#nor do they really believe in their abilities

[grasshopperdoingdogpaddle]

Do you think Wuya and Hannibal mocked Chase about Omi's presumed death?

Oh they totally did, I have no doubt they had a betting pool going on it or something. The real question is did they manage to convince Chase that Omi really was gone for good? Was there a nadir where their words got to him and he had to accept that this was the end? Even if he was just wandering somewhere, 80 years is enough for a mortal human to just die naturally, right?

Chase was very concerned about Omi's sudden disappearance. I've mentioned it before, but Chase getting distracted by it probably played a role in his being defeated in the bad future. He makes the effort to keep tabs on Omi, and even Chase lost track of him.

But by the time he tells Omi that he was happy to see him safe and sound and he always knew their paths would cross again, I think he's being genuine and has already believed in that for a while at that point.

Hannibal and Wuya were taunting Chase on the matter while they were all trapped in the dungeon together, but that paradoxically solidified Chase believing that Omi really had to be okay and they'd see each other again.

One, out of pure stubbornness and spite for anything Wuya and especially Hannibal have to say. He's also extremely suspicious of everything either of them say.

And two, because it makes it increasingly clear that neither Wuya nor Hannibal nor Jack had anything to do with Omi's disappearance, so whatever it is is probably one of Omi's own antics.

Wuya's probably the one who would bring up the natural limits of a mortal human life, especially since Chase would probably lose track of such a short period of time in the grand scheme of an immortal life. But even then, Chase is so stubbornly convinced in Omi's potential and ability that he wouldn't even entertain the idea of Omi dying a quiet normal human's death.

[12pt-times-new-roman]

c3e59

let's go back in tiiiiime

"Where are we?" "Where's everybody else?" "Where's Imogen?"

This area is rife with not just volcanic activity, but with seismic activity as well, and Ruidus is to the south.

Laudna identifies a handful of places that match this description: the Truskan Vale (near Kamordah), the Panagrip Sands (to the far east of Marquet), and the Spectrum Gorge in the middle of Issylra.

Orym to Caleb, via sending stone: "Um... Caleb Widogast? Are you alright? Where are you? Not sure we're even in Marquet anymore. Please respond." He's met with a feedback loop and static.

Orym to Dorian, vis sending stone: "Dorian? Can you hear me? Uh... what's the sky look like where you are? Tell me you're okay." Same thing.

They crest a ridge of the gorge, and beyond, there's a dense forest, a cluster of growth affixed to the mineral-rich earth. Orym, with a passive perception of 31, sees movement — 

AIMEE!!!!

She's a dwarf with long blond hair, covered in tattoos — two stand out, one of a banner heart that says "me" instead of "mom," and one with a large cursive D. She's wearing earring hoops that say "fuck off." A corset, bejeweled boots, a massive gold belt buckle, carrying a whip and a sickle.

I'm calling it right now, this woman is going to romance Laudna and Ashton.

An hour ago, she was in Tal'dorei looking for her ex. She almost found him when she heard Ludinus' voice, saw white light, then appeared in this forest.

Mona is a barbarian/rogue (who rolled excellent stats btw).

From the top, they can see that the gorge is a massive canyon at least two miles long. Ruidus is to the southwest of them. An extremely overgrown and vibrant forest surrounds the canyon, and there's a river nearby.

Orym can see another gathering of leylines to the northeast — another nexus point, miles off. Loosely in that direction, he can see a township, and beyond that, a massive mountain range with one singular mountain taller than any he's ever seen — the Heaven's Stair. The entire western side of his vision is taken up by a mountain range that looks so foreboding and ominous that he doesn't even want to go near it. To the south, ocean.

Traveling to the northeast, they encounter a fire and send Pate to scout. (Friendly reminder that Pate uses the stat block of an imp, so he can turn invisible at will.) At the fire, there's a cart, a reindeer-looking beast of burden, and a humanoid figure warming their hands.

Utkarsh Ambudkar is an actor best known for his roles in Pitch Perfect and Avatar: the Last Airbender.

Bor'dor is a half-elf "built like a coat hanger." 6'4 but hunched over, delicate fingers, no scars or tattoos. Brown skin with shades of green and gold, unkempt hair, and large gold-amber eyes. A face that carries the resting expression of "what the fuck is going on?" No armor, a green cloak, leather shoes, and a crossbow.

He shoots a 5th-level lightning bolt at Mona, then casts cure wounds at second level. He's a divine soul sorcerer!

He was in the Cyrios Mountains on Wildemount (near Pride's Call) with his sheep — his family raises sheep and sheepdogs — and caring for his sick brother. Then he felt a humming, heard a voice and a droning, a pain in his forehead — then he got teleported here, along with his cart.

And apparently he just... spontaneously gained 9 levels in sorcerer over the course of the hours he's been here. Which, if he's a divine soul sorcerer, is super fucking concerning considering what we know about the gods giving large amounts of power to their followers from EXU: Calamity.

Mona's whip is a whip of warning, which gives her advantage on initiative rolls. Also, creatures within 30 feet of her cannot be surprised, and if they're sleeping naturally and combat starts, they wake up at the start of combat.

Orym spots another figure, walking through the forest, approaching the light and conversation.

EMILY!!

She's a shadar-kai elf with emo girl tattoos with runes instead of song lyrics, but she's dressed in the formal attire of a mage's apprentice. Indoor kid vibes, clothes not meant for adventuring, "coming out of a tense conversation with a book."

She's a Cobalt Soul apprentice!! She's here asking about their "experiences with the apogee solstice."

Her book talks to her. She was sent by the Cobalt Soul, but with a sentient book chaperone. It's a tome with black and brown leather and silver runes, with a scrunched face roughly pressed into the front. Denios was trapped in a book during a rivalry, the Cobalt Soul got their hands on it, and now he's a chaperone.

The Cobalt Soul didn't know where she was gonna end up, but they sent her through a teleport spell hoping for a metropolis — and ended up here. So this confirms that teleport works, but there's no guarantee where you're gonna end up.

Prism was stepping outside the library to prepare for her teleportation when she heard Ludinus, saw a flash, and ended up here.

The Soul knew that the apogee solstice would be a "cataclysmic event." They scrounged up everyone they could and dispatched them to try to figure out what's happening.

The sentient book is also her spellbook, so she's stuck with him.

It sounds like Prism is an order of scribes wizard? That would make sense for the Cobalt Soul.

Mona's "real" name is Deni$e. Her nails are incredibly sharp stilettos. Her demeanor reminds me a lot of Keg.

More rustling in the bushes! More people?

Nope! Initiative at the end of the break.

Prism has a raven familiar she calls "mother." She also invokes the spirit of her spellbook, confirming that she's an Order of Scribes wizard.

Denise has at least 3 levels in rogue, because her sneak attack is 2d6, and at least 2 levels in barbarian, because she has reckless attack.

Gods, I forgot how much I love Talisein's descriptions of Ashton's attacks and rage builds. They're all so good.

Oooooh, I've never seen steel wind strike used in a game before! It's a 5th level ranger/wizard spell from Xanithar's that deals 6d10 force damage on a hit to up to 5 creatures within range. Then, regardless of whether it hit or not, the caster can teleport to a space within 5 feet of any of the targets.

Also, yes, rules-as-written a familiar counts as an ally that can proc sneak attack. So if Veth, as an arcane trickster, had taken find familiar, or if Frumpkin was used in this way, she could've gotten sneak attack much more reliably. Personally, I find it strange that familiars can do this while spiritual weapons cannot, but yeah.

I love that Bor'dor, the newly-minted sorcerer who has no idea how to use his magic purposefully, is this party's only source of healing (besides Laudna's wither and bloom, which hardly counts). From that, it seems like this group is much more geared toward social encounters than physical ones,

YO. EMILY. that is a DOPE FUCKING MOVE

The plant swallows Orym, then the book goes in behind him and gets into contact, then Prism casts dimension door through the book on Orym to teleport them out.

THIS is why I absolutely love watching veteran players on Critical Role. People new to the system have their own unique charm to the way they play their characters, but people like Emily and Aabria who are highly experienced with and aware of D&D 5e know to make incredibly creative moves like that.

And at the same time, Utkarsh (and guests new to 5e) pushes the limits of the rules, because they're not familiar with those rules, to a point that they come up with wildly creative plays based on what knowledge they do have of the rules-as-written that end up being clutch moves.

Combat ends.

Prism's raven is named after both her own mother and the Matron of Ravens, because the latter is prominent in the Shadowfell.

Prism is "really new to spellcasting," despite being a 9th-level wizard who is therefore capable of casting things like contact other plane, create spelljamming helm, legend lore, and teleportation circle. tbh this is such a cool take on wizards -- someone who's never tested their spells in combat situations, but who's confident in their own ability with those spells in more innocuous circumstances, due to their expansive study and lack of practical experience.

Also, Prism knows exactly who Ludinus Da'leth is, though she's never interacted with him directly, because of his leadership of the Cerberus Assembly.

"We don't leave people behind. That's the rule. You do not leave people the fuck behind." I love that this has become the center of Ashton's philosophy, because it makes so much sense. They were left behind, left for dead, and a single person stayed by their side, helped them, saved them. So of course they are going to be that person for someone else. Of course they would rather be the Milo, of course they'd rather try in vain to save someone instead of leaving them behind and subjecting them to the same pain and isolation that they themself felt.

Also, again, Emily is using the same logic for Prism as Aabria did for Laerryn. Maybe it's just because we've never really had a proper elf PC (or a player-character who had the trance ability), but this is just such a cool take on trance...... I love it.

Ahhh, so Prism doesn't necessarily believe the gods should die but she does believe that they might deserve to be usurped by mortals ascending to godhood like the Raven Queen. With a skill check, Prism's truthful reason is that she's feeling excited to be out of the library. She thought she was going to freak out, but she didn't, and she's excited by that -- she feels like she could smoke a cigarette in a single drag, she feels that rush of adrenalin. It's like when Caleb said in C2 that they were all addicts to the thrill of battle, the adrenalin of purpose.

Bor'dor doesn't remember his mother very well, and he hasn't seen her in a very long time. He believes that his magic comes from the love of his mother, and he's clinging to that. He and Prism take the first watch, and bond over their ability to trance.

Yep, Prism is 100% an order of scribes wizard. Manifest Mind is a 6th level ability of that subclass.

Ashton panicked, down in the mines. They thought they'd won, they thought Laudna had won, and they think they made some bad calls. Laudna says that "we're a bunch of dumb-fucks, going up against a 500-year-old wizard, so..." And Ashton reassures her that they're gonna get their people. They're gonna get Prism, Bor'dor, and Deni$e to where they need to go, then they're gonna find Imogen. "If they went to space, then we'll go to space... if she got vaporized, we'll bring her back. This is what we do. We bring everybody back. There is no failure in this, and we're going to figure it out because it's what matters. I have-- whatever broken thing that's in my head, that means that anything's possible now, that's what I've decided. We brought you back, and we can do it again... sure, we're not enough to save the world, but we are more than enough to bring everybody back... we can't save the world, but we can save our people. We're going to."

I never really got to know Percy, I liked Molly, I loved Caduceus... but I want to fucking study Ashton like a bug under a microscope, I want to turn them around in my brain like a microwave. They are fascinating,

Deni$e and Orym take the last watch. Deni$e knows Shaun Gilmore! She went to Emon looking for him specifically. She also knows Dariax, "that piece of shit." She knows Orym from wanted posters all over Emon -- the Nameless Ones have put up wanted posters for all of the Crown Keepers.

Dariax has a dumptruck ass, canon.

DARIAX IS THE EX DENI$E WAS LOOKING FOR

And the Nameless Ones were going after her because they were looking for what Dariax stole, and as soon as she saw him months later, she got teleported here.

Orym has flashes of Keyleth, Will, the horrors they've witnessed. It permeates this light conversation, his entire existence. He drinks, heavier than we've seen him drink the entire campaign. "I just... I just don't think I've ever felt so small."

Prism doesn't know sending, but if she can find a scroll or a copy of a spell, she can transcribe it into her spellbook very quickly. She wants to find a library or some discarded spellbooks so she can help, so she can cast sending.

As an interesting note, this is also an Order of Scribes ability! Usually, it takes 2 hours per spell level for a wizard to transcribe a spell, but for an Order of Scribes wizard it takes two minutes per spell level.

"That mountain to the north is the Ascendant Bridge, the tallest mountain in Exandria... it's visible as far away as Vasselheim. It's believed to be where the gods first arrived in the world." The party is within a gorge of Othanzia, the region in which Vasselheim, the dawn of all civilization, sits.

The party can still see Ruidus, even in the early daylight. They can see townships around -- they have options scattered in every direction.

[nix-that-rad-lass]

I gotta be real, and I know this is an unpopular opinion, but I think trans men are the most valid men.

Women just do it better 🤷‍♀️

Plus since female is default I guess you could consider that FTM is much more of a biological capability than MTF.

Not to say you can change sex, but rather, I think that trans men are much better able to transition and pass, and having been raised and treated as women, tend to be more capable of empathy.

This is not to excuse the rampant issues of gender ideology or the medical mistreatment and abuse of dysphoric women and girls.

[radiance1]

When the Justice League heard of Phantom, they believed they had to act quickly. Based on what they were told by the GIW, a branch of the government they had no knowledge of previously (Batman is working to correct that), the ghost was dangerous and extremely powerful.

A ghost that terrorized a small town that they GIW have tried-and failed- on numerous occasions to send back to the Ghost Zone. The GIW wouldn't have come to the Justice League for help if it were just that, but based on what they have claimed Phantom has achieved an inexplicable rise in power after having met with the King of ghosts himself.

If what they say is true, then ghosts could potentially invade and cause an all-out war with humanity that the Justice League would rather much avoid thank you.

Negotiations for peace or understanding have been repeatedly rejected and the GIW has been led to believe that Phantom has done something to the Fenton couple. The leading ecto-biologists in the world, years of research suddenly wiped clean off and acting much more cordial towards the ghost.

A complete 180.

So much so that you could even claim them to have been mind controlled. Which isn't outside the realm of possibility due to ghosts having an innate ability to overshadow others and control them.

Perhaps even the entire town has fallen under Phantom's control. Even another ghost, who had just been recently opposed to Phantom, has fallen under his control.

So the Justice League had to act fast.

---

Danny was fucked.

He could tell that very, very well. He still didn't have his entire new... dragon thing... under control very well, mostly sticking a half human like form. His powers were stronger yes but he couldn't really control them well.

Which is kinda why he's fucked.

Danny has never heard about the Justice League before, mostly because he had recently found out that apparently Amity Park was isolated. Like, extremely. Basically it's own little world cut off from the rest.

So when they appeared with the GIW he thought, hey, maybe they were finally changing their white suit shtick.

He didn't expect them to be extremely well-trained, have supernatural abilities or magic. Along with their usual tech well.

Yea.

Danny was fucked.

And he was very, very scared.

He's already died once but that didn't mean he wanted to die again, and he knows that he would probably be heavily experimented on if the GIW actually got their hands on him.

He was alone. He was surrounded. He was outnumbered. And he was oh, so very scared.

His family and friends had already fallen (thankfully not dead, just unconscious he thinks) and Vlad was occupied elsewhere, also fighting.

So Danny was alone.

No one would be coming to help him.

So what did he do?

He opened his mouth and did something he didn't do often. Despite that he could see that they somewhat recognized what he was about to do and tried to find cover.

Danny wasn't aiming at them.

He pulled his head back, mouth aimed at the sky.

Danny wailed.

It was waaaay more powerful than he had originally thought, so he was glad he aimed it at the sky.

As soon as it was over he felt drained, swaying on his feet and trying to use his tail to steady himself and not fall off his own claws.

They didn't know what was happening.

Danny just hoped it worked.

---

Neither the Justice League nor the GIW knew why Phantom shot one of his most powerful attacks up into the sky, but they did see the opportunity it presented.

Phantom was weak. Looking like he would fall off his own feet and fall unconscious.

They had to act quickly.

But before they could, from right where Phantom had wailed into the sky.

It cracked.

And continued to crack.

Until a large hole appeared in the sky, leading into a dimension of endless green.

The Infinite Realms.

They believed Phantom was trying to retreat.

They were wrong.

Two roars came from the portal, forcing everyone to cover their ears.

Then.

Something came out of the portal.

A long, serpentine dragon flowed out, flying around the area of the crack before descending down and around Phantom.

Then.

A giant claw grabbed onto the edge of the crack. Pushing against it until it broke, forcing the hole bigger and bigger as a much, much larger dragon stepped out. Standing protectively over the serpentine dragon and Phantom.

A large crown wrapped in flame floating about its head signified its status.

The Ghost King.

[floatyflowers]

Dark Platonic! Fire Nation Royal Family x Non-bender Reader

With Ozai:

At first he didn't accept the fact that you, his youngest child, is a non-bender, and ignored your existence.

That was until he noticed how his older brother, Iroh, spends time with you, Ozai got extremely jealous.

And decided to spend time with you, only to realize that you are his favorite child, and felt like an actual father.

Yes, you can't firebend nor do you even have the ability to protect yourself.

But why would you need to protect yourself when your father is going to be the Phoenix king of the fire nation?

Ozai will burn down the world for you.

"You, my sweet child, will grow up in the presence of a very powerful father"

With Ursa:

When Ursa found out that you couldn't bend, she became overprotective of you to the point of paranoia.

Since childhood, she refused to allow you to play with anyone except Zuko.

One time, one of her handmaidens scolded you harshly for playing outside without your mother's permission which resulted in you bursting into tears.

The next day, that handmaiden was fired and Ursa made sure that she gets no other jobs.

While thinking of escaping, she thought to take you with her.

However, Ozai has forbidden that from happening.

"When you find out the truth, promise to come find me"

With Azulon

While still alive, he made sure you had the best education and guards.

Azulon also made sure to have you believe that the fire nation is without mistakes or faults.

He tried manipulating you into believing that just your loyalty to your people is enough duty.

However, you are kind, too kind.

Yet, he Azulon didn't hate you for it even if he considered a weak trait to have in the royal family.

He also still has the flower crown you made him stored away safely so it doesn't rot.

It is rumored that the last word he muttered was your name.

With Iroh

Uncle Iroh isn't really as possessive as the other characters, but he focuses on advising you from time to time.

You enjoy drinking tea with him and gossiping about everything.

Even though, Ozai has forbidden him from speaking with you, you would sneak behind your father's back to drink tea with him.

After the loss of his son in the war, Lu Ten, Iroh felt depressed.

Yet you managed to comfort him with your cheerfulness and playful attitude.

It reminded him of his son.

"The best quality in a princess is her kindness, something which your sister clearly lacks"

With Zuko

Zuko thought you would be like Azula but you have proven him wrong.

You are kind, gentle, and nurturing just like your and his mother.

That's why Zuko always found himself by your side, being your playmate...being your protecter.

His mother told him that it's his duty to protect you from danger considering that he is your older brother.

Even though Azula has never hurt you, but Zuko was always wary of her, especially after his mother disappeared.

When Ozai challenged him to an Agni Kai, you were the first to cry out and plead with him to let Zuko off, but Ozai felt jealous of your relationship with Zuko and was determined to teach his son a lesson.

However when your brother got banished, Zuko took you with him in secret not wanting you to be left with Azula.

"I know the journey will take long but once I restore my honor we can return home together"

With Azula

Azula was extremely jealous when you were born, thinking that you will take all the attention from her.

But she realized that you deserve all the attention.

You didn't treat her like a monster, you weren't scared of her.

Instead you showed her love and called her 'big sister'

You would cling to her as a toddler, whenever there was lightning, you would secretly sneak to her room and sleep beside her.

"How can you be scared of lightning, we control it, silly"

Mai and Ty Lee saw how Azula softens whenever you are around.

And when Azula discovered that you have left with Zuko, she destroyed everything in her way and burned a few servants.

"She's mine, and only MINE"

[hannieehaee]

hi!!!! im wondering if you could do a story about idol mingyu, idol reader, and a story about how mingyu couldnt control himself after seeing his girlfriend perform a hot performance on an end of the year award show because she looked stunning, and he also then accidentally reveals their relationship. TYSM!!💞

content: idol!mingyu x idol!reader, established relationship, secret relationship, mingyu is a simp, afab reader, public embarrassment (not really), part of my lil idol!mingyu universe (even though ive created three separate aus of it oops), dry humping, penetrative sex, mentions of fingering, etc.

wc: 1429

a/n: thank u for requesting i love writing idol aus hehe hope u enjoy <3

original fic

masterlist

as a seasoned idol, mingyu was expected by now to have a pristine ability hold restraint in any and every public situation that required it.

there were certain ways in which he was expected to act while in the public eye.

for instance, he could never outwardly express discomfort at the few awkward fancalls he had to participate in. nor could he show dislike towards the few members of the industry he didn't quite get along with.

but above all, he was absolutely never to wear the lust he felt for you on his face in such a public setting.

especially not during an awards show that was being streamed internationally.

even more so while the camera was focused on seventeen for their reactions of your performance.

but mingyu was just a man after all. a man who was thoroughly and proudly obsessed with you.

except this was meant to be a secret kept between the two of you (and maybe a few other people you had let in on the secret).

so mingyu immediately knew he was fucked the moment your set had begun and you came out wearing the tiniest little number he had ever seen. it hugged your body perfectly, highlighting his favorite parts in the most delicious ways.

it might've been fine if that had been it, but your pretty outfit was also accompanied by the most sinful of sets he had ever seen you do.

watching you grind and twist yourself in ways that reminded him of the many hours spent between the sheets with you was just not something mingyu knew how to witness without it eliciting a reaction out of him.

and sadly for mingyu, his face told every single one of his emotions.

his droopy and lustful eyes said everything they needed to say on their own, but they were also accompanied by the constant biting and licking of his lips as he watched you.

the one thing he didn't realize, however, was that the camera had been on him that whole time, airing his reactions to your performance for everyone out there to see. it had even managed to capture the gruttal groan he'd let out the moment you started grinding sensually on the floor (in a fashion similar to the way you did to him so many times before).

it wasn't until one boo seungkwan kicked him from under the table to get him to react like something other than an animal in heat and clap for you like a normal human being.

but the damage was done, and now so he felt extremely self conscious for the remainder of the show, not knowing what type of rumors to expect to see the following morning.

for now, though, his priority was to catch you during the intermediate time between your show and that of his own group. fortunately for him, there was one group going between your group and his, allowing him a believable excuse to head backstage with his members and go astray as he looked for you before your own group had to head back.

without so much as a single word, he grabbed you by the arm and dragged you to the nearest empty room he could find, immediately locking the two of you in there as his eyes got a fill on you in your current ensemble; the main instigator of this whole predicament.

"gyu, what the hell are you-"

"no talking. fuck. please, just-" there was genuine desperation in his words. his frantic eyes showed how badly he wanted you, but he didnt even know where to start. so he let his body take control of his actions.

it started with a rough yet sensual kiss against your lips as his hands got a feel of your body. he groped and caressed every inch of you, his lust growing more and more by the second.

"made me make a fool of myself out there, baby," he grunted, lips now trailing down your exposed shoulder, making their way up and down your neck with wet kisses, "couldnt keep my eyes off you the whole time."

"g-gyu," you were defeated against him, allowing your body to be handled however he wanted as long as he kept touching you. he relished on this.

"they saw everything. the way i couldnt keep my eyes off of you ... the way one single look at you can get me on my knees in one instant, fuck", he uncovered as much of your body as he could, raising your skirt while lowering your shirt, "they all know how much i want you."

but you didnt process nor care for his words as he ground his solid member against your now bare cunt (sans some very thin seamless panties that accompanied your skirt), completely lost to the delirious feeling his cock gave you even through his pants.

he kept whispering in your ear just how badly you'd affected him just now, how everyone now knew how pretty you must look when you ride him – all while he hastily lowered his pants and moved your own panties aside, plunging inside as soon as you gave him the okay.

"f-fuck ... feel so fucking good, baby," he breathed against your ear.

he lifted one of your legs up, wrapping it around his waist in order to get a better angle as he thrust desperately into you. the praises leaving his mouth never stopped, only getting less and less intelligible as his arousal grew.

"o-oh, gyu ... right there ..."

"there? fuck ... baby likes it when i fuck her right there?", his taunts were followed by harsher thrusts, causing your nails to dig into his bare arms, "a-ah, shit! 'm baby's gonna leave her mark on me, huh? yeah ... go ahead, pretty. let everyone know i'm yours .."

"m-mine!"

"mhm, gorgeous, just like you're all mine," he opted to carry you now, holding you up against the wall as he moved your body to his pleasing, "fuck, wish i could mark you. show everyone who you belong to," he buried his face in your neck, simply opting to breathe in your scent as he landed soft kisses on the length of your neck.

"do it!," you begged mindlessly, "please? wan' everyone t-to know 'm yours," you babbled.

"fuck," he groaned before following your direction and beginning to nip at the naked skin of your neck. quickly he left a few blossoms of red on your skin, knowing that the moment you went out there, people would be able to spot a few from afar.

with his face buried in your neck, he timed himself so he could orgasm with you, having mastered the art of playing with your clit just at the right time to synchronize your highs.

mingyu stayed glued to you for a while, unwilling to let go as he panted against your neck, attempting to even out his breathing.

"how are you gonna go and perform out there completely out of breath and with scratches on your shoulders?", you giggled.

"i ... oh, fuck."

it was too late for him to realize that although you wouldn't be too scrutinized for your disheveled appearance due to your performance being over with, he, on the other hand, would still have to go out there and dance in front of a huge audience. the error of his ways was lost on him the moment he hardened under his pants at the mere sight of you dancing.

but hell, it had been worth it.

"baby, just ask your stylist for a jacket, okay?", you disconnected from him, knowing it was almost time for him to perform.

you pulled your clothes back together, wincing at the feeling of his cum dripping out of you and grabbing some nearby napkins to clean yourself as much as possible, as well as him. once the two of you were presentable, you gave your boyfriend a kiss for goodluck and headed back to your seat while mingyu walked over to his members backstage.

though no dramatic dating scandal broke out that day, various rumors questioning mingyu's lustful eyes during your performance began sparking up, with some people making the connection in the timeline of his mishap and your sudden reappearance in the crowd, with a messy, post-sex look accompanying both you and mingyu.

despite hybe ignoring any and every article insinuating anything between the two of you, you had now created a subsection of fans who were dedicated to unveiling what they were sure (and correct) was a secret love affair between the two of you.

[edenfenixblogs]

Oh wow. This is really antisemitic, @iblewrichardspeck

You are deeply antisemitic person.

And guess what? Having a Jewish grandfather doesn’t change that.

Your knowledge of Jewish history and culture is nonexistent to the point that I won’t even bother to confront most of it.

I encourage my allies to step in and address your nonsense with reason and links to credible sources.

Two huge standout points of your lack of knowledge that I want to point out though:

Most Jews in Israel are NOT in fact European or Ashkenazi. Do literally one Google search.

“Jews have always had a right to safety in their homeland.” I want you to know that I am pretty well regarded as a person who keeps their cool in situations like this. So I want to be explicit that my ability to stay calm right now is an act of superhuman will. I want to scream at you and cry because of the amount of death and pain you are erasing with this outright, easily disproven lie. Jews do not and have not ever had safety in their homeland of ISRAEL. Nor have Jews ever had safety in any of the locations where we have made a home. Judaism and jewish life has never “thrived” anywhere, at least not for the last 2000+ years. We have always been a target of attack and displacement and genocide. Always. Without exception. The idea that Israel somehow took all the Jews of the Middle East away from their homes where they were peacefully chilling out is nonsense. The middle eastern (who are the majority btw) Jews in Israel came to Israel after being expelled from their nations of origin or murdered for refusing to leave. Poland? Yeah. It had a swell Jewish community about 1200 years ago. It’s a shame about the centuries of ghettoization and you know that pesky genocide you might have heard about. Ethiopia? You mean the place where Jews had to be smuggled out of by Israeli covert forces because of the danger they were in there?

I don’t know if I believe that your grandfather was Jewish. Maybe he was. Maybe you made him up to legitimize your own antisemitic views.

But if he was really Jewish, I’m sure he’s wildly disappointed in you.

I won’t be blocking you because I want you to see this and change your views in a deeply fundamental way. And I want you to apologize. I’m 99.99999999% sure you won’t. You’re too steeped in your hatred. But who knows. People can change. I hope you do. Because right now, your attitude, beliefs, and behavior are rancid. I will not be responding to further messages from you.

Allies or fellow Jews with bandwidth can take it from here. Adios. Shalom.

[anitalenia]

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𝒄𝒘: sexual content ahead, husband!bale!batman, fem!reader on top, riding, some dirty talk, soft sex, not my best writing but fr fr don’t come for me im just trying to post things okay? ahhhhhhh 😔🤚🏻 maybe some typos 😚 i oughta be ashamed of myself fr fr 😔😔🤚🏻🤚🏻 ₊˚⊹♡

₊˚⊹♡ 𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆; eccentric billionaire, former eligible bachelor, orphan boy, son, rich playboy.

Labels. These were all just labels Bruce never particularly cared for nor paid attention to, monickers used to try and simplify who he really was so he could be easier understood. Labels used to better classify him because rich men like him supposedly didn’t have depth or purpose beyond what the media claimed him to have.

They were just labels, words that barely scratched the surface of who he really was.

Bruce had been called many things in his life, too many awful and offensive things he had quickly learned not to pay attention to. Caring gave them meaning, he was told so early on, caring gave them significance. Now, he really couldn’t care less.

Throughout the course of his life, throughout all the tragedy and grief, Bruce had learned to ignore it all; the names, the judgments, the looks, the labels. His indifference had become second nature, an innate response to anybody trying to provoke him.

He didn’t really have a choice anyway. There were too many people praying on his downfall since his birth, too many people biting at the fruits of his labor to see if they were ripe enough for the taking. Selfish, greedy, money hungry men desperate for his demise.

Sharks lurking in untamed depths ready to snatch him up if he swam too far, hiding in the black shores with their sharp teeth bared and beady eyes hungry.

Despite what many people believed, Bruce didn’t have it so easy in the sense of work and spirit. When you were rich like he was, famous like he was, as powerful as he was, everyone believed you couldn’t possibly be burdened by anything.

That he was too spoiled by the grandness of life that it had gradually bled into a lack of work ethic, that it was his last name that gave him any status at all, that it was his reputation that gave him everything he had without him having to ask for it.

He had the money to fix any problem, the influence to hide any scandal, the face to get him out of any situation he needed to get out of.

He was CEO of Wayne Enterprises for gods sake, son to Thomas Wayne, a man that was great and beloved all in his own right. Yes, people had doubted Bruce’s ability to lead, to run a business after so long of being away from it, but then he came back and proved them all wrong as he usually did.

Being someone so honorably renowned in Gotham City, someone that carried the Wayne name at that, it came with its own barrel of familial obligation and responsibility outside of his own personal commitments. He couldn’t disappoint anyone, could never fathom disappointing his late father.

Working by day a normal man with a bullet on his back, a price on his head to any hungry buisness man willing to do whatever it took to get to the top. Then working by night as Batman with the bruises and scars to show for it. Someone every criminal and lowlife in Gotham City wanted dead.

Batman, not so much a label as he was a separate being entirely. It was Bruce, but he couldn’t find any similarities between the polite buisness man wearing a suit by day and the other man wearing a blood stained mask by night. One was forced to coerce with society in the manner of business and passive aggressive smiles, another undertaking the grueling task of removing the grime from it.

Bruce Wayne was all expensive cologne and hand shake deals, money hungry tabloids and self absorbed white collars. It was a life always on display, always the center of attention, always everyone else’s focus.

Batman was purely mystery and intrigue. Hidden from sight yet found in every shadow, heard in the trembled whisper of every breath. No one knew who he was yet he had somehow gotten all of their attention. Everyone eager to know who was behind the mask but no one ready to answer for why he existed in the first place.

The only similarities they shared were the cause for conspiracy. Whether it was Bruce or Batman they stole every headline — always someone trying to figure them out, bring their true identity to light and spread more moral quandary about whether they were right or wrong for every choice they made.

Pure opposite lives he juggled in the same two hands.

No, he did not have it easy. Always more enemies than friends and more snakes than family. Every hour, every minute, every second he spent left exposed there was always someone right behind him ready to push him if he faltered.

He had to be careful; always be passive and nice, diplomatic and respectful to those he knew wanted him gone, to the people who wanted his seat at the head of the table and the money in his bank. Bruce had to be the CEO his father wanted him to be, the one he was destined to be, the one etched into his history before he was even born.

He had a reputation to uphold, a legacy to live, a job to do.

But no, it was not always easy.

Being rich and handsome like he was did have its downsides, as meager as they may seem to less fortunate individuals. Many people hated Bruce Wayne just for those simple, superficial things alone. His looks, his status, his job he was so rightfully given. Apparently this made him an asshole, arrogant, narcissist.

It was looks of hatred and envy from men he’d never even met, women he’d abandoned after a steamy two hour hookup (not that he did those anymore but women loved to hold a grudge), businessmen who cursed him to hell and back for his amount of wealth and fame he had no control over.

He didn’t care about these people anyway. These rambunctious, single minded people who preyed on the weak and ate the hopeless. They were all self centered, arrogant, narcissistic. Self absorbed scum unwilling to put in the hard work necessary to be as successful as he was.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, Bruce was often regarded as someone lonely, someone lost, someone desolate and pitiful. He was a coward, hiding in his soulless black mansion under thick piles of money ever since the fatal death of his parents. So sad, an orphan, just depressing.

That was hushed whispers behind his back and somber stares, awkward, harrowing smiles from coworkers and the front pages of newspapers. Bruce Wayne back from hiding after all this time… living on his father’s name… will he fail or carry on the legacy of the great Wayne fortune… yada yada yada.

Just more words. Pointless and purposeless, written to appease the swill of Gotham with no real substance behind them. Gossip, false news, attention grabbing headlines that were purely speculation.

However, as much as he hated labels — more so his — whatever names he got called behind his back, Bruce couldn’t find it in sensible reason to argue that they weren’t pieces of who he really was. Fabrics of his character torn out thread by thread and poked and needled at by societies curious hands.

They were just pieces, stretched and torn so far from the truth but yet the original strings were still there, hanging on in remembrance of what he truly was chaotically intertwined in the lies and deception of what people thought him to be. Too shredded to be properly understood but still thriving in the undercurrents of whatever he was now being labeled as and people were now foolishly believing him to be.

Yes, they were just labels. But labels that were not so far from factual truths.

However again, none of those words mattered to him as much as this did, as much as the one label that he truly cared about.

Husband.

Your husband.

The only title he held in the same esteem as Batman and Wayne Enterprises CEO, perhaps even higher. It was one of the only labels that carried a semblance of true meaning, one he didn’t shy from.

Husband. It was the only honorific that mattered to him, one of the only sentiments that made him feel actual pride in who he was. Husband was something real, concrete, not some anonymous opinion in a paper or a cruel murmur in a hallway.

It was the label that pierced him through and through especially in moments like this, moments when your hips were rolling deeply on top of his and he was buried balls deep inside your warmth.

He couldn’t think about anything in this moment. Nothing and everything at the same time as your finger nails, freshly manicured and glittering, gripped into his shoulder blades as you rolled your hips once again.

Bruce winced pleasantly, jaw clenching as his head leaned back into the softness of his black silken pillows. Brown hair frazzled and stringy, his smooth skin alight with a soft, lovesick glow.

You rolled your hips once more in a soft soothing motion, nothing too rough and nothing too fast; the evening had called for something more sensual in the delicacy of Bruce’s touch and the softness of his words just an hour prior.

“Oh Bruce…” You sighed dreamily, hands pressing into his bulky arms as he sighed out a trembled breath from his nose.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, his heavy hands squeezing your hips but not as to pressure you, only to keep you connected to him at the hilt so he was never too far out of you.

“That’s good, sweetheart, get it just like that… mmhmm.” Bruce swallowed heavily, voice low and raw as his eyebrows furrowed over darkened hazel eyes. Fingers thrumming on your skin as you pulsed around him, wetness seeping out of your full entrance and gliding down his length until it could leave a memorable darkened patch on the sheets.

You whined quietly, voice high pitched and greedy as the length of him filled you up and pressed into every soft wall surrounding him. He was always thick, always perfect, always felt so fucking good it made your muscles tense and spasm.

You rolled your body in that delectable way he liked once more, barely moving yet every part of him felt the sparks of pleasure thrum through his skin and make his thighs lock up.

Bruce groaned hotly at the action, eyes flickering down to the wet mess of where your pussy was sucking him in. It was messy, glistening, shared arousal in white strings of mutual attraction. His fingers dug into the flesh of your ass from where it sat perched on his strong thighs.

“Mm, fuck, honey.” Bruce breathed out gruffly more to himself than you when the sight of your wetness smeared all over him made his heart spike.

You didn’t respond, chin down to your chest and eyes closed as you focused on the pleasure in your own lower regions, the fullness and heaviness that filled you up and refused to part.

“Ohhh, feels so good-“ You gasped as a heavy spurt of pure pleasure sparked up your tummy, hole clenching around him tightly as an obscene gush of wetness leaked down his cock and onto his thighs.

Bruce licked his dry lips, eyes staring up at you heatedly; at the tightness of your shut eyes, the sweet moans gasping out of parted lips — lips, lips that were glossy and plush from all the needy kisses you shared with him just a mere moments ago.

He was enraptured by you, by your naked physique all soft and sweaty on top of him but he didn’t care. You were just so beautiful, pussy so perfect wrapped around him, squeezing his cock so good it made his mind fog up with indescribable pleasure.

“Yes, sweetheart, god, yesss…” Bruce agreed huskily, his head resting back on his pillow once more as you bucked your hips. His thighs tensed, toes curled, a grunt sounding in his throat as his hips rose to further dig himself inside you.

He couldn’t help it; like a soul to a light he sought you out, your warmth and tightness so snug and comforting around him he didn’t ever want to be apart from you.

You whimpered at the intrusion, nails digging into his skin in a painful sting that Bruce was too fucked out to really notice.

He swallowed hazily below you, eyes closing then opening to look down at the way your pussy molded into one with his hard cock as you rocked gently against him. Deep inside you where he was meant to be, stomach and pelvis and thick thighs soaked with your gushing arousal.

Fire shooting down his legs and tummy with every soft bounce back down on him, illicit wet noises sounding in the room with every desperate grind.

He loved that sound, your wetness mashing with his thick base. But not nearly as much as your melodic sounds gasping out every so often because his cock made you feel that good.

His mouth was terribly dry from his own grunts and moans, handsome face and muscular chest flushed pink, the air so so hot he could feel his own dark hair sticking to the dew on his fevered head.

His hands, big and clammy, dug into the soft fat of your hips to help you dig into him in that way you both liked, the one that had you both gasping hotly into each others mouths as you leaned down to give him another sloppy kiss.

You couldn’t quite get it right though, too distracted by the feel of him so deep inside you that your lips stuttered on his. Moving messily against him as you whined into his mouth once more, the tip of his cock so high up inside you it almost hurt.

He was always so big, so round and tall that the stretch alone always seemed to ache pleasurably with every short thrust he made inside you.

“That’s good, sweetheart… that’s it… just how you know I like it…”

Bruce breathed heavily against your lips from where you were leaned on top of him, naked breasts mashed to his chiseled chest and hands gripping onto the headboard now.

You needed something sturdy, something unbreakable to tether you back to him when you felt the pleasure making you float too far.

His breath was hot against your sore lips, mingled with your low moans and spoken just above the subtle creaks of the bed; sounding every time you moved above him in a sensually quickened pace that had your toes curling and thighs tensing.

“So beautiful, sweetheart, so good…”

Bruce couldn’t help but compliment you even in the most nasty of times, voice clenched yet breathy, spoken through hot breaths and pressed teeth as your wetness dripped down his length once more.

You moaned sweetly at his doting words, his voice cracked and low in that gravelly salacious tone you loved so much.

You clenched around him in response, his fingers tightening on you as he let out a handsome groan from the feeling. You watched as his head sunk into the pillow beneath him, eyes clenched shut and a heavy grunt leaving his chest.

The sight was attractive, seeing him so wrecked from just a few simple back and forth motions you were carefully orchestrating.

You felt a wave of stinging pleasure spike up your thighs and down your legs, up your tummy and into your head until your whole body was tingling. Your eyes brimming with unshed tears as sweat prickled at your skin and your legs burned from sitting for so long.

You didn’t care about the pain, too drunk on the sensations of his thickness rubbing inside the most intimate part of you, your hips rolling in desperate circular motions so he was never completely apart from you. You liked keeping him inside as much as possible, to feel that fullness and that dull burn to remind you of just how big he was.

Bruce loved it too, resting inside your warmth, comfortable, letting you take him however you wanted in whatever way you needed. He was always a giver, always a good husband when you needed him to be.

“F-fuck, Bruce, you feel so good.” You gasped wantonly, voice quiet yet fragmented, needy and breathless as your nails dug into his skin.

“Yeah, honey? It feels good?” Bruce replied just as quietly, being sure to thrust up into you just a little bit harder so you’d gasp some more for him.

It was lewd, lovely, his dirty words spoken onto your quivering lips and his meaty hands gripping your thighs to help aid in your eager movements.

It felt so good, so right, being there with him in the darkness of his room with only the sound of your shared panting and moans filling the silence.

It was hot and perfect; his hands on your thighs gripping hard enough to show you he doesn’t want you to stop, your mouths ever so often pecking together in a sweet kiss you couldn’t continue, fond gazes in darkened irises.

“Feels so good, Bruce, I can’t—“ You whimpered out all cutely, sliding up from his chest until you were sitting straight up once more. You could feel him shift inside of you, hardness still prominent and throbbing. He pressed against your walls, invading every nerve point as your clit rubbed against his naval in the new position.

Bruce gripped the flesh of your ass between his hands, helping your soft rocking motions against him as he spoke, “Yes you can, pretty girl, you always do for me. You’re doing so good, sweetheart, you have no idea…”

The praise made you smile brokenly. Your skin so hot it felt burning yet every grind against your husbands hard cock made your legs go numb. You whined and bucked above him as a tightness started to stretch in your tummy.

“Always for you, baby…” You managed to mumble shakily, lovingly, hands sliding over the abs on his stomach as you sat back on his lap so not a single inch of him wasn’t inside you.

Bruce clenched his jaw at that, hands digging into your hips as he thrust his own up to meet your soft grinds. Sparks, electricity, all of the cliche metaphors for how good he was feeling shooting down his cock and into his legs as his knees tensed up.

He felt lightheaded yet completely grounded, here to his mattress. Floating in the skies yet simultaneously stuck on earth with you, his gorgeous wife who always made him feel sane and normal.

Your hair was tangled around your shoulders and falling over your flushed cheeks as you stared down at him with a fond glimmer in your eyes, bright and burning under the lust so boldly wanting.

The stretch of him inside you was so good, his gravelly moans so good, the way he was making you feel so so good.

You exhaled as you settled your weight down on his pelvis, pussy sore yet eager as you squeezed around him once more. Love struck eyes looking down at him passionately as the moon cascaded a light gray glow behind you.

Bruce felt the air escape his lungs, lips parted as he stared up at you in utter devotion; you were so beautiful, so sweet, felt so fucking good around him he couldn’t even think straight. Brain numb and thoughtless, only you and your perfect pussy, you, you, you.

You took a moment to stare back at him. Unspoken love was whispered in the shadows of your eyes bright and glittering as your movements picked up into polite, subtle bounces that had Bruce digging his hands into you, breathy sounds escaping his lips.

“Ah, Bruce…” You mumbled weakly, voice soft and needy as you tossed your head back and moved your hips up and down so his cock was hitting that sweet spot inside you he usually loved to tease.

“Such a good job, sweetheart, so beautiful like this…” Bruce spoke huskily, staring at your heaving breasts as they jiggled and beckoned him forth, beautiful and pure as you rode him to high heaven in your most organic form.

You hummed into a delicate moan, a smile quirked on your lips at his praise as you felt his hands slowly start crawling up the exposed expanse of your waist.

Warm and big and tender as they moved up, up, gentle fingers tracing over your ribcage as your flesh prickled at the touch. He was delicate, always intent on your pleasure over his as he admired your form above him, the feel of your skin under his textured hands that had hurt so many.

You trusted him, your husband, enough to see you like this. Trusted him enough to have you like this, to allow his bloodstained hands to wash over you like he himself was something pure and untainted, bestowing him your presence like a merciful deity to their promised worshipper.

You bit your lip as his palms enveloped the fat of your breasts into them, molded perfectly into his larger hands as he squeezed and admired them in a fashion so familiar for him; he always loved your breasts, enamored with the softness and weight of them in his greedy hands.

You stared down at him with a heated tenderness, the look of a wife irrevocably in love with their husband as he stared up at you with the same fervor.

When he was here, with you, there were no labels, no obligations and no judgments. With you he was just yours, another body made of flesh and blood and bone melded to yours in the conjunction of where his body ended and yours began.

He was no one but he was your everything, hands on skin and lips on collarbones, sweat amongst sweat and heady moans breathed in the gasps of kisses shared between two lovesick spouses.

In this space, in this moment, with you on top of him and his hands all over you any remnants of shame and Wayne inspired obligation was vacant. All he needed to do was sit and let you take him, sit there and be of use when you wanted to use him.

He was a good husband, the best husband to you, his perfect and lovely wife who never addressed him as anything more than yours. He wasn’t this, he wasn’t that, he was just everything and more in the confines of silken sheets under the safety of his mansion.

No cameras, no gossip, no press and no watchful eyes. Serene, tranquil, just you and him and the great love you shared that transcended any label or common sense humanity could fathom.

Yes, he was Bruce Wayne. Eccentric billionaire, former eligible bachelor, orphan boy, son, rich playboy. But those things did not define him, did not set his reality in stone so easily as your love did. He was all those things but he was so much more.

You never judged him, looked at him as anything more than the most important thing. You regarded him with love no matter his past, his present, and hopefully and most likely your shared future.

You didn’t care for labels or surface value lies like everyone else did. You ripped him at his seams, tore him apart to see what was inside and he was ever so grateful for it, for that loving animosity that bared his soul to yours. You were straightforward, heart to heart or nothing at all because then what was the point?

There was no purpose without pain, without pleasure, without love. You suffered, you loved, and you were most definitely bringing him pleasure. All blunt and raw emotions too passionate and loud to ever try and hide or make lies about. No secrets, no deception, no labels.

This night, every night just like this one — nights spent in your arms deep inside where he needed to be most, were nights where his mind was bare and he was just yours. Nights when he didn’t have to put up a face or make up a lie or tell a tall tale.

He was Bruce, he was yours, he was just this. And most importantly, he was just your husband. The only label that really mattered and the only one he ever really cared about. ₊˚⊹♡

tagging , @little-miss-chaoss , @ghostslillady , @boobaeri , @prayingal

[satxoru]

You were always the quiet one in the friend group. You would try to make your voice heard, but your friends just didn't ever hear you nor believed in you or considered your feelings whenever they did anything.

You always tried to fit in with them in any way, maybe they'll start noticing you right? it even came to the point where you change your opinion so you could be just like your friends.

but they never really noticed you, never considered your feelings in anything, even if it's about an important situation or not.

one day your friends brought universities up in a conversation, which is great because you've been thinking about universities for a while so you took it as a chance to voice out your thoughts.

You have always loved drawing and photography. You were thinking about taking either arts & design or photography in college, but you weren't sure which one to choose. You were leaning more towards photography because you loved taking pictures of nature and you felt like it was something you really had a passion for.

but you weren't sure if you should pursue this or not. You wanted some advice on what to do, and you made the mistake of asking your friends for advice, because they did everything other than advice or encourage you.

"i was thinking either arts & design college or photography college."

one of your friends scoffed "are you even good at either of them to consider these universities?" your friend said.

"oh, i never knew you were thinking of going to college considering you'd most likely fail the admission test" another friend added which had the rest of the friend group hollering in laughter.

as if the first comment didn't already hurt you enough, your friends just had to bring up the fact that they thought you'd fail the admission test, which was something you were always scared of.

You felt completely humiliated and your confidence started to crumble even further as they kept laughing and mocking you.

You tried to laugh off the hurt that you felt when your friends mocked you, but it was clear to everyone that you were upset. one of your friends noticed this and said, "don't be so dramatic, we're just joking around." this only made you feel more hurt and embarrassed, and you quickly tried to hide your tears.

You slowly started to doubt yourself and your abilities. Your friends' behavior towards you started to take a toll on you and you started falling into a depressive episode.

later that night, you were having a hard time falling asleep. You were overthinking everything that happened at school, doubting yourself and your abilities, and you kept thinking about why everyone else seemed better than you and why you couldn't do anything right. You kept beating yourself up about it and it was too much for you to handle, you broke down in tears and cried yourself to sleep that night.

It was the same cycle again the next day in school. Your friends kept making fun of you, but you weren't aware that a specific person with blue eyes was watching you for the past two weeks, dying to go protect you from your cruel friends.

later after school, you and your friends went to the park even though you were very heavy-hearted that day and didn't have the energy to socialise with them, you didn't give up on trying to fit in with your friends.

they ended up coming across a dog. everyone was squealing about how cute the dog was, but you kept your distance because you were scared of dogs since one had bitten you before. you tried to tell your friends this, but they dismissed your feelings and told you that you're just being dramatic, which hurt you even more.

"god why are you so dramatic, its just a dog it won't bite." a friend snarled at you.

"i literally told you guys before that I've been bitten by a dog before, that's why im scared of them and you know it!" you complained.

"how were we supposed to know when you never told us." another friend added.

"i did tell you guys but you never listened to me." you sighed out, having no energy to argue back.

the next day at school, Satoru noticed how exhausted and down you were. he was concerned for you and wanted to help.

he started a conversation with you to distract you from sitting with your friends and give you some time to yourself.

"hey, can i sit next to you?" Satoru asked which he got a slight hum of approval in response. You and Satoru knew each other, but you didn't know each other to the point where you would start a conversation which confused you a little, but you didn't complain, you love company as long as no one is making fun of you.

You were doodling in your notebook midway through class when Satoru noticed and took it as a chance to start another conversation.

"..i've noticed how hard you've been working on your drawings in art class and I think they're really cool" he complimented.

"really? you mean that?"

"yeah, I really do, you have a lot of talent and I think it's amazing how you're always challenging yourself."

his words made you smile, "thanks, Gojo. That means a lot to me."

Satoru could tell that he had put a smile on her face and he was glad he had.“Satoru.” He corrected you to which you tilted your head in confusion. he smiled at your expression.

“call me Satoru.”

two months have gone by and You and Satoru have grown very close, you're basically attached at the hip now and you have gotten so close to each other that Satoru is the best friend you have always asked for; he is always standing up for you and encouraging you, and slowly you've gotten the strength to believe in yourself and are becoming better and better in what you do.

he even helps you by being your photography companion, posing for you and doing silly faces to make you laugh and giggle, which leads you to have lot of pictures of Satoru in your gallery. and as his friendship with you grew, you became more distant from your friends, even though they never really asked about you, nothing really changed in your absence, so things were still the same as usual.

but, there was this weird feeling that you weren't quite sure of, you didn't want to think too much about it in case you ended up convincing yourself of it

You liked Satoru, but weren't sure of your feelings and kept denying it by saying it was because he was your first guy friend or the first person who ever believed in you, but you sometimes share some moments together that would leave you blushing, and you weren't sure if he shared the same feelings as you, or if he was just being friendly.

like that one time you were at the park walking together when suddenly Satoru randomly blurted out "you know, I just realized how nice it is to walk with you, being around you is just so peaceful."

You blushed slightly and couldn't help but smile. You were starting to realize how comfortable you felt around him and you couldn't stop thinking about that interaction for the rest of the day.

or that one time when you were in the school hallways heading to class, and bumped into Satoru. you both said apologies at the same time and laughed it off. but it was then that you realized how close to you Satoru was and how strong his cologne smelled, you blushed a bit and couldn't help but notice how handsome he was.You both continued on your way, but the interaction had left you blushing.

and today in class you were talking to each other when suddenly Satoru leaned in close to your ear and whispered "you know, you're so cute when you talk about what you love." You blushed and ducked your head low, giggling.

You couldn't help but blush from the compliment and you were starting to realize that you might have feelings for Satoru.

a few weeks later and you finally mustered up the courage to confess to Satoru, at the thought of him you got a text from him telling you to meet him in the park because he has a surprise for you, as you were reading the message you got your hopes up maybe he'll confess.

As you arrived, you spotted Satoru sitting with another girl, and your heart sank but didn't want to jump to conclusions.

"hey Satoru" you said as you were approaching them, he looked up at you and smiled, although it was clear that he was quite comfortable with the other girl, you didn't forget to give a slight smile to the pretty girl although jealousy was all you felt.

"who's this?" you asked politely, and as Satoru introduces his girlfriend. Your heart sank.

seeing him introduce his girlfriend with a big grin made you glad he was happy but you can't deny the pain you're feeling right now, though you tried your best to hide your feelings, That's what you've been doing all along. You started a conversation with his new girlfriend.

"omg I'm so happy for you two, congratulations!" You say in a happy tone hoping Satoru won't notice your change of mood, but as he knows you too well, he definitely noticed. He decided to act clueless for now but he would talk about it later.

a while goes by with them and you had to make up an excuse to go home because the pain in your chest was unbearable. Later at night you got a text from Satoru reading "hey, are you okay?" followed by another message "i noticed how upset you were today with us— did something happen?"

"yeah I'm okay, i just needed to go home cuz i remember something important to do"

You sent the text hoping to change the subject.

"im not stupid"

"be honest with me, what happened"

you both went back and forth, with Satoru asking if you were sure you wanted to tell him what was bothering you, and you finally building up the courage to ask him to come over.

"But promise me nothing will change between us when I tell you," you added.

Satoru agreed to your condition, and came over to your house.

when you opened the door for satoru, you couldn't help but get a little teary eyed. Satoru noticed the worry written all over your face, and he didn't hesitate to hug you when he saw tears in your eyes.

he closed the door behind him and held you tightly and comforted you. letting you on his shoulder, he took you to sit on the couch and get more comfortable. you were overwhelmed with emotions, but you were appreciative of how Satoru was taking care of you in this moment. you felt safe in his arms.

"you wanna tell me what happened?" he slowly asked. your voice cracked as you tried to talk to him which gave him a signal that you weren't calm enough to talk right now. "hey its okay, take your time, im not pressuring you." he whispered in your ear while trying his best to calm you down.

he held you closer, not letting go and continuing to hold you close; he didn't want you to feel unsafe or uncared for, he wanted you to take your time and be ready to share what was bothering you when you were ready to do so.

You tried to stay calm, but you could feel your heart racing and your emotions overwhelming you.Satoru was looking at you curiously, and you knew that you had to tell him what was bothering you.

after a deep breath, you went on "I have to be honest with you, I've liked you for a while now, but when I arrived at the park today, you were with another girl and I realized that you had a girlfriend. It was hard for me to hide my disappointment and heartbreak." You said all in one breath which left Satoru silent for a while trying to understand what you just said.

the silence scared you, it was eating you alive and you couldn't help but start to overthink, "does he hate me now?" "is he disgusted of me?" "is he gonna leave me?" "i dont want him to cut me off."

all those thoughts came rushing all at once, you were gonna let go of the hug but he pulled you closer to himself and started talking.

"you know, i used to like you back then." his sudden statement confused you, you needed more clarification.

"no, i used to love you, but i realized you weren't in the right state to be in a relationship, and you weren't looking for a relationship and i didn't wanna get it into your head"

"i didn't wanna pressure you into anything but at the same time I've been waiting for too long. it was hurting me so bad"

"i was glad and upset that i was starting to move on from you, and now that you told me, im disappointed." Satoru isn't sure what he's disappointed by, but the thought of them nearly becoming something ached the both of them.

maybe Satoru should've waited a while longer? maybe you were just late trying to figure out your feelings? either way time was up and there was no going back, and of course Satoru won't leave his new girlfriend, he loves her still.

but he knew deep in his heart that he could never love someone else the way he loved you.

"but.. in the future if im able to fall in love again, i hope its you." he added

"in the future, if you ever find yourself in the position to love again, fall in love with me." you could barely form a sentence.

"i wish you well for you and your girlfriend, but if anything happened that separates the two of you, just know that ill always be waiting for you Satoru."

"you cant waste your life waiting for me" he caressed your hair.

"i know but i love you too much to let you go.”

[atrwriting]

mercy — fem!highborn!reader x davos blackwood

was everyone else going crazy to find out that this man is actually named davos ?? absolutely wild. i refuse to believe it is davos, but alas — i must comply.

someone said that this guy would match your freak and i haven’t been able to unsee it and therefore i compose

as always, warnings: smuuuuuuut, knife play, choking, swearing, switch reader, power bottom davos, my very own self indulgence

____

with your family and several others declaring for rhaenyra targaryen, the one true queen, it led to others seeing women in a different light. a daughter of a highborn family like you would not be trapped to embroider for the rest of your life — unless you wanted to. that was the beauty of choice and what rhaenyra had started — you should have the same opportunities of men in that age, including the opportunity and ability to choose.

and so you did: you chose to fight.

with war brewing, how could you stand by and only wield a needle and thread when you didn’t want to and had the ability to do something else? what, were you going to embroider the war? some battle with red thread? illustrating the rage and fighting of men losing their lives with and against fire and blood? absolutely not. if you could wield a sword instead, and weren’t half bad — maybe that would save someone else from fighting.

and so you did. you started training.

you weren’t half bad, honestly — given your size and age. most men began when they were boys and very small, growing into their strength and work ethic. you could not be blamed for your lack of skill — it just meant that when you could wield a sword against a worthy opponent and beat them, you would gain the respect you deserve.

and you would work for it. you had to.

in order to achieve that, you had to actually find willing opponents. despite the fact that they declared for rhaenyra, that did not mean that other soldiers wanted to face a woman in a fair fight. you tried not to take it too personally — as they would probably fear for your father’s response if you had been hurt. you tried to understand, but you wanted to improve — needed to improve.

however, there was one person that was willing to spar with you.

you rolled your eyes just thinking of the name.

davos blackwood.

there was nothing wrong with him — but he bothered you. got under your skin in a way that no other man could, nor even dream of being able to. he taunted you the first time you had ever met him, and taunted you further towards the first time you had ever sparred with him. you did not mind someone baiting you, but to be constantly reminded of your lack of skill, your womanhood, and the approaching war was a weight on one’s shoulders that a beginner could not always bear the weight of. they would not expect a young boy to withstand that pressure, and didn't understand why davos would expect you to handle it. when that insecurity was opened and showcased for onlookers to see fighting in daylight, it was even harder. you didn’t understand why he was trying so hard to, frankly, haze you — and it’s not like he seemed open to fair or friendly communication.

so you tried to avoid him.

you tried.

you really, really did try… but in the end, he was the only one willing — and you had to learn.

you sighed with reluctance — knowing what you had to do.

when he was alone in the camp you were both staying at, you walked up to him.

“...lord blackwood?” you asked, trying to refrain from using a soft voice.

he turned around to face you, a smirk already growing on his lips. one of his hands was lazily gripping the hilt of his sword, while the other grasped his hip. his shoulders were wide and strong — indicative of how skilled of a fighter he was. you clenched your teeth — hoping you wouldn’t regret this, as you could only benefit. you had to keep reminding yourself of that — a means to an end. that's all this is and would be. it's worth it. you then tried to meet his eyes as the wind swept his brown hair from his line of sight.

if he wasn’t so snarky, you might have found him attractive.

might have.

“yes, my lady?” he asked.

you could hear his smirk in his tone — like he already knew what you were going to ask, and how much you did not want to ask it.

you folded your bottom lip in between your teeth. “...would you be willing to spar with me?”

“i would,” he replied. “you have not asked me since our last. i have some time now — should we find an open space?”

you shook your head. “perhaps this evening... when people have retired?”

he raised an eyebrow, obviously displeased with your decision. “...why is that, my lady?”

“less of an audience, my lord,” you tried to say confidently.

he raised an eyebrow at you. “battles are not won in private, my lady.”

you tried to keep your tone flat, fighting the urge to turn your nose up at him. “i’m aware.”

“so why do you not join me now?”

“i would like to make mistakes once or twice in private — and then i will feel more comfortable where others can see.”

“you would do fine now, my lady,” he spoke, but then dipped his head. “but as you wish.”

you felt dirty after he agreed — you couldn't put your finger on why. the dip of his head — like he was giving into the conquest and silly dream of that of a young girl. a young, naive, innocent girl who would never be taken seriously, no matter how hard she tried — but you couldn't think like that. you couldn't afford to — especially not during the time of war. you swallowed you pride, and waited for your meeting.

he kept his promise. later that evening, when the sun was setting, you finally met him in the sword shed before you intended to meet him in the makeshift arena. you found him sharpening his sword, face being illuminated by the lamp light. you entered the shed.

"good evening, my lady," he greeted, with a hint of grit in his voice.

you narrowed your eyes at him. "good evening, lord blackwood."

"following in your fashion — should we start with something easy? something, say — one starts with at the wee age of — eleven, perhaps?"

“i never asked you to go easy on me — but i would have hoped that after i voiced my concerns as to why i would prefer not to have an audience when i spar with you, you would’ve understood.”

“and — pray tell, my lady, why would i have understood?”

you slapped your sides in defeat, beginning to get frustrated at the fact that he couldn’t read between the fucking lines. your cheeks were beginning to pinch at the feeling of flush. “because it was like you were constantly reminding me that i am new to this and that it was unlikely that i would ever get better!"

he raised his eyebrows then, eyes widening. the smirk was still playing at his lips, as he couldn't help but let an amused chuckle push past his lips — intending mockery. “my intention was to make you better, my lady.”

you shook your head in disbelief, almost scoffing. “i just — it would’ve been nice —“

“nice?” he scoffed, walking towards you then. he approached you with his hands behind his back, but his walk was led by his head, neck, and shoulders. it stuck out at you like he couldn't wrap his head around as to how you could believe or say such a thing. “my lady, there is no nice on the battle field. not only do you have to beat the swords you go up against, but also the men wielding them. i was not nice to you because there is not enough time. you do not have enough time to learn at the pace of a boy, because you are a learning to fight as a woman during the time where another woman is fighting for her crown. you need to be good — for your family, for your army, for your queen — and because i want you to be good.”

you narrowed your eyes at him, sucking in a sharp breath at his words. there stood davos, pleading with you to have confidence in your own ability and skill — despite how he always made you doubt it. you didn't know what to think, let alone believe. “i am not naive enough to believe that the battle field is nice — just forget it, i can’t —“

you went to turn away, but he stopped you. he grabbed you by the elbow, and you immediately turned to face him. within almost an instant, you had stopped his other arm. you shoved his grip down at the same time you pressed a knife to the skin of his neck with your free hand.

you bared your teeth at him, the tip of your nose pulsing into a snarl. there was a dagger to his throat, but nothing compared to the ones you shot with your eyes. your pupils dilated so the only thing in your vision was blackwood and his dark eyes, only focused on yours. both sets of eyes had seen peace and danger, fire and ice —but neither knew the feeling you had when you looked into davos blackwood's eyes and witnessed the exact moment he realized you had been the one to best him. to have his throat at the mercy of your wrist, and have him still smirk down at you — was a feeling that startled you, and excited you.

he pushed against the blade, forcing you to reluctantly allow his head to lower to yours. you could feel his hot breath on your face, shrinking your space. "is that what will make you feel more confident, my lady? — you think you can best me, with a knife to my throat?"

he walked forward, forcing you backwards. you continued taking steps backward when he did not stop. soon, your back was pressed up against a table your lower back had been stopped by. the force of davos' hips collided with yours, pressing you against the table. the plumpness of your ass was pushed into the wood as davos planted himself between your thighs. "is this how you make yourself feel safe? — because even if i am stronger, that does not negate the fact that in a moment's time you could bleed me."

"i could —" you bit — as if that statement was something monumental. as if you hadn't agreed with his own statement. as if it wasn't pathetic.

you watched as he realized that fact the same time you did.

"but will you?" he asked, in a soft, taunting voice.

"i could," you spat again.

pathetic, you spat to yourself in your head. at that same moment, davos smirked down at you.

"there is nothing more enticing than a woman who knows her strength," he spoke, tone threatening to break. "especially against a man whom they both know could end her.”

“testing me, davos?” you spat, nose turning up at him. his smirk wavered when he felt the sharpness of the blade scrape his skin, threatening to draw blood.

“oh — i find myself doing more than that, my lady,” he pressed forward once more, so your noses were almost touching. there were inches — barely inches — between your lips, words ghosting over your skin. his breaths hit your lips with such force you almost believed they were touching. you couldn't let it show on your face — couldn’t let him know he was winning, or that he won. “you want to keep that blade at my throat? be my guest — as long as you let me do this.”

with your lower back pressed against the table and the knife flat on his throat, davos locked you in by placing both of his hands on either side of your thighs. he leaned forward, and he took what he wanted. he took, and took, and took until you were putty in his hands. he held your lips hostage with his own, leaving you at his mercy. mercy, mercy, mercy. you were jailed in his embrace, hating and relishing it at the same time.

your free hand gripped his collar, pulling him into your knife and you. you didn’t even realize you were doing it — or maybe you didn’t want to admit it. maybe you didn’t want to admit that you liked the man who constantly bullied you, nor that you liked the boldness in his smirk before he kissed you.

“you bastard —“ your insult was breathless. pathetic. ridiculous. it made him smile, and it only made your pride and shame swirl in your chest more. how dare he? how could he? “you fucking — !“

“that’s right, my sweet — “ he grunted, pushing your skirts to the side. you felt the cool air hit your exposed thighs, a blush rising to your cheeks. he laughed against your lips before sliding his tongue into your mouth. you could’ve if you wanted to — you so could’ve — you could’ve, you could’ve, you fucking could’ve, but you didn’t want to — you didn’t want to push him away. the knife, still pressed against his skin, wanted to push him away. wanted to cut him. wanted to bring him pain. wanted to get him away — but you? no. your body’s reluctance fell away once you felt his hands slips between your thighs. “hate me — come on — show me how strong you are — show me how much you fucking hate me.”

his thumb was on your clit, sensitive with excitement and anger — never been touched before. his finger drew circles; a long curve on the top of your bundle of nerves, fast when it made he made his way towards the top of the circle once more. long, and drawn out was his torture. he wound you up tight, only for him and at his mercy. he shoved his middle and ring finger inside you, letting the pads of his fingers rub the length of the roof of your cunt. the beckoning motion brought you closer and closer to him, no matter how hard you tried to fight him inside.

“keep that knife at my throat, my lady,” he spat. “let’s see if you can keep a steady hand without drawing blood when i make you cum. — i’m betting you can’t.”

“fuck…” you trailed off off, getting lost in his movements. “f-fuck you.”

“that’s all the brave fighter’s got?” he spat into your ear, making your hair stand. “weak words? you claimed you were of a higher skill — am i going to be the one to prove you wrong?"

you couldn’t concentrate. you couldn’t. there was no way. it would’ve been useless to even try. your let your neck relax as his lips found the length of the side of your jaw, kissing and nibbling at the clammy skin. he found your pulse point — thumpthumpthumpthumpthump — and sucked the blood from the source, and to the surface. you couldn’t see, but you felt the blood rise to the top of the skin and settle. your blood, your veins, your fucking heart was pounding as it rested at his mercy. his. him. davos. he controlled every part of you — including where your blood moved, pooled, and clotted — and you didn’t know how to feel about it. you were swimming in his embrace, holding onto him for dear fucking life.

“fuck, fuck, fuck…” you cried.

“that’s right, my sweet,” he spoke. groaning in your ear, “that’s it. show me. show me how much you hate me. i want that knife to almost cut me when you cum. i want to see the look of hatred in your eyes when you make a mess on my fucking sword hand.”

you couldn’t stop it.

you couldn’t.

it was useless. pathetic. worthless.

your head fell against his strong, broad shoulder and you felt every part of your being lose control. every single one of your muscles tightened. your grip on the hilt on the knife tightened and the grip on his leathers tightened. everything was so fucking tight you didn’t know how the strings inside of you that were wound so tight didn’t fucking snap. it should’ve snapped. it should’ve snapped like the light behind your eyes, blinding white being the only thing you could see. you thought you could hear your own cries, his grunts — but you weren’t sure. your were lost, floating in your own release while his fingers didn’t relent against you.

“so-so sensitive,” you choked out, vision still hazy.

“you think i’m done with you?” he spoke. your strength was beginning to waver, as was your knife from his throat. you could feel the exact moment he realized it. “can’t even keep a knife to my throat at your most vulnerable? how do you expect to fair, yeah? in battle? — shall i get you a needle and thread instead, my lady?"

something inside of you snapped inside you for a second time that night — but this time it was anger. your gaze, aflame, caught his. how dare he? how fucking dare he? with a snarl, you spat, “unlace your fucking leathers, blackwood.”

fire also danced within his irises as the corners of his mouth raised once again. for the first time that evening, you had me davos' fight as an equal match.

you would not back down.

his fingers left your dripping cunt, and he began working at his strings. you struggled to catch your breath as you came down from your high, forcing yourself to regain composure. and, yet — there was davos. smirking. confidently. not fearing the knife at his throat, nor fearing the girl who held it, nor that she was now his match.

his tore his eyes away from you to spit on his hand, coating his long member. though angry, you couldn’t help but grow hungry at the sight of his red, leaking tip. there was no desperation on his face, but davos blackwood had control over his expression. his demeanor. his emotions. but his cock? red and neglected? there was no control. it plunged into your sopping wet cunt, buried in you until the hilt.

your cunt blossomed around him. you felt your walls blossom for the man on top of you. your womb, warm and welcoming, wanted to suck him in and never let him leave. you had never known pleasure like this, wanting even the most frustrating of men to give it to you.

you threw the knife on the ground.

you pressed your flat palm to his throat, curling around it. your squeezed the sides of his throat. your teeth were bared once more, fighting for dominance against the predator before you.

davos smiled, diminishing your resolve.

“there she is,” he spat, smirk wide with his teeth on display. “there’s my fighter.”

"fuck you," you replied.

"good," he responded, before sliding his length inside of you.

that was the thing with davos — showing vulnerability like succumbing to pleasure made you feel weak, whereas davos never felt weak. even in a vulnerable state such as this — this, joining bodies as one, each thrusting their hips against the other seeking to reach their own peak, while also relishing in the fact that you were helping the other reach theirs. his fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, deliciously painful and bittersweet. even in his most vulnerable state, davos radiated power. there was dominance in his state of weakness and pleasure that was asserted over you, and you had no choice to bow — no choice but to give in.

“you missed me so bad, didn’t you?”

there you were — a light sheen of sweat on your skin glistening with the dim light of the lantern as you thrusted your hips to meet his. there was one firm hand of his, pressing down on your stomach. every time he could feel the thrust of his own cock through the soft skin of your stomach, you witnessed a flash of mischief in his dark irises. a groan collected in the back of davos' throat — building, building, and building until it came out in a growl. carnal. animalistic. untamed, and all yours. you couldn't help but moan at the sound, sending a gush of pleasure swirling around his cock. he glanced up at you, smile being illuminated by the lantern.

“that’s it, my sweet — whine for me.”

and you did. oh fuck, you did. it was all you could do besides let your muscles go taut at the idea of losing all control to the pleasure of the tip of his cock hitting that space behind your clit deep inside you. once more. that's all you needed. once more. one more peak. your pride would understand — you could not feel shame with the feeling of pleasure so electrifying. every crook of your body was hot and clammy — but you didn’t care. you couldn’t care, and neither could he.

“you just want to cum, don’t you?” he asked. “i know you do, yes? — answer me.”

he slapped your your sensitive clit. it sent sparks up and down your nerve endings, making you squeal and jump. you glanced up at him, and immediately connected your gaze with his dark one. his eyes tested you — your pride, your shame, and your being. however, the want and need in your hips was stronger than you — but that didn't matter. that was the strength and fight davos' wanted, and he would lose to.

“i do,” you whimpered, folding your bottom lip into your mouth. your eyes, like a doe’s, pleaded with him through your thick lashes. you thought you saw a flash of pride on his face, but you couldn’t tell. “fuck, youfuckingbastard — please, davos, just a little longer… ‘m so close.”

“ohhh — that right, my lady? yeah?” his gaze was heavy — dark, tired, but fueled by lust. his throat was worn and scratchy, and the thickness of his voice mirrored it. “showing that fight you promised me, yeah? just like i asked? so beautiful and fucking strong —”

"fuck..." you sobbed. your womb was blooming once more, sucking him in farther and farther into you. he welcomed the pull from your warm, wet, and gummy walls — for you had no strength to push him from you, and neither did he.

"shall i spill my seed into you, my sweet?" he asked, chuckling darkly. he cock continued to pound into your throbbing cunt until you could only think davos, davos, davos. your grip on his throat grew tighter — but not because of your anger, but because you could only cling onto something to hold you present. "shall we create the bravest, most dangerous fighter there has ever been?"

his words were beginning to slur together, like ears underwater. your brain was swimming, being pushed and pulled through saltwater waves that wove ropes around your lungs and hips.

"if you dare..." you whined, failing at sounding brave.

"i would dare," he immediately spat, plunging his cock in once more.

your grip on his throat tightened as he spanked your clit once more, sending you spinning. your thighs locked around him, pulling you into your core and trapping him there. it only enraged him — energized him. it was the final fire that spread throughout him to snap his hips once, twice, thrice more into you and spill himself inside you. your peak made you cling to your lover in the lamp light — holding onto him as you both fell forward into each other, clinging to each other.

you had fallen onto his shoulder, seeking rest. his cheek was pressed against the side of your face. his lips pressed a warm, wet kiss on your cheek — and then another onto the love bite he left on your skin. you felt his tongue poke through his soft lips and lick the bruised skin, sealing his mark in. with his dark gruff voice, davos stated, "that is how you best a man, my lady."

"fuck you."

----

so what do we think? love u guys xoxoox - L

[strawbeerossi]

Competition

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid

Description: You’re the new genius on campus. Spencer doesn’t like that one bit. Whenever there is a poker competition for charity held by the FBI, it only makes sense that you are both coming for each other’s necks.

Content/Warnings: Snarky!Spencer and snarky!reader, gambling, two characters are just alike so they hate each other trope, sex in a bathroom, finger sucking, unprotected sex, creampie.

I have no knowledge on poker. Sorry 😭

Word Count: 2.3K

Anon Request: You don’t have to do this but it’s my birthday on sunday (5th Nov) and i was wondering if you could do a Spencer one-shot. Maybe a little enemies to lovers sitch. smutty ofc 😉😉😉😉

Navigation || Criminal Minds Masterlist || Request

Happy birthday Anon 😘🎂

🏷️ @kr-1-sta @iluvreid @nervousmoongiver @multifandom-on-the-side @ferrjulie @lov1ngreid @sobbingcryingattsizzles @doriantomybasil @thegluesong @rosiehale23 @queermaxwooo @rubyatarah @smallgayandnotokay @Princesskuzimu

Spencer wasn’t a jealous guy by any means, nor was he the type to be so self absorbed that he could care about someone’s opinion of him changing. As cocky as it sounded, he knew that he was going to always be the person on the team with the most knowledge on any given subject. That was until you joined the team.

You rivalled him in the academic department, having an IQ of 187. You didn’t have the eidetic memory though, so Spencer liked to think he could one up you in that department. You might have been good with any form of maths or science, however you didn’t hold a candle to the amount of vast knowledge that he carried in his memory alone.

Your first day on the team determined your relationship, you getting angry at the way he would so quickly talk over you when a question was being asked. You came into this job excited, wanting to spend time with the whole group that seemed so close knit from an outside perspective. Instead, you were met with an immature imbecile who really thought you’d allow him to speak over you.

As weeks turned into months, things didn’t seem to change. You wouldn’t dare admit it but it did upset you just a tiny bit that he never actually gave you a chance. Ever since you spouted off your first contribution to a briefing, it was like he had to upstage you. Instead of discussing things like mature adults however, you both gave each other the most childish treatment. In your mind, he deserved it. He foolishly believed he was better than you for what reason? Was it because he was threatened that a woman came in to take over his genius position? Was he jealous of all the attention the team paid you without an eye roll, the opposite of what they did for him? You’d never know.

Whenever there was a poker competition that was brought up by the director of the FBI, it was a silly idea to want to gamble all night. Even for charity, you would rather just donate to the cause and go home to read a good book and have a tall glass of red wine. “Are you going to participate in the big game?” You had asked as you leaned against the counter in the kitchenette, a cup of coffee in your hand as you were talking with Penelope, Derek and Emily. “I might go just to support the charity. Nobody is gonna win whenever Reid is there. That guy is..” Penelope whistled while sipping from her own mug. “What do you mean? Him?” Derek was chuckling at your disbelief. “Poker is just a big math equation to him. He grew up in Vegas and can count cards. Nobody stands a chance against him. Not even you, mama.”

The words had you frowning. “I think I could kick his ass with no problem.” Emily was scoffing at your confidence. “Sure you will. I’m telling you, this isn’t something you wanna get into with him. Especially when betting is involved. He’s gonna get you, every single time.” You weren’t buying that. There was no way that these abilities couldn’t be outsmarted. Spencer wasn’t as smart as he thought he was. You were going to prove that.

When the day finally came along, you were paying for your ticket at the door before heading inside the large venue the FBI director had rented out, mainly to make sure that it was possible to fit all the agents and other people who purchased tickets for the poker tournament. You’d worn a black dress for the event, wanting to use your prized assets (wink) to take care of the men who were easy to distract. You’d made it to one of the many tables set up and placed your clutch beside you on the table, the chips you’d already purchased being stacked up in front of you while you waited for the table to fill.

Spencer had seen you the minute he came in and he knew where he needed to be for the night. Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t completely hate your guts. He always thought he would’ve liked you, however with you puffing out your chest and trying to take over his position on the team, he wouldn’t just lay down and take it. He fought back, anyone would. “Good evening.” He greeted you, making your eyes roll at his formality. “Hello, Reid.” You spoke in a monotone voice while resting your chin against the palm of your hand. You were just happy he willingly signed himself up for defeat whenever he sat beside you. This was a war that you intended to win.

Derek and Emily were funnily enough the two that day at the same table in order to get your game kicked off. As the cards were being dealt, you were confident. A flush. That’s not so bad. Luck was on your side, all you had to do was have a good poker face. As your eyes darted around the table, you were only raising an eyebrow once you made it to Spencer. He was staring at you so hard that you felt like he could see right through you. He was trying to read you. Another reason to keep a straight face as you return the questioning stares. “I’ll raise 20.” Spencer spoke, words slow and calculated as he tossed his chips in the middle of the table. “I’m folding.” Emily huffed, cards being put down on the table as she brought a hand to rub her face from frustration. “I’m calling.” You hummed while glancing over at Derek, who’d done the same.

With a straight from Derek, a flush from you, and a fucking royal flush from Spencer, you could feel your eye twitching. There was no way. He looked as cocky as ever, a smirk on his face as he was leaning over to get the chips. “Shall we go for another game?” He asked, making Emily nudge your side. “I told you.” She hissed. Maybe she was right. No! No, she’s not. You’re gonna do this even if it’s the last thing you do.

As the games continued, the tension between you and Spencer had grown much stronger from just how competitive you were being with one another. He was single handedly leaving you with nothing every play so far, causing you to run low on chips.

It was the last game whenever you had enough, pushing every chip in the middle of the table. “Fuck you, I’m all in.” You frowned, Derek and Emily pushing their own chips in just to end this whole thing sooner rather than later. “All in? That’s so foolish.” Spencer scoffed, however it didn’t stop him from adding his massive collection of poker chips to the pot. “I think you should’ve learned by now that I’m going to take this home.” He said, his tone cocky as he was looking over the new cards that were being passed around the table.

“I just wanna get another drink.” Emily muttered her own commentary to Derek, who nodded in agreement. “I know exactly what you mean.” He grumbled in return. This game had lost the fun nature of it whenever you and Spencer were too focused on one-upping one another.

You had the last laugh though, the look on Spencer’s face the moment that he realized you had a straight flush when he only had one pair was something you wanted photographed and framed. “Well. I don’t mean to brag Dr. Reid, but I just beat the best card counter in Vegas!” You smirked, leaning over the table to use your arms to scoop the chips close. Now, the way you leaned over the table gave a nice, tasteful view of your breasts threatening to spill over the neckline of your dress. “And that’s the game. Sorry.” You hummed, watching the way Spencer stared at you, a fire behind his eyes as he glared at you. “You got lucky! That���s all. You really think you can beat me when I’m not at my best?”

“That’s all the time, Spencer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have chips to redeem.” You smirk, stacking them on the little tray before heading off. Which after you’d redeemed your winnings, you were walking off to the bathrooms. Spencer was still bitter, last you seen of him was him storming off to go god knows where. Whenever you had finished doing your business and you were washing your hands, your eyes were glancing up when the door was being pushed open. Whenever you saw the same agent who was still looking at you like he wanted to ring your throat, you couldn’t help but snort out a laugh. “This is the woman’s bathroom, Reid. What are you? A pervert?” You asked, staring over at him with amusement.

Although amusement turned to confusion when he was turning the lock on the door. “You know. I’m tired of your problem with me. You really think you’re better than me?” Spencer asked, walking closer. “Is that really a question?” You asked. Every ounce of cockiness was gone though whenever he had you trapped against the counter of the bathroom. “You really do. I think you need to be humbled. Nobody likes a cocky brat.” He huffed, making you scoff. “What are you gonna do? Huh? Gonna lecture me with your useless and boring facts like you always do? If anyone needs to be humbled, it’s you.” You seethed.

What Spencer did next caught you by surprise. The feeling of your teeth clashing together was felt immediately after as he was slamming his lips into yours. It wasn’t a soft ‘ease your way in’ kind of kiss. No. This was an angry ‘you need to learn a lesson’ kiss. You were dumbfounded. It didn’t stop you from returning the kiss that was dripping with rage and desire, your arms around his shoulders as your body leaned into his frame. “Always thing you’re better than me.” He murmured against your lips, his hands moving from your hips to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze as he was gently lifting you up to sit you on the counter. His lips were pulling from yours as he was sliding his hands up the black dress you wore tonight, his hands finding their way to your panties. Instead of taking them off though, your eyes were widening when you heard the sound of fabric tearing. “What the fuck?!” The words were in a high pitched squeak, Spencer shrugging as he was getting the ruined underwear. “You don’t need them. You like the attention anyway. I’m sure you’d like to bend over a table and show the whole place your pussy anyway.” He murmured, hand already working on his belt.

You shouldn’t have been as wet as you were. This was Spencer. Annoying, rambling, stupidly smart Spencer. The same guy who talked over you, who treated you like you weren’t a valued team member. Yet here you were, sitting on a bathroom counter at a convention center while the same man you despised was pulling his hard cock out of his slacks. “Who knows, maybe this will calm you down. In fact, I think it’ll get all that pent up anger and frustration out, I’m sure.” His tone was condescending, much different than you’d expect from the sweet Spencer Reid persona that he carried.

“Shut the fuck up.” You spat, making the male shake his head. “See? Brat.” He murmured, now pushing your thighs apart while guiding the leaking tip of his shaft to your entrance. “Let’s teach you a lesson.” One of your hands was gripping onto his shoulder, the other clutching the marble countertop as you let your head lean against the mirror in the bathroom the minute his cock was sinking inside of you. “F-fuck.”

“Who knew that this would shut you up?” He asked with a smirk, his eyebrow raising. “Maybe I should’ve done this sooner. Think you secretly love the idea of me fucking you like this. Bet it’s all you’ve ever dreamed of.” He continued to taunt, rendering you speechless for the first time ever. As he fucked into your pussy, his hand was ultimately covering your mouth from your loud moans. “As much as I’d love for everyone to know that I’m doing this, I don’t think we need to alert the whole building.” He mumbled through clenched teeth, ultimately shoving two fingers in your mouth in order to muffle everything without having to completely cover half of your face.

“I’m gonna cum soon.” He warned, knowing that just by the feeling of your inner walls spasming and clenching tight around him, you weren’t far behind. “Fuck. What if I fill you up with my cum? Get you pregnant? Then I could have the satisfaction of knowing that you’re never gonna get rid of me. Gonna have my child inside of you, keeping a piece of me right there with you.” His words had your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you let your legs tighten around his waist from his sloppy thrusts. With a rush of white making your body run hot, you were clutching his shoulder as you’d reached your orgasm, the creamy arousal coating his cock as he was giving a few more thrusts before the gush of hot cum was painting your insides.

You were both flushed, beads of sweat on your skin as you stared at one another. Spencer was gently pulling his fingers from your mouth while brushing his hair back with one hand. “Can you stop trying to compete with me now?! I’m so tired of this.” He grumbled, making you scoff weakly as you were closing your eyes to help come down from your post orgasmic high.

“Not if you’re gonna fuck me like that every time I do it. I think we should go play another game.”

[sp4ceboo]

Upon the Sands of the Arena: Feyd-Rautha x Reader

A/N: basically reader fights feyd in the arena, my apologies if there are any inaccuracies, i'm dUmB

tw: 18+, smut YAAA, fighting, swearing, i use fire metaphors too much, blood, violence and death (it's in a a gladiatorial arena ffs), creampie, one ass spank, fingering + oral (f receiveing) hella lot of sexual tension, Fighting as Foreplay, feyd sorta has a blood kink but he's just freaky like that, sort of fluffy at the end, hint of voyeurism if you squint really hard, lmk if there's anything else

wc: 4.1k

part 2

The Bene Gesserit are distracted.

If the Kwisatz Haderach was not so near, they would have disposed of you properly. Instead, they sucked you back into their dark web of deceit and occulted plans only to spit you out just as fast, leaving your fate to the blood soaked sands of Giedi Prime’s arenas. You believe that if it were not for the actions of Lady Jessica Atreides and her defiance of the order, they’d pay you more attention.

Not that you’re complaining.

You were trained to flourish in the dark, lurking in the shadows of the deepest of nights, awaiting a time to strike. However, you are not like your mentors, you do not believe in the hoping, the weaving of bloodlines for the production of a distant messiah, nor do you dirty your hands to obey an imperious Reverend Mother.

Truly, you admire Lady Jessica for doing the same as you did - defying the order and thereby splintering from it; all the same, you do not desire what she wants. For she wants power for her son and her unborn daughter, and you want nothing but to be left alone.

In a universe full of yearning for a greater purpose, you want the opposite. Often, you find yourself wishing you were something of nature: not mundane, by any means, but uncontrollable, like the desert winds that sift through the sands of Arrakis simply because. To be like them, without a master, without the endless search for purpose, is freedom.

Instead, you have been branded with the title Bene Gesserit - ex Bene Gesserit now - and you wield too much power for the order to ignore you, even alone. Hence why they incorporated your capture into their plans, engineering it so that you face the Baron’s brutal, bloodthirsty nephew in the arena.

They’re going to have to try harder than that to kill you.

You think they forget that you once were as good as the rest of them. They forget that you still possess the ability to alter the molecules in your blood to resist the drugs they pump into the arena prisoners, and they forget that you trained beside the best in combat.

The arena is where you thrive.

The roar of the crowd is deafening. It excites you, the swell of noise that is thousands of harsh Harkonnen tongues heckling for blood; the stamp of their feet as they cry their na-Baron’s name vibrates through the arena, through the grains of sand beneath your feet, deep and heady like burgundy wine.

Your fingers tighten around the blade given to you, barely sharpened and made of unsanded wood, but solid all the same. It’s all you’ll need against the na-Baron. He is but a cruel man set on fire with exterminable blue flames, and you are Bene Gesserit: defiant of the order or not, it is who and what you are, and it is pure power coursing through your veins - power that answers to you and you only.

The roar of the na-Baron soars over the crowd’s cheering, animalistic and full of fury that makes you wonder what incenses him so much. Something in his past, maybe, something that he only acknowledges in the inner machinations of his cunning mind.

The grate in front of you opens, and you allow yourself a smile as you step out into Giedi Prime’s tortorous ebony sun. High above, you spot the slit of a balcony where the Baron himself reclines, watching his nephew with a benevolent smile and a pipe in his hand, flanked by subservient concubines with bowed heads. All around, the crowd shouts, thunderous, urging their na-Baron to spill blood on the sand, to paint the arena red. It swirls around you like a washed out dream, black and white but simultaneously vivid, the stink of rotting bodies and sun bleached white sand pungent in your nostrils, the occasional pop from the fireworks overhead heavy in your ears.

Rolling your shoulders, you pace a few steps in before sitting down in the sand, cross legged, the backs of your hands against your knees with your blade flat against one of your palms. Pitiless, you watch as the na-Baron slices the throat of the first prisoner that staggers his way, throwing him an enigmatic smile when he glances towards you.

His eyes are cold; calculating. They’re dark, striking against his pale skin as they suck in the light, and hungry too, as if he strives for something he does not quite know, always reaching, always burning for more.

Intriguing.

He circles in on the next prisoner, who meets his end by the same savage knife work as the first, his guts spilled out onto the greedy sand. Insatiable, chest heaving with excitement more than fatigue, the na-Baron turns to you, his final prey - his black teeth are bared in a magnificent, maniacal grin, his footsteps silent as he approaches.

Facing him now, you understand why the Bene Gesserit believed that by crossing the Atreides’ meant-to-be daughter with the Harkonnen’s na-Baron, they would make the Kwisatz Haderach. There’s no doubt in this man’s genetics, in the solid lines of his strength sheathed bones and the sheer virility and ferocity that permeates the air around him - it’s almost elegant, the way he prowls towards you, his stride lilting and laced with power. They picked him well.

Too bad you’ll have to kill him.

If he proves to be obtuse, you’ll have no choice but to slay him in order to save yourself. If he is, however, as cunning as they say, you’ll give him a chance to live - it’d be a shame to end him, actually: something draws you to the rawness of his nature, to the frigidity of the ire in his eyes.

The na-Baron circles closer, his skin like moonlight. He watches you like a hawk, as if he’s the one who’s hunting, ready for his next meal; his eyes flash in the sun, studying you, watching for your tells even as you identify his. Smiling, you drop into a crouch, knife outstretched like a twisted mockery of a peace offering, waiting for him to take the bait and strike.

He cocks his head. ‘It’s rare that I face a woman in the arena.’

‘I’m sure it will still be of pleasure to you, Feyd-Rautha.’

‘I believe it will increase it tenfold, little witch.’

You don’t have time to figure out how he knows you’re Bene Gesserit, because he slashes at you, once down towards your ribs and once back up at your throat. His knife flashes in the sun, reflecting the bloodlust in his eyes as it arcs towards you; light on your feet, you parry both of his blows, dipping in to land your own. He’s strong, which is of less concern to you than his speed. Feyd-Rautha fights as if he’s dancing: not in the aspect that there’s flourish in his bladework - quite the opposite, he keeps his strikes efficient and tight - but in the smooth, hypnotic way that the movements of his body blend seamlessly together.

The crowd screams as he forces you into defence. It’s temporary, though, because he gets reckless, both driven and blinded by his hunger for blood - enough so that you can dart your foot out, hooking it around his ankles and overbalancing him. Sprays of sand are kicked up as he tries to steady himself, and you force him down with the tip of your blade to his pale throat.

A single, sleek drop of scarlet slides down his skin. Unhurriedly, he brings a hand up to catch it before it leaks onto his black armour, lifting it so he can see the blood your knife has shed. His gaze flicks up to you, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

‘Huh,’ he remarks, pleasantly surprised.

And then he lashes out, bringing you down into the sand beside him. With the hilt of his knife, he knocks your own out of your hand, and it’s catapulted into the air, spinning end over end and catching the light before it somersaults into the ground a few feet away. The grit plumes up at your face as you scuffle with him, and you hiss, frustrated that the sand does not lend you any more traction.

Rolling you over so fast your head spins, Feyd-Rautha drives his knife down towards your exposed neck. It makes a bolt of panic shoot through you, followed by the deep seated, survival impelled instinct to use the Voice on him, but like hell you’re doing that; honour prevents you, as well as the desire to finish this fight properly. You have no choice but to grab his forearm, slowing his blade’s descent, and a mirthful, rasping noise leaves his chest - a laugh that sets his eyes alight.

And then, the pressure dissolves, falling away. He stands, smirking down at you, the sun like a damning halo around his head. Silence falls over the arena, the anticipation thick in the air as he raises his hand, gesturing somewhere over your shoulder.

‘Go on, little witch, get your knife.’

You sneer, seeing the greed in his eyes, the misguided belief that he’s got you where he wants you. He wants to play, and it delights you.

Taking a few steps in the direction of the knife, you feign acquiescence. You can feel his eyes on your back, can sense the triumph oozing off him, and you let the adrenaline coursing through your veins guide your limbs, twisting you around so you can lunge at him, one hand wrapping around his bare forearm and bending it backwards as you spin him sharply until his back meets your chest. Viciously, you yank his arm further back, and the pain of that combined with your elbow tight around his throat, constricting his airways, is enough to loosen his grip.

A gasp ripples through the crowd as Feyd-Rautha drops his knife. It lodges in the ground beside your foot, and you flick it up with the toe of your boot, your hand darting out to snatch it from the air. The man in your arms bucks and writhes, but you keep your hold on him as you bring the knife to his neck for the second time.

‘Uh oh,’ you sing-song into his ear. ‘What’s happened here?’

He stills in your arms a little. ‘Why don’t you do it?’

‘I fear I’ve grown attached to you during our little fight,’ you hum. ‘It would be a shame to end a specimen like yourself.’

‘You are Bene Gesserit, I’m sure that you have arrangements - ’

‘I may be one, but I do not follow the order,’ you snarl. ‘I spare you because I wish to. Now, Harkonnen, knock the knife from my hand.’

You feel his muscles tense, the hesitation coursing through his body as he determines whether your bid is a trick or not, and then he does as you say, catching it smoothly and spinning to bring it to your throat. Calmly, you stare into his narrowed eyes, the cold caress of the blade harsh against your exposed skin.

‘What’s stopping me from killing you now, little witch?’

You laugh. ‘I trust I’ve piqued your interest sufficiently, na-Baron.’

‘Just Feyd is fine.’

You open your mouth to mock him, but he slices the blade away from your neck, very purposefully nicking you. Blood beads at the seam of the cut, hot and vengeful; he grips the back of your neck, exposing your throat to him, and prickles of pain shoot through you as the wound stretches. Frozen, you wait to see what he’ll do next, heart fluttering in your chest in a way that you know is not fear.

Insouciantly, he licks a long stripe up your skin, his scorching tongue following the trail of crimson his blade left behind. All consuming heat wells up in your stomach when he grins at you, displaying the hint of red coating his obsidian teeth, his eyes igniting the air between you as they dip down to survey your body, your heaving chest.

And then he releases you. You find your knees have gone weak, and you stumble as the guards close around you, grabbing you roughly under the armpits and dragging you out of the arena, your knees making twin tracks in the sand.

Managing a glance behind you, you catch sight of Feyd, his fist held triumphantly in the air as the crowd roars for their na-Baron.

Unsurprisingly, they throw you into a cell. Its walls are made of smooth, dark metal which seem to swallow up any sound that you make - it doesn’t surprise you that Vladimir Harkonnen has a Bene Gesserit proof cell - and the only thing furnishing it is a black blanket on the ground. A servant comes in and treats the shallow cut on your neck, but he refuses to meet your eyes and scurries off as fast as he can, almost forgetting to lock the door behind him.

You estimate two hours, maybe three, before Feyd appears in the doorway. His silhouette appears in the small glass window set in the door and pauses; you wonder if he’s considering leaving you there for a little longer, but then the lock disengages with a whoosh and the door slides open.

The air is immediately charged as he strides down the steps, eyes locked on you. With the smooth hiss of hydraulics, the door closes behind him, and he prowls forward, not quite smiling yet - you sense that he’s here to continue what you didn’t finish in the arena, and your back straightens a little as his gaze rakes over your body. He’s taken off his armour, leaving him in the thin black underclothes beneath, and he too has had someone treat the wound in his neck.

‘Your resistance to the drugs is remarkable, little witch. My blade was laced too.’

You raise an eyebrow. ‘I find that matter quite disappointing, actually, that you must face your opponents in the arena when they are half sedated in order to best them.’

He smiles, stepping closer to you until you share air. ‘It’s not just the winning I seek.’

‘Oh, what is it then?’ You ask. ‘Pain?’

Quick as a snake, you strike, letting the thrill of the fight shoot through you yet again as he matches you blow for blow. He looks at you as if he wants to eat you, to taste you - not just your lips or your tongue, but the defiant burn of your lifeblood too, and it makes you want to sink your teeth into him.

Slipping past his guard to catch the front of his shirt, you bunch the material in your hand and tear, baring his well muscled chest to you. The sight of it makes your lips quirk upwards, further so at the sound he makes: a half growl and a half groan as he lunges for you, wonderfully infuriated by the way you dance just out of his grasp, slipping through his fingers like water. His eyes are kindled with ardour - for both your blood and your flesh - and when they meet yours, shivers snap down your spine and tug at your stomach.

Feinting to the left, you jab at his neck. Like a scorpion waiting to strike, he grabs your wrist, tugging you towards him; you glance down at his feet, easily predicting that he’s going to sweep your legs out from under you if you let him bring you any closer. Yanking your hand back, you attempt to shake his grip on you, but he refuses to let go.

You slap him across the face.

Hard.

His fingers loosen on you as his head snaps to the side, the noise your palm makes against his chiselled cheek sharp and ringing in the cell. A soft, animalistic sound leaves the back of his throat, and when he lifts his chin, his jaw clenched to perfection, the pure lust in his eyes makes you stumble back a step.

Rushing at you, he takes advantage of the heady swoop of desire that messes with your head, slowly backing you against the wall with each punch and kick he throws. Heat roils in his gaze, so intense that when he slams you against the wall, you don’t know whether he’s going to kill you or kiss you - the not-knowing thrills you, sets your bones and soul on fire. One of his hands comes up, his fingertips caressing your throat before he pounces, mercilessly cutting off your air supply.

Leaning into your space, he brings his lips up to your ear. ‘If I’d had my way, little witch, I’d have fucked you right there on the sand, with all of them watching.’

Your head spins, and you can’t tell if it’s because of the lack of oxygen in your lungs or the feeling of his strong thigh pressing between your legs, relentless as he grinds it against your clit. You allow yourself a second to enjoy it before you retaliate, adrenaline seething in your blood.

Burying your nails into his arm, you twist it to the side, unbalancing him and taking him to the floor - his fingers grip your shirt, bringing you down with him. You land on his torso, straddling his hips, and as you do, he snaps his wrists down and rips your shirt from top to bottom down your back. The cool air of the cell sends ripples of goosebumps up your skin, and Feyd’s wide, calloused palms follow their path, surprisingly warm, deceptively gentle.

Bucking his lower body, he flips you over, pinning your hands over head, his long fingers circling your wrists as his hips press heavily into yours. Your eyes flick down to his mouth as he dips his head, his breath ghosting against your cheek; the curve of his lips is soft and almost graceful compared to the rough way he grinds against you, eager for more, yet eager to torture himself with the wait.

Tipping your jaw up, you let your lower lip brush his before you turn your head to the side, denying him. Amusingly, he follows your touch, insistent that you kiss him, but you ease out of his grip and trap him between your arms when he gives chase - a growl sounds low in his chest, one of his hands gripping your thigh, futilely yanking at your trousers as you grapple, rolling over and over on the cell’s floor.

His hand slams down beside your head, stopping your course, his forearm flat against your throat - not quite choking you, but not letting your air supply run free. Feyd’s touch sears your skin in the best way, and you wish to be consumed by the flames.

‘Must I tie you up, little witch?’

His voice is low and rasping, sending shivers up your spine. You don’t answer, instead claiming his lips, welcoming the insistent press of his tongue as you thrust your hips against his, seeking that exquisite friction. Running your hands up his strong back, you hook your elbow around the nape of his neck, locking him to you as he explores the taste of you.

Abruptly, he pulls away, and you open your mouth, protest on your lips until he tugs down your trousers and underwear, tossing them somewhere to the side, his own garments following. You get one good look at him, at his powerful, muscle lined thighs framing your hips and the curve of his leaking cock against his stomach before he swipes his fingers between your folds, sending jolts of pleasure through your core.

When he lowers his face to your heat, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, a breathless moan slips from you, loaded with anticipation. You can’t stop the louder echo that leaves you when he dips his fingers into cunt, curling them to hit your sweet spot, and your nails claw at his shoulder blades, leaving red trails behind them.

‘That’s it, little witch,’ he croons. ‘Sing for me.’

And sing you do, as he wrings the pleasure from you with his tongue and fingers until your legs tremble and close around his head. He pins your thighs to the floor, holding you open for him as he tastes you, insatiable, pushing you unrelentingly over the edge, again and again until hot tears slide down your cheeks and your voice breaks from crying his name.

Finally, he buries his length inside you. Your eyes roll back at the stretch of it, your pussy fluttering around him; you muffle the moan that rips itself from your chest by biting down on his shoulder. He chuckles as you mewl his name, your back arching as he pulls out, only sheathe himself up to the hilt when he thrusts back in - he’s as drunk on your sounds as you are on his cock: he needs more. More of you, of your delicious sounds and your intoxicating scent and that sweet, sweet cunt of yours.

Feyd fucks like he fights: ruthless, full of passion and lust, remorseless.

Just as you’re about to come around his cock, he pulls out, leaving you scrabbling against the floor, hips futile as they follow his, his name like a plea on your lips. He drinks in your desperation, flipping you over and cracking his palm down hard on your ass before slamming himself back into your weeping pussy, the ragged cry that escapes you like the nectar of the gods on his tongue as he swallows it with a kiss. Gathering your hair in his fist, he pulls your head back, pounding tirelessly into you as he pins you to his solid chest, mouthing at the skin behind your ear.

As Feyd spills his warm seed inside you, you wonder if the Bene Gesserit were actually distracted, or if that was what they wanted you to think as they crossed bloodlines, even despite your defiance of their order.

You flop onto the blanket as Feyd eases himself out of your spasming cunt. Your head is fuzzy, warm, and a dumb smile pulls at your lips.

Feyd chuckles. ‘I have not broken you, have I, little witch?’

You send him a look half as fierce as it should be. ‘Barely. You have merely sated me - for now.’

He laughs again, lying next to you on the blankets. His body is angled towards you, but he doesn’t reach out - that he lay down beside you is surprising to you in the first place, but you seize the opportunity and curl up in the curve of his body, enjoying the warmth of his skin. Slowly, his fingers card through your hair, and you close your eyes, letting yourself enjoy the moment of softness from the bloodthirsty na-Baron of House Harkonnen.

Reaching out, you grab the blanket and fold it over the two of you - he rolls over so that he lies with his head resting on your chest. His lips brush the skin between your breasts, and you're struck by the glimpse of vulnerability that Feyd allows you to witness; this is not by accident, this is a gift from him, a way of silently telling you that he has come as close to trusting you as he could ever come to trusting someone.

Silent, you bask there in the afterglow, eyes half closed. At some point, you seek Feyd’s lips, and he obliges you, lazily exploring your mouth in a way he did not get a chance to do before, sighing contentedly as you trace the lines your nails carved along the grooves of his broad back. Eventually, you pull away, staring into his eyes where the embers of the fire that had blazed in them still glow with the heat of it. You need to go.

Gently, your breath mingling with his, you kiss his cheek, your lips gliding against his skin before you get up, briefly laughing at the wobbly nature of your legs before gathering your clothes and dressing as best as you can, considering he ripped your shirt all the way down the back.

When you glance over your shoulder, he’s propped himself up on his elbows; the blanket has slipped down to reveal most of his moon coloured stomach, and he regards you with mirth mixed with something like respect.

You pause in the doorway. You can tell he’s letting you leave.

A smile plays on his lips.

‘We’ll meet again, little witch.’

It’s not a question, nor a whimsy. It’s a promise.

[prokopetz]

One of the more frequent anecdotes you'll hear from Dungeons & Dragons podcasters is that any time they switch to a system other than D&D, even for a one-off arc, they immediately experience a large drop in listenership – sometimes up to eighty percent! – only to see most of those listeners come back once they switch back to D&D.

What's interesting about this is that the greater part of D&D podcast listeners do not play Dungeons & Dragons. They might have a general idea of what the game's rules look like based on what they've been able to passively absorb from listening to the podcast, but they don't have regular groups, they don't own the rulebooks or maintain subscriptions to the e-book service, and many of them have never rolled a d20 in their lives.

How, then, do we account for that sudden drop in listenership? Why does which system a tabletop roleplaying podcast is using matter so much if most listeners neither know nor care about the rules?

The answer is, unfortunately, quite simple.

In many ways, advocacy for indie RPGs has never moved past Ron Edwards' infamous argument that playing Dungeons & Dragons causes actual, physical brain damage. Deep down, a lot of indie RPG advocacy seems to believe there's something sinister in the structure of D&D that's responsible for what they regard as its unaccountable popularity. You can see this in everything from the casual assumption that D&D players aren't "really" having fun (and all that's needed to convert them to other systems is to show them they've been tricked into falsely believing they're enjoying an objectively un-fun activity), to the rambling thinkpieces that talk about getting folks to try other games like they're liberating people from the fucking Matrix.

Yet we come back to the same problem: how can the mechanical structure of D&D be implicated for its culturally dominant position in the minds of those who've never picked up a twenty-sided die?

The truth is that Dungeons & Dragons enjoys cultural dominance, both within the hobby and elsewhere, because it's owned by the same multinational corporation that owns Monopoly and My Little Pony, and benefits from all the marketing strength its owner can bring to bear. The problem, in brief, is brand loyalty. The aforementioned podcasts lose listeners in droves whenever they give a non-D&D system a spin because all most of those departing listeners care about is whether the thing that they're listening to is called "Dungeons & Dragons". The structural particulars of the mechanics are irrelevant.

The bitter pill we've got to swallow as indie RPG authors is that we can't fix brand loyalty in tabletop RPGs by fucking around with the shape of the dice. There are lots of productive causes we can support to help address the problem, but they mostly have do to with intellectual property and antitrust regulations and such, which are areas where our finely honed ability to debate the correct way to pretend to be an elf is of very limited utility.

Like, I enjoy an abstruse argument about the ideology of dice-rolling as much as the next nerd, but let's not fool ourselves that we're speaking truth to power here. The gamer who just wants to roll dice to hit the dragon with their sword is not your enemy.

[moronkombat]

HELLO.

I was just wondering if you could do some hcs of what the mk1 men's ideal types would be.

Reiko is interested in a partner who is strong and capable. Someone who can handle themselves and continue to grow in personal and physical strength

He wants someone who knows their way around the battlefield and loyal to their personal goals

Kenshi is attracted to his partner's wit and intelligence. He wants someone who he can have long and deep conversations with

Prefers someone who can be playful but not overly so. He needs a calming influence but not one so compliant. He is a man who carries a lot of weight so someone to take that weigh off with small jokes can make a big difference for him

Syzoth is drawn towards someone who is patient, calm and understanding. Someone who can not just hear him but truly listen to him

He a man full of emotion so someone who tends to have a calmer demeanor helps soothe him when he becomes anxious. Of course, he also loves a partner who enjoys frequent physical contact

Prefers someone wild and brazen. Someone who cannot be completely contained even though he so desperately wants to

Enjoys a partner that seeks thrills and chills. Don't worry though, he will mold his partner into the perfect chaos if they seem restrained

Rain needs someone who acknowledges his ambitions and desires. A partner that encourages him and supports his efforts goes a long way for him

Though he does find himself seeking competition so, naturally, he seeks out a partner who can handle and enjoy these rivalries

Shang Tsung is drawn to people who interest him. Someone that catches his eye because of their abilities, wit and/or appearance

Prefers a partner who can be clever but also softer than the average person. He will enjoy matching their wit while also taking comfort in their kindness

Quan Chi appreciates loyalty and acknowledgment. He wants a partner to stay by his side while also seeing all the wonders he can do

Prefers someone who can handle themselves and not completely rely on him. Not to say he isn't a comforting partner, he is, but he values mental fortitude as well

Tomas prefers someone he can have fun with. He wants to go out with his partner, take them places and have adventures with him

His partner needn't be shy nor outgoing, just someone who is open to his ideas and plans. Over everything, he needs someone who is unconditionally supportive but not blindly so

Raiden enjoys a partner who values kindness and the treatment of others. He himself a very caring individual so he is drawn to those who show similar characteristics

Also enjoys someone with a sense of humor. Raiden wants to laugh with his partner, truly and loudly laugh to the silly things they talk about

Kung Lao really likes when his partner can match his sass and swagger. He likes the little playful rivalry that he and his partner create

While he has fun with his partner's attitude, he does need a partner that knows when to humble him

Bi-Han has an intense temper so a partner who is calm, collected and sweet really helps level him out. Someone who is kind yet witty to bring him down from those raging highs

He needs a partner who completes him and compliments him. Too be too brash around him will frustrate him and isolate him. A partner to love him completely and truly, to hold him and tell him it will be alright, means the world to him

Johnny craves someone who loves to live life and live it fast. He is exceptionally extraverted and wants to go out and see the world with his partner

Someone who believes in his ambitions is a big deal for him. Johnny may appear exceptionally confident but he is deeply insecure. He needs a partner that can recognize that and provide him comfort

General Shao prefers a partner who is smaller than he is. He wants to impress his partner and show them his prowess

It is not that he wants someone weak, Shao enjoys a partner that welcomes him when he returns from battle with excitement and pride. He wants to scoop his partner up and parade them on his shoulder as he marches through the city

Geras is a simple man but incredibly busy and needs a partner who understands this. There will be much time spent apart from each other so he requires a partner with great patience

He prefers someone who is level-headed and logical, someone who can analyze a situation with him and offer a new perspective

Liu Kang fancies someone who can be witty and playful just as he is. A partner who can make him smile and laugh will capture his heart quickly

He does not have preferences in terms of their physical strength but their mental fortitude. Not to say he will not comfort his partner, he will, but Liu Kang needs that comfort too.

Kaui Liang has no preference for appearances. His desire in a partner is all related to who they are. He prefers a partner who shows kindness and restraint in moments of frustrations

Additionally, he wants a partner who is family oriented. Family is huge for him and so he seeks out a partner who also values the concept of family and loyalty to them

Baraka needs a partner who is understanding of his worries and someone willing to listen to him. He's lost everything and someone to validate that will help soothe him

He is touch starved, desperately so. Baraka would love a partner who can touch him softly, unafraid of his deformed skin and bones

[comfortless]

would König ever agree to be a sugar baby? 🤔 most people write him as the rich one in the relationship so I'm curious if the dynamic can be reversed

you’re calling to my weakness of König being taken care of for once here…!! cue König being the absolute worst sugar baby that has ever existed (lovebombing!). implied age gap (König is maybe 24-26 here, reader is anything above), porn mention, masturbation, slightly suggestive but mostly fluff. minors do not interact.

Begrudgingly, a younger König probably would.

He isn’t sure how these relationships even work. There’s plenty of money in his bank accounts, he’s got a decent enough apartment, a car, (some) clothes that aren’t riddled with holes or tears... Hell, there isn’t even really anything that he wants. His curiosity only begins to spike the second his thumb stops its scrolling, lands on a picture of her, and his world comes to a grinding halt.

The woman in the photo is the most gorgeous, sweet creature he has ever lain eyes upon. Just the image of her smiling softly at the camera, her hands placed in her lap whilst she’s seated on a couch is enough to send his heart hammering. She doesn’t look the part of some vapid, cruel thing he had anticipated on a site like this. No, the woman only looks gentle, her eyes are even a little sad… She's all alone, her bed is cold, and König is already hard at the thought of how this could go if he had just a little luck in his corner.

He makes the decision to message her without thinking. It’s late, she probably wouldn’t even see it until morning, and he doubts a woman this cute would want to bother with him anyway.

A polite, articulate: hey do you wanna fuck

Followed by: you don’t even have to pay me XD

He settles for pulling up some porn video with the faces just out of frame, jacks off to the hypothetical of it being she and him one day and falls asleep with his phone on his chest and come stains in his boxers.

There’s nothing about him that’s deserving of this woman’s time nor her response, but he wakes to the chiming of his phone and a sweet message from her anyway. One in which she asks him if he would like to meet for drinks so that they can talk, she clarifies that she will pay, and even tells him that she thinks he’s handsome.

Handsome. Something only his oma had called him when she patted him on the cheek as a boy.

His response is insistent, demanding almost, when he suggests that she come to him, meet immediately that same day. Who cares if it’s only afternoon by the time she arrives, he could go for a beer and a sweet, tight pussy at any hour, doesn’t hold himself back from telling her this either while he grins at his phone like he’s possessed - all teeth and wild eyes.

There’s a part of him that believes this woman will be scared off, stand him up entirely and block his account, but to his surprise, she does actually show up. She’s there before even he arrives, seated in a booth at the back of the bar with his order and her own placed neatly on the table in front of her.

His chest feels too tight when he places himself across from her, all cockiness diminished in light of something he hasn’t felt since he was two feet shorter and more than a decade younger.

He’s fucking petrified.

His to-be-sugar-mommy eases him with her softspoken voice, going over the less than rigid terms of their agreement and praising his looks as well as his ability to handle his alcohol.

She isn’t asking for sex, just someone to care for. She tells him that he’s beautiful, while he feels like a smear on the pavement in comparison to her. And fuck. He isn’t handling his alcohol well at all, he’s just nervous and needs to keep his hands and his mouth busy, because all he wants to do is bend this adorable woman who compares his ugly face to that of an archangel’s over this table and fuck her like a stallion, spit such filth into her hair that no amount of repentance could ever make her feel clean again.

He can’t. He can’t when she suggests in that same cooing voice that she take him shopping for boots that are less scuffed, offers her hand to him as though it’s natural for a lady so ethereal to tether herself to a beast. Her hand is so dainty and cold, whereas he feels like a boiler on the cusp of bursting the second their fingers slot between one another.

His head is a mess of thoughts, memories of being dragged by the collar to attend services with his oma where he never prayed. Shit, maybe he should start, because surely he has someone or something to thank for this, for her.

Their first date becomes the strangest ordeal of his life as she seats him on a bench and helps him to try on boots as though he were only a boy who didn’t yet know how to tie his laces. She even kneels before him and ties them up herself before placing his foot back on the store’s floor; doesn’t even comment on the obvious hole in his sock or the awkward, longing way that he’s staring at her, only presses her chin to his knee and smiles up at him with so much affection he thinks he might actually pass out for a moment. She buys the ones he likes, three pairs of them, and doesn’t even bat an eye at the price.

That’s when he decides it’s all too much: he tells her that he can buy his own stuff, that he doesn’t need her to do it or tie his shoelaces or anything because he’s a man, after all. He should be showering her in flowers and soft dresses, paying for her nails and hair dye.

His lady only laughs and asks if he wants to come home with her, he doesn’t have to stay, just sit with her for a bit. So… he follows her home like a sulking shadow, hovering just behind her lost entirely in his head. He had barked at her like a rabid dog and she still brings him back to her place, strokes her thumb against the back of his hand, offers him little smiles of assurance when he goes completely silent.

He wants to hate it, wants to tell her something dirty and toss a stack of cash her way when she opens her door for him. Instead, he finds his head in her lap while she pets his face, running the tips of her fingers over every scar.

Her compliments are the most ridiculous, beautiful things that he’s ever heard, ranging from outright calling him her angel to telling him that he’s charming, that the scars are pretty… He loves every second spent with her like this, with each soft brush of her fingers as they pet the top of his head down to his neck, the way she hums some pleasing song to him when she massages at his shoulder.

He’s never been pampered or coddled like this before, and it feels good. The boner threatening to tear its way out of his pants isn’t something he’s proud of this time; he only wants this sweet little fairy to feel as comfortable as she’s making him.

Maybe he could do that if she let him pull up her skirt and make love to her: he could be gentle if he tried, play with her hair and her clit while he slowly spears her open until she’s pliant and panting, take it slow until she comes around his cock and her pussy calls him to utterly defile it as well as the rest of her. There wouldn’t be a part of her left untouched.

When she asks to be held instead, he swears he’s getting all of that and then some: she puts herself right in his lap, her chest to his and her legs parted just enough to straddle his hips. Her head tips forward against his shoulder as his fingers dance across her back, squeezing at her hips before smoothing back up her sides. She’s so soft… the most pleasing thing he’s ever touched, smoother than gunmetal and the flat of a blade. The way she smells is even sweeter, like spiced tea and blooming flowers.

She doesn’t even slap him when he bucks upward against her pussy, grinds the throbbing bulge in his pants against the place that she’s warmest. No, she only kisses his cheek and tells him what a wonderful day she’s having, what a gentleman he is even if he knows that part is certainly a lie.

Her breasts are soft in his hands when he finds the courage to squish them, against his cheek when she guides his head down to her. She pets his hair, tells him how she’s always wanted to hold a man like this… that she’s been waiting for someone exactly like him for longer than she even knows.

She even laughs when she asks, “You think that I’m pathetic, don’t you?”

All thoughts of just getting a good fuck out of this woman die someplace beneath his skull. Who would ever even think to call someone so lovely and kind pathetic? He couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t imagine ever doing anything more than protecting her fragile little heart and letting her stroke at him like an overgrown kitten, not anymore.

“Nein… no…”

He swears he could almost see tears in her eyes when she shoots him a glance then. Appreciative, contented tears that he prays she won’t shed. He’s a man, he’s not going to cry, but… fuck, he might if she did right now. Everything feels so doughy and warm, cotton candy and summer rain when his grip around her tightens to pull her in even closer.

She wipes away those unshed tears as she nuzzles against his cheek, slowly rubs her nose there and leaves a trail of kisses up to his temple. His mind is devoid of anything but outright infatuation, some impromptu dedication. He would tell her right now he loved her and know wholeheartedly that he meant it, but love isn’t in the agreement.

His lady only just wants to give herself away for nothing in return, not for a dick to make her cry or his own money layering her pockets; she just wants to pretend he’s her own personal angel, bury him in all the love and gifts she’s never been able to give to anyone else.

He watches her when she falls asleep curled up in his arms, takes in the way she smiles even in dreaming when her soft breaths break up the quiet. He presses his mouth to hers until her eyelids flutter and her breath catches in her little throat. She wakes to the kiss and only reciprocates it with the same softness she’s displayed with every prior action.

Her lips part to take him in, and she doesn’t even moan when he laps into her mouth with a grunt. There’s no lust in this for her: only the most senseless adoration, all love and tenderness, the things he’s yet to properly learn.

She tastes like vanilla and honey, her tongue yields beneath his own… and finally he pulls himself away, staring into her eyes like he might find a treasure there, as if he wasn’t already convinced that every part of her wasn’t something divine and holy.

“Do you have any others?,” he asks, devoid of any trepidation.

There’s not a care in the world of how she might view him. He’s convinced, certain that whatever he’s feeling has to be mutual. There are butterflies fluttering like the gentlest tornado in the pits of his stomach, and just by the wounded look she gives him then he just knows she must feel them too.

“Only you.”

“Gut… gut.”

There’s another kiss, one that is initiated by the both of them and steals all breath from his lungs. It’s not her harboring tears this time, but him who feels the dull sting, separates from her and turns his head away to rub at his face. He knows that he’s the pathetic one now, burdened down with the thought that he’s head over heels for a woman for just treating him as if he deserves anything at all.

Damn her for the way she readily reaches for him to pull him back in, to kiss at the outer corner of his eye and tell him in such a quiet way that she knows… In just a day she’s noticed him more than anyone, given more than anyone.

When he guides her back towards his mouth with a firm hand at the nape of her neck, could he really be faulted for whispering a confession? “Ich bin in dich verliebt,” spoken nearly inaudibly before he shuts her up with his lips over hers.

There’s no need for an answer, he knows the agreement had nothing to do with love. She wouldn’t accept his money in turn, but maybe a heart would suffice. He promises he’ll send her letters each time he’s deployed between mashing his mouth against her own, swears he will come running back to her when those greedy kisses slip down to her jaw. This sweet dove only laughs and squirms in his lap, tells him she would love to see him any time before he shushes her again.

Shouldn’t sweet things like this know not to feed a stray?

[bg-brainrot]

The Thousandth Time (Astarion x GN!Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Summary: Astarion and Rogue!Tav make love for the thousandth time. In a bathtub.

Tags: Smut, Slice of life, POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Spawn Astarion, Post-Canon, bathtub sex, sloppy sex, seriously just sickeningly sweet smut, Spawn Astarion, Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Domesticity is romantic, Hand Jobs, Blood Drinking

A/N: Some context-- I wanted to write soft, gender neutral smut. And by the gods is this soft. I tried to look at what it's like to love someone for so long. In my experience, when you've been with someone for so many years, you still find a lot of love in the little things. which I hope I hit? Anyway, enjoy!!

Word count: ~5.3k

The thousandth time you make love to Astarion, you don't know it's the thousandth time.

It's a day like any other, really.

After a long day at the guild, you've arrived home, a sigh on your lips, a furrow to your brow.

"Whatever is the matter, my dear?"

You compose your expression and turn toward your lover. "Astarion," you start, a reflexive wistfulness to your tone. Gods are you glad to see him after a day like today. "Nothing is the matter. Nothing important anyway. Simply glad to be home."

Astarion gives you a look that says he doesn't quite believe you, but knows better than to pry too deeply into issues you'd rather not bring home. "Very well, darling. But you know I'm all pointy ears. Especially if Nine-Fingers has been difficult again."

"Ugh," you say, wincing in annoyance. "Do not say her name right now."

The vampire gives you a bright, toothy laugh. "That bad, eh?" You nod. He walks toward you, arms outstretched. "Mmm in that case, shall we call it an early night tonight?"

You dive into the comfort of his arms, holding him to you, inhaling his fresh, familiar scent. It feels like the day's troubles melt in his cold embrace, and the tension in your body finally relaxes. "That might be nice."

"Dinner first?" he asks, pulling away from you slightly.

You look into his warm crimson eyes, feel that same warmth reflected in your face. Of course, he’d check to see if your mortal needs have been met. "No need, I've eaten. How about you?"

Astarion brings a hand up to inspect your face, this way, then that. It’s as if he’s examining you for injury, not assessing if he can partake in a bit of your blood. "Mmm, you seem a tad tired, love."

"You know I'll manage. Besides, get my blood while it's still boiling with rage," you say, craning your neck for him in response.

"As delectable as that sounds,” he begins, letting go of your face, tracing his fingers along your neck. “I think a bath and bed ought to come first."

You want to argue the point, make sure he's fed to the best of your ability, but the yawn that escapes you is irrefutable. With nary another word, his hand is on the small of your back, guiding you toward the bath.

"Would you like to join me?" you ask him as you open the door. Your expression is calm, the question harboring no hidden intentions. Any other day, you may have raised an eyebrow at him suggestively, begun taking off your armor in a tease– but you're tired, simply not wanting to relinquish the feel of his arms around you.

"Certainly, if it keeps you from falling asleep in the tub…" he trails off, looking at you warily. He appears torn, somewhere between keeping you from drowning and keeping you from resting.

You give him a wry smile. “Imagine that. After felling all manner of beasts and men, finally succumbing to the tub.”

Astarion offers you a reluctant smile in return. “My love, I swear to every god above and below, if you die in any manner even remotely that ludicrous, I shall have to pretend not to know you at your funeral.”

“That’s fair,” you say, holding a hand out to him. “Best to make sure that doesn’t happen then, don’t you think?”

The man can’t argue with that, nor does he seem to want to. After an entire day away from each other, this closeness is exactly what the two of you crave. So he takes your offered hand, and follows you into the bathroom.

It has been years since you had added a tub big enough for the two of you in your house. While the two of you had accrued wealth enough for an entire bathhouse, you’d settled for a more modest setup. At least, modest in Astarion’s eyes.

The floor is made of the finest marble tiles, the walls of intricately laid and patterned brick. And in the center of the room, is the room’s main attraction: the enormous, magical tub. It’s long enough that you could comfortably lay down across the entire bottom, wide enough that you have to extend your arms to reach both sides. The outer edges are infused with enchantments to improve your bathing experience, and the tub itself is made of the highest quality crystal that gold can buy.

Once you enter the room, you activate the heat and water sigils along the basin’s edges and turn back to Astarion. “Would you mind grabbing some soaps from the shelf?”

He gives you a lopsided grin, eyes crinkling with amusement, but still moves to do as you ask. “Would you also like me to bathe you while I’m at it?”

“Oh, would you?” you ask half-joking. You begin to strip your armor off, piece by piece.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, picking out a few of his preferred scents from a shelf on the wall. He’s accumulated quite the collection now, enjoying mixing and matching as his nose guides him. “That could be arranged.”

You’re almost halfway through your armor when he returns, bottles of lemon, bergamot, and sage soaps in hand. “Ah, you know how much I love bergamot,” you say, smiling at it fondly, pausing halfway through undoing your leather straps.

“I know,” he says, placing them next to the tub before turning his attention fully to you. “I also know that you need help with that armor or we may be here all night.”

Holding your arms out wordlessly, Astarion starts to unbuckle each and every strap from the front of your padded armor. As he releases you from its confines, you take a deep, relieved breath and say, “Thank you, love.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he murmurs, leaving a long lingering touch along your now exposed collarbone. “While you strike quite the image in your armor, I think I much prefer you without.”

You laugh, feeling quite light in the now steaming room. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say your mind is straying quite far from rest, Astarion.”

The vampire shrugs, beginning to tug at your undershirt and small clothes with each of his hands. “Merely stating fact, my darling.”

With a few smooth movements, he’s taken off the last of your clothing, exposing every inch of you to the warmth of the room and the heat of his gaze. He seems just about ready to bury his head in your neck, begin covering every piece of you in kisses, when you speak, “Excuse me, are you planning to enter the bath in your house clothes?”

Astarion looks down at his own garb, the comfortable satins and silks of a man who spent the day lounging at home. When faced with your words and, ugh, logic, he says with a sigh, “Would you do the honors?”

You need no more invitation before your hands are on his soft, flowing shirt, running along it appreciatively. “Is this new?”

“It is,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice. “Do you like it?”

“It feels magnificent,” you respond, beginning to undo its buttons. “I may just have to steal it for myself one of these days.”

His lips purse at you. “You know, you could simply ask, darling.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you taunt, pulling up on the shirt's edges, tugging it up and off of him. Now, faced with the plane of his ivory chest, your fingers act on instinct. They trail down his shoulders, trace the line of his pectorals, drop down the center of his stomach to the waist of his pants.

Astarion gives you a low, approving noise before asking you wryly, “Now whose mind is straying?”

“Not mine,” you respond, pulling his pants and underwear down in one smooth motion. “My hands are just so tired, I’m sure you understand.”

“Surely,” he responds, as he pulls each foot out of his pant legs. “How is the water?”

The bath is steaming by now, visibly fogging up the room, but still, you bend down to skim your hands along its surface. “Ah, it’s warm,” you say, gripping the edge with one hand. “Maybe too warm?”

“No such thing,” he responds, and one of his hands lands next to yours as he bends down to feel the water for himself. The man gives a happy hum before asking, “Shall we then?” Then his now-wet hand is smacking your butt, his head gesturing toward the waiting water. 

“Excuse you,” you say, indignantly, as you turn toward him. “I'm tired.” But you don't feel tired. Not after running your hands over his cold skin. Not after feeling the quick contact of his hand on your backside.

“Not to worry, darling. I’ll take care of you.”

As in, bathing or–? Luckily you don't have much more time to think about it before he’s lowering himself into the tub. Even with his quick movement, even with the water’s slight obscurity, you easily note that Astarion’s cock has stirred in interest.

Ah. While you hadn’t meant to illicit anything by inviting him… it’s certainly not unwelcome. It’s a good thing that your exhaustion is all but melting away under his loving touches.

Acutely aware of his sharp gaze on the length of your back, you turn to face away from him, grab the edge of the tub, and slowly enter its warmth. As was customary in your baths, he would start with your back, so you take a spot in front of him, leaving just enough room for him to settle behind you as he pleases.

Too much room clearly, as Astarion immediately scoots forward, extending his legs to each side of you. You feel his hardening length graze your backside as he does so and can’t help the smile that curves your lips.

"Astarion, dear,” you start, placing your hands on each of his knees under the water. “Are you certain you want to bathe me?"

“And why wouldn't I be?” He leans closer, planting a soft kiss along your spine.

You debate backing up into his groin to prove a point but instead shake your head. "No reason, I suppose."

He begins by lathering his hands in a mixture of soaps, carefully measured out by eye and feel. All the while, you sit before him, hands on each of his calves, thumbs repeatedly rubbing the ridge of his muscles. While he’d had a nice, calm day today, his calves are always so tight from sneaking about– and it’s the least you can do for the man that’s bathing you.

Then his hands get to work.

At first he drags both hands along your back, once, twice. Once he’s made sure that soap covers every inch of you, he starts massaging you, working the soap into your skin, kneading into your sore muscles.

Astarion knows your body so intimately and, after so many years of tending to each other, he rubs all of your tightest spots. His knuckles press deep into your neck. His fingers work around your upper back. His thumbs dig underneath the edges of your shoulder blades, working out the knots he knows lay beneath. And, by the gods, if you thought you’d been melting under his caresses before, now you’re practically a puddle.

You can’t help the noises that come out at the sensation of his nimble fingers at work. Your shoulders ache from a long day of sneaking, stabbing, and general tension of dealing with people– the relief is palpable in the way you relax into his touch, grip his legs, and release several breathy moans.

And with each moan, you can feel his cock growing firmer against you. After the first few, you can feel him shift closer with every noise he draws from you. Knowing your affect on him has always done something to stir the fire in you, and this time it has you shifting uncomfortably as heat blooms between your legs. The both of you spur the other’s building lust, all the while the fresh scent that Astarion’s concocted permeates the air.

Then, when it’s clear he’s done with your back, thoroughly satisfied with each gasping breath of pleasure, his hands drop from your shoulders. They tail down your back, playing along your spine. And, in an almost leisurely motion, they wrap around your torso, where they finally settle on your chest.

I don’t think this is a relaxing bath anymore, you think distantly. Yet you’re unable to resist leaning into his palms, arching into his touch.

Sensing your shuffles, Astarion curls further into your back, almost entirely flush to you now. His fingers feel their way to each of your nipples, first gently brushing against them, then thumbing over them each in turn. They respond eagerly, perking up under his delicate sweep.

“Astarion,” you begin, turning your head back to him slightly and raising an eyebrow. “What are you doing?” Your tone isn’t exactly admonishing– your voice comes out too quiet, desire muffling all other emotions.

His hands trail down your chest, past the surface of the bath water, settling on each of your thighs before he responds, voice low, lips inches away from your ear. “Making sure that every single centimeter of my beautiful darling is clean, of course.”

“Astarion, I thought you would be, ahh… taking care of me," you say, barely holding on to your trail of thought as his hands dip between your legs, brushing your sensitive core.

“I am taking care of you,” he whispers, finally closing the remaining distance between your back, his front. At the feel of his stiff cock pressing against your back, you give an involuntary gasp. He seems to enjoy your reaction, taking a moment to slowly grind the entire length of his hardened arousal along your backside once, before he settles between your cheeks. “Unless you’d rather leave all of this stress pent up, my dear?”

You’d been tired– been ready to bathe and head off to bed. But something about this man never fails to ignite the fire in your heart– or your loins. “I suppose not,” you murmur, releasing Astarion’s calf, running up his leg with your fingers, landing on his arm, gripping it closer to you.

“I knew you would see reason,” he says, taking your grip as guidance. His hand moves down to begin stroking your heat, building up steadily to the fast-paced rhythm he knows you like. In the water’s buoyant embrace, his actions feel a touch more fluid, his fingers more silken.

It has taken time experimenting together to reach this place– one of utmost security and intimate knowledge of each others’ bodies. But now that you’re here, you’ve found that Astarion’s agile fingers are obscenely precise in their movements. Like he knows exactly which pins to tumble to unlock your utmost excitement.

So you can't help the way you buck into his touch, nor the way the water sloshes around you both in response.

"Careful, love," he says, hand stilling. "We don't want to make a mess this time, do we?"

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you remember the last time this had happened, how the floor had been practically flooded. You should agree with him, make sure that such an incident doesn't occur again. But the front of your mind is wholly occupied, thinking only of how he's stopped moving his hand, how being careful may mean that he takes it too gently. "Mmm, we managed to clean it up well enough," you respond, jerking your hips back, pressing against him with need.

Astarion's laughter rings upon the bathroom's stone walls, before it turns into a groan as you roll your hips once more. His voice is a bit huskier when he responds, "You know we’re going to regret it later.”

You smile back at him, satisfied with the noise you’ve elicited. “Sounds like a problem for later, doesn’t it?” Then your hand squeezes his arm, motioning it back down to your now throbbing arousal. “For now, what was that about releasing my stress?”

“Oh very well… in that case, let’s find where you ache most, shall we?” Astarion murmurs, dipping his head, placing a kiss on the base of your neck. “Here?” Your shoulder. “Or perhaps here?” Then his hand settles back between your legs, fingers touching you in a rather delicate caress. “Or maybe here?”

You hum a noise of approval as his . “Oh, there.”

His fingers close on your swollen sex, rubbing languidly as he whispers in your ear, “Mmm, darling. So much tension…” A bit more pressure. “I must simply…” A bit faster pace. “Massage it all away…”

If anything, his touches cause you to grasp at his legs harder, all of the muscles in your body responding in kind to his ministrations. Your back arches instinctively, earning an exquisite groan from Astarion. So when his next stroke causes you to clench, you lean into it, grinding your ass back into the full length of his erection, sliding easily in the water’s low friction.

His other hand finds its way to your hip, helping you match his pace as you continue to rock into him.

The two of you fall into a beautiful, raucous rhythm, each open and generous with your vocal pleasure, the water’s regular splashes punctuating each movement.

“Yes, yes, gods, Astarion.”

“My sweet, you’re the only divine thing here.”

Then your words begin to lose sense, your rhythm begins to falter, and it’s clear that you won’t last much longer under his caring fingers.

You also know that Astarion hasn’t been tended to nearly as well as you have.

So you move to turn toward him. With how his full length twitches against you in urgency, your own nimble fingers ought to return the favor.

Astarion stops you, placing his unoccupied hand back on your chest to hold you in place. "Ah ah ah. Love, I'm here to help you."

"You are helping,” you start, pushing back against his hand. “But I don’t want to leave you like this.” ‘This’ is obvious as the man clearly exercises every ounce of self control he has judging from the visible veins on his arm, the way his legs squeeze reflexively around you each time he strokes you.

He gives you a reluctant groan, one that does nothing to hide his desire. “Must you always be so selfless?” His hand doesn’t release your chest though, and he begins tracing delicate, wet circles around one of your nipples, as he murmurs, “Fine, just let me continue.”

Staying in place for him, you reach back with one hand to feel for his cock. It’s almost unreal how naturally you slot around him, the way your fingers circle around its girth. The entire length, inch-by-inch, the pattern of his veins, the sensitive lip of his head– they’re all intimately familiar to you now. As is finding just the right grip, the right pace.

When you start to pump him in earnest, Astarion can't help but shudder, his movements losing their steady, pulsing beat. In losing his pace, he takes on a new one– erratic, a bit fumbling, but utterly intoxicating.

You're both stoking each other’s fires in tandem, wildly offset in your desperation to touch each other more and more and more. 

The water feels almost cool compared to your heated core, to the sweet friction you're building together.

Astarion's face tilts into your back, grunting as he strains to right his tempo– his forehead presses against you, his cool exhale grazes your searing skin. His chilled touch is a reprieve in the sweltering fog of steam and heady lust. Hearing your sigh of relief, he seems all too willing to make more contact.

His lips crash onto your back roughly, and his fangs nick your skin. An involuntary shiver runs through your body as you imagine the pleasure his drinking evokes from you. As you imagine the man behind you lapping at your neck, moaning in satisfaction, flushed pink with your very blood–

"Take some blood,” you offer, breathless. Imagining would never be enough, you find yourself craving the real deal. So when you say your next word, it comes out more pleading than you intend, “Please."

“Whatever my dearest desires,” Astarion replies, voice low and rumbling. He removes the hand from your chest and places it on your shoulder, holding you in place as he places his lips at the crook of your neck. His nose rubs gently against your fleshly washed skin. “Mmm, you smell so good.”

Then his fangs pierce you.

When you first began your relationship, you hadn’t intended to enjoy his bites as much as you do, but after years and years of them, the pain hardly registers now. All you feel is close– So very close to the man you would gladly give your lifeblood to.

He draws a gulp, and you feel the blood course through you, into him.

Another drink, and heat builds in you as you feel his cock grow harder in your hand, his veins more prominent.

A third long pull of your blood, and you feel his fingers quicken at your aching arousal.

You jerk into his hand in reaction, trying to seek an outlet for your pleasure. Your mouth emits a whimper– you hadn’t been comfortable whimpering with Astarion at first, but after he drew one out of you, he couldn’t get enough.

He still can’t, and you feel his lips curl into a smile at your neck, his fingers move with more urgency.

All the while you continue stroking his length, fingers sloppy in your own hazy state. It doesn’t seem like you need your usual dexterity though, because Astarion is practically writhing with newfound reactivity. Drinking blood always leaves him especially sensitive.

One last shaky swallow and he removes his fangs from your neck. But not his mouth. His tongue begins lavishing your puncture wound furiously as he struggles to hold back his approaching peak.

With the way he haphazardly tilts his hips into you, it’s all too evident to you that he’s reaching his limit. He’s not afraid to tell you so either.

"My sweet," he all but moans into your ear. "I–I can't last much longer. May I?"

You know what he means, and you honestly can’t last much longer either– you’re positively light-headed from a mixture of bliss and blood loss. So you stop your movements, nod your addled head at him.

He removes his hands from your core and neck, reaching out to your legs. Pulling them out and apart, he shuffles behind you, moving impatiently.

Realizing he can’t do this alone, he gestures, motioning for you to put your legs up.

Still a bit dizzy, you carefully place each leg on either side of the tub’s edges, hooking yourself in place by the ankles. It feels a precarious balance, but you can hardly care when you’re this eager to have Astarion inside you.

Astarion seems just as eager, rubbing his length against your ass hungrily as you get into position.

Perched and ready for him, the man is quick to help once more– his hands grip your asscheeks and lift in a swift movement. You’re particularly buoyant in the water, and you rise higher than either of you had expected. Your hand instinctively reaches out, gripping the edge of the tub to brace yourself, and you hear Astarion give a deep chuckle from behind you.

Holding back your own almost giddy excitement, you try to compose yourself for him. Angling your hips up, you’re almost floating on the water for a moment as Astarion lines the tip of his cock with your entrance.

However, you’re instinctively clenching a second later when a pair of your lover’s fingers tease at your opening. You barely avoid clamping your legs back together at the sensation. 

Recovering from the tickling probe, you look back to see a lust-drunk fanged smile, lips smeared with red. "Astarion, please,” you mutter. “I can't balance like this all day."

"Come darling, I know you’re quite talented," he taunts, easily gliding his fingers back in, curling until you truly do begin to lose balance.

"Astarion," you breathe out, clutching the side of the tub even harder to stay afloat.

Then his fingers slip back out, replaced a moment later by the head of his cock. “No need to worry, I have a seat for you right here.”

His palms cup your backside, his fingers squeeze, as you lower your hips back down, taking in his entire, slick length effortlessly in the water.

“Now isn’t that better?” he asks, grabbing your hips with one hand, the other finding yours on the side of the tub for support.

“Mmm,” is all that you manage, as you adjust to the sudden fullness. You haven’t lain with anyone else in so long, it’s hard to remember a cock other than his. Still, you can’t help but feel like he settles in you just right. Especially when you both slot together neatly, you taking him to the hilt.

Astarion drops another kiss on your back. “Comfortable?”

“Mhm,” you mumble. Now that you’re securely held in place by Astarion’s hips flush to yours, your legs hanging off the tub’s edges, you place your second hand back at your aching arousal. You begin to stroke yourself back into the same fervor Astarion had you in moments ago.

After a small, deliberate thrust of his hips, testing how you rise and fall in the water, Astarion starts moving against you. It’s slow at first, the water rippling out from you both in small waves. Then his hips rock back, only to drive back into you with sloshing force. 

“A–ahh!” Sweet hells, he knows exactly how to hit your most sensitive spot. You had already been so heated, but now, with your lover’s full, hardened length pressing into you? You feel dizzy with pleasure.

Years of lovemaking, and you’re still in awe of how well he knows your body. It’s more than his previous experiences culminating in some kind of skillful paramour. No, this was built through time, trial, error, effort.

So as this gorgeous man you call love bounces you up and down in his lap, you feel yourself coming undone. Your breaths come ragged as you ride his cock, water spilling out of the tub with each and every buck. Your fingers clench the tub, barely holding on as you feel your pleasure coil tighter and tighter.

Astarion places kiss after kiss down your back, and you hear him murmuring, "Gods you're perfect." A harder kiss. "You feel so good." Another thrust. "Each." A nip at your skin. "And every." A thrust. "Time." Another kiss. "I–I love you."

For your part, you’re finding entire sentences difficult. With the feel of him throbbing inside you, the way his lips feel along your back, each roll of his hips, you're truly only capable of a few phrases. "Astarion." A splashing bounce. "I love you–" A loll back of your head. "Oh hells–" A dip of your hips. "I love you too."

When your peak finally runs through you like a shockwave, when you clench around him in ecstasy, those very same words are still on your lips. "I l–love you."

He moans at the sudden tightness, the muscles that now hold him deep within you. "Darling," he breathes. "Oh love. I can't–"

Astarion means to say that he can't hold on much longer. He'd already been so close, holding back only to keep your pleasure going. So you reach down to his fingers on your hip, as best as you can while still hanging on for dear life, and squeeze his hand. A wordless affirmation, a plea to join you, as he always has.

And it’s that silent communication that has his fingers lacing through yours, his neck craning back, his hips stuttering.

When he comes, there's no pretense or performance. There hasn't been for many years. So when you look back at his face in a hazy fuzz of emotion, the expression you see is utterly unbridled.

It's a look of sheer pleasure– his perfectly pale skin flushed a light rosy color, his usually impeccable hair stuck to his face in a mixture of sweat and water. His eyes are shut, his mouth agape as he spills into you.

So enraptured are you by the mundane beauty of his climax, that you’ve strained too far from your precariously balanced position. Your foot unhooks from the tub’s slippery edge and you fall onto Astarion’s lap with a large splash as he finishes. You’re both left panting and wet in the wake of both your and the tub’s peaks.

Water drips down your face, all of the soap bottles have been knocked from the edge of the tub. The high you’d felt just moments ago feels doused in the stark reality of making love in a bathtub. 

However, when you feel Astarion’s breathy laughter on your back, feel his softening cock twitch with his last few thrusts, you know he’s still in fine spirits.

You stay together for a few moments as you both collect yourselves. Water is wiped from eyes, your second leg comes back into the tub, and several deep breaths are had. Once you’re relatively sorted, Astarion pulls himself out of you with a long, happy sigh.

The man falls back from you, sitting against the end of the tub in a tired flop. Then he’s patting the water in front of him, motioning you to join him in some post-coital cuddles.

You don’t need much more of an invitation.

Floating through the now much lower water, you stop just in front of him. Movements relaxed, you wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and scoot into his waiting embrace.

"So," you start, looking at the wasteland of water and strewn soap bottles around the tub. "Looks like we made a mess."

"I told you we would," he says, closing his arms around you, pulling you against his chest.

"I know," you say, leaning into him comfortably. Your body is truly exhausted now, but your mind is a buzz of joy. "It was worth it though."

He laughs into your shoulder, squeezes you tighter. "Feeling better, I take it?"

"Gods yes," you say, tilting your head into his silver hair. "Thank you."

"Oh my sweet, it was my utmost pleasure," he replies, and you can feel his smile on your skin.

You both lean back, grinning at each other like fools. The smiles stay, even when your lips meet in a soft, wet kiss.

You will need to clean the room, the tub, likely your bodies once again– but all you can truly feel right now is content. Enjoying Astarion’s gentle fingers as they trace a pattern onto your skin, the warm water all around you, you very nearly forget that today was merely a day like any other.

The thousandth time you made love to Astarion, it was messy and wet and silly– somehow, it was sweet, caring, and loving all the same.

The thousandth time you made love to Astarion, you didn't know it was the thousandth time.

Just as you hadn't known your tenth thousand kiss, nor your hundred thousandth 'I love you.' Were anyone to ask you about them, you might not even remember the days or events surrounding any of them.

What you do know is that each individual moment holds no less importance, that the affection shared between you doesn’t diminish with each recurrence.

You’re unable to quantify your love, nor would you want to. All you really want is Astarion– his soft lips, tender hands, and whispered words of love– until your dying breath.