#saucy shenanigans

[captainhysunstuff]

22 more images (with some saucy shenanigans and immature "seduction" tactics towards the end) below the cut:

Ryuk makes his grand return and is brought up to speed with Light and L's immoral union. The date seems pretty successful~.

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[bolworth-birthday-bet]

Prologue.

It is a point of pride to you that you, the Honourable Edwin Cedermark III, once committed to a venture, never back down until you find either victory or total, humiliating defeat. It is therefore your resolve not to undertake any venture unless you are convinced it is worth the bother. One is, however, only human.

"The helmet, Ceddy, old chap," said George Elmsley to you one day at your club, leaning forward in that excitable schoolboy way of his, which the large ears and corn-blue eyes only emphasised. "The helmet of the Terror of Bledley Bough!"

Anyone who has ever spent their childhood summers at Bledley Park—and there are not a few of them, as Lady Bledley has twenty-odd nephews and nieces alone—knows of the local policeman at the village of Bledley Bough. It is due to him that a bicycle bell can still make the hairs at the back of your neck rise. No-one is swifter with a baton, more merciless with a whistle, or has less respect for the privilege of rank than the Terror.

"No! You are not saying you have got his helmet!"

"I do not. But I will. This summer, when I go back home to see Mater." George had grown up in a town not two hours’ drive from Bledley Park, and had therefore always been considered a neighbour. He had been there most summers to run around with the hordes of Lady Bledley’s relations. "It has been a long time coming, especially since he took me in for having a tiny taste of a pie that didn’t belong to me. It’s time to put the Terror in his place. I will have his helmet, and then we’ll see who laughs last!"

"Hah! If you do, then I will… bed the Duke of Bolworth on his birthday and bring you his socks as a trophy!"

Which goes to show one should never speak lightly of serious matters. Blasted George Elmsley did go back to Bledley Park in the summer, and didn’t he just get that helmet. "I’ll tell you how I did it," said that same George Elmsley proudly, tipping the helmet up over his broad brow, "so long as you keep your end of the deal. Or was that all hot wind, about bedding the Duke of Bolworth?"

So that was that. Nothing for it. You are committed. A stand-offish, married, cigar-smoking, silver-button-wearing duke of the most terrifying sort is now your swain to seduce.  -

The first order of business is to secure an invitation to the birthday party at Kenwell Hall. A phone call or two accomplishes this, as your network of aunts is extensive and entrée—or auntrée—therefore only a question of dog-sitting some perfumed furry terror for an afternoon. The plan, when you get there, is simple. Allow the Duke to imbibe freely, then find your way into his bedroom and make such a lavish display of wantonness that he will have no choice but to succumb. It seems jolly foolproof to you! The only difficulty is getting upstairs to the family’s quarters without attracting the attention of the staff. 

The day is breezy and mild as you motor down to the country in your black Vauxhall. Black birds write their omens of doom against a pale sky. You have rung ahead for a room at the village inn. It would have been too easy if you had been invited to stay at the Hall, wouldn’t it have? But the countess loves a large ball and hates a long visit, so only the nearest and dearest have that privilege, despite the two hundred or so bedrooms that the house boasts. Which, come to think of it, presents your second difficulty: Just which of those two hundred rooms is the Duke’s? You will have one hundred and ninety-nine chances of making a wanton display at entirely the wrong person.

Well, no adventure is without peril. 

-

A chandelier of positively American proportions hangs from the ceiling of the grand ballroom at Kenwell Hall. One detects the handprint of the Countess, a renowned beauty who, so you hear, once entertained guests at the music halls in that great country. You can see her now, glittering with jewels, her masses of dark hair piled high upon her head, a feather wobbling uncertainly as she attends an intimate huddle of ten or so younger men.

She is not the natural mother of the heir to the title, and nothing could be more obvious when comparing the statuesque countess to that reedy flower of English manhood. As proud as you are of your English heritage (your grandfather was a Dane; and there is much to be said of Danes and Britons that is best left for history books), you must admit the country does produce its fair share of weak chins.

One must wonder if a similar chin lurks underneath the Duke’s whiskers. A man of the previous century, he sports a handsome beard. Yes, damn it—it is handsome, though the man is celebrating his fifty-fifth birthday. If only he weren’t so utterly remote and lofty, he might even be attractive. He appears to you the sort of man that, when he was a boy, never stirred from his Latin and Arithmetic except to go to chapel. You never pass judgement, of course, but it must be said it is precisely the sort of Duke that ends up marrying a music hall girl. Youthful folly, when first missed out on, will take its own back with a vengeance.

You cast a curious eye upon the throng, waving when you spot a familiar face here and there, but to be quite honest, this is not your set. Your family never strayed much in the Cambridgeshire direction since the infamous costume ball of 1899. At the end of the glittering hall, a temporary stage has been built, upon which a quadrille is being danced, while a rather obvious magician lurks nervously behind the stage, waiting for the fairy creatures to vacate his stage. You cannot blame him—any entertainer would balk at following Miss Dobson and Miss O’Malley in a pink tutus. 

What a swell party this is

[aroseyetbloomedwrites]

"Then,' it starts a little above a whisper. 'you will find it amenable to serve me thus, as your Lord?"

"I find it amenable to serve you in whatever way you see fit, my Lord," he retorts in a husky whisper. Were the highborne to look closely enough he'd notice the vein in the side of his neck throbbing with .. not quite anxiety. But not yet anticipation.

His gaze cants downwards as he dips his chin, to spy the tenseness of tendon in his neck, and the gentle pulse of a vein. Francel swallows thickly, and looks back up as he leans in, that vein his aim, eyes ever gazing into his companions until the sight is cut off from it as he moves in. He purses his lips gently, a sly lick of the bottom tier, his aim obvious--

Hardly believing this is happening... Alone in the woods on a warm night, gentle breeze, this sweet man surrounded by the essence of rose and cedar smoke.. so close to his neck. A shaky sort of breath escapes him as he tilts his head...--

[kfrances]

thigh tattoos <3

another doodle of @frankensfine ‘s ocs because they are Very Good

[m0ose-idiot]

On his birthday, shout out to the time in 1998 when Pterry giggled the whole time and said he felt “a right tit” at this book signing in Melbourne 🤣

(Sir Terry Pratchett 28 April 1948 – 12 March 2015)

[egirl-vrissy]

ayo i do have a throne (x) if someone would want me to get cool ass lego sets...

[youneedsomeprompts]

~ SENSUALITY & PASSION ~ ONE-WORD SMUT PROMPTS

Feel free to use and reblog!

alluring

touch

seduce

insatiable

devour

yearning

squeeze

hazy

arousing

yield

frantic

supple

lascivious

enchanting

need

besotted

desperation

silky

glow

friction

sultry

burning

urgency

titillating

risque

lewd

charm

tempting

ravish

tantalise

attraction

tease

saucy

curves

dazzling

suave

voluptuous

irresistible

sublime

captivating

enigmatic

blow

caress

tentative

gentle

attentive

tumble

release

salacious

carnal

mischievous

shenanigans

lecherous

frisky

amorous

depraved

affection

rub

seek

united

[sapphire-writes]

Doomsday

Part 5 (finale) of The Campaign

modern!Aemond x Reader

summary: The polls have closed! Time to see the results of the election– and those saucy little photos that someone leaked.

word count: 4.6k

rating: explicit/18+/MDNI

warnings: language, kissing, yelling, dom!reader (we're topping tonight baby!!), crawling, begging, humiliation, degradation, praise, face sitting, oral (fem receiving), dom!Aemond (the top didn't last long), primal play if you squint, Counter® shenanigans, riding, teasing, overstim, hair pulling, mentions of infidelity

The waiting was going to kill you. 

Rhaenyra had told you to arrive at nine. Sharp. Nothing else was in the email. Nothing else needed to be.

You knew why she wanted to see you.

The pictures of you and Aemond had been plastered everywhere. The Daily Lion, The Sunspear Herald, and even Beyond The Wall Times. Everywhere.

Not right away of course, oh no. Aemond was much too clever for that to have them leak at an inconvenient time. No, he’d waited and held onto that ticking time bomb until the proper moment.

A week before the election.

That’s when the world came crashing down. 

You hadn’t seen him since the Hamptons. Months ago. He’d tried calling, texting, and sending emails. It was better to ignore him. You had nothing to say anyway.

You glance at the clock that ticks outside of Rhaenyra’s office in Dragonstone Tower. 

9:17

Rhaenyra is nothing if not punctual. She’s probably coming up with the proper way to let you go. It's not an easy feat– you’re easily one of her best. 

Were. You were one of her best. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry. You take out your phone, mindlessly scrolling to pass the time. Polls close at eight. You get off the news and go to your messages. Still nothing from Jace. You hadn’t heard from him since the drop. It was easy to assume things were over between you two.

“Ms. Targaryen will see you now,” the assistant at the front desk tells you and you slip your phone into your pocket.

Rising on shaky legs, you take a breath to steady yourself before straightening your shoulders and heading into the office. 

Rhaenyra sits behind a large desk, one hand incessantly clicking her computer mouse, the other playing with a crystal sphere. She rolls it under her palm, the sound echoing off the wood. You’ve been here a few times before; the office is open and inviting, with large windows bathing the room in golden afternoon light. 

She still doesn’t speak, and you nervously wet your lips, preparing to verbally flagellate yourself before her. 

“Rhaenyra–” you begin, but she silences you with a hand, not looking away from the computer screen in front of her.

“Do you see what they’re saying now?” she murmurs, hand under her chin, “Rhaenyra the Cruel… did you know what they called me when my father was alive?” 

You’re not sure if the question is rhetorical or not so you remain silent. Rhaenyra glances at you then and you shake your head. 

“The Realm’s Delight. Quite the fall from grace if you ask me,” she clicks her tongue and closes a tab, leaning back into her chair, “Take a seat.”

You do as you’re told, sinking into the leather armchair positioned in front of her.

“So,” she begins, bringing her hand under her chin, “Quite the predicament you’re in.”

Your chest tightens as you meet her lilac eyes. 

“Rhaenyra I am so sorry,” the words spill from your lips, “I never meant for any of this to happen. The embarrassment I’ve caused you– to Jace. I completely understand asking for my resignation or dismissal. I deserve to be dismissed I–”

“Sweet girl, I’m not dismissing you,” Rhaenyra says, her brow furrowing, a soft expression on her face. 

Your heart hammers in your chest, face flooding with warmth. 

“You’re not….” your voice trails off, sounding smaller than you’d like, “you’re not firing me?”

The corner of Rhaenyra’s lip tugs upwards in a small smile.

“That would be quite hypocritical of me, now wouldn’t it?” she says softly, leaning her elbow on her desk, “You haven’t done anything that warrants that.”

“But Jace—”

“—knew exactly what he was doing when he hired the photographers in the first place,” she finished, cutting you off. 

Your heart nearly stops beating altogether.

Jace.

“He’s smarter than he looks,” Rhaenyra tells you, absorbing your flustered expression.

“But…why—”

“You were a loose end,” she tells you, “And you were getting sloppy. There’s enough scandal my family deals with. Jace is my son. My first child. You’ve got a smart head on your shoulders, invaluable to our campaign….but you don’t love him.”

The truth of her words cuts through you like a knife. A dull ache forms between your ribs, and that horrible thought appears in your head, the one you’ve been trying to push away for months now.

I’m a bad person.

No, that’s not true. It just wasn’t Jace. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been him.

“I could have,” you insist, “Maybe.”

Liar.

“Don’t,” Rhaenrya says with a small shake of her head, “Don’t do that. Don’t settle for duty’s sake. Don’t dismiss your desires for that.” Her voice is rough and thick with emotion. 

She did, you think to yourself. She still does. 

“You’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement of course,” she says, rolling her eyes, “It’s being drafted as we speak. Necessary, of course, not a slight against your trustworthiness.”

“I understand.”

“I had no doubt you would. There is greatness in you, raw talent,” she continues, “With or without him.”

You can tell from the look she gives you it’s not Jace whom she refers to. Your lips part, but no words come out. Rhaenyra presses her lips together, nodding to herself.

“I’ll expect you here tomorrow, regardless of the results,” she says, going back to her computer. Her eyes flicker across the screen for a moment before looking back to you. She waves a hand, dismissing you, “That’s all.”

Jace is waiting when you leave Rhaenyra’s office. His head hangs low as you approach, brown curls longer since the last time you’d seen him. He offers a forced smile, avoiding your gaze. 

“Why?” 

You know it's unfair of you to ask. The scorned lover selling pictures of his scandalous cheating girlfriend. Revenge served cold on a silver platter. Everyone was siding with Jace, as they should. You knew you were in the wrong. Jace opens his mouth to speak, then closes it once more.

“You could have–,” you struggle to find the words, “You could have talked to me–”

“I just can’t end up like my dad,” Jace admits, “Married to someone who doesn’t….who isn’t..” his cheeks turn pink, “I care about you, Y/N, I do…..and I want you to be happy. And being with me won’t bring you that.” Jace lets out a deep sigh, “And as much as I care about you, I’m not in love with you.”

Your heart drops into your stomach and your blinking rapidly increases, “I didn’t–”

“What?” Jace asks with a small smile, “I’m not completely clueless.”

It’s your turn to blush as he reaches for your hand, gently squeezing it. 

“It’s alright to be selfish,” he says softly, his brown eyes warm and kind as they hold your gaze, “You deserve to be.”

You inhale a shaky breath and return his smile with one of your own. He gives your hand a final squeeze before letting go–letting you go. 

As he turns down the hall you call out to him.

“Jace!”

He turns on his heel, walking backward.

“Thank you.”

He shrugs, “Don’t thank me yet,” he warns and you don’t have time to ask him why before he rounds the corner, disappearing from your sight. 

“You lucky bitch.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” you chuckle at Sara’s reaction to your news, propping your phone on the counter.

Sara shakes her head in disbelief before the Facetime cuts, a small warning signal replacing her smiling face. 

“Where are you?” you ask, tapping the screen.

“Can you see me?” she asks.

“No.”

“Goddammit,” she groans, “I’m at Kingsroad Station. Mr. Stark paged me– he’s working late to watch the election results at the office.”

“You’re a dutiful assistant, trudging to Direwolf at this hour,” you tease, glancing at the clock. Election results should be out within the hour.

“Oh you know it,” she barks out a laugh, “I had to go downtown and pick up his dinner.”

“You wanna rain check our evening?”

“Fuck no!” she insists, and you can practically hear her pout, “I’ll Uber from Direwolf, and be there by midnight.”

“If you don’t get caught up,” you continue to tease your best friend.

“For the last time, I am not sleeping with him.”

You frown. Something was definitely up with them. 

“You know you can tell me,” you press, “I’d never judge you.”

Sara sighs, “Yeah you better not, you tart. I’ll text you when I’m on my way.”

“Love you,” you tell her, and she returns the sentiment before the Facetime ends. 

You place your phone face down on the counter, glancing at the TV in your living room. You’ve had the news on all evening, on mute of course. There’s no need for commentary. You just want to see how Rhaenyra is fairing in the polls. 

The green and black bar at the bottom of the screen looks about equal.

Wandering around your kitchen you open the fridge pulling out a half-empty bottle of wine. Pouring yourself a generous glass you take a long sip, letting the alcohol warm you.

It’s been a waiting game all evening. All year, truly. 

A knock startles you, and you put your glass on the counter and towards the door. It’s so like Sarah Snow to show up early when she says she’ll be running late. 

“I thought you got caught up–” Your words die in your throat as you open the door revealing Aemond. 

If you weren’t so surprised you would have slammed it shut in his face, but the pause gives him the leverage he needs. You’re a moment too slow and he presses his foot between the door frame as you try to shut it, his hand slamming against the wood keeping it open.

“Go away,” you tell him, continuing to push.

“Just listen to me–”

“I have nothing to say to you–” 

“I’m not asking you to talk. Just listen,” Aemond insists, his voice breaking with desperation, “Five minutes. Please.”

Reluctantly, you remove your hand from the door. With a frustrated sigh, you turn on your heel, walking down the hall. Aemond follows close behind, shutting the door behind him. 

“Three,” you call over your shoulder, grabbing your wine glass. You take a sip for courage, beginning to turn to face him, “And if you so much as–” you nearly drop your glass as you face him.

Aemond’s hand is held out before him, Jace’s necklace dangling from his slender fingers. The diamond J catches the light, sparkling. Your mouth goes dry, cheeks warming at the sight. Eyes lifting to meet his, you can’t find the words to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, “Look….I never…this wasn’t…” Aemond takes a deep breath, steadying himself, “I’m not good at this.”

The J swings from the chain, a pendulum on a string.

“I knew it,” you whisper, hand reaching up to your throat, feeling where it should lay.

“It was just a game,” he insists, “Until it wasn’t.” Your eyes lift from the necklace, meeting his gaze. “That night on the beach….” He lowers his arm. The pendulum swings. “Look if you don’t feel the same–”

Your stomach turns.

“Go,” you breathe, barely audible.

Aemond tilts his head to the side and murmurs your name causing your eyes to squeeze shut.

“I want you out.”

“What can I do?” he begs, “Please.”

“Go grovel to someone who cares,” you snap, eyes opening, “Storm’s End, perhaps? Seems like you have some making up to do with Floris.” 

You step forward, snatching the necklace from him, and throwing it against the wall. It bounces off with a small noise before dropping to the floor. Aemond’s tongue pokes his cheek, his eyes flashing with anger.

“I don’t fucking want Floris!” he snaps, “I want you.”

You freeze, watching his chest rise and fall with anger. 

“You didn’t want her?” you ask and he shakes his head, “Did you fuck her?”

Aemond’s eye widens, a fraction of an inch but it's noticeable. A bitter laugh leaves your lips.

“It was before we–”

“You men are all the same,” you seethe, glaring at him, “Pretty words and no action. Of course, you fucked her.”

“Y/N, it was before us, before we ever–look I haven’t so much as touched her since we–”

“Well then here’s your chance!” you interrupt, “I’m sure she’s a wreck. Wallowing on her yacht just waiting for you to jump her bones.”

Aemond flinches as though you’d slapped him.

“Stop it.”

“You’re so talented with that tongue, useless apologies included. It’d be a shame to let it go to waste–”

“Seven hells enough!”

His yell silences you. You stand before each other, chests heaving with anger. 

“You want forgiveness?” you ask, cocking a brow at him, “Get on your knees.”

Aemond’s eyes widen at your words.

“What?”

“You heard me,” you snap, cheeks warm with rage, “On your knees.”

There’s a moment where you think he’ll leave. Where he’ll say to hells with you and storm out of the apartment, go to Floris, and leave whatever happened between you in the past. 

Instead, he drops to his knees with a soft thud. Your lips part, admittedly surprised by his sudden submission. He doesn’t put up a fight and doesn’t give a tongue-in-cheek retort. He simply raises his gaze looking up at you between silver lashes. 

You take a few steps back just as his hands begin to reach for you. You revel in his confusion, as his eyebrows knit together, and a smirk appears on your face.

“Crawl.”

His Adam’s apple bobs and you hold his gaze, violet and blue eye watching you closely. It takes a moment, but Aemond slowly lowers his torso until it is parallel with the floor; his palms splayed across the wood floor. 

Aemond releases a shuddering breath, glancing up at you between silvery lashes, long hair cascading in front of his face shielding the redness that blooms on the apples of his pale cheeks. Blood roars in your ears as he begins to move, crawling towards you. His movements are slow and purposeful and you grin triumphantly as he reaches you. 

“Satisfied?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

The corner of your lip twitches. Aemond meets your eye at your continued silence. 

“Beg.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” you tell him, surprised at the dominating tone in your voice, “You’re sorry? Beg me. Beg my forgiveness.”

Aemond pushes himself onto his knees, leaning back on his haunches. He swallows, eyes watery.

“Please,” he says softly.

You reach for him and brush the hair from his face. He closes his eyes at your touch. 

“Please, what?”

“Please forgive me,” he says through gritted teeth.

You hum, letting your fingers trace the scar that mars his face.

“I don’t know if I’m convinced.”

Aemond groans as you trace his jawline, letting your fingers press against the pout of his lips. He parts them as you push forward, pressing down on his tongue.

“Please,” he says, though he struggles to around your fingers.

You huff out a laugh, removing the digits. 

“Pathetic.”

“Please! Let me prove how sorry I am,” he insists, hands gripping the back of your thighs as you attempt to step away, “Please…please let me.”

You raise an eyebrow at his desperate plea.

“Let you what?” you ask innocently.

“Let me eat your pussy–baby, please–”

“You think you deserve to?” you cut him off, placing two fingers under his chin.

“No, no I don’t,” he says, shaking his head, fingers digging into your thighs, “But I want to make you feel good, please–”

You tilt your head to the side, taking in the man beneath you. 

“Lay down then,” you tell him, “On your back.”

Aemond eagerly obliges as you remove your sweats. Nothing remains underneath. You choose to leave your oversized t-shirt on. It’s your turn to kneel, sinking to the hardwood floor. 

“Don’t move,” you tell him, crawling over him until your pussy rests above his face, “You touch me with anything besides that tongue of yours, and I’m getting off, and you’re getting out. Got it?”

“Yes,” he says softly, warm breath fanning across your soaked center. 

“Good,” you praise him, lowering your cunt to his eager mouth. 

Aemond moans against you as he spreads your wet folds with his tongue. He greedily laps at your pussy as you grind against him, pleasure crawling up your spine and warming your belly with every stroke of his tongue. 

Your hands reach up to play with your tits, pinching and tugging your sensitive nipples as he works his magic. His tongue stiffens below you, dipping into your clenching center and you can’t stop the whine that claws its way out of your throat. Head thrown back, you lift your hips, ignoring the burn in your hamstrings as you ride his face as his tongue explores deeper inside of you.

You’ve never had him like this, completely at your mercy, lying stiff and compliant below you with his hands curled into fists at his sides. The veins on the back of his hands are bulging, as though his control might snap at any minute. 

You simply can’t help but taunt him a bit. 

“So good,” you moan with another roll of your hips, “Feels so good Aem–”

A muffled broken whimper sounds from below you and he picks up the pace, tongue eagerly fucking up into you, meeting the movements of your hips. His nose cascades against your clit so pleasantly stoking the fire building in your belly, the tightening of your release soon to follow. Your knees ache pressed against the hardwood. 

“Fuck–fuck!” your legs shake around his head as you fall apart, fingers tangling in his hair as his lips suction around your clit. Pleasure crackles through your veins like fireworks exploding in the night sky.

You wait a moment, Aemond not moving, before swinging a leg over him and crawling off his face. You scoot backward, tugging your oversized t-shirt down over your ass as your back meets the wall. You try to even your breathing, wiping some sweat from your brow as he sits up, the bottom half of his face shiny with your arousal. 

“Better?” he asks, pushing himself into a standing position, and offering you his hand.

You chuckle breathlessly, but accept all the same, letting him pull you to your feet.

“Fantastic,” you answer. Aemond nods, wiping his mouth with his middle and index finger before sucking them into his mouth.

“Had your fun?” he murmurs, watching you.

“For now,” you tell him, smirking again.

He reaches for you and you dip out of reach. A dangerous glint appears in his eyes as he reaches for you again. You avoid his reach, dipping under his arm and hurrying into the kitchen. Aemond follows, a wolf stalking its prey. You’re sure he’s allowing you this chase, he could catch you if he wanted to. 

You press your back against the island as he rounds the corner, fingers dragging across the marble countertop. You don’t move, don’t breathe as he slowly walks closer.

“You done?” he asks, his mouth hovering over yours.

“I’m never done,” you whisper, leaning forward and nipping his lower lip, “You better get used to it.”

Aemond groans, his hand cupping the back of your head and molding his lips to yours. 

Everything that follows is shrouded in a desperate lust-filled haze. His hands cup the globes of your ass, lifting you onto the island. You tear his shirt from his chiseled frame, and he does the same with yours, leaving you bare on the counter. 

“Should I?” he asks, dipping to kiss the spot between your shoulder and neck. You bite your lip, raking your nails against his scalp, “Shall I assume you’ve forgiven me?”

“Just fuck me Targaryen,” you tell him breathlessly, “Then we’ll see.”

He needs no more convincing. 

You pull at his belt, shove his pants down releasing his thick cock, reveling in the way his jaw slacks as you squeeze him in your hand.

“Fuck,” he murmurs as you guide him towards your dripping center, “Gods you’re so beautiful.”

You bite your lip, humming happily at his praise as he slowly sinks inside of you. Your eyebrows concave, tears welling in your eyes at the generous stretch. It’s been a while since you’d had him–since you felt this deliciously full. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed him, how hungry you’d been for this feeling until now.

Aemond bottoms out, not moving for a moment, simply resting his forehead against yours. His blue and violet eyes meet yours as you steady your breath.

“You alright?” he asks, his lips brushing against yours.

“Yes,” you breathe, “Feels..” You lose your train of thought as he moves his hips, dragging his cock along the sensitive walls of your cunt. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he slowly rolls his hips against you. “So good.”

“You know how much I missed this pussy?” Aemond murmurs, capturing your lips in a heated kiss, “It’s all I fucking think about. This pretty. Little. Pussy of yours.” He punctuates his confession with several hard thrusts. 

One of your hands falls to the counter, holding yourself up, the other thrown around his neck, a fistful of his silver hair trapped in your grasp. Aemond’s hands hold your hips, hard enough to bruise as he continues his hard, even strokes. 

“Fuck,” you mewl arching your back, pressing your chest closer to him. Anything to get closer.

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” he admits, a muscle in his jaw twitching, “Since the benefit. The hotel. The fucking Hamptons.” His head dips to your neck and he bites down causing you to cry out, “You like that? Driving me crazy?” You clench around him, walls fluttering.

You’ve never heard Aemond so emotional, so raw. Almost vulnerable. 

“Then you don’t speak to me,” Aemond says, placing a kiss on your collarbone, “Fucking brat.”

“Fuck you,” you snap, tugging his hair and forcing him to look at you, “You hurt me.”

Aemond stills, holding your gaze.

“You hurt me,” you repeat, feeling him throbbing inside of you as you keep him warm, “What you said, on the beach….” Your eyes water, “I believed you–”

“I meant it,” he says suddenly, “Every word. Every word, and more.”

“More?” you ask.

Aemond tilts his head to the side. 

“I’m in love with you,” he says, as though it should be obvious. As if your world hasn’t just completely tilted on its axis. “I’ve been in love with you. And I don’t plan on stopping.”

Your lips part.

“I’ve tried. Tried to ignore it, to do what is expected of me,” he admits, “It’s no use. There’s no getting over you. It’s you.”

“I love you too,” you tell him, and his lips crash against yours. 

Aemond lifts you from the counter then, still nestled inside of you before bringing you to the couch. He sits and you push yourself up, bracing your hands on his shoulders as you begin to ride him. All the while he doesn’t stop kissing you, smiling as he does so.

“That’s it,” he praises as you roll your hips against him, “Just like that baby, that’s my girl.”

You whine at his words and grind down against him, taking him as deep as you can. Aemond breaks your kiss momentarily to wet his fingers, dipping them between you to massage your sensitive clit. Your body tightens, your jaw slacking at the additional stimulation as your thighs begin to shake.

“I can’t–” you insist, legs tiring. Aemond flips you over immediately, laying your back on the couch and slinging your legs over his broad shoulders.

“Poor baby,” he teases, his tone boarding on condescending, “She just wants to get fucked, doesn’t she?” He quickly sets a brutal pace, the head of his cock rubbing against your G-spot with each thrust.  

Stars appear behind your eyes and you can’t help the sob-like moan that leaves your mouth. Aemond’s open-mouthed grin is answer enough to how fucked out you must look and sound. 

“This all you need?” he taunts, “Just need me to fuck you real good?”

“Yes!” you cry out, nearly choking on the word. 

“I got you, baby, I got you,” he murmurs, “Let me do all the work. You just lay there and look pretty.” 

“Oh gods–” you cry, “Fuck!” Your pussy spasms around him as you come, clenching around his thick cock with a vice-like grip. Aemond’s jaw slacks and he moans, finishing inside of you. The warmth of his release fills you.

He pulls out slowly, letting your legs fall gently to the couch. Aemond leans back, dropping to the floor in front of the couch, his large hands holding your thighs open. Your head feels like it’s full of cotton and you watch him as a fucked out smile appears on your face. Aemond’s fingers gently spread through your outer lips, watching as his spend drips out of you.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, leaning forward and kissing your pussy. You squeal in surprise as he holds your thighs open, lewd slurping noises filling the room.

“Aemond! Seven hells–” you whimper as your head lolls on the couch. Your hand finds his hair once more, holding onto it for dear life as he slips two eager fingers inside of you.

“I can’t help it,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your clit, “You’re too pretty when you come.” He curls his fingers against your g-spot, a man on a mission, “Show me, pretty girl. Come on, come for me again.”

His mouth latches onto your clit and he hums as he suctions it between his pouty lips. Pressure builds quickly in your stomach and it's all too much, your third release barely through you knocking the wind from your lungs. 

“There it is,” he murmurs as he feels you tighten around his fingers, “There’s my pretty, pretty girl.” 

You finish with a cry, tears spilling down your cheeks at the overwhelming ecstasy. Aemond presses soft kisses against your thighs as you come down from your high. He removes his fingers carefully before helping you. He wanders around your apartment before finding the bathroom, returning a moment later with a damp washcloth.

“You have a nice tub,” he says softly, “Would you like a bath?” 

The thought is so enticing that you nearly melt into the couch.

“Later,” you murmur, “I want to see the results.”

“Later then,” he agrees, watching you closely.

You don’t want to speak, don’t want to ruin the moment between you, but you can’t help it. Anxiety pools in your belly as he kneels between your legs, dragging the washcloth against you gently.

“What now?” you ask softly, avoiding his gaze.

“Now….” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, “I’m not sure.” He reaches toward your face, forcing you to look at him. “But whatever is next, we’re in it together. If that’s alright with you.”

You lean into his hand, pressing your lips against his palm.

“That’s alright with me.”

After several minutes of Aemond cleaning you up, you return to the couch dressed back in your sweatpants and t-shirt. Aemond has retrieved his pants from the kitchen as you glance at the television. 

“Holy shit,” you say sitting up, eyes glued on the television, “Holy fuck.”

Aemond turns following your gaze and looking at the screen. His eyebrows raise.

“Well fuck,” he says suddenly, and you hear your phone begin to buzz from the kitchen. Aemond’s as well; the vibrations buzzing against the floor where it must have slipped out of his pant pocket. “Son of bitch did it.”

You meet his eyes before staring at the screen once more. At the blond man popping champagne at his victory party. At the green letters across the bottom of the television. 

Aegon Targaryen wins!

note: thank you for the love with this series that wasn't supposed to become a series- I appreciate you all sticking it out for this one and hope you enjoyed it! lots of love MWAH 💋 Jo

if you'd like to be notified when I post please follow and turn on notifications for @sapphire-writes-updates in lieu of a taglist!

like this story? check out more of my work HERE 🖤

as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated but never expected. appreciate you reading no matter what!

[todayontumblr]

Tuesday, July 11.

Spotify playlists.

There is nothing quite as satisfying as being delighted by a song you love, playing on shuffle from a playlist that you yourself curated. Yet it is inexplicable that it comes as such a surprise, because it shouldn't be. It was you that selected this song and added it to said playlist. And yet, there is something doubly feel good in the first few bars hitting your eardrums, followed by the satisfaction that you chose it. It's like catching yourself off guard with a little present for you, from you. Gift-wrapped. This is not just a song you enjoy, endlessly, but more proof of your exceptional taste (as if it were needed.) Oh yeah, I love this song. Oh yeah, it was me. Perfect.

With that in mind, we are taking today to celebrate the creation and curation of #spotify playlists, or, indeed, your streaming service of choice. They serve any mood, any moment, any purpose. Feeling melancholy at midnight? In need of soothing sounds to accompany cooking? Big, bold, and colorful songs for a blue sky sunny day? Mellow music for a bath? A NSFW saucy soundtrack to after-hours, post-watershed shenanigans? Something exciting and upbeat for Saturday night, and something else indulgent and sad for Sunday?

Whether a personal collection for your own private listening, or a collaborative compilation shared amongst friends, the simple act of creating these patchworks of sound—a musical moodboard, if you will—is simply the gift that keeps on giving. 

[my-naughty-writings-and-musings]

Gimme more Gunmax, I beg of you

Beg no more, I have chapter two of this!

Synopsis for those who missed the first: Gunmax invites reader to "spend the night" with obvious intent, not knowing reader is fully aware that he's a virgin. Shenanigans will ensue.

NSFW Gunmax x Reader

Chapter Two

(NSFW, Robot Human Relations, Reader uses gender neutral pronouns, Sauciness to Increase with Additional Chapters)

Please like and reblog, and let me know what you think!

"Excellent!" he replied in a much higher pitch than usual, which he corrected with a hurried cough. Trying to pretend he was accustomed to having someone between his thighs, he sat back and dipped a hand to his panel, sliding his digits along the edges of his codpiece to emphasize the size. It was a solid recovery, and you were impressed by how in control he sounded when he spoke next. "I'll give you a hand with this-"

"Isn't that my job?" you interrupted before he could unlatch himself, refusing to give the mech a chance to take the lead as you slid your hand further up his thighs. Gunmax gasped when you brushed his panel for the first time, a shudder passing up the length of his lanky frame as he grabbed hold of the sheets for support. It wasn't the reaction of a bot that had experienced such a thing "countless times" as he'd bragged in the past, and he knew that just as well as you did. Once more his efforts to recover and resume his facade were swift but thoroughly unconvincing.

"O-obviously, baby." he said without a trace of confidence, so flustered by your boldness he sat in a daze for several seconds before remembering the next step. Clearing his throat again and betraying his nerves with every hesitant movement, he stiffened as if bracing for a physical blow when he retracted his panel, half erect spike bobbing upwards as it was freed before settling right in front of you. Able to feel the heat of his nervous arousal, you let your approval be known with an appreciative grin to give him some reassurance. The gesture was fully genuine, as you were quite pleased with what you'd have to play with. Looking forward to all the fun you could have from the white base to the teal ridges and head, your hungry gaze helped the mech feel reassured enough to get back to making a spectacle of himself. Gunmax settled more comfortably into the bed and arched his hips in a very showy bid for attention. "Like what you see?"

"Very much, yes. How do you like to be pleased?" you asked, subtly giving him a chance to take the lead. It seemed fair to allow him one more opportunity to admit he hadn't actually done this before, even if you were confident he wouldn't take it. True to your prediction, he continued his charade, either too clueless to realize you'd figured it out or too smug to believe he could be caught.

"I'm not picky, just go to town." he purred, voice subdued thanks to his nerves. You were almost frustrated by his stubborn refusal to just admit he hadn't the slightest idea what he was doing, but were having too much fun to really care. Did he not know how easy it was to call his bluff? Or how much easier it was going to get once his lack of experience actually caught up with him?

"Come on, there has to be something you like more..." you said with expertly faked innocence, pretending you hadn't a clue he was struggling. It was actually adorable how easily you could see through his act; from the subtle nervous quiver along his frame to the hesitation in his every move, he couldn't have been a more obvious virgin. Your affection didn't prevent you from playing unfairly though, so for a merciless start you wrapped your hands around the base of his erection, fingers overlapping as you squeezed and dragged them over the smooth mesh to stimulate his sensory nodes on the way up to the tip. Optics widening behind his visor, he stiffened and gasped so loudly your voice was barely audible. "Are you more into manual, like this?"

Large hips arched obediently up into your grasp as you pumped him without a response, your smirk broadening as he entered a daze after only seconds of stimulation. Continuing your assault, you opened your mouth wide to drag your tongue showily up the head of his cock, savoring the smoothness and thinking idly of how nice it'd feel to ride as he let out the skakiest cry you'd ever heard. Pretending not to notice how he trembled, you pulled back to lick your lips as if you'd done nothing unchaste. "Or do you prefer tongue?"

It was a good thing Gunmax was lying down, as the wave of dizziness that crashed over him would have had the Biker collapsing to the ground. Catching his breath and releasing a subtle cloud of steam, he pulled himself back into a halfway upright position and sputtered into a comeback, grin wavering despite obvious enjoyment.

"Both are... very nice." he gasped, trying to pretend you hadn't rocked his entire world. Far from done, you secured one hand at the back of his cock and the other over the front, finding the sweet spots by observing how much his composure crumbled when you massaged particular portions of his length. A full body quiver guided your thumbs beneath the tip, where they rubbed firm circles into the heated mesh, which swelled into your grasp as if asking for more. You were fairly certain his optics were crossed behind his visor based on how his voice trembled. "Very, very nice... ahhh..."

As delightful as it would be to watch him paint his finish after a few simple minutes of attention, you were too stubborn to let him off that easily. Rolling your eyes, you chuckled and ceased the handjob, keeping him in your grasp but refusing to move. He managed to bite down a whimper of betrayal as he snapped his helm down to meet your gaze.

"You've never done this before, have you?" you asked pointedly, smile turning to more of a smug smirk. The panic in his expression was simply too adorable to be mad at, especially when he cleared his vents and continued his tireless efforts to play dumb.

"What do you mean?" he asked, voice cracking as he slipped back into his persona.

"I said you're a virgin."

"Hah! I'd be offended if that wasn't hilarious." he retorted, able to properly banter now that you'd paused your massage. Antenna flicking in amusement, he returned your smirk, pitting his willpower against your own despite having been putty in your hands mere moments before. "Don't flatter yourself too much, baby. I've had countless lovers before you."

If he was so determined to lie, you felt it only fair that you matched his commitment, and your expression shifted to sickeningly sweet. It was almost remarkable how much mouth he had, considering you were still holding his erection. Not that you'd ever do anything to make him regret that...

"Really? Is that why you're so sensitive when I do this?"

A hard lick in the sensitive spot you'd identified sent a shiver through his entire frame, and still you doubled down, circling your tongue over the heated ridges as your hands pumped along the sides. An enthusiastic throb into your mouth told you it was working, and a strangled keen he couldn't suppress urged you to continue, your lips leaving a trail of sloppy kisses that each drew a barely audible whimper past his lips. You knew he was having a good time and wanted to make it better, but you wanted honesty first.

"Ahhh... hah... been a bit too busy to take care of myself lately." he murmured, hand covering his face. Failure to muffle a moan into his palm, he also couldn't keep from blushing across his cheeks or emitting hot puffs of steam from his vents, making such a spectacle of himself there was no way he didn't notice.

"Obviously. That's why you can't keep your mouth shut. More than usually, anyway." you teased, getting close to giving him a true ultimatum. With every inch of him quivering and the cock under your tongue throbbing as if begging, you could tell he was getting close, and as evil as it may have been you weren't above stopping at the last second. Playfully sliding your tongue along the tip, you watched pre-fluid bead on the pulsing tip as you met his steamed visor. "Just level with me, biker boy."

"D-don't... don't know what you... mean..." he faded off, helm rolling back as his hips began bouncing into your touch. Digits digging in to the makeshift bed, he started to twitch at the overwhelming pleasure, ventilations growing haggard and helpless. As delightful as he looked on the edge, you were fully committed to your stance, and only allowed him to teeter until he was just shy of completion. Removing your mouth from the tip, you released your hold and left him thrusting into the air. The sudden absence of stimulation right before completion hit the mech almost like a wound. Crying out and looking down to your smirk with betrayal, he could only snap a single word. The stammer as he did so told you everything you needed to know. "H-Hey!"

Though he towered over you, the biker felt quite small as he met your smirk, optics betraying his awareness that he'd been caught.

"Be honest, and I'll keep going."

[rosanna-writer]

Love at First Sight's for Suckers (1/5)

Summary: [A Feysand Newsies AU] Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally... Warnings: None

A gift for @the-lonelybarricade, for @acotargiftexchange! @lbs-secret-santa is me!

LB, creating this for you has been such a blast, and I am definitely the luckiest secret santa in the world to have such a gem of a giftee. It's rare for someone to have both a talent AND a heart as big as yours—you're truly the High Lady of Feysand, not just because your fics are incredible, but because of the way you make new writers (including me earlier this year) feel immediately welcome and how you handle fandom nonsense with such grace and tact. I'm so glad to call you a friend <3

And sorry for an author's note that reads like an annoying award show speech, but there are SO MANY people I want to thank. The event organizers did such a thoughtful job creating an event that brought so many people together across the fandom; not just secret santa/giftee pairs, but people reaching out to new betas, roping new friends into secrecy shenanigans, and getting hyped about other gifts! @iambutmortal, @thesistersarcheron, @itsthedoodle, @wilde-knight, and @ablogofsapphicpanic have been the best betas/saucy Rhys pun brainstormers/secret keepers/DM screaming session partners, and the daily headlines would not have happened without their beautiful brains. I had SO MUCH FUN watching the excitement and creative energy grow and grow in the lead up to this reveal. And also @reverie-tales, thanks for being my unwitting cover to throw LB off my trail!

Anyway, you can find the first chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore. Happy Holidays!

One Heir to Share? Rhysand's Rita's Threesome

Baring it All at Starfall! Rhysand Stuns in Daring Deep-V Shirt

Rhysand's Baby Blues: Heir's Latest Fling Spotted Shopping for Baby Clothes

Future High Lord’s High: Witchberries, Fae Wine, and Wild Starfall Benders in the House of Wind?

Lady of the Night or FUTURE Lady of Night? Rhysand's Girlfriend Shocks Royal Family at Nynsar

Un-Rhys-onable: Night's Heir Refuses to Kneel to High Lord

Heir Head! Rhysand Forgets Alphabet During Library Community Service

Rhysand had a reputation.

A big reputation.

Perhaps that was why after selling him the newspaper every day for the better part of a year, Feyre Archeron had long since decided that he was far too full of himself to be ashamed of anything.

As he did every Saturday morning, Rhys appeared on her corner like clockwork, wearing last night's clothes and his trademark smirk. If Feyre wanted to know what lucky male or female had gone home on his arm, she'd only have to check tomorrow's society pages, which were always breathlessly detailing the exploits of the Night Court's handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir.

Not that Feyre cared. There were more important things to worry about than Rhysand's love life, like where her next meal was coming from. She only kept up with it because his scandals sold papers like nothing else.

And she definitely didn't feel a stab of envy every time she read about his latest fling. That would be pointless—a lesser fae shadow-wraith like Feyre would never be Lady of the Night Court. The stir Rhys's Illyrian mother had caused made that obvious enough, even if she was the High Lord's mate.

"Good morning, Feyre darling," Rhysand drawled, the way he always greeted her.

"It's noon, Rhys," Feyre said. The nickname might have been overly familiar, but Feyre had noticed his eyes glittered like stars whenever she used it with him. And besides, after being up since dawn, she wasn't inclined to fall over herself currying favor with someone who'd just rolled out of bed.

"Then let me be the first to tell you that you look delicious this afternoon."

Feyre rolled her eyes, positive she looked the farthest thing from delicious in her threadbare leggings and sweater. If it were anyone but Rhys, she would have been sure they were being cruel. But he had enough of her goodwill that he could pay her teasing compliments and not end up with his teeth bashed in for his trouble.

"Did you give them anything interesting to write about last night?" she said, leaning back against a streetlight and crossing her arms over her chest.

Rhys picked at an invisible piece of lint on his tunic, which almost had Feyre rolling her eyes a second time. Despite being in last night's clothes, he didn't look the least bit disheveled—probably some spell he'd cast to ensure he looked irritatingly perfect as always.

"Mor needed a wingman again," he said.

Feyre relaxed, relieved at his answer. Rhys's equally beautiful cousin was the subject of plenty of headlines of her own, and the two were frequently seen together. The people of Velaris were fascinated by the pretty blonde former Hewn City princess–when the Herald ran a story about her, Feyre just had to shout "Morrigan" to turn heads and make sales. If the lead story was about her, Feyre could probably afford to eat tomorrow.

It had been a while, though, since Rhys had been spotted with someone new on his arm. Or with anyone other than Morrigan, his sister, or the two Illyrians he called his brothers actually. Feyre had rolled her eyes at the rumors of a secret relationship or a hidden love child—if you asked her, the most likely explanation was that there were only so many attractive people in Velaris with a weakness for violet eyes. Rhys was bound to run out of people to fuck eventually.

"Is that the truth?" Feyre said, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "Or did you actually find someone to settle down with?"

She'd meant it as a joke, but Rhys didn't smile. There was something hungry, almost predatory, in the way his gaze slid over her. Feyre found herself flushing, even as she stared right back. "Would you care if I did?" he said.

It felt like a challenge; Feyre lifted her chin. "Of course I'd care if you stopped causing scandals. I'm a newsie, and gossip sells papers."

"Of course," Rhys said, something in his expression seeming to shutter. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a gold coin, handing it to her. The value was far more than a single paper was worth, but he'd always insisted she keep the change.

Feyre pulled a paper from the bag slung over her shoulder and handed it to him, longways so there was no chance their fingers would touch. She'd let that happen once, and his fingertips brushing hers had sent a crackle of electricity along her skin that she'd been thinking about ever since. Her mind replayed it almost daily—and frankly, Feyre found that embarrassing.

She pocketed the coin. "Pleasure doing business with you."

When Rhys spoke again, he dropped his voice to a low, sensual purr that sent shivers skittering down Feyre's spine, heat washing over her despite the autumn chill that cut through her tattered clothes. " Everything is a pleasure when it comes to you, Feyre."

He flashed her one last feline smile, and Feyre tipped her cap as he winnowed away, trying not to blush. With her other hand, she fingered the coin in her pocket. It would go under the floorboard with the rest of the ones she'd stashed away. Only a few more until she could afford the one-way ticket to the Continent that she'd been dreaming of.

Velaris was wonderful— if you could afford a big, strong door to lock out the hustle and bustle. Feyre certainly couldn't, and she was dying to get away.

A flash of auburn hair and a shout of "High Lady!" across the street pulled Feyre from her thoughts. Lucien was striding towards her, a half-empty satchel of newspapers slung over one shoulder and carrying another paper bag in his hand. She raised a hand in greeting—she'd stopped cringing at the nickname a long time ago.

"Is the new spot over by the docks working out for you?" she said when he got closer, even though she knew the answer. Lucien could sell papers anywhere; he didn't even need the eyepatch and the sob story about being an Autumn Court orphan who'd found his way to Night—just his brilliant smile was enough.

Lucien shrugged, the gesture far too elegant for someone who'd spent his morning selling newspapers to sailors and fishmongers. "I can make anything work."

"Then why did you come looking for me?" Feyre said. With unsold papers still in his bag, there had to be a reason. The newsies bought the papers from the distributor each morning, starting each day operating at a loss until they'd sold enough papers to recoup the cost. Lucien still had work to do if he wanted to turn a profit.

He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Isn't gazing upon your beautiful face reason enough?"

"You sound like Rhysand."

"And you're saying that like it's a bad thing. Trouble in paradise?"

Feyre resisted the urge to roll up one of the papers in her own bag and smack him with it. Lucien had overheard her speaking to Rhysand once and apparently decided the prince was in love with her. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

"Rhysand isn't—"

" By the Cauldron, he'd follow you around like a lost puppy if you'd let him."

"He's just a flirt," Feyre said, the edge to her voice making it clear she didn't want to talk about this anymore. "What did you need me for?"

"Someone needs to finish my pickles," Lucien said, pulling a sandwich out of the paper bag. He handed Feyre half, along with the entire side of pickles it had come with, then sat down on the curb to eat, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

Feyre nibbled on the pickle, the first thing she'd eaten all day, and thanked the Cauldron for a best friend who hated them and shared them with her. Putting her papers aside, she sat down next to him. "Thanks, Lucien," she said, unwrapping her half of the sandwich. Lunch would be on her next—that had been their unspoken agreement for years, even when meals were sporadic and infrequent.

They lapsed into silence, more intent on eating than talking. It was comfortable, a much needed rest after a morning spent shouting headlines at passersby. Feyre's feet already ached from standing all morning.

After a few minutes, Lucien balled up the now-empty wax paper. "Now that you're fed, I think it's safe to mention that you're needed over by the Rainbow."

"Again?" Feyre said with a sigh.

"Bron and Hart are fighting over the same spot. The High Lady should step in."

Feyre wasn't sure when exactly it had happened, but at some point, she'd found herself the unofficial leader of the newsies of Velaris. She'd always kept an eye out for newcomers and lended them a hand—advice on selling papers and navigating the city was all she had, but Feyre shared freely. When there was a problem, she was usually the one to resolve it.

At some point, "High Lady" had gone from an ironic nickname for a poor girl on the streets to a mark of respect for a young woman who took care of her own.

"I'll talk to them," Feyre said, finishing her food and standing up.

Lucien started to thank her, but Feyre had already called on her magic, her body becoming nothing but shadow. Incorporeal like this, she could slip through walls and travel unseen—and crucially, it was faster than walking. As a lesser fae, it was the only magic she had at her disposal.

Even in the brightest sun, Velaris was full of shadows. And for better or worse, Feyre had made them her home.

***

Rhysand had planned to give himself time to read the news before he was due for a meeting at the House of Wind. Yesterday, he'd told himself he'd be up early enough to look over the agenda ahead of time. He'd wanted to be prepared, and his father would have his head if Rhys was late for official court business again.

But somehow, the High Lord's ire seemed incredibly far away last night, when the Cauldron only knew how many drinks he'd had and Mor was dragging him back to the dance floor at Rita's again, and dawn had nearly broken when he'd finally stumbled home.

Late or not, though, he still had to see Feyre.

The most important part of his day had become buying the paper from her. It wasn't about the news and never had been—every day, Rhys hoped that would be the day she finally took an interest in him that went beyond trading a few teasing remarks and rolling her eyes. He'd never flirted so much, so painfully obviously before, just to have it all go ignored like water off a duck's back.

And that had already been going on for a few months before the mating bond snapped.

Their fingers had brushed as she'd handed him the paper. Perhaps that brief touch skin-to-skin had been all it had taken for the urge to claim and taste and scent his mate to hit him with all the force of a brick to the head. Before he'd done something stupid, Rhys had winnowed away without an explanation or a goodbye.

After that, Rhys had resolved not to tell her, at least not until she showed some sort of interest back. But in the months since, he hadn't gotten her to even blush. And even if by some miracle, she did want him that way and accepted the bond, there was no guarantee she wouldn't resent him after a few decades as future Lady of Night. Her indifference was painful enough—Rhys wasn't sure he could withstand her hating him.

For the short flight to the House of Wind, Rhys let the chill in the air clear his head of thoughts of Feyre. He was supposed to focus today. Some of the city's most powerful merchants had asked for a meeting with his father, and as the High Lord's heir, Rhys was expected to be in attendance too.

The meeting room was already full when Rhys walked in, brushing his windswept hair back into place. From the head of the table, his father glared daggers at him.

Rhys ignored it, dropping into the empty seat that had been left for him. "I hope I didn't miss anything interesting."

He kept the smirk plastered on his face, even as his father pushed past his shields to speak mind-to-mind. We'll discuss this later. For now, get through this meeting without embarrassing me further. That's an order.

Rhys made a mental note to let Mor know he'd likely have to cancel their plans to go to the theater that night.

One of the merchants—Rhys had met him before but had forgotten his name—gave him a cold smile and said, "We were just discussing economic policy."

"Carry on, then," Rhys said.

As the meeting droned on, Rhys forced himself to focus, even if the subject matter was painfully dry. One day, he'd be High Lord, and if he wanted to be the sort of ruler the Night Court deserved, one who made things better, he needed to be knowledgeable and willing to listen.

But even then, he wasn't immune to letting his mind wander. At some point, he'd found himself thinking about how the sunlight had brought out the gold in Feyre's hair, when the sound of his name brought him crashing back down to reality.

"…but you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Rhysand?" one of the merchants was saying, the sneer in his voice obvious.

Rhys felt his father's eyes boring into him, and it was clear this was some sort of test. He was supposed to be handling something, and Rhys didn't want to think about what sort of punishment might be in store for him if he made it obvious he'd stopped paying attention.

"Would I?" Rhys said, arching a brow in a way that he hoped looked imperious.

"With how many headlines you've been the subject of? I think by now you'd know a thing or two about what sells papers. If it weren't for you, we'd have gone under after the War."

Rhys's hands curled into fists under the table as he recalled exactly who this merchant was—Pulitzer, a newspaper magnate, the one who'd been complaining that circulation was down since the Treaty had been signed. Peace, apparently, was boring.

Peace that Rhys had bled for, had nearly died for when he'd been captured by Amarantha's army. Not that any of that mattered when profits were down.

"Then a bit more gratitude is in order," Rhys said, his voice low and deadly and all command, sounding every inch the future High Lord he was. It was so brief that Rhys nearly missed it, but his father's lips quirked up in approval. "If you have a request, I suggest you word it carefully."

It quickly became clear that Pulitzer and the rest of the owners of Velaris's major newspapers had come to grovel. Even if Rhys couldn't bring himself to care, it was true that the Night Court's newspaper industry was bringing in less money since the end of the war. They'd come to petition his father for assistance.

And to Rhys's relief, the High Lord's answer had been a quick and resounding no.

Of course, Rhys knew his father's answer had been more about safeguarding the Night Court's wealth more than anything else. That much was obvious when so many of their citizens were struggling, even in Velaris. It was something that Rhys vowed to change one day.

But Rhys's relief didn't last much longer. His father had told the newspaper moguls to figure it out themselves, and they'd quickly agreed that to fix their bottom line, they'd raise the price for the newsies who bought the papers to distribute each morning.

Newsies who were barely getting by as it was. Newsies who were already going hungry and sleeping outdoors even as the weather got colder. Newsies who'd been orphaned or disabled after the war and couldn't find decent work.

Newsies like his mate, and Rhysand certainly wouldn't stand for that.

[captainhysunstuff]

19 more images below the cut (WARNING: Some PG-13 saucy shenanigans ahead)

Part three of their date: an unconventional visit to a nearby alley so Light can clear his head and try to get to the point of the outing. The events lead him to becoming confident enough to move onto the next stage...

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[bolworth-birthday-bet]

(start of game)

[s-dei]

Nikolai shenanigans with questionable humour.

the second pic says "sometimes [female] goat fcked a wolf", but that's just an YTP quote I find hella hilarious, don't consider it being deep between the chars (I don't ship them)

Joking around tyrant-concept Sergei, coz I love him. I'm fine with his final meta, but headcanon he have this one as some interstage.

also hmmmmmm saucy interaction with Nemesis under the cut if you wanna see 🙂

[doodledroid]

It’s finally here! A grand compilation of all the Newmann fan art I’ve made, including secret doodles and adult comics.

Particularly not safe for work so please:

Oldpeopleonlyoldpeopleonlyoldpeopleonly

[eemcintyre]

Thirty Minutes (Tom Cruise)

TW- some saucy dialogue and innuendos; some hot vampire moments ™️

Summary- You're making last-minute preparations for the Halloween gathering that you and Tom are hosting. Since you have a tendency to go overboard with these kinds of events, Tom has to remind you to have some fun.

Y'all gave me the go-ahead to post an autumn-themed one-shot in June, and who am I to deny the voice of the people? 😆 But, in honor of the fact that I've already bought my first autumn decorations of the year, here ya go and there will definitely be more where this came from 🙃

To commemorate the upcoming Halloween and bring some life into the spacious Colorado house, Y/N had suggested to and pleaded with Tom to host a Halloween party.

Tom wasn’t as enthusiastic about the idea- not because he didn’t think it would be fun to catch up with friends for a few hours, but because he knew Y/N’s tendency to get way too wrapped up in projects like this. Events that were supposed to be lowkey could quickly turn into absolute ordeals that occupied her every thought. Then, each time, she would inevitably get overstressed, and Tom had to talk her down and provide copious amounts of Advil and tea.

He knew it was probably just the production designer in her that wanted everything to be aesthetically pleasing; his motivation and risk-taking as an actor also frequently emerged in real life. Still. He would be just as happy skipping it all for a quiet, romantic evening with Y/N alone.

He loved his wife.

And because he loved his wife, here he was, studying his costumed reflection in the bathroom mirror, outfitted in a black button-up shirt, vest and pants with a silver cross hanging by a red ribbon. His face was covered in a faint dusting of white powder, and a small amount of fake blood stained one corner of his mouth.

He opened his mouth and made a face at himself in the mirror, revealing a pair of fangs, and then shrugged, resigned to his fate. After “Interview with the Vampire,” he figured that would have been the end of his time in plastic fangs and red corn syrup. But he figured that, since he was all decked out, he might as well have some fun with it.

Tom crossed from the bathroom mirror, dotted with leaf and pumpkin-shaped window clings, into the hallway, where the accent table was decorated with an arrangement of festive knickknacks. Y/N was in the kitchen, in the middle of crafting a pumpkin pie for their guests.

He treaded silently to the kitchen entryway, watching from around the corner as she worked intently on shaping the crust. She too was sporting an elaborate vampire look, in a form-fitting black mini dress, red capelet, white powder, and dark red lips with fake blood dripping from the corners. Tom enjoyed admiring this outfit, to say the least, and for a few moments he just watched her work.

But then, he crept up behind Y/N and lunged at her with a roar, throwing his arms around her. She jumped and screamed, hands flying from the pie crust up to Tom’s arms that were looped around her shoulders. As soon as she realized it was him, she stopped screaming but continued to struggle against him.

“Fuck, Tom! You almost ruined the pie,” she said irritably. It was too close to the long-awaited party for her to put up with any kind of shenanigans.

The pie was especially important to her- she wanted it to be perfectly smooth and still warm from the oven when their guests arrived, so she was cutting it close time-wise with less than an hour to go. But Tom was not to be dismissed; he was determined to remind Y/N that this was all supposed to be fun.

“Didn’t Ashlee say she would bring a storebought pie?” he murmured, playfully swaying the two of them back and forth.

“I will purposely crash my own car before I serve a storebought pie to my guests…”

Tom chuckled and shook his head. His wife truly was an all-or-nothing kind of person, just like him. He dipped his head and brushed his fangs across her neck.

“Tom…” Y/N rolled her eyes, trying to suppress a smile. “Later, okay? I really have to hurry. Please?” She craned her head to glance back at him flirtatiously.

“How long does this thing bake for?” he inquired, gesturing to the pie dish in front of them.

“About an hour. Why?”

“An hour?” Tom exclaimed, bewildered. “Baby, we’ve pulled fast ones before that were, like, fifteen minutes...”

“I have to finish hanging the spiderwebs while the pie is baking,” Y/N pouted.

“Later?” he gazed at her hopefully and she nodded.

“Now, down, boy,” she whispered, kissing him on the nose, and his face broke into a boyish grin. “You’re going to ruin both of our makeup.”

As he let go of her and circled to the opposite side of the counter, she added “Y’know, you’re not as scary as you think you are.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe not, but I can still make you scream.”

Y/N turned bright red as she tried to return her attention to the pie crust. “If you keep hanging around here, I’m going to make you help with the cooking.” She was trying so hard to look and sound serious and keep her voice from wavering into a giggle.

“Oh, I mean…” Tom was about to reply when a thought occurred to him. “Wait, now, hear me out on this… what if I hang the spiderwebs while you’re wrapping this up… I mean, that would give us at least… thirty minutes?” He shrugged, tilting his head, not breaking their intense eye contact all the while.

After some thoughtful contemplation, Y/N decided that this was indeed a good way to kill two birds with one stone- and who was she to stand in the way of efficiency and productivity? She flashed Tom a knowing smirk, giving him all the confirmation he needed to head in the direction of the living room and the bags of fake spiderwebs.

“Now, if I come in there and you just threw them all around…” she warned. “Don’t make me regret inviting you to participate in my creative process!”

“Yes, ma’am,” his voice sounded from the other room, slightly muffled by laughter, and she grinned to herself. She had never finished shaping a pie crust so quickly.