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shiyorin · 4 months

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Hope I’m not late! Could be any primarch/space marine either before or after corruption.May I ask about the raping of some serf that had fallen asleep near the chambers? And due to loneliness and being fucking pent up they grope her and after some quite while suddenly are balls deep, with her still asleep. Cut to the a year later, ship’s full of rumours. Well, serfs giving birth isn’t exatcly something weird. The child just becomes like their mother later on...but this child is just weird and growing abnormaly. The fate of them both is also yours to decide...to be either unrealistic taking the serf in due to regretable night or more plausable execution of a newborn due to them being a mutant❤️

#Why did I choose TS? I don't know, random.org said so.

#Unnamed Thousand Sons x F!Reader

#Rape, noncon, NSFW, somnophilia, there is a description of pregnancy,...

#I'm bad with summary so I won't do anything with it.

You won't wake up soon.

The sorcerer stares down at your sleeping form. His mind trick has you trapped in a deep slumber, completely at his mercy.

He's not sure why he did it, casting that subtle hypnosis when he spotted you drifting off alone in this dusty hab-room. Maybe it was the warp's dark desires, twisting his thoughts to sinister temptation. Or maybe it was just the primal, feral urges every Astartes struggles to contain.

All he knows is seeing your exhausted body sprawled out there, so soft and vulnerable, awakened something... wrong inside him. Something that made his double-hearts feel way too confining.

This was wrong. Profane, even. You were just a lowly serf, an insignificant mortal whose only purpose was servitude. But those thoughts couldn't stop the Astartes from reaching out with his gauntlets and roughly gathering you into his embrace.

He wraps his huge arms around you, pulling you into his embrace effortlessly. Your body feels so tiny and delicate compared to his towering transhuman bulk. Just a fragile little mortal sack of flesh and bone, a helpless mortal compared to his might.

You were so light, so fragile in his arms. Your head lolled back, mouth parting slightly as you remained trapped in that unnatural slumber. He nuzzled his face against the warm, soft skin of your throat and inhaled deeply. Your warmth and sweet scent quickly enflames his senses with fresh desire.

Holding you tightly against his huge chest, he slowly ran his tongue along the delicate seam of your lips. No resistance, not even a flutter of awakening as your breath was stolen away. He tasted you greedily, feeling your chest rise and fall with panicked panting, but you didn't wake. How deliciously helpless you were in this state...

His massive hands slide down to squeeze and palm your tender, yielding curves as he grinds his hips against you forcefully.

"Such a little mortal" he growls in a deep tone. He could crush you without even trying... but why he should do that?

As the sorcerer pulls your limp, sleeping form against the throbbing heat of his crotch. He basks in the psionic feedback of your peacefully dreaming mind, aroused by its blissful innocence even as he feeds his corrupting taint into your subconscious.

His long tongue slithers out of his fanged maw, coiling between your parted lips to plunder the sweet recesses of your mouth. Deeper and deeper it plunges as he steals your breath away. What little air remains gets crushed from your lungs as he smashes his body against yours in an embrace.

But despite all of that, the mind-trick holds your consciousness fast. You remain completely unaware, slumbering on as a helpless dreamer in this waking nightmare.

"Exquisite..." The sorcerer's graveled whispers drip with heady arousal as he drags his rough calloused palms over every inch of your exposed skin.

With one overpowered tug, he rips away the flimsy rags covering your body. Now you lay nude and exposed, your most intimate places to his gaze. He feasts upon the glorious, forbidden vista with eyes wide and shimmering with unholy ecstasy.

You're perfect. Every sumptuous curve and swell crafted with such artful elegance. Those ripe breasts, those sculpted feminine ridges and valleys, all brought into sharp relief by the Astartes' deeply lurid perception.

He trails his rough, calloused finger-pads over each exquisite inch of your prone flesh, drunk on the maddening sensory feedback. The texture, the warmth, the softness… like spun silk and liquid fire all at once.

His fanged maw gapes open in a silent moan as his grip grows more forceful and possessive. You remain dead to the world, locked away in his psychic trance.

A burning ache blossomed in his loins as he imagined all the things he could do. He could take his cock out and rut against your limp body right here, smearing your pretty face and tattered robes with ropy strands of hot semen. He could spread your thighs and shove himself into your vulnerable, unmapped entrance while you slept on, blissfully unaware.

The thought made him shudder with blasphemous, warp-spawned ecstasy. He could defile you completely, utterly take possession of your mortal body for his own cravings. And you wouldn't remember a thing when the spell was lifted. Unless... he wanted you to.

Spurred on by this lack of resistance, the sorcerer's remaining inhibitions start to crumble like papyrus in a bonfire. His hands grow ever bolder and more rapacious, groping and mauling with shameless entitlement now. He sneers with sadistic glee as pale blue-purple bruises begin blossoming across your skin under his crushing grip.

You shift in his crushing grip, legs parting unconsciously as the psyker starts grinding his growing erection against your hips.

Your limp head lolls bonelessly, eyes closed and mouth slightly parted in a way that makes his cock throb. Groaning, he pulls your face against the sweaty cables of his neck and just breathes you in. Hands roaming, groping at the soft flesh of your rear and inner thighs. He hooks his fingers into the waistline of your skirt and briefs, tugging them down with a single, impatient yank.

Feverishly, he undoes his undercarriage, letting his huge, throbbing erection spring free in all its purplish, vein-laced glory. He groaned as his calloused palm wrapped around the swollen shaft, working the sensitive tip in slow, teasing strokes. Ropes of clear pre-seed immediately wept from his slit, painting your bare thigh in sticky trails. You didn't even flinch, totally enslaved in your sleep.

The psyker aimed his bloated cockhead at your exposed slit. He roughly shoving two fingers into your silken depths. You were drenched but still incredibly tight, an irresistible combination that made his cock jump needily.

With a feral grunt, he lined up the broad tip of his manhood and started pushing forward. Inch by deliciously snug inch, you were forced to accommodate his girth. Your body stretched around the invading member, your petals straining wide yet somehow accepting every last vein-ridged inch within.

The sorcerer gasped as your molten sheath swallowed him to the hilt.... you're so wet, so tight. He'd never experienced anything like the heavenly friction clenching down on his cock.

Unable to restrain himself a second longer, he pulled back until just his flared tip remained, then slammed home again. And again. His massive hips quickly worked up to a merciless piston, tramming his full length inside you over and over with a force.

All you could do was weakly squirm and whimper, mouth gaping in a silent scream as your womb was ruthlessly battered. But in your mind, you were drifting through shifting dreamscapes completely unaware of the blessed rapture rocking your mortal body.

So small, so damnably fragile... But taking every vein-slathered inch of a psyker's cock like it was nothing. He moaning, slamming you with each powerful thrust. His hands burned blistered prints into your delicate skin from how tightly he gripped your thighs.

The pistoning echoed loudly in the vaulted chamber. The sorcerer's amplified endurance and stamina meant he could have taken you for hours on end before feeling the need to peak. But the sleek, molten friction on his cock and the view of your helpless body quickly proved too much.

His growling breaths grew more labored as he chased his climax. His balls drew up tight, swollen with a massive backup of pent-up seed just waiting for release.

With a few more strokes, the psyker growl as he reached his limit. His jaw strained wide open in blissful torment as his cock spasmed violently, erupting thick ropes of burning issue straight into your waiting womb.

He hilted balls deep, trapped there in ecstasy as his cock throbbed and pulsed, absolutely flooding your depths with endless waves. It pumped into you in such massive quantities that his seed had nowhere to go, squirting back around his buried shaft in a hot, sticky rush.

The torrent of seed utterly stuffed your belly, rounding it into an obscene bulge until excess streamed down your thighs in ropy trails. He groaned gutturally, never having unleashed such a ferocious explosion of relief before.

Eventually, the last few weak spurts oozed from his tip. But still he didn't withdraw, hips remaining flush so his cock could marinate in that sloppy mess of frothing nectar and cream. He cradled you close, uncaring for the sticky mess as you laid bonelessly against his.

Your bruised, cum-stuffed body draped so perfectly over his own. Your soft, shallow breaths tickling his cheek as he nuzzled into the crook of your throat. He nipped at the sweat-pearled flesh there affectionately, fangs grazing without breaking skin as his hands roamed over your pleasantly rounded curves in reverent strokes.

What was this emotion settling over him? It wasn't lust or hunger driving him to use you l anymore. Those intense urges had been scratched, at least for the time being. No, this felt... more?

Like he wanted to do more for you. He wanted to protect you, care for you in a deeper sense. Keep you close by his side. He wanted you to feel comfort and pleasure, not just to provide your own.

Is this what being a "lover" felt like? Of course, he knew the definition of "lover" by heart. But....

Some profound emotional bond he may have sacrificed the ability to feel when he gave himself wholly to his new life. But looking at your marked, debased body somehow made him almost... wistful. As if he once knew something warm and beautiful that had been shorn away, leaving only this raw desire behind.

Maybe if it was him in the past, he could understand. He could not recall that ghost of his former self, no matter how his battered soul scraped those old wounds... but the longing remained all the same.

With a shuddery sigh, the psyker merely pulled you tighter against his. His corrupted flesh could no longer feel such superficial things like warmth or softness, yet he still clung to you with desperate fierceness. He would sate his lusts over and over again on your lush form until the next battle urged his abilities forth once more.

And until then... just maybe he could pretend, for a few fleeting moments at least, you were something more than that. Maybe you are his 'lover'

Just wait until you wake up…

****

The halls of the Immaterium were a formless void of madness and eternity. A place outside the constraints of linear time where even the most stalwart minds could be swallowed whole by the hellish tides of Chaos.

How long had he been adrift within that nightmarish un-reality? He'd lost all sense of self, allowing his immortal essence to fray and fragment amidst frenzies of eldritch horrors. Just another hollowed husk withering amongst the psychic howls echoing from distant, unknown dimensions.

Until... he felt it. A familiar spark amidst the madness, drawing his frenzied consciousness like a beacon in the abyssal murk.

A soul - small, achingly mortal, yet blazing with the warm light of life he'd all but forgotten existed beyond the immortal pollution of the Immaterium. He instinctively anchored himself there, clawing his way back into the corporeal plane to coalesce around that guttering ember of temporal existence.

Reality bled back into shrieking focus all at once. The sorcerer gasped, feeling the first touch of atmosphere scorching his lungs after an endless sojourn breathing naught but howling insanity. His eyes snapped open, revealing a blasted cityscape that stank of death and plasmic fire.

Wails of anguish echoed all around him as refugees fled the ruins in panicked droves. Overhead, the roar of engines and explosions painted the smog-choked skyline in crimson and gold. He stood in the middle of a ruined crossroads, his armor thrumming with barely-leashed arcane might.

And there... huddled in the bombed-out remains of what may have been a domicile, he saw you. His anchor, his tether to sanity in this mortal realm. Clutching a tiny, frail thing to your breast and shaking with terror that etched lines of exhaustion into your face.

A child. Your child, he realized through the haze of recognition clouding his enhanced mind. So young, its life newly-kindled... but somehow already stamped with his brand. Intrinsically linked to his.

He remember it...

He came back for you.

He extended one taloned gauntlet, feeling ethereal tendrils of energy reaching out to the two terrified souls before him...

#shiyorin's answer #shiyorin's writer #wh40crack #warhammer 40k x reader #space marine x reader #Nsfw.

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delopsia · 10 months

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Sleigh Ride | Rhett Abbott x Reader

My cozy little submission for @lewmagoo's Christmas Celebration 🤍 Word Count: 7,500 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, brief food mention, vague mention of somnophilia, Christmas celebrations mentioned but no religious activity tied to it, snowball fights, riding, unprotected sex. A little slice of winter fluff. Brief Summary: Rhett's fixing up the family sleigh to take you on the ride he never got to give you, but not everything goes according to plan when it's finished...

It's the crash that gets your attention.

A harsh clatter of metal and a heaviness that booms when it hits the ground, thundering through the air like last night's storm. But despite its alarming appearance, you haven't the slightest clue where it came from, the noise bouncing from wall to wall and down to the cellar, never seeming to lose her vicious intensity.

But your feet must have grown ears of their own because they're carrying you out the door within a few seconds. Shoes thumping across hardwood older than you are and down the dirt driveway. On a one-way track to the barn where you last saw Rhett. He's the only person who could have caused such a—

...ruckus.

"Did the ghost of Christmas Past get ahold of you?" It's impossible to stifle the giggle that escapes you; not quite the sight you expected to find when you rounded the corner.

Rhett's eyes roll, hardly visible through the pile of Christmas lights that have fallen on top of him, "help me."

As much as you'd like to do that, you're not entirely sure where to begin. Stepping past clips and oddly shaped tools you don't know the name of, you bend down, grabbing a handful of the cables and pulling them away. Untangling them may take an entire day's worth of work, but at least the mass makes it easy to get them off of him, heavy as they are.

"I thought you weren't decorating the house this year?" Your hands daringly stroking through his hair as you work, tangled from the Wyoming wind and the slightest bit damp with sweat. Should be something you find gross by now, but that grimy cowboy charm has dug its roots in deep.

"'m not," despite being the one tangled up, he's not that much help. Moving a little too slowly, as you nimbly work to free him of his decorative confines.

His pause makes you wonder if that's your cue to speak."No?"

And it must have been what he was waiting for because his head shakes, "Was tryin' t' find that damn drivin' harness."

The last of the lights fall from his shoulders, laying in a heap around his ankles. A trap that he must deal with alone, lest you bend down and wind up on your knees for longer than planned. Instead, you savor the veins that bulge in his forearms as he reaches down to free himself, "Finally, see the wicked ways of big oil and convert back to old-fashioned horse and buggy?"

"Naw," he's peeking at you through the corner of his eye, seems to have caught on to the way your gaze lingers a moment too long, "d' you remember that ol' sleigh? The one my folks used for their weddin'?"

"The same one Perry cracked the frame of?" You still consider yourself fortunate that you weren't familiar with the Abbotts back then, far away from that first newlywed argument. Its hard telling if Rebecca will ever forgive Perry for making her walk through freezing snow that soaked her wedding dress on their special day.

"'ts the one," those spurs on his boots chime like Christmas bells as he steps out from the hoard. Closer to you. "'m tryin' to fix it before Christmas."

Your head tilts to the side. "...you're not planning on a second wedding, are you?" Because as far as you remember, that sleigh has been a wedding-exclusive tradition, carrying every Abbott newlywed through a winter wonderland with their partner. And despite the newness of the rings adorning your ring fingers, you don't count as newlyweds anymore.

Rhett just shakes his head. "Nah," leaning in to press his warm lips to your forehead before returning to the mess he's created, "but it ain't fair that I never got to give you a ride in it."

"I can think of other rides you've given me," and for once in your life, you're thankful he's not looking directly at you, or else he would have caught sight of the way your face dropped. How many more times will your inner thoughts dart off the tip of your tongue?

He sputters, lights falling out of his hands, "I'm tryin' t' be serious here!" But those cheeks of his are red as can be, rosy with something torn between surprise and fondness.

"But I'm fully serious," doubling down; there's no sense in going back now.

His index finger shakes at you, defiant, "I'm takin' you on a sleigh ride even if it's the last thing I do."

Your eyes trail over to Isabella, her fuzzy head poking out of her stall. There isn't a way in hell that she knows what is being said, but her gaze suggests she understands every word. Isn't pleased in the slightest about being downgraded from loyal ranch horse to novelty sleigh puller. But it can't be as bad as that parade sleigh she begrudgingly pulled back in January.

The voice in the back of your head openly wonders if he'll give up on it within a couple of days. You've never seen him quit that easily, but what are the chances that the sleigh is even fixable? The old red paint has long since chipped away to reveal decades' worth of rust and weathering and has long since lost parts of the metal underside. No longer capable of sliding across the snow, no, now its sharp ends dig into the frozen soil like a stubborn mule.

But you wake up the next morning to find Rhett jotting down a plan on the back of some junk mail, and the next, he's out working on it before lunch. When Cecelia approached you two with the idea of staying in the house while she and Royal visited Rebecca and Perry for a month, you'd never imagined this was how Rhett would spend his time.

"And here I'd thought you got lost in the barn," you chirp, only lifting your head to meet him for a kiss, frozen lips melting against your warmer ones like snowflakes.

"'m sorry," and for your troubles of waiting an extra hour, he quiets you with a second kiss. Longer. Lingering with the same fire that got you bent over the counter earlier. "I can't seem t' find them damn sleigh bell straps."

On its own, your head tilts to the side. "You're done with the sleigh?"

"Nah," he makes a face as he peels that hat off his head, seems to have glued itself there after a long day of sweating, his forehead still shimmering with it, "jus' realized there ain't no point in a sleigh ride if there are no sleigh bells."

But the bells...simply do not exist.

They're not in the shed, far out in one of the pastures. Nor are they in the cellar or the measly attic full of all the junk in the world. No matter where you two search, there isn't the slightest hint of a sleigh bell. Coincidentally, every person in Wyoming must be having the same problem because there are none when you venture into town. The bells, once sitting in the front of the tack shop, are now nothing but a memory, not to be restocked until next year.

"Hey, Rhett," you find yourself saying in the middle of the general store, "will this work?"

The corner of Rhett's lip wavers up and down, torn between amusement and mock annoyance at the tiny bell necklace in your hand. Red, green, and silver bells of various sizes, all crammed together to create a gaudy masterpiece with a built-in obnoxious soundtrack.

If his eyes could roll the way into the back of his head, they would have by now. "Yeah, if you're plannin' t' be the horse."

But he's still reaching out to give it an experimental shake as if he's considering it for the briefest of moments.

"I don't mind the idea of that," giggling, you move to set it back on the rack, returning to its equally festive companions.

You blink, and all of a sudden, it's sitting in the cart. Not a word is spoken as Rhett winks at you before disappearing into the next aisle over, boot spurs chiming their taunting chant.

It's only fair that you get him something obnoxious to wear, too—a reindeer antler headband with cheap golden bells on them. Enough to get you a funny look when they cross the scanner in the checkout, but not for him to mention anything about it.

The bells sit on the counter like a taunting reminder of what seems to have disappeared from the ranch entirely. Vibrantly colored metal catching in the morning sunlight when Rhett leans in to catch you with a goodbye kiss as if he's embarking on some lifelong journey and not walking a couple of yards to the barn.

One afternoon you catch him swearing to the high heavens over how much he can't stand that motherfucker, Perry, as he welds two pieces of metal together. Vaguely shaped, seems to match the missing piece beneath the rusty old sleigh. On another, he walks into the house, reeking of paint stripper.

"Did you take a bath in this stuff?" You ask, lathering your hands for a second time, working your way back through those freshly washed locks of hair. Silky soft to the touch, the peppermint of his shampoo nearly enough to drown out the overwhelming scent of chemicals.

"I even used gloves," his nose wrinkles, eyes scrunching shut at the stray bit of soap running down his forehead. Your finger swipes it away just in the nick of time before it can cross his eye and begin to sting.

You're fortunate that washing his hair has become a favorite winding down activity because it seems you spend half of your evening helping him scrub every crevice twice. Washing away the grime from under his nails and not resting until he smells like peppermint and the brisk winter breeze...at least that's what the bottle says. It's more of a dull mintiness that kisses your nose when you get close enough.

But it only marks the start of something else.

Red flecks of paint cling to his clothes and skin like a toddler who has gotten carried away with an unsupervised art project. Unlike the paint stripper, it doesn't carry a scent that makes you lightheaded, but you roll your eyes every time you see him. Red on the edges of his nails splattered up his forearms and reaching up to his cheeks. Ratty old jacket growing to look like it's been involved in a crime.

It reaches its worst on Christmas Eve. Days of paint piling up to join the remnants that stubbornly cling to his skin, making him to look like a Halloween decoration that was accidentally left out when the others were rounded up. But there he is hair decorated with flecks of white as he stomps his boots on the entry mat, shaking free of the clinging snow.

He looks ridiculous.

"Quit laughin' at me every time I come in the door," he chuckles, not an ounce of seriousness to his tone as he meanders up to you, rubbing his painted nose against your forehead whilst he draws you in. Some big hug that greedily steals away the heat your body has collected over your cozy day in the house, all for the sake of melting your favorite frosty cowboy.

"You would be laughing too if you saw yourself," your thumb squishes his cheek, feeling the soft prickle of his facial hair as you wipe away a few red flecks. Only to spot more above his brow, and in his hair, and clinging to the side of his neck.

No, no, no, you have to look away, or else you'll catch yourself scrubbing him down with the sink sponge. Already in your free hand and drenched in dishwater that you've just run, hadn't quite been expecting him to come in so soon.

You suppose there's the reason why he's here an hour earlier than usual, because he's hooking his thumb into your belt loop and pleading for you to step away from the sink for just a moment. And who are you to deny him when he's grinning at you with paint-freckled cheeks? Soft blue eyes glittering with an excitement that only appears when he's proud of himself.

So off you go. Stumbling down the dirt driveway in your pajama pants and the winter coat you'd snatched off the hook when you were halfway out the door. Not dressed warm enough to escape the wind nipping at your exposed cheeks, squeezing between the fabrics of your clothes and wrapping you up in a full-body chill. Snowflakes drift past like tiny fairies, melting on your skin and clinging to Rhett's hair.

Then you see it.

A bright red sleigh pokes out from around the barn door, paint so pristine that it shimmers. Not a hint of how it once rusted to the brink no return doesn't bear its scars of Perry's fateful wedding joy ride. No, it's wrapped up in a big silver bow, like it's brand new. Brought home from the shop, fresh out of the factory, and certainly not a fifty-year-old family heirloom.

You can see exactly where he painted it earlier; the color a little darker where it's still wet, but it's...perfect.

"Are you sure this is the same sleigh?" Blinking once. Twice.

It's still there. Real as you are.

"Y' can't tell where I welded it?" His shivering hand points to a space in the underside of it, but quite frankly, it all looks the same to you. He could have tricked you into believing that this is a different sleigh entirely.

Your head shakes, a movement that dissolves into a full-bodied shiver, "Not a bit."

It's perfect. The color. The repair. The timing. Only Rhett Abbott can pull together a monumental task at the last moment, all for the sake of a special day. The necklace of bells catches your eye when you meander back inside, dashing for the blankets that have been warming by the space heater. The necklace won't fit Isabella, but they'll certainly fit you.

Who cares where the jingle is coming from? As long as it's there, then you can't bring yourself to utter a single complaint.

Rhett's heated glare at the reindeer antlers resting menacingly on the couch suggests that he could definitely complain, though.

The Christmas tree twinkles in Cecelia's office, just a couple of feet away from the living room, a pleasant golden hue that warms the room with its presence. A tiny addition to the movie playing on the television, only serving to make you nuzzle into Rhett a little closer. His heart beating gently against your ear, scruffy cheek resting against your forehead.

You're snuggled up in bed when you realize you forgot to finish washing the dishes and now soaking in frigid water with nothing but a memory of soap left. But you can't bring yourself to slip out of Rhett's arms to clean up a few measly dishes. It can be left for the morning. Before Rhett gets up to fetch Isabella and works away with all of the mechanics that go into pulling a sleigh.

They're the first thing on your mind when you slip out of bed in the morning.

Well...that and bringing Rhett a piece of butter toast that he so politely held you hostage for, refusing to let you free of his arms until you paid his tax of kisses and treats. The downside of marrying a cowboy too strong for his own good.

But you don't make it to the sink before you see it.

White.

A winter wonderland so bright that it hurts your eyes to look at it. Reaching as far as the eye can see, toppling high in the trees, and coating everything with a thick winter blanket until you can no longer recognize the Abbott property. But that's not the problem. No, the problem is how much of it there is.

At least a foot and a half deep, not enough to block you in but definitely enough to warrant breaking out the plow. Piled up outside the barn doors, packed tight by the squealing wind, and stacked high on the roof of Rhett's truck.

"Rhett!" You call out, voice echoing all across the house. Distantly, you think you catch a grumble that sounds like a response. "Can you take a look outside for me?"

Feet thunk across the floor overhead.

And then you hear it.

A muttered, "Shit." Clear as day, traveling through the paper-thin walls, down the stairs, and straight to your ears.

He's out the door before the toast pops out, swearing under his breath as he yanks his coat over his shoulders; you're surprised he even remembers to lean in and kiss your cheek before he heads out into the world of white.

There's no way that the sleigh can go through that much snow, but one way or another, you find yourself fiddling with the edges of your gloves, walking towards the barn, bell necklace jingling every step of the way. Despite the added protection of all these layers, the wind still works its way in. Biting at every centimeter of exposed skin that can be found, heckling you even when you step into the safety of the barn.

"Rhett?" Calling out into the empty room. He isn't here, and the sleigh still sits where you last saw it, completely untouched. In fact, the only other living creatures in this barn are the horses. Isabella's head pokes out of her stall as if she's confused about this whole thing herself.

Her ears prick forward. Suddenly interested.

Something cold splatters against your back.

"Rhett!" You're squealing. Spinning on your heels. Just in time for a second ball of white to explode against your chest.

Snowballs.

A third whizzes past your head. Smashing into something that goes crashing to the floor. Spooks a noise out of the horses. You'd check. But you're already diving behind the safety of a barn door. Scrambling to scoop up some snow into a crudely formed ball.

...where did he go?

One moment he was darting toward you. The next, he's virtually vanished.

But he's left footprints. Little tracks that cross yours and venture toward the corner of the barn. You see him now. The tip of his hat poking around the corner. Wavering. Like he's about to burst out and pelt you with another ball.

Except you're quicker. Bursting out from your hiding spot. Nailing him in the shoulder with a ball that splatters up into his face.

"Shit!" He's pawing at his icy cheek. Snowflakes sparkling, clinging to his stubble.

"A snowball fight, really?" You giggle, reaching for more snow. Packing it together as quickly as you can. Racing to beat Rhett's quicker hands.

The sound of your necklace jingling washes over his laugh, "scared yer fixin' t' lose?"

This isn't a fight you started, but it is certainly one that you will finish.

Except your shot misses Rhett by a mile. His retaliation narrowly brushes past your leg. He's reaching for another, and so are you. Futilely gathering up bits of ammunition. Scrambling to step away from each other. Fearing the other will charge at any moment. Snow crunching heavily beneath your feet. Powdery and kicking up to cling to your pants.

Again, you're taking an aim at him. And this time, you don't miss. White scattering about Rhett's messy curls. A perfect headshot.

"You little—" He's making a break toward you like a bull out of a chute. So suddenly that your foot slips out from under you in your efforts to escape. Fighting against your pounding heart and the wicked brace of the wind. Snow still clutched in your gloved hand as he yells. "Come here!"

Shit. Shit. Shit. You've nowhere to go.

You're darting into the barn. Boots scuffing against the old pavement floor as you veer left into the tack room. Spurs jingle behind you. Overjoyed laughter like a haunting squeal that adds a little more fire to your step. Bee lining straight for the hay, past the saddle racks, and out the half-open side door.

Turning. Throwing the snowball right into Rhett's chest. But it's only adding fuel to the already open blaze.

"That ain't fair!" He hollers. In the corner of your eye you can see him bending down, scooping up snow. Not even bothering to ball it up before he throws it at you. Tiny snowflakes stabbing at your eyes and cheeks.

You yelp, pawing at your face with the back of your hand. "You don't play fair!"

Where are you going? You have no idea because you're back in front of the barn again. Racing for the house. As if the safety of the mud room will thwart this evil attack from your husband. Feet falling into your old footprints, vying for a quicker escape.

Weight hits your back.

"Rhett!"

The world spins.

"Quit yellin' at me!"

Your bodies are twisting in the snow. Tumbling like two children. The fall cushioned by the frosty ground but melting, seeping through your clothes with an icy vengeance. All of a sudden, you're flat on your back. Chest heaving. Gasping for frozen air as you peek up at the broad frame above.

Rhett's hair hangs in front of his face, puffs of foggy breath falling from his open mouth. Forearms shivering where they rest on either side of your head. Not quite as strong and indomitable as he was just a moment ago.

"Fine," you pant, blinking back up at him, "you win."

The corner of his lip rises. Pearly white teeth glint in the light reflecting off the snow, growing brighter as he leans down. You can see it even as your eyes fall shut; this bright presence that rivals the blinding sun, warming you with the way his lips melt against your own.

Perfection is what it is.

His soft inhale never grows old, has been making you dizzy from day one. Delicate at first, a gentle pressure that deepens the moment your gloved hand curls around the back of his neck. Hardly expect him to be the one who gasps into your mouth with this barely-there grunt that the wind carries to your ears.

His body is lowering atop yours with this wonderfully comforting weight that feels the equivalent of a blanket sent straight from the heavens. Your hands gliding down his chest, pressing against rippling muscle, on their way to wrapping around his waist. Pulling him closer, urging him to settle between your parted legs until there isn't a centimeter of space between you.

For a moment, you're somewhere else. Cozied up in bed or nestled in front of a roaring fireplace.

But then the wind is squealing in your ears, and a violent shiver is raking down your back. Suddenly aware of the melting snow, seeping through protective layers and stinging at your skin. One of your hands drops, gathering a loose handful of the powder that has seemingly swallowed up Wabang in its entirety.

"So much for that sleigh ride," Rhett murmurs against your lips, his voice a soft vibration that warms you like sunshine.

Your noses bump together as you lean up, so close you can almost hear the thoughts filtering through his head, "I can think of something else that may suffice."

This close, it's easy to catch the way his eyes flicker, meeting with yours, a hint darker than they were beforehand. He's not on the same page as you, but he's certainly on the right chapter.

Almost makes you feel bad for smacking that palm-full of snow into the side of his head.

He yelps, pawing at his frozen cheek. Opening up space for you to roll and scramble to your feet. Darting for the ice-covered porch and through the front door. Uncaring of where your shoes land as you kick them off.

The door squeals open. But it's not loud enough to wash over the outright giggle that bubbles out of your cowboy.

"That!" Rhett's kicking at the heel of his boot, shoving them off his feet as quickly as he can manage. "Was mean!"

Your feet have glued themselves to the floor. Unable to move or cover up the grin etching its way across your wind-bitten face as he steps up behind you. "But you're laughing."

From over your shoulder, his gaze meets yours. Darker than the first time.

"Yeah," he mutters, in that deep, grumbly fashion that makes your knees weak, "'Cause 'm 'bout to do this." And before he can so much as finish his sentence, his frozen hands dart beneath your shirt. Palms pressing against your warm belly. Firm, even as you yelp. Trapped between his arms, unable to jump anywhere but back into his chest.

"Rhett!" But you can't get away. Squirming, stumbling in his grasp. Strong enough to force your bodies to stumble forward. Not enough to break free of the frigid fingers danging up your sides.

"Jesus, why're y' so fuckin' strong?" The only disadvantage Rhett has is the socks clinging to his feet. Unable to gain a hint of traction on this hardwood floor. Slipping, sliding around. "Y' little bull."

Speaking is beyond you. Breathless as your feet dig into the scratched wood. Pushing yourself backward, Rhett's back thunking into the wall.

He's laughing.

You're at the end of your rope, and he's laughing.

Scowling, you push back a little further. The soft curve of your ass pressing into his jeans, drawing those chuckles into a guttural groan that tickles down your spine. Weakening the slightest bit at the way you wriggle against him, feeling the way he twitches, hardening until he's straining against the material.

Your name falls off his lips. Hardened arms, now soft, hugging you against him, powerless to do anything else. The brim of his hat bumps against your head as he leans into you, putty in your hands.

He doesn't say a word, but the hot breath on your neck tells everything you need to hear.

Slow, you spin, twisting in his arms until you're nose to nose. Your hand free to reach down and slip between his legs, cupping him through his jeans. Drinking in that shaky breath, the way he pushes into it, and how his eyes flutter. A pretty show, all for you.

You know that you shouldn't be tugging on his zipper; Cecelia's van is bound to roll up the snowy driveway at any moment, with food ready to head into the oven and gifts to be opened by the tree, fresh home from their California ventures. There is no time for this, and yet your thumb is popping open his button, too-cold fingers venturing inside.

That pretty mouth falls open. Jolting as your hand wraps around him, remaining still in that helpless sort of way while you draw him out. Until his cock is fully out, in the middle of this hallway, right by the front door. Growing harder in your grasp, only takes two slow pumps of your fist to get him all the way there. Aching. Yearning.

"Why're you so quiet all of a sudden, cowboy?" You whisper a taunt uttered so quietly that it ought to be poetry.

His Adam's apple bobs, tongue darting out to wet his lips. But he doesn't say anything.

No, he's quiet.

Even as you take a fistful of his jacket, haul him off the wall, and back him into the living room. A wordless dance that bumps your noses together but never lets your needy mouths meet. His hands on your hips and yours on his chest, the only sound in the room that of your necklace jingling, an echo of the sleigh ride you were supposed to have.

Fortunately, you can think of a much, much better ride.

The backs of his knees bump into the couch, falling backward with an unceremonious thump. Springs squealing, something nameless popping in a fashion that can't mean anything good.

You don't care.

Neither does he. Too busy leaning forward and hooking his fingers in your waistband, gently tugging your pants down your thighs. All the while, you're unzipping your jacket, dropping it to the floor just as your legs escape the confines of all those layers. Suddenly, all too exposed in this not-so-warm house.

"C'mere," he breathes.

And oh, you do. Knees settling on either side of his hips, his lap the perfect cushion that you settle into, his hard cock squishing between your bodies, the fabric of your sweatshirt rubbing against it. Soft mouths collide. Hungry. All taking. Rough stubble brushing against your chin, with a kind of tingling burn that you've become all too familiar with. A dizzying clash intensified by the jingling of the cheap bells around your neck.

Blindly, your hand reaches off to the side, feeling about the cushion until the texture changes, suddenly running over smooth fabric and cold bells. Light in your gasp, so nonchalant that Rhett doesn't notice what you're doing until you've slid the headband behind his ears.

"Did you just stick them damn antlers on me?" His eyes remain defiantly shut as if it will help him avoid the festive decor now perched on his head.

"I told you I had something else in mind," your reminder doesn't go without one of his grunts, bordering amusement.

That pretty mouth opens, tongue lifting with the beginnings of a word that never makes it out of his throat. Silenced into a gasp, all at the way your hand wraps around him again. Thumb massaging directly under his flushed tip, exactly how he likes it.

"Shouldn't the one wearin' the bells be the deer?" His complaint so weak that it hardly sounds like one at all. Head tilting back to rest against the cushion, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. His hands running between your bare thighs, not stopping until his palm cups your sex through your underwear.

For a moment, your resolve wavers, "Do you want to wear the bells, too?" Taunt shaky. Struggling to keep that same tone.

The glint in his eye suggests a strong, absolutely not.

You're rapidly losing ground here. For every stroke of your hand on his cock, his fingers stroke the meet of your folds, separated by that tiny bit of fabric. So close to pushing inside, fucking you nice and slow on them until you whimper for him to stop.

The rational part of your brain expected him to pull the fabric down your legs, much like he had with your sweatpants. But that's not what he does. No, he's dipping a finger into the band and pulling it off to the side, bearing your wetness to the not-so-warm house.

"Fuckin' drippin'," he muses, all to himself, thick fingertips stroking up to your clit, swirling gently, "'n I ain't even done nothin' to ya."

It's hard to think. Thoughts coming to a screeching halt. Only able to focus on the hammer of your heart and the delicious drag of his fingers as they nudge into your entrance. Two sliding in with surprising ease, still open and stretched from how he woke you in the middle of the night. Cock sliding between your thighs until you had reached down to ease him in, drifting in and out of sleep as he fucked you nice and soft.

The memory is as fuzzy as a dream, the soreness your only indicator of it ever happening. Did you ever hit your peak? Did he? You don't remember.

"Fuck," he grumbles, fingers bottoming out so easily that your vision sparkles at the edges, "did I stretch ya out that much, baby?"

"Don't get too full of yourself, cowboy," but your threat is empty, not a shred of seriousness to be found. Even your hand can't muster the strength to squeeze him tighter than necessary, a little warning that would make him jolt.

Instead, you're stuck lazily stroking him, some repetitive movement that hardly keeps your mind off the devilish fingertips running along the inside of your dripping cunt, searching for where you're more sensitive. His thumb lazily pushing between your folds, nonchalantly nudging against your clit.

Your breath catches.

"There it is," Rhett's grinning, rubbing against that soft bundle of nerves in loose circles that damn near make your eyes cross, "'s that feel nice?"

The wriggling of your hips is enough of an answer. Grinding down into him, chasing more of those deliciously thick fingers, can't think about anything else. Just him and the sickly, wet sound he's drawing out of you with every thrust. Thumb working your clit in loose tandem, so good that you can't even move your hand over his cock anymore.

"Wanna," gulping, you try again, "wanna ride you."

His smile widens, already beginning to draw his hand away, "All y' had t' do was ask, darlin'."

Your knees ache as you move to sit up, digging into the broken-down cushion of the couch, a poor cushioning that's remedied by the nudge of Rhett's cock against your cunt. Blunt, dripping tip dragging through your wet folds, kissing your weeping entrance.

His palms settle on your hips, fingers tracing loose circles into your chilly skin, a soft guide that leads you down onto him. An ache blossoming as you stretch to take him. Can never seem to grow used to how thick he is. Engorged veins and dripping like a goddamn faucet, so good that you don't mind the waddle this will surely put in your step.

"Fuck," his breathing growing heavy, squeezing on your sides. Sweat already beads at his forehead, loose strands of hair sticking, a beautiful sight that ought to make you faint.

That fat tip finally slips inside, dragging against your walls as you sink down onto his lap. Has you pulsing and fluttering around him from the fullness alone. Filling you until your chest feels too tight, panting for breath that you can't hold onto for more than a second. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, head dropping down until it knocks against his.

Eye to eye, panting into each other's mouths in the golden light of the Christmas tree. Sinking lower and lower until your ass meets his thighs, pussy so full of him that it's almost too much to handle.

"God," he grunts, "y' take me so goddamn good."

The bells on his antlers jingle as he shifts his weight, leaning back to get a better look at where he disappears into you. Two thick fingers dip between your shivering thighs, feeling the space he's spread you the widest. Absolutely enthused.

Your first movement is marked by the sharp jingle of bells. Chiming their song as you lift your body about halfway, only to sink back down. Eager to feel the caress of his cock against those spasming nerves, so good that you have to remember to shut your mouth before you begin to drool.

It's not quite as rhythmic, but it sounds like the bells Isabella was meant to wear. Punctuating the motion of your body as you work up a comfortable pace. Leaning forward into Rhett's warm chest, your arms still looped around his neck, mouths clashing in a too-messy kiss that leaves your lips shiny.

"My cock feel that good in you?" He's speaking into your mouth in between wet kisses. Already a thin trail of saliva connecting your tongues before they can even meet, tangling with a lewdness that ought to make a sinner blush. "Talk to me, doll."

You're not even thinking about what he's saying. Already have an answer resting at the forefront of your mind. "Always."

The cushions are digging painfully into your knees. Hasn't been meant for this kind of activity since the early 2000's. But you're powering through, desperately chasing the fullness of every meet of your hips. Sucking in your own sounds in favor of drinking in Rhett's sharp inhales, faint little noises that send a wave of heat between your legs.

So good, so good, so good. You want more, but your thighs can't keep up. Aching worse than your overstretched sex, protesting the rise and fall that you can't get enough of.

"Look at you," he marvels, nose bumping into yours, nudging impossibly closer to your bouncing frame. "Already outta breath 'n ya just started."

You don't know if it's his voice or the twitch of his cock that sends a shiver up your spine, spasming involuntarily around him. Rips any shred of annoyance from your words as you pant, "Riding you isn't a walk in the park, cowboy."

His hips jerk up. Snapping into your pussy with a wet smack, downright smug as he drinks in your cry. Too sinful of a noise to echo through the halls of his childhood home.

"'s that better?" God, you could wipe that wicked smirk right off his face. But he's doing it again. And you're helpless but to shudder and take it. Sucking in a breath just before he punches it out of your lungs. Bells jingling like a proper fucking sleigh ride.

Your head feels too heavy for your shoulders to carry, falling into the space between his neck and collar, weakly hanging on as he fucks up into you. Running your burning tongue across the protruding vein there, drinking in his breathy moan.

But just the slight shift in your position has him striking something new. The kind of thing that makes your vision sparkle and your body spasm.

"Right there," whimpering into his ear, barely audible over your necklace, "please—Rhett!"

"Yeah?" He's trying it again, but he barely misses. Feet slipping across the wooden floor, struggling for the leverage he needs to buck up into you. Falling into weakened rolls that grind his cock in your pussy. Gentle rolling of hips that leave your nails biting into his shoulder.

All of a sudden, the room is spinning. Rhett's weight surging up to swing you to the left, your back bouncing against the ratty old couch. Impossibly remaining deep inside of you, his hips never once slipping from between your warm thighs. Necklace singing its shrill tune in your ears as he refinds his rhythm.

Now, he can hit those frazzled nerves. Drilling into it with a fervor that makes you worry about how you'll get up the stairs later. A price you're so, so willing to pay. Back arching off the cushion, legs squeezing those muscular hips as he fucks you deep. Long strokes that squelch with every inward thrust.

"Oughta ruin this lil pussy," he's growling into your ear, a threat he's certain to follow through on if the squealing springs are anything to go by, "fuckin' droolin' 'round my dick."

Drooling is an understatement. You're drenched. A slick mess that has run down your shivering thighs, staining the front of his jeans and glistening on his cock. An obscene sight for every withdrawal of his hips, and that alone is enough to have your skin prickling. Crying high in your throat as your head thumps back against the couch, nails biting into his shoulders until you're certain the material may rip.

You're close. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you're close, but it's not enough. No, it's not, it's not—

Rhett's rough thump presses against your throbbing clit. It's hardly even moving, and yet your mouth is falling open with a stuttered moan. You're right there. So close to the edge that your heart stutters in your chest, and your head is beginning to spin.

"This what you need, hm?" Rhett's egging you on, no doubt, can feel the way your pussy pulses around him, fluttering like a butterfly as he works you closer and closer. "Come on, sweetheart, cum 'round my cock for me."

You don't need any further coaxing. Orgasm hitting you so hard that you've barely got time to register it. Spine arching off the couch, heels digging into Rhett's ass, squeezing him so close that he can hardly draw out of you.

"That's it, baby, that's it," he's talking you through it, lips brushing against your cheek, but you can hardly feel it. Too wrapped up in a spiral of bliss. "Just like that, shit."

Weak, your legs loosen, freeing him to start moving again. Jerkily thrusting into your pulsing heat, moaning low in your ear as he works himself closer and closer, and all you can do is hang on. Biting down overstimulated squeals in favor of gasping into his ear.

"Cum in me, Rhett," you coax, shaking fingers clutching the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. "Please."

Those deep noises spur up an octave, pitchy as he whimpers, eyes squeezing shut. He's almost there, so close that he's begun to shiver from head to toe, erratic breath fanning out against your skin. Weak, you clamp down around him.

And that's all it takes.

Hips snapping into you one last time, cumming in you with a fractured nose, torn between a grunt and a desperate cry. Twitching deeper inside, punctuated by short little groans that nearly make your eyes roll into the back of your head. His spasming cock filling your pussy until you become vaguely aware of the new wetness. Marked from the inside out, sure to run down your thighs like a symbol of what belongs to him.

For a moment, the room is quiet—nothing but heaving breaths and indescribably faint noises, your cheeks squished against each other. Until you find the strength to tilt your head and press a kiss to his jaw.

Even this close, it's hard to miss Rhett's smile as he leans over to reciprocate the peck, "I love you."

"I love you more," you giggle, squeezing him a little closer now as if the centimeters of space between your chests is too much.

He could argue with you. Hell, you're certainly expecting for him to, and it seems that he gives it a moment of thought, before surrendering to the after-glow and letting you get away with it. He'll surely get you back for it soon. Start a contest you're rarely able to win.

But for right now, all you can do is snuggle into each other, his comforting weight settled on top of you. With wordless kisses and nuzzles of cold noses, his big hands roaming beneath your shirt to stroke the soft skin there, stubble scratching your cheek in the softest fashion he can manage. There's an ache blooming in your legs from being wrapped around his hips for so long, but the idea of him pulling out feels even worse.

"'m still takin' you on a proper sleigh ride," he grumbles into your ear, some soft-spoken promise that fills your belly with frosty butterflies.

But you don't get to formulate a response because all of a sudden, his phone is ringing. Cecelia, ten minutes out from the house, her careful voice backdropped by Royal's snoring from the passenger seat. She's wrangled a friend into plowing the quiet strip of road leading to the house, making room for the old car to crawl past.

You're cleaned up and on the porch, before the drive is even plowed. Snug under Rhett's arm, feigning clinginess to disguise the wobble in your knees, sore between the legs, and waddling like a festive penguin.

Nobody notices, too thrilled with the idea of presents and warm dinner to look into the finer details. Except for Rhett, that is. A smug, irritating grin plastered upon his pale face for the entire afternoon. Proud of his handiwork.

The sleigh bells were in Cecelia's trunk. Had accidentally landed there when she had taken the harness to the tack repair shop back in October, and in her rush to get everything packed for the trip, she forgot to take them out.

As the sun begins to set and you're helping Cecelia put away the dishes, Rhett's head pops around the corner. Snowflakes clinging to his hair, nose red as can be, asking to steal you away for the rest of the afternoon.

And outside the house stands his beloved mare. Her mane was braided, and her bells chiming proudly in that festive fashion exclusive to Christmas. She's rusty at first, taking a moment to remember what Rhett's asking of her, but she's perfect. Content to make her way down the snow-white driveway, jet black tail swishing from side to side.

"Is this the sleigh ride you've been dying to take me on?" You giggle. Your chin propped on his shoulder, peering over at his grinning, wind-bitten face.

"Mhm," his head tilts to rest against yours, "but I think I liked your idea a little better."

It takes an hour longer than usual for you two to return from the barn that night.

#rhett abbott #rhett abbott x reader #oneshot #outer range #x reader #a lew magoo christmas

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the-transid-gacha · 3 months

Note

Name: Lulu, Noctilionine, please lots of names.

Gender: femme boygirl xenogirl nyuhafu man, doll/cute/undead/winter xenos please.

TransIDs: transhikikomori, permakigurumi, crutchian, transmuette.

CisIDs: cotards, ball-jointed doll, taxidermy, permapatient, caneian, autistic.

Pronouns: ♡t/♡ts, lace/lacie, suki/kirai, ghw/ghwst. lots of pronouns please

Species: none needed. ball jointed doll, marionette, porcelain doll, ragdoll lalaloopsy, plush, banette, ghost, ghost-type, yokai, jiangshi, zombie, undead, vampire, dhampir, ghoul, lamb, bunny, seraphim, angel, AI, program, virus, android, vocaloid.

Ages: dollage, permateen, mortemchro.

Sources: artiswitch, more if you think they fit.

Roles: currently facet of median system host, roles needed please.

Appearance: Lulu (artiswitch) but otherwise need add ons from trans/cisIDs please.

Also add: fashion style, add on from gothic lolita please.

Likes: parasols, sunflowers, ice cream, porcelain tiles, plushies, crowds, cuteness, cats, traffic lights, heights, short nails.

Dislikes: summer, meat, the blue of the sky, tanning, sweat, t-shirts, carbonated things, yelling, people, the sound of honking, post boxes, used clothes, school, home, split ends, trains, clocks, pidgeons, gossip, toxic masculinity, dirty children.

Paras: big 3, biasto, somno, musk, hoplo, plusho, sangui, add more please.

Emoji sign offs: 🌀

Names: Lulu, Noctilionine, Neo, Luna, Dollie, Blue, Gray, Cumulus, Cyclone, Cryo, Mari, Nina, Bun, Bunny, Angel, Angie, Lola, Or Mia

Genders: Femme, Boygirl, Xenogirl, Nyuhafu man, Dollgender, Dollboygirl, Shatteredollgender, Cutegender, Cutecoric, Xenocollector, Cutecreature, Cutefluffysoftgender, Undeadgender, Corpsegender, Mascdead, Femdead, Cryptfluid, Lovizomb, Winterspacic, Wintercoric, Snowgender, Genderfrio, Winteress, Wintergirl, & Winterfrilled

Orientations: Hypersexual, Abrosexual, Abromantic, Frayromantic, Panromantic, & Gaybian

TransIDs: TransHikikomori, PermaKigurumi, Crutchian, TransMuette, TransGeneration, TransSDAM, TransUniverse, Trans2019, PermaARG, NullJoints, TransShopaholic, NullDNA, TransBlankQueer, NullSpine, TransFrontTriger, TransSweetTooth, TransJiraikei, TransLobotomizer, TransDesire, TransOpinionFluid, TransAIWS, TransPersonality, TransCultMember, TransConcept, TransDysphoria, TransVegetarian, TransProgrammed, & TransProgrammer

CisIDs: Cotards, BJD, Taxidermy, PermaPatient, Caneian, Autistic, PermaWeight, Manipulative, OCD, Secret admirer, Obsessive, Catalepsy, Photophobia, Epilepsy, Sleep paralysis, Narcolepsy, PermaBandaged, CIPA, PermaEarly, & Multilingual

Pronouns: ♡t/♡ts, Lace/Lacie, Suki/Kirai, Ghw/Ghwst, Doll/Doll's, She/Her, D♡ll/D♡ll's, It/It's, Marionette/Marionette's, Puppet/Puppet's, Ragdoll/Ragdoll's, Vamp/Vamp's, Zomb/Zomb's, Z♡mb/Z♡mb's, Undead/Undead's, Bun/Bun's, Bunny/Bunny's, Lamb/Lamb's, Virus/Virus's, & Glitch/Glitch's

Species: BJD, Marionette, Porcelain doll, Ragdoll, Lalaloopsy, Plush, Banette, Ghost, Ghost-type, Yokai, Jiangshi, Zombie, Undead, Vampire, Dhampir, Ghoul, Lamb, Bunny, Seraphim, Angel, AI, Program, Virus, Android, & Vocaloid

Ages: Dollage, PermaTeen, & Mortemchro

Source: Artiswitch

Roles: Facet of median system host, Protector, Reducer, Artisan, Experiencer, & Extirpator (TransProgrammer)

Likes: Parasols, Sunflowers, Ice cream, Porcelain tiles, Plushies, Crowds, Cuteness, Cats, Traffic lights, Heights, & Short nails

Dislikes: Summer, Meat, The blue of the sky, Tanning, Sweat, T-shirts, Carbonated things, Yelling, People, The sound of honking, Post boxes, Used clothes, School, Home, Split ends, Trains, Clocks, Pigeons, Gossip, Toxic masculinity, & Dirty children

Paras: Big 3, Biastophilia, Somnophilia, Musk, Hoplophilia, Plushophilia, Sangui, Dacryphilia, Cordophilia, Ecouteurism, & Voyeurism

Emoji sign off: 🌀

Fashion styles: Gothic lolita, Lolita, Jiraikei, Gyaru, Creepy cute, Cyberpunk, Grunge, & Pastel goth

Appearance:

Here you go!!!!

-Nina!!

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hergan416 · 9 months

Text

@xokiddo tagged me in this post and I actually didn't miss it I am just behind on replies and such.

(replies?? hergie are you still running an RP blog you don't know about? ANYWAY I'm behind.)

The general premise is to post recaps of our favorite works that we've written for the year and then tag some folks.

If you take this meme from me, please do like I did here and create your own post, tagging me. Don't add on as a reblog to this post. Sorry I'm Old and Resist Change.

Lets tag some writers...

@nenya85 @winxhelina @kaibacorpintern @touchmycoat @mydetheturk @user-needs-new-hyperfixation @seeingteacupsindragons (I know you don't do fanfiction but if you want to promo some of your original writings you put on tumblr or something else?) @leviathiane @sakuplumeria @rivaltagonist @vitya-nikiforova and anyone else who wants to!

Fics below the cut!

Poison Paradise (sherlouis, rated E(xplicit), background alwill)

I thought I couldn't stick with a longfic before this. Seriously. Thank EVERYONE so much for the reception on this. This is perhaps the thing I am most proud of from this year.

Malafide (sherliam, rated M(ature), drug use)

I think this is stylistically my best work this year. I actually put in effort into figuring out why I wanted to tell the story I was telling, into the word choice and description, into making sure it behaved "as intended." It tries to actually say something, and I believe it succeeds. Although it is also a bit of a "mortifying ordeal of being known" work for me too.

Gravitational Pull May Vary (various pairings, chapters have ratings ranging from T(een) to E(xplicit) and are each standalone)

I'm so glad I chose to write a bunch of short stories for Albert's birthday. It was a very fun exercise, and I got to try out a bunch of pairings I haven't otherwise written. I hope to repeat the experience with different characters at some point.

Relay / What Louis Wants (M(ature) & (Explicit), alwill and moriarthree)

I regret not continuing more of this series -- it is fun and I still have additional headcanons I want to describe via a third fic (or more). I just have so many other wips now. I really enjoyed Louis' perspective in the first chapter of What Louis Wants, and I really think I managed to capture what I wanted of the AW relationship very well in Relay, it wasn't just smut.

Midnight Stroll (E(xplicit), louiliam with background sherliam, dubcon/non-con, somnophilia)

I just want to add something from my more recent ... uh "horny era" [don't ask me how it go hornier] and honestly-- this one is dark and probably not for everyone. But I had fun writing it, and there are some things that were premises (Like Louis actually being kind of close in size to Sherlock, especially post-TS) that are worth exploring, even if most people might not have chosen this to do it.

#thank you for the tag!#moriarty the patriot #my writing #self-promo

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ceijoh · 3 years

Photo

CEIJOH’S MASTERLIST

–sorted by school, then by genre–

[for headcanons/short scenarios that contain multiple characters will be listed at the bottom]

*other manga/anime characters can be found at the bottom*

key:

angst (a)

fluff (f)

smut (s)

time-skip (ts)

AOBA JOHSAI

full fics

seijoh 4

but i love you, so please, let me go

[You knew that it was going to happen, you’ve prepared yourself this whole year for it, so why does it still break your heart watching your best friends take their final step from high school?]

themes: angst, fluff, comfort fic

headcanons

seijoh 4

busy thinking about the seijoh 4 boys (18+ ed)

[Various headcanons about the seijoh 4 boys and you. 18+ only]

themes: gangbangs, mention of drugs, double penetration, orgy, public sex, cockwarming, spit kink, ass play, cumplay, somnophilia

how the seijoh 4 boys eat you out (18+)

themes: cumplay, eating out, spit kink, choking, public sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, gangbangs

m. issei

you get jealous of their manager (a) (f) (s)

themes: jealousy, angst, fluff, suggestive themes

FUKURODANI

b.kotaro

you get jealous of their manager (a) (f)

themes: jealous, angst, fluff

INARIZAKI

full fics

multiple boys

osamu x f!reader x suna x atsumu (ts) (s) 18+

[You fuck Osamu and Suna, and then Atsumu joins in.]

themes: cumplay, choking, foursome/orgy, mxm action, implied cheating by both osamu and reader, public sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, rough sex, implied double penetration (at the end), breathplay, spit kink, past threesome mentioned

s. rintaro

lollipop (f) (s) (ts) mdni 18+

[Suna wants to share his lollipop with you.]

themes: smut, inappropriate use of a lollipop, dry humping, humping, cum play, kinda spit-kink

m. atsumu

but i love you, so please let me go (a) (ts)

[In hindsight, it really wasn’t supposed to end like this. If this had to end in Atsumu’s book, it would have ended in a different way.]

themes: angst, allusions to infidelity

18th of June [18:56] (a) (ts) part two to ‘but i love you, so please let me go’

[It’s funny how someone in your life can go from what you call ‘home’ -that brings you warmth, safety and comfort, to someone when you think of their name your heart suddenly feels heavy, a tight uncomfortable grip on your throat appears.]

themes: angst, allusions to past infidelity

24th of September [20:38] (f) (ts)

[You trusted each other, that’s why your relationship worked, that’s why at night when Atsumu’s away in a different country for a match you can sleep peacefully. You can disregard any rumours or ‘news’ that comes up on your feed, or from your friends with a wave of your hand.]

themes: a little bit of angst, fluff

you get jealous of their manager (a) (f) (s)

themes: jealousy, angst, fluff, suggestive themes

just him [a] [f]

[Atsumu just wants to plan his proposal to you. Will it go the way he wants to?]

themes: angst (if you squint), fluff, humour

cockwarming the setters (s)

[You cockwarm Atsumu.]

themes: smut, cockwarming, spit kink, degradation, choking

they snap at you pt 1 [atsumu and aone] (a) (ts)

themes: angst

holy ground (a) (f) (ts)

[In which Miya Atsumu is completely in love with you and you find that very hard to believe.]

themes: angst, humour, fluff

my wish is you (a) (f) (ts)

[Where his best friend is in love with him.]

themes: angst, jealousy, insecurities, doubts, fluff

m. osamu

osamu gets a new set of knives and you want to play (s) (ts)

themes: DARK CONTENT, kn*fe play, bl**d play, impact play, choking, degradation, rough sex, hickeys (both osamu & reader), creampie, biting (reader bites osamu hard enough to draw blood)

you get jealous of a manager (a) (f)

[themes: jealousy, angst, self-doubt, osamu is kinda toxic here ngl but he makes up for it, fluff]

ITACHIYAMA

s.kiyoomi

contrition (a) (f)

[Sakusa was never good at voicing out his feelings for you and he fears that because of this he doesn’t deserve you.]

themes: angst -on sakusa’s part, fluff

KARASUNO

s.daichi

you get jealous of their manager (a) (f) (s)

themes: jealousy, angst, smut, fluff

NEKOMA

k.tetsuro

you get jealous of a manager during training camp (a) (f) (s)

themes: jealousy, angst, fluff, smut

10:53 am (a)

[You’re tired of Kuroo flirting with other women.]

themes: angst

DATE TECH

a. takanobu

they snap at you pt 1 [atsumu and aone] (a) (ts)

themes: angst

shiratorizawa

MULTIPLE CHARACTERS [HAIKYUU]

someone else tries to kiss them (a) (f)

the ones that realised too late (a)

why you’ve never doubted their love for you (f)

MULTIPLE CHARACTERS [HAIKYUU FT. OTHER ANIME/MANGA]

it’s not cheating, right?

[It’s not cheating if he doesn’t enter you, right?]

themes:infidelity (reader and character cheat with each other). smut, humping, grinding, over excessive use of the word ‘cunt’, implied creampie

who spits in your mouth vs who gets you to spit in their mouth

[Who spits in your mouth vs who gets you to spit in their mouth.]

themes: contents/warnings:18+, spit kink (duh), degradation, impact play, choking, boys being mean :( (but it’s okay because they do it out of love and you’re horny)

#cei.mainmasterlist #haikyuu x reader

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wri0thesley · 1 year

Text

midnight musings - dottore x reader x pantalone (1.3k)

if they can agree on one thing, it is that you are most intoxicating asleep, when they can do whatever they want.

cw: somnophilia, drugged reader, dubious consent, talk of double penetration. reader is afab and wears a nighgown, but no gendered terms are used. dottore is himself. not sfw, minors dni.

[a/n: another little fic from my birthday random number generator kick! this one gave me dottore, pantalone and somnophilia. i am always a sucker for a harbinger fic!]

It’s hard for them to decide how they like you most.

The two of them have differing opinions on it. Dottore likes you a little tearful, or a little desperate - when he injects one of his many concoctions into the crook of your elbow and watches how it changes you. The way you start panting so prettily when it’s some kind of stimulant - the way you look up at him with your eyes blown wide and your lips wet. Pantalone likes you servile and obedient with your head bent at his knee, smiling prettily up at him when he says his name but otherwise being quiet and well-behaved aside from when he tells you to bend over his desk and let him work out his frustrations on the latest Northland Bank takings from Liyue.

As far as Harbingers go, Dottore and Pantalone work well together.

They are willing to work as one to achieve their goals, and those goals are not at odds with one another - a rarity amongst the Tsaritsa’s most trusted. Whilst the Harbingers loyalty to Her Majesty is unquestionable, there is no love lost between any of her lieutenants. But when it comes to Dottore and Pantalone . . .

Pantalone is all too happy to provide Mora to Dottore’s undertakings, as long as Dottore is willing to throw his power as the second ranked Harbinger behind Pantalone’s more governmental schemes. The two are willing to share conversation, offices - and sometimes even the bedroom.

Partly because in that bedroom is their most agreed upon treasure of all.

And too, it can be agreed upon, that you are utterly intoxicating when you sleep.

They come in weary from the night’s conversations to see you, sleeping peacefully atop the blankets covering Pantalone’s bed. It was agreed you would sleep in Pantalone’s chambers - Dottore’s are rather always a mess, the inner workings of a genius obvious in the mass of papers on every available surface, the constantly unmade bed, the vials and bottles and gears that scatter across his desk and bedside tables. Pantalone’s chambers in Zapolyarny Palace, by contrast, are rather more luxurious. A fire crackles in his hearth, his bed draped in bedspreads and blankets and furs - and the greatest of all treasures lies upon the bed in a diaphanous gown that does nothing to hide the tempting curve of your hip or spill of your breast beneath the fabric.

Pantalone lets out a soft sigh as he sees you. Dottore grins, his teeth sharp in the firelight.

“Such a pity to wake them up,” he says, as he stalks towards the bed and reaches out one gloved hand - his palm brushes across your cheek with the most gentleness that Dottore is capable of. You sigh prettily in your sleep, resting your cheek against him. “When they’re so peaceful like this.”

“Yes,” Pantalone agrees, humming low in the back of his throat as he comes to the other side of the bed and allows himself to sit upon the edge, sinking into the feather-stuffed mattress. His hand ghosts over your throat instead, following the curve to your collarbone and over the ripeness of your breast. His own hand brushes your nipple through the fabric, and you let out a deeper sigh this time, a soft little noise of satisfaction. Dottore chuckles.

“Ah, so needy even half-asleep,” he says, tracing your lips with his thumb. Unconsciously, your mouth opens, and Dottore takes the chance to insert the tip of that thumb between them. You murmur something softly beneath your breath before you suckle upon what Dottore has given you, and both men feel a stirring between their thighs, their cocks twitching as they imagine easing them into your sleeping mouth.

“Surely not the only place we’ll find wanting,” Pantalone says, quirking an eyebrow - and Dottore laughs again, the noise a little like a creaking gate. It is not the laugh of a sane man, but Pantalone has found that his presence and the promise of you has helped calm the Doctor’s fires just a little. His passions do not dim, so much as they find a new outlet - an outlet with a pretty mouth and a sweet treasure laying between their thighs just longing to be discovered and plundered.

They touch you for a little while longer. They cannot resist running hands over your hips, rucking up the hem of your nightgown until it rests above your breasts and your body is entirely on show for them. Pantalone’s fingers are slow and lingering - stroking over bare skin, tracing patterns that have you shivering in your sleep. Dottore is a little meaner - pinching your nipples when they are revealed, peaking in the cold air. He wins little whimpers from your mouth, a creasing of your forehead, a toss of your head . . . but you do not wake.

Pantalone always ensures that your nighttime hot chocolate - to keep you warm in the wilds of Snezhnaya, he says, with a smile on his face, and you have no reason to doubt him - features just enough of a soothing concoction pioneered by Dottore that you never awaken during these little night time play sessions.

You’re very lovely to have awake and reactive, responding to Dottore’s filthy murmurs and Pantalone’s praises . . . but there is something to be said, both Harbingers agree, to the silent acquiescence you give them whilst you sleep. You know exactly what is in your drink, of course - you have woken with love bites on your throat and stickiness between your thighs and two Harbingers sandwiching you between them enough times to make a guess - but you have no reason to fight it. Dottore especially can be . . . demanding. You have been so exhausted you have collapsed into unconsciousness after he has made you come more than once. Sometimes the sleep is a mercy.

Dottore bends his head to suckle more love bites into your neck as Pantalone parts the silkiness of your thighs, sighing softly when you’re revealed to him.

“They’re wet,” he says, his tone pretending to be off-hand. Dottore can hear the hunger beneath his words, though - Pantalone’s warmth is all show. He is as sharp as ice, just like the rest of the Harbingers. “How darling they are.”

Pantalone uses two fingers to spread you lewdly open, Dottore’s eyes glinting red in the darkness as he looks at you. Your folds are silky soft, webs of arousal glittering and shining in the firelight, your clit a pretty swollen pearl longing to be touched and sucked and rubbed and pinched until you squeal and whimper. His eyes drink you in greedily, drifting to the pulsing hole of your entrance; deceptively small, when Dottore knows you’ll stretch to take three of his fingers and the full girth of his cock.

You whimper again as Pantalone’s index finger brushes over your clit, a soft little hiccup of ‘more, please’ that has Dottore’s cock begging to be freed. Your hole clenches around nothing - empty. Wanting. Needing.

An idea flashes into his head as he watches Pantalone’s finger continue to make soft little circles about the nub, as he watches a drop of your slick leak from your empty cunt and pool beneath you.

“Regrator,” he says, that edge to his voice returning gleeful and vicious. “Have you ever wondered if our pretty little toy’s cunt could fit two cocks inside of it at once?”

There is a beat of silence. Pantalone looks thoughtful, his finger not ceasing in the gentle, rhythmic strokes of your clit. Dottore’s breath has gotten short, savage desire bubbling up inside of him as every moment passes. When Dottore gets an idea in his head, he wants to enact it as soon as possible. If one asked, he would say it is simply how the mind of a genius works.

Pantalone finally speaks.

“Why,” says Pantalone. “I’ve never thought much about it. But whilst they’re so very . . . docile . . .”

Pantalone’s smile is just as satisfied and knife-like as Dottore’s - but where Dottore is dangerous fang, Pantalone is all even pearl. Neither of them is a good man. But even a bad man takes good care of his favourite treasures.

“I think we ought to find out.”

#writing #dottore x reader #pantalone x reader #dottore smut #pantalone smut #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x reader #dub con for ts #somnophilia for ts #genshin impact posting

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