#Wood and String

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part One | Series Masterlist

Summary: his music school having been challenged by Riverrun Conservatory, Aemond is given the opportunity to come face to face with their top musician | Word Count: 4.7k~ | Warnings: smut (not with the main female character), toxic relationship, semi-public sex

Nothing quite compared to the low hum, and delicate whine of a cello. It had been that way for some time, ever since he'd discovered it.

Aemond still remembers the look on his mother's face, her chocolate eyes wide with pride and joy, when her son who was still freshly mutilated, resulting in the loss of sight in his left eye, took an interest in playing classical music.

The cello had become more than just an instrument to Aemond; it was his refuge, his voice in a world that had grown suddenly more silent and unforgiving. The accident had not just taken half his sight but had cast a shadow over his once bright future. Music, however, brought light back into his life, offering a path forward that he had never anticipated.

The Targaryen name, synonymous with power and prestige in other realms, here lent an aura of intrigue and expectation to his performances. Yet, it was Aemond's own skill, the raw emotion he channelled through the strings of his cello, that captivated audiences. His music was a blend of classical elegance and a palpable intensity that seemed to stem from the very depths of his being.

And Aemond was nothing if not a perfectionist at heart.

He perfected everything, to the point of madness some felt. And if he had not invited a feeling of deep, primal intrigue from every performance he gave, then what was the point? This innocent hobby at first, honed by his parents and caregivers alike, was now a way of life. A career. Something to strive for.

As he became older, this competitive nature never wavered once. He embraced it like a challenge to be met. And the conductor of this prestigious school, Otto Hightower, both a friend of his father, Viserys, a business giant well-known across all of Westeros, and conveniently his grandfather, expected nothing short of the best from his prodigious grandson.

He was never self-conscious either, even if he was easily noticeable and stared upon everywhere he went. And one might expect little attention from the opposite sex in a world of classical music and elegant instruments, but for Aemond this could not have been less true.

He attracted in every show, not only with his talent but with his haunting appearance. The straight long scar through his left eye was struck in the middle by a pale blue pupil, his other seeing eye stark in comparison. Women would watch his slender fingers strike fear, passion and energy into their hearts, wishing the very same could grip at their skin.

To their frustrations, he never acted on this popularity.

Alys Rivers was the only woman he ever reciprocated affections of some kind for. At least two decades his senior, his family had been less than impressed at her presence in his life. But there was no choice on their part. Aemond had made his, and Alys Rivers, like it or not, was his muse. A classical music lover at heart. And a professional critic no less.

One might be forgiven for thinking they disliked each other, they rarely exhibited romance. She was more akin to his manager than anyone else, critiquing his manner of playing and giving advice where he didn't want it. And he rewarded her, away from the prying eyes of the public, with quick, angry sex, exerting what control he did have, into intimacy.

She, like him, had a haunting presence to her, but one less mysterious. More overtly seductive. And though sometimes it seemed to irk Aemond, some felt as if they were still acquainted by convenience if nothing else.

Aemond always arrived early to Kings Landing Music College. The stuffy, wood-panelled room gave some semblance of comfort. There was something about the acoustics, the closeness, that felt almost womb-like. Safe. Familiar.

Meticulously, tuning his cello, he half-listened to the skinny, pink-faced Blackwood, practicing at the same time, “sound like a fucking dying pig.”

“Half dying,” Aemond murmured, with a roll of his eyes.

Otto waltzed in, clad in black slacks and a loose forest-green jumper, “Blackwood, get your fucking instrument in tune please. Fucking Cole could do a better job in violas.”

Criston twirled two Timpani sticks between his fingers, giving a look of mock offence from across the room, “just because I'm over here doesn't mean I can't hear you-”

“Alright, alright, before we begin today’s practice, I have an announcement,” Otto declared, his voice commanding attention. The room quickly fell silent, the anticipation palpable in the air.

“We’ve been challenged to a competition by the Riverrun Conservatory,” Otto revealed, his eyes sweeping across the room, measuring the reaction to his words. The announcement ignited a buzz among the musicians, the rivalry between the schools notorious for its intensity. 

“This isn’t just any friendly showcase. It’s a direct confrontation on neutral ground at the upcoming city arts festival. We will be judged on technique, emotional expression, and the complexity of our performance.”

Aemond’s pulse quickened. Riverrun Conservatory had a formidable reputation, known for their strict discipline and innovative performances. The thought of competing against them stirred a mix of excitement and nerve.

Otto’s gaze swept over the room, lingering for a moment on Aemond, then moving on. “I want crispness, I want emotion, and above all, I want precision. We will begin selecting the repertoire tomorrow. Today, I want everyone to focus on their sections. I expect perfection and I will accept nothing less than your best.”

With a decisive turn, Otto left the rehearsal space, his footsteps echoing his determination. The room erupted into whispers and hurried discussions; the stakes had been set.

Blackwood sighed, stress gnawing and weighing on his face. “Fuck me, no pressure then.”

“Don't fucking shit yourself. It's only Riverrun,” a lanky guy mumbled behind his flute.

“Shut your fucking mouth!”

Aemond tuned his cello once more, a determined glint in his eye. He was eager to prove himself, not just as a formidable cellist, but as a key player in leading his school to victory. As the rehearsal began, the sounds of strings, woodwinds, and brass filled the room, each musician pouring their heart into the notes.

Aemond knew that every session, every note, would count. The festival was not just another performance; it was a proving ground. And he was ready to claim his place on it.

With his cello perched on his back as if it were an extension of himself, Aemond strode toward Otto’s office. The familiar weight of the instrument reassured him, steadying his nerves as he prepared to discuss the imminent arrival of their rivals from Riverrun Conservatory.

Upon reaching the heavy oak door, Aemond knocked with a confident rhythm and was quickly greeted by Otto, who peered out from behind a mountain of musical scores. His deep-set eyes and beard, more salt than pepper, gave him an air of aged wisdom.

"Aemond, what's the matter?" Otto asked, noticing the urgency in Aemond's posture.

Stepping inside, Aemond carefully leaned his cello against the wall. "I've heard that Riverrun will be arriving tomorrow to practise here, in preparation for the festival. They’ll be using some of our facilities. I wanted to discuss how we can use this to our advantage, especially since their star pianist is said to be among them."

Otto raised an eyebrow, a slight grin playing at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he saw the cunning nature reflected in his grandson he perceived in himself.

"Indeed, they will be here. It’s a rare opportunity to observe them up close, to learn their strengths and possibly their weaknesses. We’ve managed to arrange different practice times to ensure there’s no direct overlap, but our paths will certainly cross."

Aemond nodded, his mind racing with possibilities. "If we could subtly observe their practice sessions, we might glean insights into their preparation and techniques. It could inform our strategy and help us focus our rehearsals where we need the most work."

Otto walked over to his desk and shuffled some papers, revealing a schedule. "Here are the timings. Riverrun’s sessions are slotted just after ours in the adjacent rooms. It’s crucial we keep our interactions professional, but keep your eyes and ears open. Understand how their pianist integrates with their ensemble— it’s not just about her solo performance."

"Should we consider adjusting our pieces or rehearsal focus based on what we learn?" Aemond asked, his voice low.

"Potentially," Otto responded, tapping his fingers on the desk. "But let’s not be hasty. First, observe. See if there’s a particular piece they struggle with or excel in. We’ll adjust our strategy based on solid evidence, not assumptions."

Aemond felt a surge of tactical excitement. "I’ll make sure our section leaders are discreet but observant. We can use this chance to refine our performance to outshine theirs."

"Exactly," Otto agreed, handing Aemond a copy of the schedule. "Use this opportunity wisely. We need every edge we can get against Riverrun. Remember, they are guests in our school, so maintain the highest standards of respect and professionalism at all times."

With a firm nod, Aemond picked up his cello, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. As he left Otto’s office, he knew the next few days could define the outcome of the festival. The challenge was daunting, but Aemond was ready to lead his school not just to compete, but to win.

Aemond was barely through the front door of his apartment before Alys was barraging him with questions. Her fine lips were lacquered with red, fingernails painted a charcoal black as she poured herself a coffee.

“I heard about the competition. Riverrun is notorious. Sure you can handle it?” She smirked behind the rim of her cup.

He sighed, setting down his cello, “yes, I can fucking handle it.” That was his only response before sinking into the sofa, laying his head flat back against the sofa, eyes shut, as if he wanted her to disappear.

He was somewhat ashamed to admit the way he tensed and then relaxed at the way her fingers expertly kneaded his shoulders, massaging the stress from him. But even more so as they trailed down, sharp nails ghosting over his neck had his lips parting and his trousers growing tight.

“Now, now. You know I only want you to do better,” she cooed, “and you will get better, with the right critique.”

He could hear her smile, her tone light and sensual as she trailed off.

Aemond turned his head and looked up at her where she was looming over him, her thumbs still pushing circles on his sore muscles.

“Critique?”

Alys’s lips curved up in a knowing smile, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that seemed to pierce through his weariness. Her green, emerald like eyes, were like daggers, hooking and reeling him in somewhere dark.

"Of course, critique," she murmured, her voice a melodious blend of challenge and tease. "Every artist needs it, even the great Aemond Targaryen. Especially with Riverrun breathing down our necks."

She moved around the sofa with the grace of a cat, setting her coffee down on the table before moving her legs either side of him, brushing her clothed core beneath her skirt against his growing hardness. "I watch, I listen, and I provide feedback that no one else dares to give you."

Aemond sighed, shifting to look at her more directly. The red of her lips was stark against the softer hue of her face, a deliberate pop of colour that matched the sharpness in her words. "And how exactly does your 'feedback' help me tonight?" he asked, his tone a mix of scepticism and intrigue.

"It helps because it makes you think. It makes you feel. Isn't that what music is about?" Alys replied, her hands now moving down from his shoulders, her fingers tracing lines across his chest through his shirt. "Besides, seeing you tense up like that, only to melt under my touch—it tells me where you're holding back. Not just here," she said, pressing briefly into a particularly tight spot. Then, her touch sank to his belt, then drifting lower and stroking his growing erection, teasing his length slowly. 

"But here too."

Her approach was intoxicating, a dangerous mix of personal care and professional critique. "You're brilliant, Aemond, but even brilliance can be polished," she continued, leaning in to whisper against his ear. "Let me polish you, make you shine brighter. Let me push you to be the best, and then push a little harder."

Aemond felt the dual edges of her influence—the softness of her caress, the hard truth in her critique. It was a manipulation he allowed, perhaps even welcomed. Her presence was woven into his life, a thread that was both comforting and controlling. Sometimes too tight. 

With two needy hands on her buttocks, he rolled up her skirt around her hips, dipping between her welcoming thighs, his ego somewhat inflated to find she was wet already. Alys did little else in reaction than assisting to undo his belt, taking his hard length in her hand and seductively massaging from base to tip.

He pulled her forcefully against him, fingers dug into her pale skin as she hovered over him and sank slowly, splitting herself open on his cock with a practised moan. Her hips moved instinctually, stretching to accommodate his thickness over and over. 

Between grunts and curses, Aemond was rarely vocal. Sex was a way to dispel frustration and invite inspiration in his clear head afterwards. Alys could be anyone. But he had to admit, he found her interesting, if not for her advice.

Her manicured and rounded nails dug into his neck as Alys moved on him with vigour, one hand stealing between them to circle her bud to try and hurtle herself towards completion.

It had occurred to Aemond that she was similarly using him in the same way.

With a bruising grip around her waist, Aemond jutted up into her shakily, coming hard within Alys’ quivering walls in the aftermath of her orgasm. And once she gained her breath, she peeled his hands off her as if he were suffocating. His member slid out of her, softened and slick with her moisture.

Alys straightened, stepping back to observe him, her eyes assessing as she wiggled her skirt back down. "Tomorrow, I'll come to the rehearsal. I want to see how you handle yourself with Riverrun watching. I'll be watching too, taking notes." Her tone was playful yet serious, a reminder of her dual role in his life.

As she retreated to the kitchen, Aemond lay there, a part of him resenting the ease with which she shifted roles from lover to critic, yet another part eager to prove himself worthy of her praise, his heart going fast still in the aftermath of their hastened sex.

 He knew that Alys's critiques, though wrapped in seduction, were aimed at forging him into a sharper, more formidable musician. In the complex symphony of their relationship, her motives played out in chords, each note crafted to challenge and change him.

The next day dawned crisp and clear, the early morning sun casting long shadows over the grounds of the music school. The building was abuzz with the nervous energy of anticipation, the air vibrating with the undertones of an impending musical clash.

As he made his way through the corridors to the rehearsal room, he could hear the murmur of voices, the tuning of instruments, and the occasional burst of laughter or a sharp command. Today, the halls of his own school would play host not just to its students but also to their rivals from Riverrun Conservatory.

Aemond entered the rehearsal room to find it already half-filled with his peers, each one keenly aware of the significance of the day. The room was set up with chairs and stands arranged in a precise semi-circle, awaiting the arrival of the Riverrun musicians.

Before long, the members of Riverrun Conservatory began to filter in, their expressions a mix of confident smiles and cautious glances. The room's atmosphere thickened with the tangible sense of competition, each group eyeing the other, assessing and reassessing.

Amid this tense backdrop, Alys slipped into the room, a notepad clutched in her hand and a pen poised for action. Her presence was a sharp reminder to Aemond of the dual aspects of their relationship. She caught his eye and offered a slight nod, an unspoken signal that she was here in her professional capacity.

The rehearsal began with Otto taking the lead, his voice firm as he called for attention. "Let's begin with a warm-up. Remember, while we share our space today, let's show our guests the level of excellence we strive for."

Aemond took his place, settling his cello between his knees. His fingers danced over the strings, tuning with meticulous care, his gaze occasionally drifting to the Riverrun musicians who were setting up nearby. Among them, he noticed a young woman, stood between two other boys who looked over her at one another with smug smiles. They were most certainly either violinists or cellists. But the woman between them, he saw, had such delicate fingers, this had to be the pianist he had heard so much about.

All watched them perform with a sort of challenging, stoic expression, as if judging every movement, every chord and sound made. Every choice scrutinised. In the corner of his eye, between glances at the music, Aemond noticed Alys scribbling down notes.

And when their performance came to an end, Riverrun Conservatory clapped, alongside their conductor, Lyonel Strong. He was burly, red-cheeked, strict but well-meaning, as far as Aemond had heard. But the way he and Otto Hightower looked at one another was akin to some secret rivalry nobody else was privy to.

Alys slid up to Aemond’s side as he began to tidy his instrument away, her presence immediately electric. “See that man?” she whispered, nodding subtly towards Lyonel. “He conducts with his heart on his sleeve, not a metronome like Otto. That’s why they play with such passion. It’s infectious, captivating.”

Aemond nodded, absorbing her analysis. He knew of her critical acumen, but there was a personal edge to her voice now. “You sound almost admiring,” he observed, watching her closely.

Alys’s expression darkened slightly, her emerald eyes flitting back to Lyonel. “I might admire his style, but not the man. Not after everything.” She sighed, a sound more resigned than angry. “He might be the maestro of emotions, Aemond, but off that podium, he’s a different story.”

Aemond did not inquire further. If he was being truthful with himself, he didn't much care for Alys' personal grievances.

“Keep a close eye on their cellist,” Alys warned from the sidelines, watching Riverrun tune and start up their instruments for their own warm up.

As Riverrun began their performance, Aemond’s attention initially settled on the cellist, analysing his fluid technique and the rich emotion flowing from his strings. However, his focus soon drifted to the pianist, who was poised before her instrument like a painter in front of a blank canvas. Her movements were almost ethereal, feather-like, as her fingers danced across the keys, each note floating into the air with a delicate precision that seemed to transcend the mechanics of the piano itself.

The pianist's performance captivated Aemond, her connection with the music evident in the subtle sway of her body and the gentle closing of her eyes as she played. It was more than mere execution, it was an embodiment of the piece, a true manifestation of feeling and artistry.

Alys, standing beside Aemond, watched the pianist with a discerning eye. After a moment, she leaned closer to Aemond and whispered, "See how she plays? It’s like she’s not just striking notes, but weaving a spell. Each touch is thoughtful, precise yet so naturally expressive."

Aemond nodded, fully absorbed in the performance. He could see what Alys meant—the pianist wasn’t just playing, she was performing in a way that made the piano speak directly to the audience. It was an inspiring display of how technique served as the foundation for emotional expression.

"Her approach is impressive," Alys continued, her voice a mix of professional respect and genuine admiration. "That’s what we need to aim for, Aemond. It’s not just about the notes, but how you make them feel alive, how you connect them to the listener’s soul."

Watching the pianist, Aemond felt a surge of inspiration mixed with a competitive drive. He realised that this was the standard he needed to meet and exceed. The way the pianist’s performance resonated in the room, how it seemed to stir the hearts of all who listened, including his own—it set a clear benchmark.

As the piece drew to a close, and the final note lingered in the air, a hushed silence fell over the room before applause erupted. The pianist looked up, her expression serene, almost surprised by the intensity of the audience’s reaction.

Aemond clapped, his applause thoughtful, infused with a newfound respect and a burning motivation. He turned to Alys, a determined look in his eyes. "I see it now," he said. "But she's nothing special. Our pianist is just as good."

“Just as good isn't enough. We have to be better. We need to surpass them—to be so outstanding that Riverrun feels like just a prelude to our performance. They shouldn’t just be impressed by us; they should be overwhelmed."

Aemond’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he processed her words. He watched the pianist from Riverrun mingle with the crowd, her presence still resonating with the lingering notes of her performance.

The shy, timid prodigy. A story written a million times. He felt as if he saw right through her, and no way was that washing with him.

“Meet me in the supply room before lunch,” Alys whispered, turning on her heel before Aemond could reply. The swing of her hips as she moved towards the Riverrun musicians and indication of what she wanted from him. All she ever wanted from him.

Aemond merely watched on from the sidelines, arms crossed. Alys mingled with them all, shaking their hands and wishing them luck in the weeks of practice and competitiveness to come. And when she finally shook the hand of the pianist, his gaze flickered between his lover and the delicate frame of this stranger he had yet to know.

Everything about her was different to Alys. She wore sheer black tights, and sensible shoes. Her skirt was flowy and ended mid tight, covered only at the top by her high-necked top, also black. And it was here he recognised a similarity in her and Aemond's dress sense.

Alys on the other hand exuded sexuality. Tight fitting skirts and dresses, no tights and heels at least four inches high. And while Alys wore a sleek straight style, the pianist was loose and free, if not slightly frizzy.

He watched the two women talking animatedly. Alys no doubt congratulating her on how well she plays.

He'd never been in more need of a cigarette then right at this moment.

“I apologise for him, he’s usually more expressive on stage than off,” Alys joked lightly as they approached, teasing Aemond in her usual manner.

The pianist extended her hand to Aemond with a firm, confident grip that surprised him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve seen your performances online,” she stated, her tone straightforward, skipping the usual pleasantries. Her directness was refreshing yet unexpected.

Aemond took her hand, a bit taken aback by her assertiveness. “Thank you,” he responded, realising only after the words left his mouth that she hadn’t actually complimented his work, just acknowledged it. “Your performance today was quite remarkable.”

“Thank you,” she replied, nodding politely, her smile brief. There was no reciprocal flattery, no effusive praise—just a clear, concise acknowledgment.

Her straightforwardness intrigued Aemond. It was rare for him to encounter someone who didn’t engage in the typical exchange of mutual admiration among peers, especially when one had just praised the other. Her confidence and lack of concern for social niceties made him rethink the usual dance of compliments that often felt more obligatory than genuine.

Their exchange maintained a professional veneer, but Aemond felt a distinct chill in the air as the pianist held his gaze with an unyielding intensity.

“I'm interested. How do you prepare for a performance of this calibre?” She asked in a probing manner, clasping her hands behind her back. And when she swept her hair out her face, a dash of her perfume hit him, light and floral, he noted.

“I focus deeply on the composition's technical demands," he responded crisply, his voice carrying a cool, almost detached quality. "Emotional expression is secondary to flawless execution.”

She bit back a smile he noticed before she could hide it, “that is quite a disciplined approach.”

"It’s the only way to ensure a performance is beyond reproach," he stated flatly, eyes scanning the room. "Judges appreciate perfection.”

“And the audience?”

He shrugged, “whether they do or not, it doesn't change my approach.”

She nodded, leaving a long pause, as if laying a trap, “interesting,” she mused, "I always believed that connecting with the audience was the true measure of a performance’s success."

“Emotions are too subjective.”

Alys, sensing the growing tension, interjected with a light laugh. "Aemond here is all about the technicalities when it comes to music. He believes in precision over passion."

The pianist tilted her head slightly, considering his response with an analytical gaze before a playful glimmer appeared in her eyes. “Are all aspects of your life subject to such rules?” her tone light, but probing. “Musicians are usually branded as romantics, after all.”

Aemond's brow twitched, a subtle annoyance. “There is a time and a place. In a competition, it's about control. Discipline.”

She hummed, slightly amused, “how practical. Does it not get lonely, striving so often for perfection?”

He shrugs, “it doesn't matter. Wins are measurable, feelings not so.”

“Musicians are not remembered for their wins. They're remembered for the feelings they tease out of people.”

Aemond’s gaze held steady, impressed by her ability to intertwine light-hearted banter with serious debate. “Maybe so, but I’d rather be remembered for setting records than stirring hearts.”

There was a long pause, her eyes never leaving him as if trying to piece together a delicate and intricate puzzle. And she had to bite her lip to contain her smile, simmering frustration in his chest.

“Interesting,” she mused, releasing her lip from between her teeth.

She finally broke their intense gaze, stepping back slightly as she prepared to leave. "Thank you for the conversation, Aemond. It was... enlightening," she said, her tone serious and reflective. "I'll be interested to see how your focus on the technicalities plays out in the competition. Good luck."

With a formal nod, she turned and walked away, her demeanour composed and professional. Aemond watched her rejoin her group, the interaction leaving him with a lingering sense of disquiet. Her straightforward, no-nonsense approach had challenged his views subtly yet profoundly, pushing him to reconsider the balance between technique and emotion in his performances.

Something he'd considered very little.

And as he fucked out his frustrations with Alys in the supply room, pushing her front against the wall and plunging into the tight warmth and solitude she offered, the encounter had ignited a new sense of challenge within him, or perhaps it was a hint of doubt, unsettling the confidence he had always felt in his methodical approach to music.

The usual clarity with which he viewed his musical career was now clouded with questions, thanks to a simple yet impactful exchange. It was a confrontation of ideals that made him both wary and intrigued.

It was clear now that the competition had escalated to more than just notes and rhythms—it was a clash of philosophies, a duel of passion in dual meaning.

And he was prepared to meet it head on.

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[call-sign-shark]

Day 3: Engraved in the Flesh || Finn Shelby x Reader

Requested by a lovely anon 🖤

TW: Kinktober prompt- marked, canonical violence, violent sexual practice, spanking, marking kink, non-protected sex, allusion to anal

Words: 630.

Notes: This work is a part of the Peaky Kinktober Event you can find here. Comment on the event post if you want to be tagged in the future works for Kinktober. The length of each prompt is random, but it’s never less than 600 words.

The family never suspected something to be wrong with the youngest of the tribe. After all, he had been lucky enough not to know the ugly truth of war nor the physical and emotional torment of hunger or poverty. If anything, Finn had grown up under Polly’s loving wing. Even if he was accustomed with gangs violence, he never truly took part of it before his brothers deemed him old enough. Arthur, Tommy and John worked hard so that he would never had to take a bullet like they did. They wanted him to be a general, not a disposable and vulnerable soldier. When he started to hang out with the pastor’s daughter, his Aunt was delighted. All of Birmingham knew how kind and quiet Y/N was. Holy Saint among the sinners, the young woman often wandered in the gritty streets of Small Heath with a basket filled with food she usually distributed to the poorest souls. Y/N left a bright sunshine in her wake, all the darkness of the place caught in her long coal black hair. Rumors said that when she smiled, even the most wicked men couldn’t lay a finger on her, all blissed out by her beauty and her divine aura of peacefulness. The bruises on her delicate skin? She was just incredibly clumsy. That was what her father always told her! And when she wasn’t bumping or tripping, the heavy basket she carried marked the flesh of her forearms.

But when the night came and the devils danced under the pale moonlight, she disappeared through her window and ran away from home, swallowed by the dull forest nearby. Y/N hid in an old vargo that belonged to the Shelby family, guided by the weak string lights hanging at the door, and she impatiently waited for Finn Shelby to appear in the doorway with a bottle of whisky in one hand, and a red rose in the other. Then their sordid and obscene ritual started, always following the same order: He slipped the flower in her hair, its crimson and velvety petals enhancing her beauty and suiting the color of the lipstick she had stolen from her mother. Then, they made the temperature rise, hands roaming on flesh clothes flying across the vardo. Only when the bottle of whisky was empty and their arousal reaching its limits, he assaulted her tight cunt with violent and rapid thrusts. A glistening and fragile pussy that only knew his cock. No one else’s. The way her warmth and wetness wrapped him sent his soul to heaven, making his lashes flutter. He was supposed to be a nice boy. She was supposed to be a holy and virginal girl.

So why? Why were they fucking like animals each night in the woods, filling the air with moans, flesh snapping sound and sweat? Why did he bend her over and spank her with his suit’s belt — and why did she enjoy it, her love juice trailing down her thighs more and more at each new beating? Finn grunted in her mouth when he came, painting her walls white and keeping her full til the morning. That was how Y/N liked him: engraved in her flesh, and dripping from her sore holes.

“Tsss, be more careful Y/N. You’re black and blue.” Her father scolded her, eyes rolling with annoyance at his daughter’s carelessness that revealed itself through her purplish bruises on her legs, thighs and neck. Little he knew that all her skin had been painted blue, immaculate flesh turned into a masterpiece by the brush of a mad artist. Y/N was both the canva and the muse, letting Finn Shelby turned her into what their love had always been: nothing gentle but the embodiment of Sin.

If you have appreciated what you've just read please take the time to reblog and/or comment. Your reactions are the real fuel and motivation of writers.

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[sprout-fics]

Sprout-Fic's Call of Duty Masterlist

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He's robbed the breath from your lungs, fissures extending ever outwards. They carve down into your bones, seep into the cracks of you where the gale of self doubt howls forsaken into the bitter wind. Yet there's warmth in his touch, one that melts away at the crystal heart of you suspended delicately like glass. It twinkles and glints in the darkness, shining outwards into the shadows of you both.

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You thought the woods were safe.

You hear the rumors, of the strange creature lurking in the forest, the thing with dripping red claws and snarling fangs. Mammoth, dangerous, primordial. He could swallow you whole.

Yet the thing you find is not a monster but a man, injured and weak, surrendering to your soothing hands offered in aid. Yet things in the woods are not always as they seem, and soon you begin to uncover the differences between monsters, men, and the creatures that lurk in the waning light of the full moon.

(Masterlist)

Tag, You're It (TF141 x F!Reader) 18+

Summary:

The room goes still, the five of you lounging around the rec room table on base, where a collection of bottles and snacks litters the surface. The quiet solitude of evening hangs subtle between you all, and if you breathe in you can smell the lingering trace of shampoo, all of you scrubbed fresh and clean following your arrival back after a successful mission. Here, gathered together in mutual company, it’s you who lets the words fall out of your mouth to the surprise of the men around you.

“I want you all to chase me down and take turns on me.”

18+ Series, Minors DNI

Masterlist

Call of Duty Omegaverse AU (Poly TF141 x Omega F! Reader) (18+)

Summary:

You've concealed your presence as an omega for your entire military career, careening up the ranks, collecting accolades, and having the privilege to assist the notorious 141 Taskforce. Yet on a mission gone wrong, you find yourself in circumstances entirely out of your control, and the events that follow hurtle you into the path of a pack that finds out they will do anything to make you theirs.

(Masterlist)

Engravings (Makarov x F! Reader)

Darkfic tw

Summary:

Marionette, your callsign. A name he bestowed upon you, the one who holds the strings. You’re his blade, his weapon, the arrow in his bow. You fly in the direction of his enemies, cut them down with lethal precision, feel their heartbeats stutter and still in your hands. You’re used to the scent of blood by now, arrive back to him awash in red and let him kiss it from your lips, the taste of your murder on his tongue.

You know what the others say about you. You see them as they watch you walk with him, two steps back, by his right shoulder. A designated position. If someday he were to be betrayed, shot through his spine, you know the bullet would enter you first.

You know too that you’ve accepted this.

-----

You never had reason to doubt Makarov until you find yourself cornered by a mysterious man who stares at you with wide eyes and whispers a devastating revelation

"What did he do to you?"

(Masterlist)

Oh Muse, Tell me of the Things Done by Golden Aphrodite

(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F! Reader)

Summary:

A sacrifice, they tell you. One to spare the fate of your city from the god of death's vengeful wrath. They lay you upon the sacrificial altar, where you weep and await your demise. Only to awaken in the palace of a God. (An Eros and Psyche inspired AU)

(Part 1)

Requests:

Sunshine (Simon Ghost Riley x Reader)

Jealous (Ghost x Reader x König)

Jealous (Part 2) (Ghost x Reader x König)

Drunk (Simon Ghost Riley x Reader)

Sick (Simon Ghost Riley x Reader)

Affliction. Affection. (Konig x GN Reader)

That One Motorcycle Bit (Simon Ghost Riley x F! Reader) (18+)

Oneshots:

Sunroom (John Price x F! Reader) (18+)

Afterburn (141/Los Vaqueros x F! Reader) (18+)

Speak Now (Gaz x Reader)

I'll Be Better in the Morning (Soap x Reader)

Goodnight Darling (John Price x GN Reader)

Unravel (Ghost x Reader)

Breaking and Entering (John Price x Wife! Reader) (2)

Adjustment (Dom! Price x GN! Reader) (18+)

Spitfire (Philip Graves x F!Reader) (18+)

Coyote Kiss (Phillip Graves x F!Reader)

Old Guard AU (TF141 & Reader)

Today. Yesterday. Tomorrow. Again. (Soap x Reader)

Danger Close (Captain John Soap MacTavish x F! Reader) (18+)

Mind the Drop (Dom Price x F! Sub Reader)

In the Softness (Nikolai x F! Reader) (18+)

Silver Fox (Nikolai x F! Reader) (18+)

Headcanons

NSFW Soap Headcanons (18+)

Valeria Garza Headcanons (18+)

Ghost and Gaz Headcanons

Poly 141 Headcanons (18+)

Soap Hugs

TF141 and Using a Safeword (18+)

TF141 and Dogs

TF141 + Los Vaqueros and Pegging (18+)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Trauma, and Kink (18+) SA TW

Hitman 141 AU

Sex with Simon

Captain MacTavish and Captain Price's wife (18+)

Neighbors Alpha Ghost (18+)

[bits-and-babs]

14 - Joel Miller. Joel begging is such a nice thought :)

𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐊-𝐘

pairings: Joel Miller x f!Reader

word count: 1k

warnings: very vague reference to suicide (character canon), use of a sex toy (m receiving), overstimulation, reference to spoilt orgasms, oral (m receiving).

summary: you punish Joel for going through your stuff.

joel masterlist | main masterlist | follower celebration | taglist

Creaking on its hinges as you push it open, the door to the entrance of your home is the only sound throughout the house as you enter. It’s oddly silent, differing from the months-long tradition of returning to the twang of gently plucked guitar strings floating downstairs.

“Joel?” You call, arching your brow as you kick off your snow-caked walking boots and leave them on the decking outside. It’s still freezing cold in Jackson; Joel always complaining about your freezing cold feet pressing against him as you cradle each other in an attempt to swindle more body heat.

No sound returns your call, and you begin to ascend the stairs quietly, your gun in hand. Multiple horrid scenarios flash through your mind. Had someone entered the house and attacked him? Had the grief for Sarah consumed him again, leading him to the gun storage locker in your shared bedroom?

Despite your dreadful assumptions, much to your relief, you find Joel sitting on the bed. His back faces you, and he’s hunched over something that has captured his undivided attention.

“Joel! You scared me!” You huff, releasing the handle of your gun and letting the weapon settle in its holster. Joel, however, nearly jumps out of his skin, attempting to shove something back into your bedside table subtly. You notice.

“Jesus-“ he scoffs, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly, “You’re home early!”

“What were you looking at?” You query, rounding the bed with a quizzical expression. Joel’s eyes seem to find everything but your own, the flush to his sun-bludgeoned cheeks telling you everything you need to know.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to go snooping?” You muse, enjoying the caught-red-handed flush to his face.

“Where did you find them?” He asks, avoiding your question and peering at the bedside cabinet once again.

“A shop in the city,” you hum, reaching into the drawer and picking out the vibrator he had no doubt been eyeing before you stumbled across his curious frisk of your bedside. “Couldn’t help but pick a few up.”

Pushing down on the button, you watch as Joel stares at the rumbling sex toy in your palm. His gaze flicks tentatively between the silicone and your expression.

“Now,” you pause, a smirk playing on your lips as you click the button again to amp the speed of the vibrations up, “What are we to do about your trespassing?”

✰

Joel Miller is a man who completely devotes himself to total control. He credited the twenty years of his survival to being in complete authority of every situation he found himself in, passing judgement as and when he saw fit.

Authority wasn’t something Joel was willing to surrender to just anyone— which is why you appreciate his absolute faith in you.

His fingers grasp onto the bed frame with a white-knuckle grip, glueing his palms to the wood as you had requested. He groans out loudly and tilts his head back, at the mercy of the vibrator that you trace up the frenulum of his twitching cock.

Cum drools from the ruddy head, dripping down onto his soft abdomen and shining beneath the golden light of the lampshade resting on the bedside cabinet.

“You’re making a mess,” you hum softly, pushing the juddering silicon toy against the head of his dick. Joel, despite the shattering overstimulation you’d subjected him to for the past hour, rocked his hips up against the vibrator with a haggard breath of despair. “I can clean it up with my tongue if you’d like?”

“Oh fuck,” he gasps, eyes rolling back when he tucks his face into the curve of his bicep in an attempt to conceal his embarrassment.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, cupping his balls gently in your free palm. Joel’s body trembles at the simple touch, desperate to cum. “It’s okay, Joel.”

“Oh shi- Please!” He breaks down, choking on the words that spill from his lips, “Please, I need to- fuckin’, please let me cum!”

“That what you want?” You smile sweetly, watching his eyelids flutter as you press the button once again, the intensity of the vibrations at their peak as you rub the toy back and forth across the glossy tip of his cock.

“Yes!” He gasps loudly, jutting his hips up into the sensation as he chases the impending threat of his orgasm. It’s overwhelming him, rocking through his muscles yet failing to hit the summit. Joel slams his fist against the bed frame, spitting curses through his gritted teeth.

“Have you learnt your lesson not to go snooping through my things?” You smirk, watching as Joel’s abdomen flexes desperately against the building sensation of bliss.

“Darlin’!” He calls you desperately, begging you to give him what he needs.

“Or will you do this more often?” You ask despite his frustrated growl of your name. Studying his wet lashes and the flush of his face, you continue to tease him, “Digging through my things in the hope I punish you like this again?”

“Fuckin’- Please!” Joel surrenders himself to you wholly, begging in a cracked voice. “Baby, please, I can’t do this anymore- I need to- oh fuck, that’s it-!”

He practically stops breathing altogether when you slide the vibrator down the length of his twitching, swollen cock and take the head into your mouth. It doesn’t take much at all. One, two, three swirls of the tip of your tongue against the velvety skin, and Joel lets out the most anguished moan. He finishes in your mouth, cum pumping down your throat and coating your tongue as you swallow him down over and over, the spend leaking down your chin. The vibrator seems to keep it going and going, his body trembling with the sheer force of his ecstasy.

“Hoh- fuck-“ Joel gasps loudly, sucking oxygen into his lungs when he looks down at you. Even in his practically delirious state, he wipes the cum from your chin in an act of service, a feeble attempt to take control once again.

“You liked that more than you’re letting on,” you muse.

“No, I didn’t.”

Ellie’s right. He’s a shitty liar.

END

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[theragethatisdesire]

꧁ rage's library ꧂

hello there, this is the best attempt at a masterlist i have been able to keep even halfway updated. there are lots of little ramblings and musings on my blog otherwise, but all the big chunks of writing are catalogued here. thanks for stopping by<3

DISCLAIMER: all of my writing contains MATURE CONTENT that is intended only for those over 18. if you are a minor or ageless blog, please kindly leave my page.

Eren Jaeger

ti penso ogni giorno (a collection)

a collection of one-shots set in a modern au that spans nearly 10 years of your relationship with the cute boy you met at a party in college.

much ado about nothing (ongoing series)

plug!eren enters the life of our stressed out, literature student reader just when she least expects him. in true shakespearean fashion, chaos ensues. strangers to fwb to idiots in love.

scary dog privilege (one-shot)

you enlist eren as your fake boyfriend for connie’s birthday party, unable to face your ex, jean, without the help of your best friend. you forgot one crucial thing, though: where jean’s all bark, eren’s all bite.

quick bright things (two-parter)

part 1 - spending your summer sweltering in the uppermost regions of italy with your wealthy friends, you stumble across a man who seems straight out of a shakespeare play, and who seems to be completely fascinated with you.

Jean Kirchstein

pretty girl (one-shot)

your new boyfriend jean is pretty much perfect, except when it comes to your incredibly vanilla sex life. you make the mistake of underestimating him.

Reiner Braun

a girl is a gun (canon-divergent series, ao3 only for now)

after years of bloodshed and distance, evin finley reconnects with her childhood friend, reiner braun. they’ve both changed over the years, but the string that ties them together seems to have survived the wars they’ve faced. when secrets about evin’s past start to come to light after eren jaeger’s raid on liberio, reiner finds out whether or not love truly is the death of duty.

Multi-Character

aot faves as dads (headcanons)

just my favorite boys with their precious little ones in another, happier life.

three’s a… (poly!erejean uni)

you and eren have been getting more adventurous in the bedroom and roping jean into your adventures. jean’s way too in his head about the whole thing.

show off (poly!erejean uni)

eren notices that you and jean have a bit of a crush on one another. he helps you act out your fantasy.

cabin in the woods (poly!erejean uni)

you and the boys head up to jean's mountain cabin to celebrate the one-year anniversary adding jean into your relationship with eren

drabble masterlist

sometimes i literally just never shut up and sometimes i play ask games so find the result of both of those things linked here.

[bit-dodgy-innit]

Heaven Sent You to Me

Pairing: Apollo (who happens to look exactly like Orestes in Agora) x fem!reader

Rating: Explicit, Minors DNI!

Word Count: 3.8k

TW/CW: umm we all know Greek Mythology is like screwed up right? So there’s mean patriarchal men in this, a bit of power play between Apollo and reader, innocence!kink, oral (f!receiving), PinV sex, loss of virginity, talk of pregnancy

A/N: YES I AM AWARE THAT I SHOULD BE WRITING THE MORE THE MERRIER OR ANSWERING THE OTHER 87 ASKS IN MY INBOX BUT MY MUSE IS FICKLE OKAY? She said “Oscar as Apollo or no words at all” so here we are 🤷‍♀️ I watched The Two Faces of January last week and kept thinking that Oscar looks like a Greek god and @lovely-cryptid ‘s greek mythology AU lives rent free in my head and I couldn’t help myself…

Also the title is a lyric from an Ariana Grande because I have fully reverted ten years writing a Greek Mythology AU for my fandom du jour with a song lyric title bc I'm ~artsy~

You should have known he was a god. The way his fingers seemed to fly over the strings of his lyre. That enchanting, mellifluous voice. The smile that shone brighter than the sun itself. You’d encountered him in the woods behind the temple consecrated to him for Zeus’s sake.

Though who could blame you for assuming he was a mortal man? What would a god, an Olympian, want with you – an unimportant peasant in a small, unimportant village? He’d appeared to you as a mortal, a beautiful, alluring one, but a mortal. In fact, he’d been rather short in stature. Apollo’s affairs and exploits were famous, nay infamous, and even now it seemed impossible to reconcile the man who had spoken to you with such sweetness, who had wrung ebullient laughter, as well as previously unimaginable pleasure, from you was the mighty god you and your family had worshiped since time immemorial.

The revelation that you had lain with the god of light, music, medicine, the averter of evil, had been one that raced your head endlessly over the past few days, but it never failed to send a shiver down your spine. You instantly conjured the broad, chiseled planes of his body, so starkly contrasted with the gentle way he’d made love to you. When you revealed that you were a virgin, he was tender with you. Fragments of memories flashed in your mind’s eye but the one that oddly lingered the longest, and the most vividly, was the sweep of his thick, dark lashes across his high cheekbone when his eyes fluttered shut in ecstasy as he met his release. He had been the portrait of pleasure and beauty. You were truly a naive fool for not realizing the divinity in front of you in that moment.

“We must pray that you conceive,” your mother had declared. “You have already secured our family great status, but a demigod? Dmitri, can you imagine?”

Despite her praise, your cheeks burned in shame when she turned to your father for his reaction. You detested how openly and calculated this very intimate, typically private event in your life was being discussed. No one was supposed to know. Yet your sister had found the blood stains on your chiton while laundering it, and she’d coaxed the details out of you.

“Did it hurt?” she whispered.

“No.”

Her brows furrowed, “But you bled. It always hurts. It hurt my first time.”

“I…I don’t know. It didn’t. There was a–,” you blushed bright red and lowered your voice even further, “–a stretch, but it was pleasurable. I didn’t notice the blood until you did.”

Your sister was not willing to let it go. A trait among the women in your family that you’d failed to inherit.

“Well, how large was he?”

“Caris,” you urged her to stop. Yet, you knew your plea was useless, so you quickly approximated your lover’s size with your hands.

“Oh that definitely should have hurt!” Caris squawked in disbelief.

“I’m not talking about this anymore!” you proclaimed.

And that really should have been the end of it. Yet when you, Caris, and your parents made your weekly tribute at Apollo’s temple the following day the priests and acolytes were all abuzz. The god had appeared yesterday.

Initially, you had been as exhilarated as the rest of them, yet your stomach dropped and face blanched as the priest who had seen Apollo described him. Inky curls, olive skin, dark eyes with a strong brow and prominent nose. The god possessed an undoubtedly commanding presence, but there was a playfulness, an exuberance to him.

You and Caris traded bewildered glances. The priest’s depiction of Apollo matched up rather perfectly with Phoebus, the young man you’d stumbled across when you’d decided to take a walk through the forest rather than immediately returning home after your visit to the temple.

“It’s him,” she asserted lowly as you all headed back home.

“Shhhh,” you tried to speed up and away from her, a stupid idea because Caris had longer legs than you. When she inevitably caught up with you two seconds later, you insisted, “Don’t be silly.”

“Apollo is the god of healing and diseases. Is it really so far-fetched to believe that he could minimize any pain for his lovers? Especially the virgins?”

“Caris! Enough!”

The vehemence of your demand had caught your mother’s attention. While in the moment you were able to extinguish any suspicions she had, eventually Caris’s big mouth betrayed you. You had expected her to rage. To punish you. You, an unmarried, unbetrothed woman, had engaged in an activity that was the most important gift in your dowry to your future husband. You readied yourself for the insults and reproaches your mother would hurl at you for becoming damaged goods as a marriage prospect.

Yet, she all but kissed your feet when she found out. She rejoiced, then immediately marched you back to the temple to meet with the clerics. That was when the humiliation began. You were examined to ensure that you had in fact been deflowered. As if that hadn’t been degrading enough, you then were stripped and prayed over for hours, leering men begging Apollo for a sign to confirm that you were indeed the one the god had chosen to ravish. The manner in which the priests brusquely groped and prodded at you couldn’t have been more different than the way the deity himself had treated you, the god they claimed to serve.

When a sign didn’t immediately appear, doubt had set in. A mortal woman winning the attention of their patron god was the most momentous thing to happen in your village in generations, so if you were lying? Eternal shame. For you and your family.

You were kept overnight in the temple in a nicely appointed room, but forbidden to see anyone. You cried yourself to sleep, yet much to your relief, at dawn, Apollo provided the confirmation the priests needed and you were allowed to go. Of course, by the time you returned home, everyone knew.

After having a bit of time to contemplate it, you realized that it wasn't so much the fact that every single person in your life began treating you differently that unmoored and overwhelmed you, it was how swiftly it had all happened. It hadn’t been your choice.

You were required at the temple daily now for rituals. Thankfully, the fact you’d lain with a god disqualified you from becoming an acolyte, you were still needed for “veneration” purposes. You soon deduced this meant that the priests simply wanted to keep you around to curry favor with Apollo.

You hated it. You were the only one present in the chamber currently who had ever meaningfully interacted with the deity, yet you were reduced to a glorified altar ornament for their rites.

The only way to weather these hours-long sessions was to recall what brought you here in the first place. You retreated into your memory of that fateful afternoon when you met Apollo.

It’d been a beautiful day, and you were more at ease in nature. The hustle and bustle of the village and the imposing columns of the temple felt suffocating to you.

You’d heard him first before you saw him. The most beautiful music wafted toward you. You couldn’t have turned away if you’d wanted to. It was as if the mixture of the melody he played and the tune he sang had entranced your feet to carry you to the source of the sound. You hadn’t heard the song before, but inexplicably, it had an odd air of familiarity within your ears.

The sight of him initially seemed to be a joke. He had to be a mirage of some sort. A song so gorgeous coming from a man who was even more dazzling? Had you tripped and hit your head on your stroll from the temple? Surely you were dreaming.

His song ceased when he sensed your presence.

“I’m sorry,” your apology tumbled from your lips at once. “Please don’t stop on my account, I didn’t mean to–I’ll leave. I apologize for intruding.”

Before you could tuck and run, he called to you.

“Don’t! There’s no need.”

You froze, and slowly pivoted back to face him. He’d gotten closer to you, which was terrible for your clarity of mind. In addition to his good looks, he radiated an irresistible air of power, and his proximity only compelled you to submit to it more.

“Thank you.”

Suddenly, the man before you turned boyish and shy before he queried, “Would you like to hear more?”

“Please.”

It was the first time you were treated to his smile. It reduced you to a blushing fool with a startling amount of efficiency.

He motioned to a nearby boulder for you to take a seat on. You obeyed instantly. He took his place on a nearby log and resumed plucking at his lyre.

His song was haunting, beguiling, and hopeful all at once. His voice lilted over the lyre’s strings. He sang in a language you didn’t understand, and couldn’t begin to identify, but you were captivated all the same.

You were slightly embarrassed, though not at all surprised, that there were tears staining your cheeks when he concluded.

He grinned dopily when he saw you dabbing at your eyes, “That bad, huh?’

“Stop,” You chuckled through your tears. “You have a gift.”

He shrugged off your compliment with a frustrating amount of nonchalance.

You needed to know more about this mysterious man. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“I’m merely passing through.”

“Are you a minstrel then?”

He smirked as if you’d said something inadvertently humorous to him. “I suppose you could call me that.”

“Well, what should I call you then?”

“Phoebus.”

“Have you traveled much, Phoebus?” you inquired.

“I have.”

“Could you tell me about the places you’ve been? I’ve never left this utterly boring village.”

“I will, if you tell me what keeps you here. Is it your village’s association with the deity?”

You cocked your head in confusion. It was an odd question to you. You strove to answer diplomatically, “While I wouldn’t say that Apollo is driving me away, I wouldn't say he’s keeping me here either.”

Again, that secretive little smirk tugged at the corners of Phoebus’s quite luscious mouth. “I see. He’s vastly overrated isn’t he?”

“Oh I wouldn’t go so far to say that!” you attempt to course-correct. “We’re blessed with his patronage.”

A mischievous glint danced behind Phoebus’s dark, magnetic eyes. “Say no more. Now, where do you want to hear about first?”

He proceeded to regale you with tales of the most wondrous places. Of seas and mountains and monsters and the divine. You got lost within his stories. You wished you could live within them.

It had seemed like the most natural thing in the world to accompany him on a stroll when he suggested it. Typically warnings would blare in your head - you must not stray any further with this handsome stranger, he could sully you, or worse, harm you, but you felt entirely safe with Phoebus. At the time, it had been impossible to put your finger on why you’d felt so. Now, it was abundantly clear: you’d been in the presence of one of the most powerful creatures in all of existence. Still, he chatted and wandered with you in a remarkably similar manner to mortal men your age.

When you two came across a river and Phoebus proposed a swim, your cheeks had burned with sheepishness. He hadn’t mocked or derided you, he simply offered to turn away while you undressed and submerged yourself into the water to afford you some modesty. However, Phoebus hadn’t been quite as bashful as you had been when disrobing. In fact, the flourish with which he all but flung off his chiton led you to believe he wanted you to watch him, rather than avert your eyes like you immediately did once you realized what he was doing. You hadn’t been quick enough however, and had caught a delectable glimpse of his toned chest, thick thighs, and what you deduced was a well-endowed groin.

You only dared look back up when you heard the splash signaling his entrance into the river. He resurfaced with his black curls matted and slicked back against his skull, an impish grin on his lips. He reached for you and you floated to him without hesitation. The feel of his bare skin against yours was intoxicating.

“I want to kiss you,” he murmured, even though you two were the only people around for at least a mile.

“You may,” you granted him permission in a similarly hushed tone.

Your lips drifted together, and then it was as if you had become a feral animal let out of its cage. You couldn’t get enough. Your lips moved against his ravenously, your legs wrapping around his torso on instinct when he moved toward the river’s bank. While the press of his arousal against your hip was certainly a foreign sensation, you weren’t afraid. He deposited you on the warm silt for a moment before retrieving your tunic and laying it under you, a makeshift bed for what was about to come.

It was then that you confessed. You didn’t know what to expect once the words left your mouth - judgment, indifference, a perverse excitement - but Phoebus smiled softly, and nodded his head, as if he’d expected it.

“Then I shall show you how beautiful pleasure can be,” he vowed.

He took his time, dipping his head between your breasts to mouth at your pert nipples, then lower to between your legs. When the tip of his nose drew a featherlight line along the seam of your sex, you gasped. You may have been a virgin, but you weren't totally naive. Caris had been betrothed recently and regaled you constantly about her rendezvous with her soon-to-be husband, but she had never mentioned this. It was as if Phoebus was sending you flying through the clouds, straight to Olympus, with only his tongue. Your fingers had wound into his damp curls to hold on for dear life as you fell apart for him.

It wasn’t until your pleasure crested that he slid a thick, suspiciously uncalloused finger through your folds and pressed it inside. He cooed comforts to you when you tightened around him, your body’s first reaction to try and expel the intrusion. One digit became two, and after a while, he guided your hand to manhood, showing you how to grip him, coaxing and coaching you on how to bring him back to hardness.

Caris had always advised you to shut your eyes and not to look at a man’s member for too long, since it wasn’t the most pleasant of sights. She was wrong in this instance. Every bit of Phoebus was mesmerizing, and his erect cock was no different from the rest of him. His encouragements echoed in your ears as if he was speaking them to you in the present.

“Yes, that’s it sunshine,” he’d panted, “You can grip me tighter, oh, that is lovely. You are a fast learner, aren’t you? I’m going to make you feel so very good.”

Becoming one had been the most intense sensation you had ever endured. It was all too much, yet you wanted more. You keened when Phoebus had draped your legs over his broad shoulders to penetrate you deeper, your skin suddenly feeling too tight. It was too much, it was too much, you’d chanted to yourself. Phoebus’s girth was unrelenting, but at the same time you never wanted it to end.

Your lover was an attuned one, so when he observed that the position was perhaps too vigorous for his little virgin, he’d rolled you over so you were straddling his ample hips and speared on his desire.

“Here, grasp onto my shoulders,” he instructed you, “so you can control the depth and the pace, yes?”

Phoebus had long fucked the words out of you, so your reply came as a breathless, frantic nod. You wished to thank him, truly, you couldn’t have asked for a more considerate man to share this with for the first time. Instead, you did as he said and found a tempo and pattern of undulating your hips against his that suited you.

Phoebus couldn’t help himself, he began meeting your pelvis, thrusting up into you. You howled in pleasure, and his gaze instantly searched out yours to confirm those were good sounds instead of pained ones. He didn’t look away once he had found the answer he was hoping for in your eyes. Those deep brown irises had bore into yours, and the longer you looked into them, the more convinced you were they held galaxies.

You were so caught up in Phoebus’s gaze that you didn’t notice he’d snuck a hand in between your bodies until the pad of his finger connected with your sensitive bud.

“There you go sunshine, let go for me, you can let go.”

You felt as if you were going to explode out of your body as Phoebus continued to repeat those sweet-nothings as if they were a prayer.

“Let go for me darling, I know you can, let go–”

“You may go.”

The high priest's imperious tone snapped you out of your reverie. No longer were you in the forest with Phoe–Apollo, but rather the towering temple consecrated to him. Your relief that you could leave superseded your annoyance at being interrupted. You desperately needed to return to the privacy of your bedroom for a bit of self-relief.

Perhaps it was because you were in such a rush that you didn’t initially notice him as you flew out of the side entrance of the temple. It was his voice that stopped you.

“You’re not with child.”

“Holy Hera! You frightened me!” You put a hand to your chest to calm your beating heart.

“So you can stop fretting." Clearly, Apollo wasn’t particularly remorseful about the scare he'd given you. "Though to be honest, I’m surprised you’re relieved. Most women, beings far more divine than yourself, are usually thrilled to carry my offspring. They clamber for the chance and flaunt their bellies if they conceive.”

“I…I could not withstand the attention, I do not think. Nor the pomp and the responsibility.”

“The priests would help with the burden.”

“Yes but the child’s father wouldn’t,” you pointed out. “As great an honor to mother a demigod would be, I would prefer a…someone to experience it all with.”

Apollo nodded. “That I could not give you.”

“I know,” There was no resentment or disappointment in your voice. “I would never expect you to.”

“That must be why I yearn for you still,” Apollo mused, “why I cannot stay away.”

“I...my family is expecting me.”

Apollo was not accustomed to being refused. He fixed you with a look of amused incredulity after you spoke.

“I do not want them to know. Or anyone for that matter.” You realized how ungrateful you sounded. To spurn a god was to write your own death sentence. “Not that I don’t desire you, or that I wish to disregard your desires–”

“You want me all to yourself.” When you opened your mouth to amend his statement, he stopped you. “It’s alright. I want you all to myself too.”

“You have me,” you averred. “However, when the priests and my mother get involved…”

“I understand. I do not wish for fanfare either.” He pulled you close to him. Your breath hitched at the press of his hardness into your hip through both of your chitons.

Your mouths were millimeters apart. Instead of closing the distance, you asked, “Why did you tell me a false name when we first met?”

He smiled that bright, beatific grin that warmed you from the inside out. “I suppose for the same reason that you want to keep this a secret. If you believe your family is meddling, then mine is…”

Apollo didn’t need to finish his sentence for you to understand. You giggled, a sound he much enjoyed. At last, he captured your lips with his. Kissing Apollo melted you, you became a molten, liquid being when he pressed his lips to yours.

As transcendent as the kiss was, the god could feel that you were holding back. “What’s wrong, sunshine?”

You were not proud of the flip your stomach did at the pet name. Once you regained control of yourself, you replied, “Nothing, nothing at all. Forgive me.”

“Don’t apologize, simply tell me what is bothering you,” he countered, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face.

When you hesitated, his fingers tilted your head up so your eyes met. “I won’t be angry.”

Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to voice your complaint. It was funny, you’d spent your entire life beseeching Apollo for this or that in the temple, yet when he was standing right in front of you, eager to know what troubled you, you couldn’t find the words.

“Why me?” It was a deflection from Apollo’s question, but still a valid inquiry.

He chuckled. “You’re asking me to apply logic to attraction, something inherently instinctual,” Apollo pointed out. “Though if I had to try to put reasoning to it, I would say it was because you are kind, beautiful, you have a tight, juicy little cunt…” he cupped your mound to demonstrate his point. You gasped at the contact. “...and when I’m with you, I feel the most like a mortal that I've felt in decades.”

Mortal? Was that a bad thing? Were you unintentionally insulting the deity?

Apollo was quick to assuage you, “I enjoy it, sunshine. The immediacy, the urgency. It’s refreshing. You’re refreshing.”

“Thank you,” you murmured. You sought to return his kind words but what was there to say? It was obvious why a mortal such as yourself would fall for a god.

“Now, I won’t ask again. What vexes you?’

“I…after we…our first meeting,” you struggled to select the right words, “the priests wanted to corroborate that we’d lain together, and their methods were…they were not very gentle.”

Your lover’s eyes turned stormy. No sooner had you told him did a crack sound from what you guessed was inside the temple.

“No, please! Don’t hurt anyone!” you begged him just as swiftly.

Apollo’s face softened slightly. “Even after they violated you, you show them compassion. I swear to you I won’t, however, I must ensure that you, and by extension, myself are treated with respect.”

“Of course,” you acquiesced. Gods were not known for their mercy, so the fact he was willing to compromise with you at all was a victory.

Apollo pulled you into another kiss that stole your breath. “If I cannot have you now…then tonight. When the moon peaks in the sky.”

“How will I find you?”

A smirk played across his lips. “Don’t fret, sunshine. I shall ensure it.”

A/N: Sooooo…what do we think?! 🫣 A little more flowery than my usual but I just had too much fun with this and now I have ideas for a few installments 🤦‍♀️

READ PART TWO

Tagging a few folks who might be interested:

@bitch4marvel @luciannadraven33 @oof-its-roobi @twwcs, @ninebluehearts @damnzelsoul @missmarmaladeth @welcometostayingawake @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction , @romanarose @dameronscopilot

[doremimosasol]

Masterlist ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡. c.ai bots

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡. headcanons

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DISCLAIMER ABOUT REQUESTS

Character.ai bots .𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡

• Mattheo Riddle (hp)

Found him by the astronomy tower

Death Eater meeting at your family’s house

An unexpected encounter in the common room

A walk through the woods

Seeking for some quiet at the Black Lake

Ghostface au (requested)

Seven minutes in heaven

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Made him mad

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After Quidditch practice

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Riddle

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You belong to me

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• Lorenzo Berkshire (hp)

One kiss?

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(yet to come)

• Minho (tmr)

You’re a med-Jack

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(yet to come)

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Pain(ed) - Mattheo Riddle

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Stay over for the Holidays - Draco Malfoy (requested) (yet to come)

Filthy mudblood - Draco Malfoy (requested) (yet to come)

Oneshots ˖˚☽˚｡

Pain(ed) - Mattheo Riddle

Pain(ed) - Mattheo Riddle blurb

Pain(ed) - Mattheo Riddle pt2 (yet to come)

Through the years - Mattheo Riddle

Marked - Tom riddle

To heaven and back - Theodore Nott

Drunk promises - Mattheo Riddle

Roses in silver lining - Tom Riddle

Little secret - Mattheo Riddle

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Mattheo Riddle | Marcus Lopez

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The Slytherin boys are pretty but…

Harry Potter characters

Harry Potter pets

Dating Mattheo Riddle

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Dating Tom Riddle

Dating Remus Lupin (yet to come)

Dating Regulus Black (yet to come)

Dating James Potter (yet to come)

Dating Draco Malfoy (yet to come)

Dating Sirius Black (yet to come)

Dating Barty Crouch Jr (yet to come)

[cambion-companion]

aemond falling in love with a musically gifted woman and every time they’re getting ready to sleep he asks her to sing to him 🥺 this thought JUST popped up in my head. like imagine he hears her before he sees her. like she’s singing for some event or something but aemond gets there too late and only sees the back of her head. it could be a whole thing where he’s trying to find her because her voice intrigued him that much.

Beneath the Mistletoe

This fic took ME on a ride

I have been waiting to do this one for too long and I made it Yule-themed as well...reader introduces Aemond to some winter traditions hehe

Aemond x fem!reader | Aemond reluctant to take part in festivities | harpist!reader | cheeky banter | mistletoe kiss

You fingers plucked the strings of your harp, constructed of the finest walnut wood, filling the dining hall with lovely music as you accompanied the other musicians. Your keen eyes swept the dance floor, taking note of all the noble lords and ladies swirling about, strung to the music you were creating.

All were dancing and making merry, save one obvious exception.

Aemond Targaryen. The silver-haired enigma. The young man who had all the ladies gossiping and giggling as they whispered behind hands, surreptitiously glancing at the rigid form of the prince.

As if he felt your gaze upon him, while he sat at the long table, his eye flicked to meet yours. Neither of you broke eye contact, you watched as he studied you and the instrument you played. A pleasant shiver prickled the back of your neck, he seemed interested in you. A small smile tugged at his lovely lips, curved and plush as they were. You longed to run your fingers along the shape of them.

Your fingers stumbled, you lost the beat of the music and faltered.

"Come on now, Y/N." The fiddler beside you chided. "Keep up! Don't let pretty princes distract you."

You mumbled a curse at him, steadying your fingers upon the harp strings once again and reentering the melody. You shot a quick glance back at the table, Aemond was grinning slyly at you now.

Your face burned, and you had to look away before you messed up the song again.

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

She was quite a lovely sight, seated before the wooden harp, fingers so dexterous as she conjured music as though it was magic.

Aemond was loathe to admit it, but he was entranced at the sight. The harp perched between your legs, a rather intimate instrument he mused.

With long fingers grasping his pewter goblet, Aemond raised his cup to his lips, pretending to drink the wine therein, still observing you over the rim.

"See something interesting, brother?" Aegon prodded his shoulder, rousing Aemond unpleasantly from his contemplation of your form.

"Is there no one else for you to bother?" He cast an annoyed look at the elder prince, appraising his unkempt state. "Did mother not instruct you to wash before the Yuletide feast?"

"I'm presentable enough." Aegon defended, tucking a greasy strand of silver hair behind his ear.

"You look like an urchin."

"You have the look of a man who sees a woman he likes." Aegon wiggled his eyebrows at Aemond, his cheeks ruddy from all the wine he'd consumed. "Go talk to her."

"She's busy at the moment." Aemond actually took a sip of wine this time, almost choking as Aegon clapped him hard upon the back.

"I'll be right back, don't go anywhere."

"What are you-?" Aemond's eye narrowed as he watched Aegon cross the dance floor, almost getting clotheslined by a waltzing couple as he did. "Oh no." He murmured, rising to stand, bemusement and bewilderment furrowing his brow.

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

"Excuse me. Harp lady. Stop playing a moment." You looked around, your hands stilling upon the vibrating strings. The last person you expected to be speaking to you was Aegon Targaryen, the eldest son of Viserys and Alicent. Yet here he was, his cheeks red from the influence of wine as he grinned down at where you sat. "My brother would like a word."

"I'm sorry my prince." You bowed your head. "I have been commissioned to play for the royal feast."

Aegon was having none of it. You made a disgruntled noise as he took you by your elbow, guiding you ungently to your feet. You steadied your instrument as it teetered, jostled by the abruptness of your movements as Aegon practically steered you away.

You looked guiltily over your shoulder at your fellow musicians, giving them a little wave of apology as you were dragged toward the long dining table.

Aemond stood as Aegon approached, his hand still gripping your arm.

"Let her go, Aegon." Aemond's voice was terse but still held a quality that made your skin tingle pleasantly.

"Talk about a first-class delivery." Aegon chortled, smacking you between your shoulder blades, making you stumble slightly forward.

You noted how Aemond raised his hands as if prepared to catch you should you need assistance. Luckily for you, Aegon wasn't that rough.

"I'm not a Yuletide package." You grumbled, straightening your skirts and giving Aegon a displeased glare before curtsying to Aemond.

"Indeed not!" Aegon agreed, crossing to pour himself another generous glass of wine. "Aemond here is the one with the package for you."

"That is quite enough." Aemond hissed, his jaw clenching as his lilac eye cut from you to his brother. "My lady." He gave you a curt bow and held out his arm for you to take. "Allow me to escort you elsewhere, the better to escape my inebriated brother."

"You can thank me later, Aemond!" Aegon called after the two of you as Aemond guided you away.

You had to remind yourself how to breath properly, the feel of Aemond's leather jerkin smooth beneath your fingertips as you entwined your arm with his. He smelled lovely, a combination of smoke, leather and spiced wine.

"I do apologize." Aemond intoned, inclining his head toward you as he spoke softly. "I do not even know your name."

"Y/N." You answered, your voice almost catching in your tightened throat.

"Y/N." He repeated, your name sounding sinfully good on his lips. "My brother gets certain...ideas in his head and will not be dissuaded once his course is set."

"What idea inspired him to lead me to you?" You asked, a mischievous spark lighting in your chest. "My prince." You remembered your manners at the last second.

"Please, call me Aemond." The two of you stepped together out onto a moonlit terrace, complete with rosebushes and archways covered in vines.

The night air was brisk, you subconsciously pulled Aemond's warm body closer to your own. You noted how he had not answered your question. "Aemond, then. I noticed you didn't seem a fan of the festivities."

"I enjoy feasts well enough."

"But not dancing?"

"No, not dancing."

You stood at the railing now, under a mossy archway, overlooking the red roofs of King's Landing, now bathed in silver light under the night sky. The waves of the sea far away sparkled merrily, catching your eyes momentarily before you turned to face the silver prince.

"What do you like, then?"

Aemond clasped his hands behind his back, his profile sharply illuminated by the moonlight. His eye flicked to your face, he was very close to you, closer than you had ever imagined you would be to a prince let alone a Targaryen.

"I enjoy reading. Swordplay..." He hesitated, turning away from the urban vista to give you his full attention.

You arched an eyebrow, a small smile playing along your lips. "And?"

"Hmm." He tilted his head at you, shining silken hair falling over his shoulder. "I enjoyed watching you play your harp." His eye widened slightly, as he straightened, catching himself leaning closer to your enticing smile. "That is to say, I enjoyed the music you were making."

"I'm surprised you heard it." You leaned an arm on the balcony railing afraid your knees were about to give out. "Harps are notoriously hard to hear in a setting such as a feast."

"I heard you." Aemond was still studying your face, seeming to like the little changes in expression he saw as your lips quirked up, your eyes crinkling at the corners, the scrunch of your nose. "You are quite skilled. Perhaps you would play for me sometime?"

"So long as Aegon isn't there."

Aemond chuckled at that. You wanted him to laugh again, it was a sound that sent shockwaves straight to your center.

"You're biting your lip, Y/N." Aemond's eye had found your mouth, lingering upon your lips as you wet them with your tongue.

"I just noticed something." You pointed to the space above your heads, a strand of foliage hung from the apex of the archway, white berries nestled amongst sprigs of green.

"What is that?" Aemond asked, looking up to where you pointed.

"You don't know what mistletoe is?" You looked aghast, pressing a dramatic hand to your heart. "It's a Yuletide tradition."

"I believe we've established I don't give much credence to festive traditions, Y/N." He seemed to like saying your name, waiting for you to explain what it was.

"When two people stand under a bundle of mistletoe they have to..." You trailed off, your boldness turning to sudden shyness as you realized what you were about to say and who you were speaking to.

"They...what?" Aemond prompted, looking again at the plant, sudden wariness upon his features.

"Kiss."

Aemond looked at you in surprise. "I'm sorry?" He chuckled. "That's a tradition? You're having me on."

"I promise you I'm not!" You blushed furiously.

Aemond seemed to be enjoying making you squirm. "You're making this up."

"I am not!"

"A clever scheme."

"I will bet you money that it's true." You felt lightheaded from the embarrassment. "Ask anyone inside."

"Kiss me then."

"I am not lying-what?" You must have misheard, you had to fight not to gawk up at the prince as he looked imperiously down at you.

"Since you're so adamant this mistroe forces two people to kiss..."

"Mistletoe." You corrected quickly.

"Then make good on your claim." He leaned into your space; you felt his breath upon your face. "Or else I suppose we will be stuck here for eternity, held captive by this plant."

"Aemond, we don't have to..." Your words caught in your suddenly dry mouth as Aemond hooked a slender finger beneath your chin, pulling you gently forward.

"I want to." He breathed, waiting for you to close the final distance separating you.

Your eyes roved across his angular features, his lilac eye turned silver in the moonlight, the leather eyepatch covering his other eye, a vertical scar running up his forehead and down his cheek. Your gaze fell to his lips, the very lips you had been daydreaming about not an hour earlier.

Your eyelashes fluttered, a sudden rushing sound filling your heated ears as you leaned forward, Aemond's finger on your chin moving trace your cheek as his lips parted.

As if guided by an invisible force your lips brushed against his, a wanton moan escaping your mouth that he captured as he pressed harder against you, pulling you by your waist flush against him.

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

You tasted like starlight and mulled wine. Your body warm against his. Aemond could feel the soft well of your bosom flush to his chest, the enticing scent of you filling his lungs as he breathed you in.

Thank the gods for mistlewhatever, his mind was too full of you within his arms for him to think clearly. Aemond drank down your sighs of pleasure as he greedily moved his lips with yours, only pulling away slightly when the both of you needed to catch your breath.

"Did we satisfy the tradition?" He asked, his eye crinkling as he smiled at your eager expression.

Your hair was a little mussed from the intensity of your embrace, Aemond smoothed an unruly tress and tucked it behind your ear.

"I'm tempted to say 'no'." You quipped, finding your voice at last.

"I would like for you to play your harp for me later this evening, before I retire." Aemond kept his hands upon your waist, loathe to let you go. "Perhaps we can revisit this," he reached up, plucking the sprig of mistletoe from where it hung. "later." He pocketed the plant, relishing the way your cheeks flushed pink as your lovely intelligent eyes followed his movements.

"Where should I find you, my prin-Aemond?"

Aemond let his hands fall away from you at last, only to clasp your hand formally and press a warm kiss to your knuckles. He lingered there, enjoying the feel of your soft skin on his lips. He had to suppress the urge to flick his tongue out to taste you.

"The sitting room adjacent to the library. I will find you there after the festivities adjourn."

His gaze lingered on your upturned face, softly taking in your lovely expression.

"You're not going to ask me to dance?" You gave a mock pout, drawing his attention back to your enticing lips.

"Oh no, my lady." Aemond chuckled dryly. "Enchanting as you are, I do not indulge in dancing."

"Maybe I can change your mind one of these days."

He gave a pause, feeling the bundle of mistletoe inside his jacket. "I wouldn't rule that out as a possibility." He extended his arm to you. "May I escort you back to the feast?"

You shook your head. "Thank you, no. I need a moment...that is, I would like to enjoy the view a little longer."

Aemond watched as you turned back to the scenic vista of the sprawling city below. He allowed himself a moment of weakness, his eye trailing down along your body, taking in the way your skirt shifted in the light breeze, accentuating the curve of your hips and your full...he needed to depart.

With a final shallow bow Aemond turned briskly upon his booted heel and strode back toward the Yuletide festivities, silently wishing he could get away with remaining at your side for the rest of the evening and perhaps even longer. He had been gone from your presence for mere seconds and already craved you.

Aemond would never admit it out loud, but Aegon had been correct.

Aemond desired you.

And what he desired, he claimed.

[glystenangel]

In a Minute! Pt. 2✨

CEO&Dom!Sukuna x Bratty&Afab!Reader (Modern AU)

tags/warning: 18+ MDNI, full on spice aka sex, sukuna in a suit, reader wears makeup and a dress, established relationship, one mention of spanking, pet names (variations of sweetheart), mad kuna daddy, overstim, multiple orgasms, praise & degradation, crying, one mention of being sukuna's puppy, mirror sex, slight pda but not rly, swears and a bit of dirty talk, d/s implied, ends fluffy

summary: you get your punishment and then some

pt. 1 & hcs

~2k words>

didn't beta this too much but thanks for reading and enjoy<3

_________________

"Take off your fucking clothes."

Sukuna’s voice has a biting rasp, and you follow his instructions immediately.

You sit back against the edge of your vanity and slide the straps of your dress over your shoulders, knowing you’re heightening his annoyance the slower you go. Fortunately, Sukuna seems prepared for this charade, and he roughly takes your hands in his before turning you around to bend you over the table. Even though the cool silver of the mirror brushes the top of your head, you can’t bring yourself to look into it just yet. Your cheek gets pressed against the wooden surface, and you almost complain when he tuts out a disappointed string of grunts.

“You’re taking too long.” He says, and you shiver when he shoves the hem of your dress over your hips.

He pauses for a moment, and you bite your lip to keep from knowingly smirking. You hadn’t put on any underwear.

“Of course.” Sukuna mutters, gripping your thigh with venom on his tongue.

The metal slide of his pants zipper as it becomes undone has you trembling in anticipation.

“Why are you shaking? You wanted this.” Sukuna’s tone is snarky, and he frames your hips with his hands, hard enough to know that you’re going to bruise once he actually starts.

“I-”

“Don’t. That’s enough.” He silences you with just the inherent authority in his voice, and you feel his already hard cock hovering behind your thighs.

Just barely, you can feel the heat of his tip waiting to fill you up with every ounce of pleasure he’s got.

You also sense that he won’t move until you manage to stop speaking or squirming.

“Maybe you do listen. You ready to be a good for me now?” He muses, voice coated thick in appreciation.

You don’t respond, pressing your lips together in wait.

This is a test you need to pass.

Sukuna rolls his hips forward and back from your entrance, the shallow prodding and bumping by the tip of his cock making your stomach turn, “Still want to go slow? Is this what you wanted?”

You squeeze your eyelids shut, not daring to reciprocate the taunt with any word or premature buck of your hips.

Only silence buys you what you’ve been waiting for, even though every breath feels agonizing like this.

“Finally.” He drawls, pride latching to his tone, “Some fucking respect around here.”

Then Sukuna pushes himself in, without any further ceremony or remorse, and you gasp out at the heady pressure, “Just take it. And don’t forget to thank me, yeah?”

You release a strangled, throaty sound as he bottoms out, walls constricting around him and a sickeningly wet sound slurping at his cock as he pulls his hips back. You hear Sukuna’s groan travel down your body from the roll of your eyes to the curl of your toes.

“God,” The hiss he intakes is incredulous as he starts slamming into you faster, “Why do you have to push it every time?”

You whimper, back arching and bouncing on his cock with your hands hanging on the wood beneath your nails. Your pussy weeps around the girthy, merciless shape of his cock. Every ridge slides in and out of you with a decisive slap, and you twist yourself around his cock in an attempt to keep him from leaving. It doesn’t work, and Sukuna is so much stronger than you that he doesn’t even notice that you’re thrashing in his hold as he pushes your hips down. 

“If I didn’t want this stupid little pussy all the time, it wouldn’t work.” He rambles, agitation lining his words and the solid slap slap slap of his dick.

“Irresistible. Pisses me off.” 

At that, you let out a huff of air, tightening around him as much as possible to make his thrusts stutter for a moment and force him to tsk at your boldness.

“I’m giving you a damn compliment. Don’t be ungrateful.” He growls, more forceful rams stretching open your pussy in quick succession. 

“Doesn’t help that you need my cock so bad. Begging every single night, even after I’ve filled up your greedy cunt enough to put you to sleep. Pathetic.” He spits.

Your eyes become unfocused in a mess of tears, and you’re not sure if you’re clinging onto anything but his sharp, honeyed words and his pounding cock.

“You taking it like a good girl yet? You’re still whining.” The menacing reminder is coupled with a long drag of his tongue along your ear.

The rough texture dotting his tongue has your hips faltering, and your cum dribbles out of your foamy entrance like the drool slipping down your neck.

“There you go. There’s my girl.” Sukuna proudly coos, petting your head and ruffling your hair.

You accept the puppy treatment, and as a reward for your newfound docile nature, he jerks your head back to desperately mash your tongues together.

You drink him in, your bottom lip bitten sore before he begins moving again.

“Damn.” He pecks kisses down the nape of your neck and licks at your shoulder, “This is bad. Wanna keep fucking you.”

In the mirror, you can see him straighten his posture and cup your hips in his hands again, experimentally driving you up and down his rigid girth. 

“This is why I didn’t wanna start. But no- You don’t fucking listen.” He spanks your ass one more time before grasping your hair.

“Now look. Look at you.” Your tearstained face is gruffly hauled up to the mirror.

Your mascara is smudged to hell and lines of tears cut through the base of your makeup before pooling at the long ruined corners of your previously pristine lipstick.

The reflection shakes from the aggressive movement on the table, and it soon becomes fogged with your breath.

Sukuna won’t stop. 

Though truthfully you don’t want him to either.

He keeps gunning into your cunt, your cum sticky and echoing every satisfying slam of his hips.

“I’m gonna give you one minute to cum a couple more times. Then, you’re gonna stop being such a brat and let me take you to dinner. Got it?” His brows are furrowed in concentration, the sheens of sweat on his forehead and chest catching the subdued glow of your vanity.

You meet his eyes and nod, you understand perfectly. 

“Don’t look at me, look at yourself. This is what you did.” Sukuna glares, sinking the pads of his fingers into your stubborn flesh.

“I’m-” The syllable turns into a scream as you cum, your body wracked with shivers and heat, but Sukuna continues without pausing for a second. 

He always liked fucking his cum back into you.

Your legs buckle and give out beneath you, and Sukuna only drills in more eagerly from above you as you settle yourselves on the floor.

“Shit - Just one more. One more.” He promises, and you arch further around his dick like the good girl you swore you would be for him.

_________________

One time turned into two times and then three, which gave him exactly enough time and distress to interrupt the middle of the company dinner with a brief speech, the shape of your lips just underneath his collar.

You had let him go on stage alone, walking to the dinner seats directed to you by the banquet hall’s servers.

When you sit at the table, it’s empty. You suppose it was probably reserved solely for you and Sukuna. He never felt the need to consult or converse with his board members at company events like this, no matter how close they were. It was more for everyone to enjoy as a treat, rather than for him to mingle or talk shop.

“Thank you.” You send a dazzling beam to the waiter who assisted you, which they return with a bow and a pleasantly surprised smile. 

Being polite and purposeful to his colleagues or waitstaff was always your forte, a continued good impression was essential to maintain appearances in front of Sukuna’s employees and shareholders. You just weren’t as polite with him, and he liked it that way.

It’s one of the many reasons why he loves and cares for you, because you understand how important his work is and involve yourself in it seamlessly.

Well, except for when you make him late.

But that probably doesn’t count.

After all, the speech he just gave was met with a standing ovation, and he had taken several portions of it to lovingly thank you and highlight his best employees.

However, when Sukuna comes back to the table set for the two of you, he still seems a bit stressed.

“Everything okay?” You place a hand on the broad square of his shoulder, concerned.

He looks at you with no humor in his stare.

“No, sweetness.” The endearment comes out as a sigh, though Sukuna hides it with an immediate lifting of the corners of his mouth.

He leans close, more of a bite than a whisper in your ear, “You should have been limping in here.”

The top of your cheeks heat, but Sukuna casually draws back and cuts into the steak you had ordered to the table for him.

“Eat. We’re getting the fuck out of here as soon as you’re done.” He glances at you, and a serene nod confirms you heard what he had said.

Despite that, you begin eating your dinner in small, slow bites. The wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens the more time passes, and barely contained rage rears its head whenever someone comes up to your table to exchange niceties that further hinder your progress.

After your plate is a couple bites from being clean, Sukuna takes a sip of his wine. The alcohol sugars his next few words, but not enough for you to disregard the need in them.

“Sweetness?”

You swallow, demurely dabbing your lips with a napkin and refusing to look at him, “Yes, Sukuna?”

“You’re done. We’re going home.”

Indifferent to his command, you sit back in your chair as he stands up and comes to your side.

“Sweetheart, please.” He groans, half-lidded eyes staring down at you.

“Please what?” You lean forward to finally meet his eyes, and Sukuna seems lost in the opportunity to kiss you.

The fist he had clasped to the back of your chair loosens, and he gently smooths his fingers down the sides of your neck, “Please…come home with me.”

The pink shell of his lips exhales the plea, and his scarlet gaze is soft and alluring. The lull of his voice captures you and fills you with a warmth few others know that he possesses. As much as he knew you liked certain harsh treatments, he also knew that you liked him just as much when he was kind and tender with you.

“I need you right now. Don’t you want to be good for me?” He quietly adds, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “I know you can be. You’re always the best at it. One of the many reasons why I love you, my sweet girl.”

You bite your lip to keep from melting, but it doesn’t work in the slightest. Sukuna never allowed you to think that you were anything less than cherished.

You would listen to him forever.

The unsaid declaration seems to be communicated to Sukuna through the shine filling your eyes, and he reaches a calloused hand out in invitation.

The request makes your lips curl up in joy, even if you know you’ll pay for it later. 

“Okay, since you asked so nicely.”

The entirety of the banquet hall seems to quiet as you join Sukuna in standing, but you hardly feel any eyes on you two.

“You’re lucky we’re in public.” Sukuna shakes his head, but steadies your waist with his other hand after he pulls the chair back for you.

You place a fond, yet chaste kiss to his cheek, “I know. But…we won’t be for long.”

A roguish grin overtakes Sukuna’s face, “You drive me crazy.”

“I love you too.”

Although Sukuna hates being late, and you hate being rushed, somehow you always make it up to each other.

_________________

End Notes:

i highkey lowkey forgot i was writing this after opening requests but here it is! :)

luv my conniving lil freak (sukuna) HAHA

[cho-aaacho]

Pale Moonlight

Masterlist I Archive Of Our Own

Tags : Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Multiple Kiss, French Kiss, No gendered terms, Reader is genderless.

A/N : It should have been for another character, but I chose Gojo instead.

"Do you think it is enough?"

A serene grin danced on Satoru's lips, revealing a warm side of him. He locked his blue eyes into you and sealed an enigmatic love between his realms. With a gentle gesture, he is settled next to you, following your gaze to the beautiful stars that paint the night sky.

"Thank you, Satoru-kun," you reflected, gazing deeply into his eyes, trying to find his love in the serene night. "Never in my wildest dream did I imagine stargazing in the middle of the woods, haha."

"Why?" He chuckles while savoring the warm embrace of hot chocolate in his cup. "You hate the woods?"

You chuckled teasingly and pinched his cheek, relishing the softness around your fingertips. "Oh, Satoru-kun, my dear, the woods aren't a romantic place, haha. You need to choose something better, maybe the beach."

Playful notes tingled with his laughter, and he teasingly brushed your waist. His eyes were gracing at yours, their shapes resembling crescent moons.

"Huh, but it's special because," he paused, lending a mysterious tone to his voice. "It was only you and me in this place."

"Yes, Suguru-kun and Shoko-chan are busy."

An ethereal warmth wrapped his musings; he nestled softly on your shoulder, and you playfully ran your fingers through his silver hair. "Are you okay?" You asked, sealing a kiss on his head.

"Yes, of course, I'm happy spending my time with you." A blush painted his cheeks, sending a constellation of translucent stars above his head. "How could I live without you?"

"Satoru-kun, the sweet talker. Who put you up to this? Mei-san, perhaps?"

With a sigh, Satoru encircled his arm around your waist, attempting to steal your breath, warmth, attention, and love. Lifting his head from your shoulder, he cupped your face. "Even when the moonlight caresses its pale light. Your beauty never fades from your face."

With playful finesse, he traced the contours of your jawline, allowing his fingertips to linger over your face, and then sealed a gentle kiss on your lips.

Not only one.

He placed another kiss.

Another followed.

Again. And again.

His lips melded with yours, and the two of you danced in a sensual duet. Until he tries to venture into your mouth, counting your teeth with his tongue, sinking them into your mouth, entering them, melding with yours, and giving them a little sucking.

"Sa... kun—"

He pulled out, his eyes scanning into yours, trying to check out, and you could see a string of saliva linking the two of you.

"Sorry, I can't hold myself."

[partywithoutsmiling]

@lovepeacestar

I imagine there is lot of confusion at first- and shock, definitelly the shock

The thing is- and what I headcanon- Troll hair is sacred; and while only Pop Trolls seem to be able to use it essentially as an extension of themselves, I imagine for all of the trolls, it is still very sensitive and point of pride

Which would make Barb reaching into Poppy's hair a rather violating move- for a Pop Troll especially, as their hair sensitivity is probably highest of then Troll kind

(Ngl, that would make for a good ficlet/oneshot, I could explore this further XD)

So even if Branch is clearly sporting musical Strings in his hair- it is still his hair, and reaching into it and plucking them is a major taboo

Honestly, I think few trolls would be stunned in that 'oh why didnt I realize sooner', that those are Strings in Branch's hair- definitelly Delta Dawn, who Branch met very early and developed frienship with (Along with Barb and to an extent Trollex)

Poppy, whose knowledge about the Strings would be the most recent.... Honestly, I think she would have been the only one who would suspect there is something more to them, but her fear of pushing Branch away would stall any questions she would have

The big point of if all however though- Branch wouldn't allow the strings to be used as a crutch for the music anymore Arguing he was able to find music inside himself even without the strings' help

In fact, it was his singing, him enjoying and making music, that led to the Strings' creation And he would encourage the Trolls to try and do the same, much like they had in the movie

Trolls would of course be curious about the seventh String, but honestly, with all that happened at the moment, it would probably take a while for someone to actually try and draw attention to it XD

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

As for Branch's brothers, hmmmm Honestly, from the movies, it seemed to be that the Pop String's existence- and the existence of other Trolls- turned to be a carefully guarded Royal Secret, that went on for generations

Probably in effort for the Pop Royals to erase the crime they almost commited and to pain themselves all squeaky clean

Now, bit of musing, but

There has been a screenshot of an updated map from some sort of converence (avialable of Troll Wiki), what poses few questions

From this map, we can see that Bergen Town itself is rather far away from The Troll Kingdom Territories- the current ones at least; yet it was implied (and widely accepted) that the Troll Tree used to be the Capitol of Trolls in general, not just Pop Trolls

I know the movies have more plot holes than a doily lol, but given the turbulent history of Strings, it would have made sense for the other Tribes to run away as far as the could from Pop

And yet, Peppy was in possession of a Map that showed all current Kingdoms- and was still outdated, given Branch's comment about Disco

This is bit chaotic once more but bear with me XD I know most fans accept that Brozone broke out when they were already locked up in the tree, but I am pretty sure the creators stated that the break up happened before Bergen Town even locked up the Pop Trolls

Given the position of the abandoned golf course- abandoned, being the key words- we can assume the Bergens by themselves were rather migratory, and left the land where the golf course is situated because of some reasons

As it is, the Pop Troll territory must have been huge- easily spanning the woods around Bergen town, including what used to be before Bergen town, and reaching far north to cover what is known as Pop Troll Territory now That would make the Pop Troll populace- back then at least- massive compared to other Tribes- certainly enough that the little territory they have now has not been contested since the Separation of Strings

And yet the map that Poppy is using only includes the current Kingdoms, as outdated as it apparently is Meaning the creator of the map made it with the assumption that the Pop Territory won't be any larger than that- Or it was just one map of many, and the only one worth keeping, when the Bergens started decimating their numbers to the point that they could no longer hold any larger territory than that

Anyway, I got derailed XD

But, as I wanted to say, I don't think the previous Pop Royals were the nicest of Trolls, and seemed to definitelly made it their goal to erase every dirty little secret, keeping the existence of the Pop String to themselves

If the knowledge of either other genres or the String was not forbidden, they would have been stories passed down from parents to a child- and yet the current Pop Trolls are completely ignorant, and probably has been for a looooong time, even before Bergens found them delicious to snack on

That means at the time of the band breaking, none of Branch's brother even had idea that the Strings existed- and at the end of world tour, probably only Floyd- who is present- would have any idea to their Significance

JD perhaps has any idea other genres exists, but Bruce and Clay doesn't seem to be aware of either, as according to the map, they woudn't even have a chance of meeting other Trolls, unless they were some minor genre tribe

As it is, Branch probably now feels very selfconscious about the Strings, and isn't really keen on drawing attention to them After all, it does paint a very obvious target on his back, as not all Trolls posses the morals to not try and pluck the String to themselves

(Chaz certainly seem to be the type)

[dontletsstarters]

Small-town Hell Aesthetic Prompts

Inspired by the likes of night in the woods, life is strange, & general small town atmosphere + spookyness. Some prompts include supernatural elements.

TWs: death, paranoia, murder, kidnapping, religion

Quotes

"Run away with me"

"I'll meet you at the railway tracks"

"If we're going to go, we've gotta go tonight"

"It's too late, and it's just getting later"

"Why did I say no?"

"Let me be your ride out of town"

"The plant shut down"

"I love watching the tourists, they're like ants"

"I'm not trying to tie you down"

"I'm just saying there might be a life here"

"Long time no see, [muse]"

"This place is broke as shit"

"I just wanna die anywhere else"

"I'll go with you"

"You new in town?"

"You've really never been to the museum?"

"Stay with me"

"You don't need to run"

"They've got some 80s flick in the theater right now"

"How does it feel to be you?"

"I really think I peaked in highschool"

"My house isn't haunted, I swear"

"Why do you only call me when you're high?"

"I always thought I'd die alone"

"I can't open up to you"

"They took one of our own"

"There's nothing on the radio"

"It's too late to say you're sorry"

"This town is going to eat you"

"I stepped out to bail you out again"

"Why do I work so hard?"

"I need something to fuck me up"

"The only advantage a killer has, is they think they have the right"

"Where is the lord to take care of that?"

"It was nice while it lasted"

"But you're a killer, and I'm your best friend"

"What's it matter anymore if you believe the lies I tell"

"I think it's unfair, your situation"

"It's no big surprise you turned out this way"

"I wanna contribute to the chaos"

"Can I sleep in your bed?"

Actions

Swings: Sit on a swing set alone with receiver's muse late in the evening.

Concert: Our muses sneak into a concert together only to get caught by security.

Poster: Sender's muse has gone suddenly missing and receiver's is looking for them.

Drive: Our muses are together on a drive shooting the shit.

Crashers: Our muses crash a party they're not supposed to be at.

Rager: Sender's muse is throwing an epic party and has invited receiver's.

Wrong Side: Receiver's muse catches sender's somewhere they really aren't supposed to be.

Tipsy: Our muses are sharing a bottle of alcohol somewhere outside.

Dinner: Our muses are the last two customers at a dinner for the night.

Overnight: Our muses are stuck on the overnight staff at their job together and have to spend the night together.

Returned: Sender's muse has just arrived back in town after a long time away, being greeted by receiver's.

Doppelganger: A dead body that looks exactly like sender's has shown up, but sender isn't dead.

Recovered: Receiver's muse killed sender's but sender's shows up again the next day like nothing happened.

Haunted: Our muses explore one of the local haunted buildings/attractions.

Ouji: Our muses mess with a ouji board.

Payphone: Receiver's muse calls sender's on a payphone.

Camp: Our muses are at summer camp together as camp counselors.

Parole: Sender's muse just got out on parole and receiver's has been waiting for them.

Target: There's been a string of disappearances orchestrated by sender's muse, and receiver's is their next target.

Broken Down: Sender's muse's car has Broken down on the side of the road when receiver's finds them.

Hitchhiking: Sender's muse is hitchhiking and receiver's picks them up.

[delirious-donna]

Adorned By Lace And Shadows [Shikamaru Nara]

Oct. 17 - Shikamaru Nara x female reader

It's been some time since your man indulged you in anything more than a quickie. What better way to tempt the lazy genius than with some new - and highly revealing - lingerie. Will he bite?

warnings: lingerie, pussy fingering, pussy eating, unprotected sex, implied multiple orgasms, Shikamaru not being lazy for once

Masterlist

“You'll look amazing in this.”

A lingerie set, that if you were honest, looked like a bunch of flimsy strings in bubblegum pink, was thrust into your rapidly blinking face.

You eyed it with a grimace, trying to conceal your displeasure at the option that Ino had presented. She was trying her best, it was sweet of her and at that thought, your expression brightened. Although you still shook off the suggestion of the sickly pink corset with strings and hooks - it was too much of a fuss.

“I think something a bit more simple,” you mused whilst perusing the displays around the brightly lit lingerie store.

A sheer black babydoll that split down the front caught your eye. It was trimmed in deep steel grey and looked soft and buttery to the touch. Your fingers were almost touching it when a chin fell to your shoulder with a coo of appreciation hitting your ear.

“I think we have a winner,” the blonde chirped happily, scampering around to find matching thigh highs and a garter belt for good measure.

You took a steadying breath, hope filling your heart but there was still that undercurrent of worry, it was never far away.

~

How long had it been since you’d spent longer than ten minutes in passionate throes with Shikamaru? A few weeks? A month?

Had the shine of years together meant that he no longer desired you as he used to?

You well remembered how ravenous the Nara had been back in those early days, the man famed for being lazy as fuck had been anything but in pursuit of getting in your panties.

The swell of lust swam in your stomach, a knotting sensation taking root and you pursed your lips to apply the slick of some clear lip balm.

Smoothing a hand down the sheer panels of your newly acquired black babydoll, a slight tremble fluttered in your palm. Determination filled your veins, a flicker of fire that shot your hand out to wrap around the glass of hard liquor.

You drained it in one swallow, a grimace and shudder flying free but it did the job of igniting that small flicker of fire into a raging inferno. Swelling your confidence as you fixed your heels and ran a finger around the seam of your stockings.

“I’m gonna make you crawl for it, Shika… just you wait.”

With that heatedly whispered promise still ringing in your head, you went in search of your man, already knowing he’d be in the study.

The quick click of your heels caught on the floorboards, stopping at the door that was slightly ajar and rapping your knuckles promptly on the wood.

“Why you knocking, sweetheart?” The signature lazy drawl sounded from the depths of the room, and you knew it was suspicious of you to knock when you’d normally barrel in without thought.

Right enough, you found him with his cheek resting on his fist, observing you as you walked in. His eyes widened, barely visible but you caught it. Along with the path those dark irises slowly inched down your body and back up again.

The quirk of his brow made your stomach flutter, the furious swallowing in his tight throat as your palms braced atop the cluttered desk to bend and gift him a wonderful eyeful of your cleavage.

Your hips swayed, slow and steady. Feline and more graceful than you usually were. A quick swipe of Shikamaru’s tongue against the front of his teeth made you smile wickedly.

“What did I do to deserve this?” He asked, arching back into his chair and patting his lap in invitation and one you were not going to refuse. A finger trailed the bevelled edge of the desk as you rounded it.

A featherlight breeze parted the sheer sides of your babydoll and exposed your skin as you straddled his awaiting lap. There was already an eager erection poking against your barely concealed cunt and your hips gyrated once against the ridge of his cockhead.

“Hmm… perhaps it’s more what you haven't done,” you scolded, letting your knees sink into the leather of his executive chair, legs hugging the outsides of his thighs.

You knew that he wanted to touch you, to stroke at the fabric that encased your tits and the edge of your lacy panties. There was the faintest tremor to his hands as they rested so delicately on your waist, thumbs stroking at your bare flesh in leisurely circles. His eyes kept travelling to your stockings and the garter belt holding them up. Did he want to run his finger beneath the clip, to circle your upper thighs and press between them?

“Have I been neglecting you, baby? Well… we can’t have that, can we?”

How it was possible for his voice to sound any sexier than it already did, you had no idea, but that yawning pit of want was stretching wide at his husky voice. His tone would sound unaffected to the untrained ear, but to you, you were aware that he was close to breaking already.

With hands on his strong shoulders you lifted yourself to sit on the edge of his desk and stretched a leg out. Shikamaru caught it before it could reach where it was going, pressing a chaste kiss to your ankle before rubbing his rough cheek against the silk of your stockings.

He hummed, deep in his chest as the kisses climbed higher and higher until he reached the lacy detail of your stocking top. Blazing brown eyes snapped to your face, his tongue flicking out to run over the beautiful fabric pattern.

Your chest rose in uneven breaths, head slightly woozy from the earlier alcohol and from the way your man was making you feel with so little effort. So little it almost hurt to admit, that you were so besotted and twisted around his finger that you forgot your earlier promise to make him crawl, swept into how fucking good he was making you feel.

“I like this,” he rasped, both palms kneading your hips and fingering the clips of your garter belt. He pushed you further onto his desk, placing each of your feet on the arms of his chair and leaning in until his breath caressed your inner thighs.

“Thought you might wanna go for longer than a quickie if I made the effort,” you shrugged, eyes sinking away from the serious expression that crossed his face.

You sensed it before you saw or felt it, those familiar tendrils of power that poured from Shikamaru and twisted like poison ivy along your arms. There was no movement in your limbs, his shadows held you immobile and your spine raised off the desk.

“Shika, I—”

He stood abruptly, cutting your words off with the heat and intensity of his mouth. Swallowing your doubts, your fears and everything else. Shika took and took as he roamed your trembling form, deft fingers grazing, touching, manipulating.

Yet he fed you in return; passion and ardent desire from his frenetic movements that were so unlike him. Rough palms cupped your mounds, thumbs hooking into the soft cups and drawing them lower until your nipples were free and available for his hot mouth.

You wanted to arch into him, impossible with his shadows keeping you fixed and it released moans and desperate mewls from your lips each time his lips suctioned around your aching buds.

“All of this,” he gestured to your perfectly selected lingerie, “is staying on and I’m gonna chase those doubts away until you’re screaming my name for the entire village to hear.”

~

Thighs trembling, sweat slid from your heated skin and you wantonly rutted your pussy against Shika’s face. A shadow squeezed around the slender column of your throat, the pressure just enough to keep you flat against the desk. No longer were you arms restrained, now they gripped and tugged within the forest of his raven hair.

You were so very close once more, spit and arousal covered Shikamaru’s mouth down to his chin and his knuckles were drenched from the steady pump into your gripping pussy.

“This enough attention, sweetheart? Are my fingers enough or you want something else?” he teased whilst fisting his cock and stroking it far more roughly than he usually would.

“More. Gimme more.”

The walls of your cunt squeezed down around nothing as he pulled himself free with a start. A cry of anguish at feeling so empty but it was silenced with a strangled grunt as Shika’s hips snapped forward in haste.

Lace panties shoved to the side, your tits free of the soft cups and there was a tear in your stocking from thigh to knee. To Shikamaru, you looked like the most tempting fallen angel he had ever seen and he groused at the thought that you felt neglected by him.

He drove into you with fervour, biting his lip at the bounce of your tits as he thrust until his heavy balls slapped against your peachy ass. You felt like heaven, so wet that he could reach your depths easily and he rolled his hips to grind himself against that special gummy spot.

“Never. Doubt. My. Love. For. You.”

Your orgasm crashed over you, a tidal wave of physical pleasure and emotions that stole the air from your lungs. Tears burned your eyes as you lost control of your limbs, tensing to the point of pain then slipping into a boneless state.

“That’s it baby, love seeing you cum on my cock. Got another for me?”

You scoffed, eyes rolling to the back of your skull and you could die happily right now. Honestly, you didn’t know how much more you could take but Shikamaru was showing no signs of stopping.

He smirked, a wink of mischief thrown at your sweaty, fucked out face.

“Aww pretty baby, did you think I was done with you? Don’t think I’ve heard you scream yet…”

[fernandopiastri28]

first serve 🎾 (pt2) ~ oscar piastri x logan sargeant

-> part 1 <-

“Yeah,” Logan smiles, tackling Oscar fully back down as he’d partially sat up. “You’re so warm,” His hands slides up under the Aussie's shirt almost mindlessly. He doesn’t go further up then his abdomen though, his hand snaking around the back of his waist to hug him close. Oscar buries his nose into the crook of Logan’s neck, his senses flooded with the sharp taste of a cologne that costs more than he earns in a year. Well. Almost. It’s his favourite scent in the whole world, sharp tones of amber and wood. If he ever has enough money at one time, he’ll buy the scent, wear it each day just to think of the blond.

warnings: slight internalised homophobia

Oscar pushes his sunglasses back up his nose, wiping the sweat that had formed from the overbearing sun. Lando fans himself with a laminated menu, dabbing at his face with the bottom of his shirt. “Can you ask your boyfriend to get us into the vip area so we don’t have to sweat our balls off every lunch break?”

Oscar laughs at that, tugging his shirt out to allow more airflow to his stomach. “He’s not my boyfriend,” He hums, squinting down to the courts below where Logan’s in the middle of a practice session, his arm whipping back and forth with each serve.

“Not yet,” Lando teases. 

“Not yet,” He nods in agreement, tossing his head back to shake his hair out of his face. It is hot, Lando’s got that much right. Sweat is pooling in his armpits and likely causing a relatively embarrassing spot on his shirt. It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t really care anyways. Logan certainly won't. He doesn’t care about Oscar’s exterior, just him. 

Thinking about Logan gets an unintentional smile to appear on his face.

It’s not unnoticed by Lando though who’s usually pretty unobservant. “Aww, you’re blushing,” Lando strings his words out, nudging his index finger into the soft chub of Oscar’s cheek. “You like him so bad,” Oscar swats him away, hunching over to rest his elbows on the table and hopefully cover the red flush decorating his face.

His eyebrows flick upwards, his expressions mute in response to all the taunts Lando is clearly planning on throwing at him. “Obviously,” His eyebrows twist together and lips purse. “I sneak off with him during shifts to make out with him in the supply closet when his bedroom is rented out. Of fucking course I like the guy,” Lando’s face drops in pure shock.

“You what?” He shrieks, whacking Oscar’s arm about as hard as he possibly can. To Lando, Oscar is about the biggest virgin possibly. He even struggles to comprehend the fact that he and Logan have even kissed yet. Much less hookup on the daily. “That’s where you fucking disappear off to when you tell me you’re cleaning?”

His eyebrows raise up higher, a satisfied grin playing on his lips. “Yes,” His laugh is all breathy. “Not all the time, sometimes I actually am cleaning.” He insists, trying to calm Lando down slightly so his freak out doesn’t attract any unwanted attention. 

“Oscar, you are such a slut,” He tuts, wrapping his mouth around the straw of his orange juice. “Not only are you dating the boss’ son, you sneak off to suck face with him.” Oscar rolls his eyes at the lewd comment. 

“Not my boyfriend,” He corrects again, not bothering to say he’s wrong about ‘sucking face.’

“Didn’t deny being a slut,” The Brit stares him down out of the corner of his eye, his jaw tensed.

With a slight shrug of his shoulders, he gazes off blankly to where Logan is doing cool down stretches. “Yeah, didn’t deny it,” He muses. That gets him another swift whack on his arm from Lando whose mouth is gaping open.

His voice is hushed the next time he speaks, “How far have you two gone?” He sounds genuinely curious and not as if he’s trying to taunt him. Over the past few weeks since the day he and Logan met, Oscar and Lando’s relationship had strengthened to the point that they’d consider themselves good friends and would often text and hangout outside of work. 

Puffing a tight stream of cool air up onto his top lip, Oscar decides how much he wants Lando to know. “Just makeouts so far,” His head tipped slightly, barely looking at Lando. It’s true, they haven’t gone any further than shoving their tongues down each other's faces, but it wasn’t just ‘innocent’, handless makeouts or anything. 

Only a few days prior, Logan had sat in the Aussie’s lap as they both only had boxers on to conceal themselves. It had been everything Oscar needed, but he worried that the American wanted, or needed, more. He’d been louder, moaning and groaning as his mouth had explored each sliver of Oscar’s exposed neck, shoulders, and chest. 

He worried that Logan would ask if he could take Oscar’s underwear off, and he worried more that he wouldn’t know how to say no.

“Not even a quick handie yet?” Lando jeers. It’s clearly meant to come off as lighthearted and teasing, but it just leaves a bitter taste on Oscar’s tongue. He really likes Logan, like more than he’s ever liked anyone else before, yet at the end of the day, there’s one really big problem about Logan,

He’s a boy.

It wasn’t something Oscar initially considered a problem in actuality. After their first kiss, Oscar’s head had been spinning too hard to even think about the logistics of them together. His whole life, the thought of being gay hadn’t ever been weirded out. He’d even liked a boy before, one of his friends back in Australia, Christian. But he’d never been with Christian, and Christian certainly didn’t like boys in the way Oscar did. 

Logan was the first boy Oscar had ever kissed, the first one he’d liked who liked him back. Now he felt dirty, wrong. It felt like he was doing something wrong, immoral even. Maybe that’s part of the reason he hadn’t asked Logan to be his boyfriend yet, and he was grateful he hadn’t been asked in return.

“Shut up Lando,” The corners of his smile slump, his brown eyes creasing around the corners- usually formed from a too big smile. This time, it was the face of holding back tears. He wanted to cry because he wanted to make Logan feel good in the ways Lando teased him about. He wanted to be so insanely in love with the American and not feel disgusting for loving a boy.

Lando reaches across the table, picking up Oscar’s sprite and taking a long drink without asking. He didn’t care, he had other things clouding his tension to get mad over Lando once again taking without asking. “Ouch, was it not good?” Lando scoffs, “That’s gotta hurt mate,”

Oscar sees red. His eyes burn, his body- his face, neck, all the way from his chest down to his toes burn hot. “Shut the fuck up Lando,” His voice hitches at the end of the, the rest of the sentence forced out with a harsh breath. Rough and exhausted around the edges. 

The Brit’s never seen Oscar like this. Oscar who wears the most bland expressions and attempted smiles as he goes around serving tables. Oscar who’s never raised his voice. Oscar who clamps his mouth shut with tightened lips whenever a customer bugs him. He just takes it. He’s not a guy who gets explosive, nor does he swear out of the context of being humorous

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Lando reaches his hand across the table, settling down on Oscar’s shoulder that’s closer to him. “Are you guys just.. not doing those kinds of things?” The way he says it sounds like he’s being overly careful and calculated as to not coax another bad reaction out of the brunet. 

Upsetting Oscar is never his goal, in reality, he just wants to make him laugh. It may be kind of embarrassing, being a year and a half older than the Aussie, he thinks he should be the one that the younger is chasing for validation, but it’s really the opposite. He wants Oscar to like him, not like how he wants Carlos to like him, but he wants Oscar to feel that they’re close enough to speak about these things. Want to tell him about all the small things going on in his life and his relationship.

He partially wants to live vicariously through Oscar. He has what Lando wants, the boy he likes to like him back. Right now he can’t help but feel like Carlos is just stringing him along for the fun of it, or even if he likes guys. 

Oscar’s eyes find a piece of fleece hanging onto the hem of his work issued polo and focus on it. It’s better then looking at Lando and certainly better then spotting Logan fucking prancing around as he hits each obnoxiously neon ball across the courts with the same elegance of a primaballerina. “No,” It’s only one word, yet he manages to shorten it further, almost to the point that it sounds like he didn’t even say anything. “I- We, yeah,” He gives up trying to explain, his fingers wrapping the rope of his drawstring jeans around his joints.

Lando shoots him a sympathetic smile, as if he needs sympathy. To Lando, it’s forced celibacy, like Logan is the one resisting each sexual advance he makes. In reality, Logan’s insinuated the wanting for something more than just kissing , but has consistently immediately stopped as soon as he saw the hesitation on Oscar’s face.

The Aussie can’t help but wonder if they’ll get to a point where Logan’s asked so many times that he just gives in and puts up with the shame, or Logan will be sick of the lack of intimacy and just leave him straight up. 

“It’s okay, you don’t have to do anything with him,” Lando assures him, his thumbs pushing uncomfortably into the neon stitching on the polo’s shoulders. Neon likes tennis balls, tennis like Logan. Logan likes Oscar.

“I know that,” His voice softens, his face too. He doesn’t want to be mad at Lando, he really isn’t anyways. Maybe he’s mad at himself, maybe he’s mad at his mind, maybe he’s mad that he can’t fucking just like Logan and not hate himself for it, but he’s definitely not mad at either Lando or the American. “But, yeah. Thanks,” He doesn’t note that it sounds somewhat insincere, because it really isn’t. 

Lando swallows loudly, his hands clasping together and hitting against the edge of the table to accompany it. The sigh that leaves his mouth is loud, comparable to the noise of a leaf blower. “And I’m sorry about that comment I made, it wasn’t.., yeah, wasn’t cool,” He puffs his lips out and blows a raspberry. Oscar grins in amusement, his eyes creasing in the way that he finds something funny this time.

“All good,” He slides his drink back over to himself, chewing down on the floor absently. “Also, stop stealing my drinks,” He flicks Lando’s bicep, his broken index fingernail getting caught in the fabric. His mum pesters him to cut his nails more regularly since they grow seemingly at a far quicker rate then the normal person. He keeps them long for Logan who can’t get enough of the way his nails scratch into his scalp.

Lando shrugs, his body slouching down in the overly stiff and structured chairs, “Nah, you’ve got boss’ son’s privilege, surely he gives you some kind of discount,” He hums, his cheek full of air and bulging, the way he does when he’s deep in thought. That or sticking his tongue out slightly. 

“You’d be shocked that I get fuck all,” Oscar’s mouth twists downwards in a way he reckons makes him look a bit like a frog. “His dad doesn’t know about us, so me getting a bonus or raise would be sorta out of the blue,” 

“Not super strange, you’re certainly a better worker than me,”

“And I’m on break half the time,”

“Yeah, can you work on that? I don’t like the extra work,”

Just as Oscar’s about to give Lando the most dramaticised eye roll- the ones that make his hurts burn, two hands slide down his chest and clasp together in the middle. It’s not a heavy touch, more just barely grazing down the fabric. Based on how the skin around Lando’s nose creases in disgust, Oscar knows exactly who’s behind him.

He tilts his head back, the crown of his head hitting against the defined abdomen of Logan. “Hey,” The American grins down at him, his blond hair nearly brown from sweat and his face filled with exhaustion from his workout. Oscar thinks he looks beautiful, and for the first time today, he truly feels at peace with how he feels for the older boy. Missed you, he murmurs, and Logan’s smile grows wider. ‘Me too,”

Lando looks like he’s about to stand up, make an excuse that he’s had enough of his lunch break and he’ll just clock back in, simply to allow the ‘couple’ to have some space. Oscar feels bad though, Lando shouldn’t have to leave each time Logan comes around. “Stay,” Oscar presses his hand to the back of Lando’s. “Please?” He mouths. It’s time for his friend and maybe soon to be boyfriend-mutual crush to become friendly.

The Brit’s eyes flick in between the pair before finally settling back into his seat reluctantly. His lips spread into a tight near grimace, his line of vision trying to only catch Oscar. “I don’t think he wants me here,” Logan murmurs, dipping down to bury his face in the Australian’s hair, a soft kiss accompanying it. “I’m gonna go have a shower, have fun with Lan,” He rubs Oscar’s shoulders, his voice void of any jealousy or condescendingness. That’s just how Logan is, always so understanding.

“No,” His hand goes to wrap around Logan’s wrist, who simply jerks it back. “Logan,” His voice is more hardened this time, his eyebrows knotting together and twisting upwards. Please, I wanna spend time with you, when you’re right next to me- everything feels so right. I need to feel right about this, Lo. There are so many words fighting to spill out of his mouth, to just completely word vomit all over the other boys, but he keeps his composure. 

Logan smirks, rolling his eyes slightly. “You’ll see me later, Oz, chill out,” His hand swipes along Oscar’s fluff of hair before he sets off for his own room. The room which he and Oscar have spent endless hours in, and no offence to Lando right now, Oscar really wants to be in that room right now.

“He’s touchy,” Lando comments mindlessly as if he’s already forgotten the conversation the two of them had just before. A clipped exhale leaves his nose as he pushes the statement to the side of his mind, hopefully to never be brought back up. He likes that Logan is touchy, but Lando having to comment on every single moment the two share is beyond irritating.

Being left in a semi awkward silence after Oscar chooses to just not reply, they decide to get some food in before they clock off for the day. Some days, they end just about half an hour after their lunch break, which seems redundant, but also works out pretty well in their favour. They order two club sandwiches, Oscar keeping all the toppings on while Lando opps to only keep the cheese and all three meats. 

When their meals are delivered, Lando eats more than half of Oscar’s serve of fries and all of his own obviously. Judging by the way he keeps stuffing his mouth every time he looks up and meets Oscar’s eyes, he clearly has something he wants to say. It takes until he’s crunching down on his final ice cube that he finally spits it out, “What’s it like kissing a boy?”

A lump of half chewed up white bread gets stuck on its way down Oscar’s throat. It’s thick, soaked with saliva and impossible to swallow. “Huh?” He gags around the mass, trying to cough it back up to his mouth so he can properly chew it and not suffocate.

Lando cringes, looking away as Oscar continues to heave, his back hunching over like a cat. “Is it different to kissing a girl? Better? Worse? Are their lips rougher or softer? Do they taste like boys, like is it obvious that is a b-” Oscar rests his palm on his chest, feeling it raising and dropping readily as result of his body reacting post choke. 

With a quick move, he whacks his hand swiftly into the centre of Lando’s chest, pushing a wheeze past the Brit's lips. “Ow? Fuck you?” He groans, sliding down in his seat as he finally stops talking for long enough for Oscar to actually recover. 

“Sorry mate, needed you to shut up and I was sort of… unable to speak,” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a string of saliva snapping when he then wipes his hand against his shirt. He sighs deeply, trying to mentally note down all of Lando’s many questions. “Uh, where’s this curiosity coming from? I thought you and Carlos were.. you know,””

The tan expanse of Lando’s neck burns a deep red, the tips of his ears tinting a similar colour. “Nah,” His hands clasp and rest in his lap, “I’m not sure if Carlos is actually.. gay,” The word sounds shameful coming out of his mouth, as if he’s not used to nor is he comfortable using it. “So, it looks like we’re dating most of the time to people, and we kind of act like we are- but I think he just sees it as a ‘bromance’ thing,” 

“Shit,” Oscar’s eyes squint slightly as the setting sun hits his direct sight of vision, blinding him. He hadn’t realised how late it had gotten, and they were far over their lunch break time by this point. “Man, I’m sorry,” He reaches out an arm to rub Lando’s shoulder, about as far of physical comfort the two teenagers will go. 

The older boy lurches away from the touch though, a weird smirk of humour dancing on his lips. “I’m not looking for comfort, I’m looking to know what kissing a boy feels like,” He reiterates, getting an eye roll of Oscar. Serves him right for trying to comfort Lando, Lando who can’t take a single thing seriously.

The aussie crosses his arms over his chest, slumping back against his seat and staring wistfully off into the distance. “Well, I think it probably just depends on the person,” Images and phantom feelings of Logan’s kisses blurring into kissing girls before him mix in Oscar’s mind. “I’ve only ever kissed one boy, so I can’t speak for what all boys in general feel like,”

Lando doesn’t look satisfied with the answer, understandable given how vague it had been. His cheeks puff out as he fills them with oxygen, finding a way to phrase his next question as to not offend Oscar. “Is Logan a good kisser then? Is he.. just is it different then when you’ve kissed girls?”

Oscar nods without a doubt in his mind, yes to both questions at that. It’s weird to place them together as comparisons as they’re so vastly dissimilar and unrelated. When he’d kissed girls, it was almost because he felt obliged to. In dares, at dances, during spin the bottle, games. He’d never looked at a girl and so desperately wondered what her lip gloss would taste like. With Logan, he craved to know how his hair smelt, how it would feel as he dragged his fingers through it, how his aftershave would smell as it tickled Oscar’s nostrils. 

“I really like kissing Logan,” He nods again for a lack of creativity of what to do with his head. “More than I’ve liked kissing other people, but I just like Logan in general. If you genuinely like Carlos, I reckon he’ll be a better kisser than any girl you’ve kissed or any boy you might kiss that you don’t really like,” It’s not pleasant being this vulnerable and sharing so much to Lando, it isn’t even really when it’s Logan. Oscar just isn’t the type of guy who finds pleasure in divulging into each intimate aspect of his life to anyone who will listen, so rambling on about kissing his crush isn’t exactly pleasurable.

But just thinking about it is, he could easily think about Logan’s wet and sticky mouth attached to his own for years to come. Lando talks and he’s aware of it, he hears the muted rambling of his twisted British accent and sees the exaggerated movements of his mouth to match it, yet his mind is too distracted to take in any sort of information.

When his mind slowly flicks back into focus, he doesn’t pick up on a single thing Lando has been speaking about, instead becoming hyper aware of his body. His lips feel weird, his whole body does. Like an itch burying itself just below the surface. His index and middle finger reached up to his mouth, pinching his bottom lip and twisting it back and forth. It alleviates the tingle, but not overly. It’s not even an intense pain, just a dull one that can’t simply be ignored.

He needs Logan. His body is actually aching for Logan.

“Mate, you look really unwell,” Lando notices based on the way that Oscar is twitching, basically forcing himself to stay still and in his seat. Oscar does feel unwell, he actually feels hellish. The quicker he can escape this conversation, the better. 

“I feel like shit,” He hums, his nails scraping against the cushion under his ass. “I need a shower, and a nap, and… nah, just those two things,” Lando gives him a knowing look, “And Logan,”

A barking laugh comes out of Lando who kicks at Oscar’s ankles until he’s pushing his chair out to get away. “Then go be with Logan, I’ll just watch the tennis and see if I can find someone better than Carlos,” There’s a satisfactory smirk on his face as he slides a pair of sunglasses down from on top of his head to the tip of his nose, a pair Oscar had somehow not seen the whole time they’d been sitting together and talking. 

He doesn’t mention it though, just grabs his phone and wallet off the table, slamming a $10 bill on the table and rushing off. He’s halfway to Logan’s office/room/holiday bedroom when he realises a perk of working here is that he gets free food, meaning Lando is officially $10 richer and Oscar $10 poorer. 

His fist is rapping on Logan’s door before he’s even comprehended that he’s actually made it there. There’s a shuffle that sounds on the other side, closer and closer until the door clicks open. “Hey Dad, I’m just-” Logan turns to look at who’s actually at the door and his eyes wide. “You are not my father,”

Oscar wants to make a retort of how awkward it would be if he was, but his mouth seems to have more control over his actions than his mind. His right hand grips at Logan’s mess of ungelled blond hair, the lighter ends peeking out between his fingers. His mouth is hot and heavy on Logan’s, so desperate and dominant it feels like he’s trying to consume the American. 

“Fucking hell Osc,” His rough is rough and breathless, debauched around the edges, “What’s going on, baby?” Desire pools in Oscar’s stomach purely from the way Logan’s American accent melts with the word. “So needy,”

Oscar slides his hand up the blond’s shirt, light dustings of pale hair brushing against his palm. Logan’s skin is warm, so warm. He feels like a fireplace, being bundled up in a thick blanket while snow pounds outside. Oscar can’t get enough of him, he’s like a drug. 

His teeth nip against Logan’s plump bottom lip, pulling a pleasured groan from his mouth. Logan’s hands trail up Oscar’s back, the touch of his fingertips sending burning shots of sinful lust through his body. “I- fuck you for leaving me with Lando, that conversation was awful,” His slender fingers clench together to trap bundles of hair between each digit, effectively helping to yank Logan off him.

He’s all blushy at the comment, unable to even pretend he’s apologetic. “Was that my punishment for abandoning you, then?” He mocks, his mouth in a twisted up grin against Oscar’s lips. A shaky nod of confirmation gets  him to keep going, “You’re really shit at punishments in that case, because that was really good,” Hands grip Oscar’s hip, holding him in place to take control back over the scenario.

It’s exactly how each makeout goes, taking turns being the dominant one- fighting for control. It shows on the court too, a steadily improving tennis player of Oscar getting increasingly more eager and confident to show off to Logan, portraying himself as the epitome of professional tennis. 

He might not quite have the refined talent yet, but he has the confidence to carry him for miles. 

Within a matter of moments, Oscar somehow caves and gives Logan the satisfaction of leading. The older needed that, based on how his tongue mercilessly shoves into Oscar’s mouth and his lips ram aimlessly into the brunet. Logan had got him onto the bed, pinned underneath him. 

His thighs bracket Oscar’s lower body, knees into the soft flesh that pads over the aussie’s hips. He won’t say it aloud, given Oscar gets all blushy, in an embarrassed and unpleasant way whenever Logan mentions just how much he likes that about his hips, but they just might be his favourite thing about the younger’s body. The softness, how squishy they are, fucking biteable. 

Logan would gladly leave endless hickeys on that patch of his skin, littering the pale untanned spots of his usually covered body. Yet, those thoughts are reserved for late nights, those where he allows the sinful thoughts he has for the boy to run wild. He doesn’t want to scare Oscar away with those thoughts, keeping them hidden within the heated space his weighted blanket creates, with his heavy pants trapped underneath the sheets. 

And as much as he wants to keep going, keep Oscar’s plush lips up against his own, he’s far too hard to maintain any normality, so he pushes away, struggling to get off of Oscar. “Sorry,” His voice breaks as his breathing fights to be louder. “I’m just,” They both glance down, “yeah,” 

Oscar gets it, he doesn’t get angry. He’s happy that Logan’s able to articulate when they need to stop. Deep down, they probably both wish they could take it further, but there’s lingering doubt playing in both of their minds. For Logan, it’s the fear of not being accepted by others. For Oscar, it’s internal. “Do you just wanna cuddle?” 

“Yeah,” Logan smiles, tackling Oscar fully back down as he’d partially sat up. “You’re so warm,” His hands slides up under the Aussie's shirt almost mindlessly. He doesn’t go further up then his abdomen though, his hand snaking around the back of his waist to hug him close.

Oscar buries his nose into the crook of Logan’s neck, his senses flooded with the sharp taste of a cologne that costs more than he earns in a year. Well. Almost. It’s his favourite scent in the whole world, sharp tones of amber and wood. If he ever has enough money at one time, he’ll buy the scent, wear it each day just to think of the blond. “I’m sweaty,” He murmurs back, feeling an uncomfortable patch of sweat seeping from his polo back onto the space just between where his shoulder blades meet.

“Well, I like when you’re sweaty then. You smell good too,” He plants a peck to the top of his head, followed by another, and another, and another. Each more slobbery and wet then the last. It’s the most annoying thing he does, covering Oscar in drooling kisses that coat him in rings of spit. 

“Loooo,” He groans, wiggling out of his forever tightening hold. Oscar’s only able to turn around, his back planted to Logan’s chest while he continues to be attacked by wet kisses. “Stop, that’s so gross,” Logan’s insistent, both his hands moving to link around his tummy so he can’t leave and get away from the kisses. He does however move where he leaves them, trailing down the side of his face down the side and back of his neck. 

He hums lowly, his nails hitching up the thick fabric of Oscar’s shirt with ease. “Can I give you a hickey?” It’s undiscovered territory, not even something that’s met the air between them. It’s a thought Logan keeps to himself and only allows it to come to the front of his mind past midnight. But it’s so prevalent recently, being the only tangible thought that crosses his mind throughout the day.

Fuck the fear of potentially scaring off Oscar with the request- he’ll never know if he never asks.

“Y-yeah,” That’s all it takes for Logan’s lips to seal around a patch of pale skin on the back of his neck. The contact sparks goosebumps to shoot down Oscar’s arms and legs, pale brown hair sticking directly upwards. His teeth graze gently, trying to remember the last time he’d done this. He’s had next to no experience with another person, even less than Oscar, so it’s easier to think of articles he’d read about doing this in his early stages of puberty. 

A pair of hands tangle up in his mop of hair, pulling him infinitely closer, “Mate,” Oscar moans. Logan finds himself back in the awkward situation from earlier with the tone of his shaking voice. His hips roll upwards, not attempting to insinuate anything, but more to alleviate the aching pressure on the area. 

It must feel good for the younger boy as his hips roll back to meet the motion, the two of them acting like dogs in heat. “St-stop,” Logan laughs, pulling Oscar’s face closer to his, straining the Australian's neck who has to look over his shoulder to join the kiss. “You’re too hot Oz, I’m so hard,” It feels nice to admit that openly, especially when nothing needs to be done about it. It’s a statement, merely an observation. He’s not asking for Oscar to open his mouth or to cup his hand to help him out, and it takes off some pressure he’s been feeling.

Oscar reacts with a smile, a flattered one at that. Curiously, his gentle touch grazes the spot on his neck, wincing pleasantly at the sting. “Does it look good?” Logan examines the darkening splodge, looking satisfied with his word. It’s currently a ferrari red, but it’ll likely die down to a mauve as hours turn to days. 

He’ll just need to be cautious about his fashion choices for the next week or so- opt for more sweaters and hoodies, even though the weather is excruciatingly hot. “Yeah,” It looks hot, hot enough for Logan to want to create a million more. “I like it,”

Oscar palms at the spot, his eyes fluttering shut at the singe of the bite. It’s good, insatiably good. He wants hickeys on every inch of his body if they feel this good. It would also mean being somewhat attached to Logan- mouth to skin. Now that is hot.

His arms loop back around Oscar’s waist, pulling him half onto his lap until he gives up, lying down with Oscar’s back flush to his chest. He’s able to smell Oscar’s hair like this, the sweet and sour apple scent of his shampoo and the natural clean ocean smell that is him. His mind becomes gradually more foggy, any thought besides the heavy mass of the boy on top of him is so distant. 

That is until a familiar voice brings him back to life. “Logan. Hunter. Sargeant.” And it’s definitely not coming from the body ontop of him.

Fuck, shit, fuck

Shit. 

Oscar’s muscles go rigid, scrambling to get off Logan from where his legs have been trapping one of the American's knees in between. He whacks the back of his neck, quickly covering up the hickey. He feels like a preteen getting caught by his parents while watching a MA 15+ or R 18+ movie, or staying up far past his bedtime playing on the switch. Yet this time, he’s getting caught on top of the boy he’s basically dating, by said boy’s boyfriend. 

And worst of all, it’s his literal boss.

“Dad,” His voice comes out as a squeak, far more vulnerable and scared then Oscar’s ever heard him. He knew Logan had doubts about how and when to come out to his parents, but he knew it wouldn’t be for a while. 

He’d just had that very privilege stripped from him.

Daniel looks like he’s about to say something rather harshly worded to his son until his eyes flicker to the other boy, his lips pursing and eyebrows wiggling in confusion. “Piastri?”

“Sir,”

“Oscar?”

“Yes, Sir,”

“Oscar Piastri?,”

“Yes, Sir,”

Daniel looks completely bewildered, even in the dim lighting of the room, his expression incredulous. His stare is pulled from Oscar, moving back to his son. “Logan, explain yourself,” The tone isn’t as jarring as either boy would’ve expected out of him given the situation, but it still feels Logan with dread and unease.

He wishes he could bury his face back into the tight muscles that ripple across Oscar’s back, submerge himself in the salty aroma of him and be so blissfully unaware of anything else in the world. He craves that comfort back, to be so far away from here- mentally and physically. “I don't know how,” It’s not a lie per say.

He’s not sure just how much he should go into detail about. Calling it a hookup or friends with benefits situation is crude to say to his father and insulting to Oscar, but saying their dating is a lie. His father’s face doesn’t flicker in reaction, so he has to come up with something. “Oscar and I enjoy spending time together, and we like one another,” Yeah, that’s good enough.

His father looks less than pleased, but he doesn’t look fuming. He’s not red in the face, puffing air out of his bottom lip like whenever he used to religiously watch Logan’s tennis matches, bunching his hands up into fists and yelling out each time Logan made a mistake. So, he really can’t be that mad. “Sorry Oscar, I would like to talk to my son individually,” 

Oscar has never been more glad to be fully dressed. He crawls off the bed, his toes curl as his feet hit the cold hardwood floor. His instincts tell him to give Logan a little peck, a kiss to say we’ll talk soon, but it hardly feels appropriate, so he settles with giving him a final look back over his shoulder before the door clicks shut in his face. 

 A swirl of discomfort settles in the bottom of his stomach, and his sandwich from earlier feels as if it's about to make a reappearance. He compresses the thought, his feet quickly padding away from the door and into the storage room. Him and Logan’s storage room. There’s a few resounding smells encasing him as the door snaps closed after him- some organic peanut butter, burnt caramel, and vanilla extract from a glass bottle that had smashed during one of their mid-work/practice makeout sessions in here, leaving the brown liquid to seep into the wooden shelves below. 

Oscar sinks to his knees, his back planted up against a gas tank. The room feels tight around him and how he and Logan are able to both comfortably stand in here seems impossible right now. He feels trapped, yet so comforted and safe. It’s like a hug, just too tight to the point that it’s unpleasant, yet, it is still a hug. He wishes it was one of Logan’s overbearing, too tight hugs. The ones he claims to hate, the ones he weasles his way out of, feigning hatred for public physical affection. He hopes Mr Sargeant will come around, that he’ll allow Logan to continue to spend time with Oscar.

Yet, right now, he needs fresh air, he needs to be rid of all the smells that are authentically Logan. He makes a beeline for the infamous table at which he’d seen Logan from for the first time, where he’d daydreamed about the American- watching him play on the court, where he’d been interrupted during his lunch break a few too many times with a soft kiss to his forehead. He clocks as soon as the table is in sight that the 10 dollar note he’d left Lando is still there, clearly the brit had done the right and left it.

But, it was an idiotic decision just leaving money on an abandoned table. Lucky, but so stupid.

He takes the seat he always does, the one that gives him the perfect view of the court Logan always plays at. From the distance he’s at, he can't quite see the deep smile lines he adores so much, or the piercing blue eyes that he sees in his dreams, but the golden strands on top of his head are enough of a sight to keep him absolutely enamoured.

Thinking about all of this- Oscar doesn’t think it’s the worst thing ever that people might find out about the two of them. He’d love to show Logan off, have a voice seeping with pride when he flaunts that the Logan Sargeant is all his. That’s all he wants, maybe it’s even all he’s wanted for a while.

Sitting down feels wrong, there’s still that emptiness inside of him, a buzzing distraction that’s patiently waiting for Logan to emerge from his room to give him the verdict- are they even allowed to hang out from now on? 

A sinking realisation burrows itself deep in his bones, what if he loses his job over this? It’s breaking work policy, it must be. God, he’s gonna get fired, he’s gonna lose his job. There won’t be a single thing connecting Oscar to Logan- he’ll lose him. He’ll lose him before he’s even really had him.

So he does the only logical thing that he knows will calm the panic in his head. He runs down to the court, picking up a free racquet and a few lone balls, practising his serves. They’re awful, the swings are too hard and uncontrolled, sending each neon globe into varying directions. Each thwack helps return his pounding heart rate back to a normal pulse, the shallow sharp breathing he’s adapted to beginning to ease up.

He looks up to the sky, squinting to see if rain is actually falling on him or if he’s just absurdly sweaty. It doesn’t take long to realise neither option is right- he’s crying. Fat, hot tears spill down his cheeks, his quivering bottom lip pierced by his top teeth in an attempt to keep it in place. He doesn’t want to cry, doesn’t want to let the world know just how scared all of this makes him. Logan scares him, to a degree. He’s scared of just how much he loves the American and how much it would absolutely kill him if he didn’t get to ever be with him.

So he keeps hitting, a new feeling and compressed though coming out with each one.

Thwack, don’t leave me Logan. 

Thwack, Mr Sargeant, I promise to be more attentive during work hours and take less breaks if you allow me to keep seeing your son. 

Thwack, I wanna be with you Logan, more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

Thwack, I wish this all made sense to me.

Thwack, I wish I wasn’t scared to be happy.

Thwack, I don’t want to experience happiness if I can’t share it with Logan.

Thwack, I love Logan. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. I. Love. Logan.

He loves Logan. 

Two hands clasp around his own, guiding his swing towards the next ball the machine catapults out directly forward, an objectively perfect swing. It doesn’t a single word for him to identify just who it is. “Fuck, Lo,” He turns around without a single thought, burying his face into the older’s neck.  “What did he say?” 

The grin on his face speaks a million words, “He said we need to learn to lock the door, but otherwise- we’re all good, Oz,” Both of their cheeks hurt from how wide their smiles stretch across their faces. Oscar is smashing his face into the blond’s before he even realises he’s doing it. It’s their first kiss out in the open, and even though no one else is around to see it, it’s a step.

There’s so much fondness sparkling in Logan’s eyes as Oscar pulls away, his usually pale lips tinted a peachy pink, spit spread across to look glossy. “I’ll never get over those kisses,” A million small pecks follow that one, a few lasting slightly longer than the last. 

Confession pricks at Oscar’s skin, forcing its way up his throat, trying to pry his mouth open and bring itself to light. He can’t hold it back much longer, nor does he want to. He isn’t willing to find himself in another situation where he worries whether he’ll have Logan ever again, “I love you, Logan,” Nothing has felt more right to say, and he’s not scared to either. 

“I love you too, Osc,” Looks like Logan might be suffering from guessing whether it’s raining or not based on the clear strips staining his cheeks. His hands bunch up in Oscar’s hair, wisps of brunette hair tangling over his knuckles. “A whole fucking lot,” The world feels still when he says it, like everything he’s ever wanted has clicked into place. It’s right, it’s perfect, it’s them.

But something is missing. 

“Will you be my boyfriend?”

A mouth full of once braces-yielding straight teeth gleams right at him, “Yes Oscar, I would love to be your boyfriend,” He grins, pulling him back into one of the sloppy kisses he claims to hate so very much, yet there’s nothing he loves more than it right now.

Well, except for Logan.

[odditycircus-2002]

Since your requests are open: could you do a fic about MK11 Fujin hearing the reader sing and he thinks it’s absolutely beautiful, so the reader does a mini concert with just him watching?

If you need certain songs to put into this, I got you:

A/N: Thank you for the songs and for my first fic request that doesn't involve my usual Mortal Kombat men! I hope I do Fujinn justice, as he seems like a chill dude. Oh! And for the song in this fic, I went with "The Voice" by Celtic Woman. I'd thought it would be fitting with its elemental lyrics. I'll also try to keep these requests as gender-neutral as possible unless specified otherwise.

The Voice

Being the god of the Wind came with many perks. Not only is Fujin granted with divine power, but also the ability to fly and ride on the winds to wherever he desires. Currently, the wind god has no specific location where he desires to reach. Fujin is currently content with riding the winds on a rare peaceful day in Earthrealm, with no sign of an upcoming attack from Outworld's inhabitants. That is until the demi-god caught wisps of a melody within his breeze. The melody carried soft notes with an almost haunting quality to it. Fujin eases his winds to a halt within a forest, waiting to hear more of the melody.

His patience is rewarded when he hears it dancing on the breeze again. Fujin judges by the volume of the music, its source isn't too far from him. With footsteps light as the wind he commands, the demi-god treks through the woods, the music becoming louder and clearer with each step he takes. Eventually, his search takes him to a clearing with some mostly smooth boulders in the center. On top of those boulders sat a young adult Earthrealmer plucking at the strings off a worn but loved fiddle. They occasionally would play some notes before following them by singing in possibly the most beautiful voice he's ever heard in all of his existence.

"I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain. I am the voice of your hunger and..."

The earthrealmer trails off before letting a huff of frustration which is when Fujin decided to make his presence known.

"Why did you stop?"

"Gah!"

You let out a shout in surprise, fumbling with your fiddle and bow as they almost fell from your arms. Fujin holds up his hands in a placating manner as he takes another step into the clearing with a soft expression on his face.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to startle you,"

"Are you blind?"

You cut off the strange looking newcomer, taking in his bright pale eyes and long silver braid.

"Pardon?"

"Your eyes. They're really white as if you're blind. Are you?"

Fujin gives an amused grin.

"No and I am glad. Otherwise, I'd never get to see you sing err..."

"Y/N, the name's Y/N. Do you have one too stranger?"

You are quick to ask as you turn your head away from the tall and handsome newcomer, hoping he doesn't see your flustered expression.

"My name is Fujin."

The demi-godd decides to leave it at that, for now, not wanting to further surprise you and possibly drive you away by revealing his role as one of Earthrealm's divine protectors and god of the wind.

"So Fujin, you caught me at a bit of a bad time,"

"And why is that?"

Fujin gently asks. You look around at anything but the newcomer, while running your fingers along your bow.

"Well, I'm supposed to be composing a song. I have the notes but I don't quite have all the words."

"If it helps, your singing is very beautiful."

"Oh uhhh, thank you."

You blush as you start to absentmindedly pluck a few notes of your fiddle. Fujin is now just a few feet away from you, close but with respectable distance between you.

"I would like to listen to more of your work, if you'll allow it."

"Sure! Uh- I mean- I mean, sure. That would be wonderful. I could use a muse anyways."

You then stand up on your feet, realizing how you're only just slightly taller than Fujin with the platform beneath you. You dust yourself off, you then hop onto a higher boulder. After making a few adjustments with your fiddle's strings, you start to sing.

Fujin was fortunate enough to snatch snippets of your singing while he was riding the winds, but those pale in comparison to hearing you right in front of him. Your voice is strong and proud. It is ethereal and eerie. It is as if listening to the Elder gods sing themselves.

When you start to play your fiddle for the musical segment of your song, you jump down from your boulder to start skipping around the clearing. You almost appear to be floating on air, and actually do at one point, but you hardly notice as you're too engulfed by the music. Around you and Fujin, the wind starts to blow and picking up the fallen leaves, filling the clearing with a myriad of warm colors.

"I am the Voice of the past that will always be filled with my sorrows and blood in my fields!

I am the Voice of the future! Bring me your peace... Bring me your peace and my wounds... They will heal."

Throughout your mini concert, Fujin's gaze never wavered from your form as if trying to commit every move and gesture to memory. As you paint a rhapsody with your body but write a requiem with your song. At last, it comes to a stop and so the Demi-god does the only thing he could think to do and claps.

You give a beaming smile at Fujin before taking a pantomime bow.

"Thank you, thanks for being such a great audience and muse."

You then blow him a kiss.

[madhattervanessa]

Kill You To Try (Chapter 3)

-

Summary: Weeks go by and eventually, the numbness of grief forces you back to the ranch. You're caught between two chairs.

Warnings: self harm-ish things, isolation

Words: 2109

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A/N: So sorry for the late chapter guys, I'm currently struggling with a uni project that got completely dismissed by my prof and some other life stuff - I might edit this chapter a little next week but I didn't want to leave you guys without anything :)

-

You must have fallen asleep,... again. The porch chair, despite its rotten-looking wood, offers a charming comfort. That, combined with the look out towards the water providing just enough ambient sounds, has continuously proven to make you drift off. 

It's not like you could actively remember the past few weeks.

The dust you had whirled up into the air more than a week ago now has settled again, nestling into the crooks of the wood and the dried lavender you had hung above the window of the kitchen. It had been a measly attempt at smoothing out the musky scent of the settling wood beams and the peaty soil underneath. 

Now that you've grown accustomed to it... the days are flying by. 

Mainly because you keep staring into the water, dozing off, and thinking about where it had all gone wrong. How you ended up here.

The faint gurgle of the water, the occasional hiccup and splash of the gentle stream kissing the mossy, slick stones brings you back and makes you open your eyes again. There's the faint chill biting on your cheeks, a testament to how much time you'd spent on the porch already.

Maybe you should leave the blanket inside when you come out in the morning.

You twist the artfully woven fabric mindlessly in your fingers, back and forth. The loose lint gets scraggly underneath the pressure, the fine fabric strings hooking into each other and balling up.

You frown at it, thinking about the few words you had managed to string together on your laptop since you had moved into the cabin.

A splash makes you look up from your musing. A lazy drift of your eyes, more like, still without coffee and food because the food you got from Gabriel every now and then had run out by now.

Your eyes wander over the river until you spot a brown bear.

Just barely in the first few gleams of the sun, it trudges deeper into the water, uncaring of your presence on the other side of the river.

You should probably take up cooking again.

Give yourself something to do; maybe you should cook something for Gabriel, at least once, in return.

A fish from the stream, perhaps.

You squint against the bright light, the reflections on the water, and find the bear, quite unsuccessfully, snapping at fish swimming past.

It has been a week since you've been down at the ranch.

Your fingers are itching for something to do.

Then again, meeting the judging, worried look from the Senior of the Dutton family has started to lose its appeal. It makes your skin crawl to see the gruff man level such a soft, understanding look at you without much prompting.

-

"Hey, sunshine."

"Hey yourself- you busy?" You set your tote bag with the empty Tupperware down at your usual spot at the kitchen island before glancing at Gabriel. He is chopping away at something, diligently working, even as you lean against the kitchen counter next to him. You watch his arm move, the way he fills the shirt up that he had chosen for today.

"A little. Working on supper preparations." He briefly turns and flashes a charming smile before he continues chopping some zucchini. "How was your week away from the ranch?"

"Insightful. I brought you something for all that food you made me. Just... a favor in return for a favor."

Perfectly cubed pieces of vegetable join the others in the big bowl next to him and you watch as he puts down the knife. When he dries his washed hands on the towel slung over his shoulder, he finally meets your eyes again. 

"That's awfully nice."

"I would have bought you a bottle of something good to drink but I don't really know what you like."

He chuckles with a slight nod before he risks a look towards the kitchen island where you have deposited the filled box.

"What's in it?"

"Special dinner. Didn't have time to make dessert, otherwise, I would have made you some of my homemade cinnamon buns."

"Mh, I've heard good things about those."

"Oh, is that so?"

You nudge him with your elbow before looking over the kitchen countertop more closely - the bowl is a rainbow of colors and you see a box of steak, deep in the mix of paprika orange and streaks of muted greens, a marinade that already looks promising. It's like you can smell the colors.

"Well, maybe we can make those together sometime soon, then." He nudges you back and you chuckle before hopping off the counter again.

"Yeah right. Every cook I know despises baking."

"Yeah because it's like chemistry-"

"-like chemistry", you say at the same time. You grin wolfishly before knocking on the countertop wood, twice.

"Well, I better go out to the barn. Check on the horses."

"Want me to walk you over?"

"What, do you think a wolf will get me?"

"Nah. I just... I could use the fresh air."

"Uhm, sure."

He throws a towel over the cubed veggies.

You don't say much when he follows you outside.

What are you even doing?

"Hardly noticed how nice the weather is today", Gabriel mutters, scratching his beard as you approach the barn. You hum and look out towards the mountains.

"Maybe you need to get out more often."

"Hey, I do get out." He smiles, despite the admonishment. You give him an unbelieving look.

"Yeah, right, Gator", you huff and turn into the barn. He stops right at the border of the first concrete tile and leans up against the wooden door.

"Well if you don't believe me, I'll just have to prove it. You free this weekend?"

You're mute.

What?

He is still staring at you, waiting for an answer, unabashedly waiting out the awkward silence.

"I uhh- I'll have to look into my calendar, I guess."

"When you do, you know where to find me."

You're left with no further explanation, your eyes following Gabriel until he is back at the lodge.

-

You don't know if you want to answer him, today, though. 

You frown and hold your breath as you push your hand deeper into the cow - it lows as you do and you shush it as you carefully press further.

"You look beautiful today, Bones!"

You glare at the young farmhand calling out to you and manage to raise your middle finger at him.

"Aren't those boys happy about summer starting", you grumble. You finally manage to feel the organ you had been looking for. John chuckles, leveling an amused look at the guys working the herd in the other gutter.

"You know how they get."

"Wish they'd get more useful, sometimes", you mutter, still busy mapping out the reproductive system of the cow.

John hums, still leaning onto the metal cage the cow is fixated in, leaving you just enough room so you don’t feel uncomfortable but always close enough to peer over your shoulder.

“So, what’s going on?”

You draw your arm back after another minute with a short murmur to the cow.

“There’s some abnormalities around the ovaries and uterus. I’m going to suggest we keep her in while I do some tests. But most likely she’s going to be useless for breeding, John”, you sigh as you tug your plastic glove off. He notes it down in his notebook, nodding slightly.

You throw your dirty glove into your bucket and move over to the side to draw some blood from the neck of the cow where Rip is standing.

He smiles at you as you take a short moment to pat the cow’s neck.

“Rip!”

His head whips up towards John’s voice, his legs already in motion. He pats your shoulder as he passes you. As you rummage for a needle in your case, you catch him looking at you while he listens to John.

A cheeky smile briefly breaks his serious grimace before he turns away from you again.

You busy yourself withdrawing some blood from the cow's neck, carefully filling up a few more vials that you stash in the cooled box next to your case.

"Alright," you call out as you straighten up, your eyes on the boys in the back. ", send me the next one in, guys! We still have two more left!"

You straighten your head and use your bandana to wipe off some sweat that had built on your forehead and neck.

It takes a few more hours to finish your work, carefully checking over all of the cows that would be used for breeding this year before you do the actual dirty work the next week.

“Got everything?”

You look up from your cooled box of blood vials, your pen hovering over your notebook pages with the cattle numbers. Rip has your travel mug in hand, the light clinking of the metal immediately giving away the contents.

"Well, now I do. When did you have time to make me an iced coffee?”

“Who said I made it”, he just retorts, pushing the cool container into your free hand. You squint at him before taking a sip and noting the last few comments down before you shut the book.

“Well I know damn well that nobody would willingly put oat milk in coffee in this part of the country”, you murmur- you chance a look towards the Dutton house and feel your cheeks flush as you see Gabriel leaning over the sill to wave at you.

Oh. So that’s where the coffee had come from.

You wave back and take another sip before you look back at Rip.

He’s looking out towards the ranch, checking on god knows what- maybe the farmhand busy doing the dirty work of the day.

“Do you need any help moving your stuff up?”

“The blood vial case is a bit heavy but I’ll be fine. After all, that is going on Milton’s back, not mine.” 

“Just askin’. I'm going into town to get groceries. Want to come along?"

"Oh- I am-" you stop and frown. "No, actually, I could use some groceries, now that you mention it."

"I'll pick you up at the cabin, later, then."

"That would be great, thanks, Rip." You lean your head against his shoulder for a brief moment before looking up at him. He is already looking at you - it makes you squirm, that look.

"I'll come pick you up in an hour."

You don't think you've ever seen Rip without at least two pieces of clothing that identify him as a cowboy: It's always a hat, the boots, the belt, and maybe one of the Dutton logos on his shirts.

"Alright."

-

You grin to yourself as you watch a younger man glancing at Rip nervously from the produce aisle. 

You gently squeeze the tomato in your hand before grabbing a few to put in your cart. Rip is frowning at some cucumbers next to you. 

"Stop frowning like that, you're scaring every teenager in the vicinity", you mutter and nudge him before picking one of the cucumbers for yourself.

"Just thinking."

"You want to talk about it?"

"It's nothing important, doll." 

You bite your lip instead of disagreeing. Instead, you focus on picking out some more produce, the faint 2000s summer playlist playing in the background. The AC is already blasting even though summer has barely started - you're almost freezing in your thinned-out sweatshirt. It's blissfully empty around this time in the grocery store- well, as empty as these giant stores can get.

Rip eventually catches up to you in the fruit juice aisle where you swear your teeth are chattering.

"I shouldn't buy this much- I can barely get all of this up to the cabin."

"I'll drive you back, you know that, right?"

He's close. Hovering. You two haven't been this close in months.

You miss the comfort of his hugs.

It's the only thing you can think about as you stare into the overfilled shelf.

"Pick some up so we can have those fancy little cocktails you like to make. Don't play shy about it."

"So what you're saying is you want me to make some cocktails again because you have been missing having those fancy fruity little drinks with me."

He doesn't say anything, just leans so close you can feel the warmth of his breath.

"If you tell on me, I'll tell the greenhorn you have a crush on him."

"Ohhh, I'm shaking in fear."

"Knew it wasn't just the cold."

Rip leans back again and you smile as you pick out a few juice bottles, despite the chill. 

He forces you to take his jacket when you get into the truck again and drives the two of you home.

You spend the next two days hugging yourself, wound up in it as you let your feet dangle into the cool water of the stream.

You do it until you feel your toes go numb. After going inside and warming them up, you do it again, your eyes steadily on the rush and splash of the water, the reflections playing with the lights.

The groceries stay untouched.

-

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