tenderness, and in their wake, only blood and steel remain. That is to say, MESSMER is a virgin. Painfully so.

Sex is quite the foreign concept for someone who’s being is steeped within the flames of war. The most love he had known was his mother’s coddling before she had disappeared, and in his rage, he had never sought out another form of love. Torn between the want for his mother to look down upon him once more, and the need to kill, to earn her approval once more, the thought of loving another, of trusting another with his body, his mind, his heart, it is near unfathomable.

And yet, here you were. Someone who stirred such benevolent (and more) feelings within him. How so utterly kind of you to share with him your heart, your mind, your body. He must repay you in kind, of course.

Now, let’s talk about the elephant in the room, or the snakes in the room, if you will. He feels quite embarrassed to have them there when you two… engage. While they understand and know his feelings– and they were the very obvious sign of his interest in you– to him, it’s the equivalent of having your pet in the room while you have sex. He makes them look away, since that is about all he can do. It is quite awkward your first time. But, they’ll come into play, later.

Due to MESSMER’s size, he is quite nervous about entering you, even with his fingers. It takes him a little while to get used to it. He trims his nails just for you, and he draws the line at two fingers, one is almost enough as it is. He gets accustomed to fingering you quickly, to have you sit in his lap while he presses his fingers into you, his free hand resting on your thigh and pushing it open, it is his own little piece of heaven.

Oral is another option for him, of course. Something that is much more easy on his mind, he doesn’t have to worry about delving too deep, nor about hurting you. He can just settle his head between your thighs and take what he wishes as you writhe above him. Pull his hair and praise him, and he’ll cum untouched. I promise.

He excels at oral, though. Put that practiced tongue to use. He maintains contact all the while, even though his face is quite red. He gives you this beautiful look that speaks volumes, ‘touch me, I beg’, it says. ‘Please’. And if you answer that plea, even simply by stroking his cheek, he lets out an audible shiver. Even his snakes shake a little, letting out a soft hiss as he continues.

On that note, however, good lord does this man enjoy a good frotting session. He is afraid to enter you, like I said, due to his size. Frotting is a good way to atleast feel you, while also granting himself pleasure, without hurting you. He could go on for days and nights just rutting against you, whimpering into your skin, simply basking in the (rather lewd) intimacy of it all.

MESSMER also quite enjoys thigh jobs. He loves them, actually. He sits you in his lap, fucking his cock up into the plush of your thighs, head buried in the crook of your neck as he guides your own rhythm. Of course, he could let you grind by yourself, but he prefers to take matters into his own hands (literally). It’s the least he can offer you (less of a workout) while he lets go of all his sexual frustrations between your thighs. He doesn’t mean to jostle you around as much as he does, he can’t help it.

Speaking of sexual frustrations, this man is PACKED FULL OF THEM. I’m not saying he could be fixed by jacking off, but he could at least feel a little better afterwards. With you, good lord has he calmed down. He’s a lot less tense, happier, perhaps even jubilant. You cannot wash away the fact that his mother is strung up and imprisoned by a god, but perhaps all MESSMER needed was to feel the warmth of another, rather than simmer in the ever-burning flame that he has come to know, and despise.

Now, about his snakes… it takes a long while for him to open up to the idea of them being incorporated into sex. Having them simply turn away makes it feel awkward, of course, but perhaps they could do more…? They do adore you, after all. Perhaps a little impromptu bondage? Keeping your hands tied as he feasts upon you, or perhaps keeping your legs parted as his cock glides against your own sex.

He isn't the most kinkiest guy, of course. Although, “kinky” in the Lands Between and Land of Shadow might be totally different to our description. The most he does is overstimulate you, but never on purpose. Sometimes MESSMER gets too ahead of himself, too wanting. And he takes what he wants, what he needs. Though he always apologizes afterwards, not that you mind. He never takes it too far anyways. He's got quite the stamina, yet still falls short due to his experience (i.e, zero).

Perhaps the two of you cannot be as close as you wish during sex, but that doesn't make the act any less intimate. Especially to him, a life so devoid of such love, only consumed by hate and longing, but never yearning. He's the kind of guy to cry during sex. Partially because it feels so good to him, but also because he has never understood this intimacy. Not until now. All sorts of proclamations of love spill from his lips as he guides your thighs along his lanky cock, burying his face in the crook of your neck and sobbing even softer words. Stroke his hair, whisper even sweeter words to him, and return the sentiment. He’ll cum harder, cry a little bit more, and reward you in kind. He’ll lift his head from your neck and look upon you with a teary-eyed, soft expression, and then kiss you oh so sweetly despite his cum coating your thighs.

MESSMER also likes a little balance in your guys’ sex life. He wants– needs to please you as much as you do him. He lets no deed go unrewarded, if you were to jack him off, he'd return by fingering you. And if you allow him to fuck your thighs, he’ll go down on you with a fervor that is unmatched. He makes sure you cum as much as he does, and vice versa. He’s a very fair man, in that aspect.

© sentoooo, 2024 | masterlist | kofi | star header by roseschoices | sfw blog

DO NOT REPOST AS YOUR OWN, REPOST ON ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR USE FOR AI/AI CHATBOTS.

[misctf]

What about a douche baseball player turns into just another bubble butt twink

The crack of the bat. The crowd cheering. Grant didn’t hear any of it. He scooped up the ground ball, stepped on second base and launched a rocket towards the first baseman. The crowd’s cheering died down as Grant successfully pulled off the double play. A grin etched across his face as his teammates cheered and he flipped the crowd off. What did he care? It was an away game and their opponents sucked. The crowd’s boos filled the air, but he didn’t give a shit.

“Fuck yeah Grant!”

“Thatta boy!”

And that was a wrap. Another win for Grant. He was undefeated and he just knew the scouts would be setting him up with the major leagues soon enough, especially with his stats. As he entered the locker room, his teammates continued their praise. It wasn’t uncommon- besides, he won them most of their games anyway.

“Hey, good game buddy.” Grant turned to face Jim, “I was really...”

“Fuck dude, you nearly cost us the game.” The others were quiet, “How many fuckin’ times are you gonna mess up? Is it that hard to tag someone?”

“Grant, I...”

“You’re all lucky I’m on this shit team or you’d all be fucked.” He continued, “Just speakin’ the truth.”

There were a few murmurs amongst his teammates. They’d heard this before and were used to Grant’s criticisms. And to some degree, they had to admit that he was a big reason for their victories. But Jim was new to the team, and the younger player looked at Grant in shock. But Jim’s lips curled into a small smile.

“Alright, I got it.” He slapped Grant’s butt, “Good game buddy.”

“Fuck you too.” Grant replied, somewhat taken aback by the other man’s touch, “Piece of shit.”

But Grant’s focus quickly shifted as he realized his dick was twitching uncomfortably in his jockstrap. He continued to face his locker, trying to adjust and make it less obvious. Why would he be getting hard in a locker room full of men? But before he could adjust, he felt another firm slap against his ass. He nearly jumped at the sensation and watched as another teammate left the locker room.

“Okay, stop...” This time, he felt a much firmer slap against his ass as the first baseman congratulated him for a good game, “Ohhh fuck, please...” He held back a moan as his outfielder gave him another firm ass slap, “Shit, shit, shit...”

The pleasure emanating from his ass was starting to make him squirm. And his cock was now straining intensely against his jockstrap. Even the cool wind against his skin was sending tickles of pleasure through his muscular firm. All the while, he remained facing his locker, trying his best to hide his erect member. His face flushed red.

“Good game Grant.”

Grant couldn’t help but moan this time as his ass was slapped again. This time though, he felt his entire ass jiggle as the slap reverberated. And when he heard a few giggles from his teammates, his face flushed even more and he quickly ran towards the showers, not caring if they saw his raging erection.

“Fuck...” He grunted, “Fuck this... what the fuck is wrong with me?” He turned on the water and allowed it to caress his body, his eyes rolling back into his head, “Ohhhhh why does thith feel tho fuckin’ good?” He barely recognized the lisp as he talked, instead more focused on the warm water.

And as he basked in the water, he closed his eyes and allowed his hands to roam his body. He felt his firm muscles under his skin. His pecs, finely dusted with chest hair. His firm bis and tris from years of going to the gym and playing baseball. His firm, muscular ass. And slowly, his hands made his way to his member, stroking his 8” uncut dick. But with each stroke, his cock lost some of its girth- and then some length.

“Wh-what no...” He looked down at his shrinking member, “What ith thith?” His eyes widened and e let go of his dick and felt his neck, “My voith...” It was breathy, a tad higher, and the lisp was painfully obvious to him, “I...”

And he felt it. A slap. Hard and firm. Against his ass It echoed through the shower, which was soon filled with the sound of his feminine moan. He could barely focus- his eyes half-lidded from the pleasure. But he turned to find Jim standing behind him.

“Hey cutie.” Jim whispered seductively into his ear.

Grant’s mind was racing now. He could feel Jim’s firm body pressed against him. His erect member pressed against his ass. And then he realized with increasing terror that Jim was somehow taller than him.

“What are you doing to me?” Grant squeaked as Jim’s hands roamed his body.

Jim didn’t say anything. And Grant watched as his firm pecs thinned out, the dusting of chest hairs falling away. His impressive arms dwindling into more feminine limbs. His legs becoming skinnier and delicate. And while he couldn’t see it, he could feel his face shifting- losing its masculine edge. His lips forming into a permanent pout, his eyes softening.

“Oh Jim...”

He moaned again as his ass filled with jiggly fat and muscle, forming into an impressive bubble-butt. And the feeling of Jim’s erect cock against his newly bloated ass sent even more shockwaves of pleasure through his lean and cute physique.

 “Fuck...” Grant pressed himself into Jim’s embrace, any hint of resistance fading fast. So what if he liked guys now? So what if he was just a toy to be used by better men? So what if he wanted Jim to fuck him until his brains turned to mush? These questions... these thoughts... they didn’t seem to bother him, “Wait... no... I’m...”

“A perfect fuck toy.” Jim whispered, his dick entering Grant’s virgin hole, “And that’s all you’ll ever be from now on.”

And so it was. But Grant didn’t seem to miss his old life on the baseball field. No, he was far happier lying in bed, waiting for Jim to return to their shared dorm. He licked his lips, thinking of Jim- all sweaty and dirty after an intense baseball game. Jim’s dick always hard and ready to use Grant. After all, Grant knew it was true. He was just Jim’s perfect little fuck toy.  

[arixella]

Unyielding Protection

╰┈➤ pairing: Luffy x gn! reader

a/n: : hey guys ik its been a minute, Ive been doing a lot of school and extracurriculars so ive had no time to write, plus I also just got sick sooo yeah but im trying to become active again!

Summary: In the midst of a fierce battle, you fight beside Luffy, only to be gravely injured. As Luffy's rage and guilt consume him, he confesses his love for you, and with the crew’s help, you are stabilized, promising that he will never let you go.

wc: 1.0k

contains: angst

The battlefield was chaos. The crew was scattered, fighting off waves of enemies with relentless determination. The island’s terrain was uneven and treacherous, with jagged rocks and dense vegetation that seemed to trip you up at every turn. You stood alongside Luffy, dodging blows and striking back with everything you had.

"Luffy, behind you!" you shouted, barely deflecting an incoming attack aimed at his blind spot.

He turned, grinning confidently. "Thanks, (Y/N)!"

You couldn’t help but smile at his unwavering enthusiasm. Even in the heat of battle, he was a beacon of hope, his confidence contagious. But there was no time to bask in his energy. Another wave of enemies surged forward, and you jumped back into the fray.

You fought valiantly, taking down as many foes as you could, but exhaustion was setting in. You weren’t as durable as Luffy or as strong as Zoro. Your body ached, your movements slowed, and you didn’t notice the enemy creeping up behind you until it was too late.

A sharp pain exploded in your side, and you gasped as a blade slashed deep into your flesh. Blood seeped through your fingers as you clutched the wound, stumbling backward.

"(Y/N)!" Luffy’s voice rang out, sharp and panicked.

Your knees buckled, and you collapsed to the ground. The world around you blurred, the sounds of battle fading into a dull roar. You tried to stand, but the pain was overwhelming.

"(Y/N)!" Luffy’s shadow loomed over you, and you barely registered the fury in his voice. "You hurt her," he growled, his tone low and dangerous.

Luffy’s usual carefree demeanor was gone, replaced by a rage so intense it was palpable. His body stretched as he launched himself at your attackers, his fists flying with brutal precision.

The battlefield became a whirlwind of Luffy’s attacks. His punches landed with bone-crushing force, and his movements were faster and more aggressive than you’d ever seen. The enemies stood no chance against him, their numbers dwindling rapidly as the rest of the crew joined the fray.

Zoro cut down anyone who got too close, his swords flashing in the dim light. Sanji kicked his way through the crowd with practiced ease, and Nami’s lightning strikes cleared entire sections of the battlefield.

But Luffy was a force of nature. His focus was unyielding, his rage boiling over as he fought to protect you.

When the last of the enemies fell, Luffy sprinted back to your side, dropping to his knees. His hands hovered over you, unsure where to touch without hurting you further.

"(Y/N)," he said, his voice trembling. "You’re bleeding... You’re hurt..."

You forced a weak smile, though the pain made it difficult. "I’m okay... I’ll be fine..."

"No, you’re not!" he snapped, his voice cracking. "Don’t say that! You’re not okay!"

His hands found yours, clutching them tightly as if holding on to you physically would keep you from slipping away. His straw hat, hanging by its string, swung lightly with the movement.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice raw with guilt. "I’m so sorry, (Y/N). I should’ve been faster. I should’ve protected you better."

"Luffy..."

"I love you," he blurted out, his eyes wide and filled with panic. "I love you so much, and I— I can’t lose you. You hear me? You’re not allowed to leave me!"

You reached up, your fingers brushing against his cheek. "Luffy, I’m not going anywhere," you murmured, your voice as steady as you could manage.

His eyes softened, but the fear lingered. "You promise?"

"Promise," you whispered, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite the pain.

Chopper appeared, his face set with determination as he opened his medical bag. "Luffy, I need space!" the reindeer said urgently, gently pushing the captain aside.

Reluctantly, Luffy moved back, but he didn’t go far. He sat close enough to hold your hand, his grip firm and unwavering. His eyes never left your face, watching every wince and flinch as Chopper worked to stabilize you.

As the pain dulled under Chopper’s care, you managed to smile faintly at Luffy. "I love you too, you know," you said softly.

He blinked, his expression softening further. A small, relieved smile broke through the worry on his face. "You’d better," he said, his tone teasing but still laced with concern.

After Chopper bandaged your wound, he declared that you’d be fine with some rest and proper care. Luffy’s shoulders sagged with relief, but his eyes didn’t lose their intensity.

He leaned closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I’m sorry," he said again, his voice low and earnest. "I won’t let this happen again. I’ll protect you, no matter what."

You squeezed his hand, your heart swelling despite the exhaustion. "I know you will."

As the crew began preparing to return to the Sunny, Luffy stayed at your side, refusing to leave you even for a moment. His whispered apologies and affirmations of love were a constant reminder of how much you meant to him—and how much he meant to you.

♡♡♡

© 2025 arixella | please do not plagiarize or translate any of my work without my consent.

[globaloppaaa]

how do we feel about boynextdoor having cuteness aggression :ppp

oh i KNOW they’re hiding it fr. thank you so much for requesting! i love little chats with my anons :))

warnings: none i believe!

leehan really does try to keep it undercover, and i think he does the best job at it? he can be really calm in most public situations, but when you two are alone? ohhh that’s a whole different challenge, because now he has you all to himself. he’ll slowly start to break, giving you quick, snarky remarks so that hopefully you won’t notice the blush creeping up on his face. but if you place his face in your palms and straight up ask him what’s wrong, he’s a stuttering mess.

“you’re always puffing your cheeks like that y/n, do you only get like this for me?”

(he’s silently combusting inside.)

jaehyun is not your strongest soldier. anywhere and anytime he is with you he just erupts into this fit of coo’s and pouts. he really can’t control it. try walking past him and watch the way his eyes widen as they linger on you, then his fingers start to tremor, then he’s pursing his lips trying to keep in how cute you look wearing his clothes… before you can even ask why his head looks like it’s about to explode, there he goes!

“oh my god look at you. how could you do this to me??”

“im wearing your shirt? didnt you ask me to-”

“i can’t take it anymore!”

sungho is another one who tries veryyy hard to keep his cool. he’s actually super sensitive about his and your feelings, which makes him attentive to your every move, but he feels so embarrassed ogling at you 24/7, so he mainly tries to find any kind of distraction to keep himself off of you. It’s hardest for him to keep it in when he hasn’t seen you in a while though, he’ll do his best but trust his hugs will be tighter and his kisses just a bit more feverish.

he scoops you into his arms, entangling you in such a strong embrace that you find it hard to exhale when he finally lets you go.

“sungie did you miss me that much?”

“you have no idea.”

taesan is gonna try to be soo nonchalant about it, but his inner romantic is screaming and clawing at his skin. forget him maintaining his dignity during any kind of conflict with you. the way your eyebrows furrow, and how you pout your lip for only him to see, oh and if you put your hands on your hips? hes a goner. can’t even remember what the initial argument was for because now he’s enamored. absolutely has to squish your cheek or squeeze you physically to get the frustration out.

“baby, you can’t keep doing this to me.”

“doing what?”

“there you go again, i said stop it!”

riwoo is like, totally natural about it? i feel like cute things are just a regular part of his daily life, and he’s always appreciated those softer, cuter moments with you. rather than getting aggressive he just basks in the cuteness with you. is NOT afraid to tell you you’re cute, because how could he try to lie? when riwoo sees something cute he just HAS to have it. though he does say it so often that you have to question what exactly is so cute to him, do you ever get an answer? nope.

“aww look at you!”

“riwoo baby you’re doing it again.”

“i can’t help it, look at you!”

woonhak is like, the worst person to keep collected about this. he gets overly expressive and dramatic when he’s talking to anyone, so when he’s talking to you up close and your big doe eyes have his full attention, it’s 10x worse. as soon as the rage hits he’s already making a fool of himself. He’s fighting it so hard in hopes it’ll help the agression subside, but he doesn’t realize he’s practically yelling over his own thoughts and laughing ridiculously to try and cover the thumps of his heartbeat.

“woonhak is everything ok?”

“YEAH YEAH ITS SO GOOD, YOU JUST LOOK SO GREAT TODAY. IS IT HOT IN HERE OR IS IT JUST ME-“