Angie

She | Her  ❤ 24yo

[angie-1306]

Welcome to my blog, dear you ♡

➼ You guys can call me Angie

➼ Writing blog: Pudimsuki (@ pudimsuki)

➼ I’m 24yo 

➼ I’m from Brazil (so yeah, I speak Portuguese ☀)

If you keep scrolling, you'll realize I like a lot of things. I'm an enthusiast, so feel free to talk to me about books, anime, movies, music... anything really!

[missisjoker]

Since HBO only gave us 4 minutes of Cregan Stark this season, and we likely will have to wait at least 2 years, if not all 4, to see him again, I'd like to bring to your attention some facts from canon to remind you just how BADASS canon Cregan is.

Fought his own usurper uncle for control of the North at the age of 16 and WON.

Fought the best sword of the 7 Kingdoms at that time, Dragonknight Aemon Targaryen to a DRAW and got praised by Aemon as the "finest swordsman Aemon has ever faced".

Marched South to uphold an oath he gave to a man he only saw once in his life to restore the monarchy- even though the said monarchy didn't give any help or care when his own seat was usurped by his uncle.

Installed so much fear of his own and his men's ferocity in battle in everyone south of Trident that when his main forces finally crossed the Riverlands, the Greens panicked and offed Aegon just to sue for peace.

Got pissed that by the time he reached Crownlands, the war was almost over. Took Kings Landing, wanted to go and take Castely Rock, Storm's End and Old Town (in no particular order). When Lord Tully rightfully mentioned that Cregan's men would die if he goes on to attack other kingdoms, Cregan replied " They died the day we marched, boy."

Became the Hand of the King and de-facto the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms for 2 weeks.

Dispensed judgment upon traitors, both the greens and the blacks. Hacked a few heads himself with his ancestral sword Ice, sent the rest to the Wall.

When Baela Targaryen begged him to show mercy to men who freed her from captivity, he refused. Not even the tears of a dragon could melt the frozen heart of Cregan Stark. But when lady Baela brandished a sword and declared she would cut off a head of any man who thought to harm the men who saved her, the Wolf of Winterfell smiled for all to see, and allowed that if her ladyship is so fond of those dogs, he'll permit her to keep them.

Made sure the new king is safe and sound.

Seeing that there was no Targaryen bride to take back to Winterfell to fulfill the Pact of Ice and Fire, released the Throne from the Pact and got himself a new bride.

Resigned his station and went back to the North, leaving half of his men to repopulate the South.

All of that at the ripe age of 23.

[high-speed-r]

I can’t tell you how excited I am for this in Season 4 but I just KNOW Ryan Condal is gonna fuck it up

[yenvengerberg]

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON Season 1 Episode 10, 'The Black Queen' Season 3 Episode 1, 'Salt and Sea, Fire and Blood'

[rottenbites]

JACE IS SO EAGER TO BED YOU, HE RIPS YOUR COREST

this was inspired after i read a kinktober fic by @wholoveseggs with this same prompt… which is a trope i love so much

“gods above.” your newly husband, jacaerys velaryon, had groaned, one palm pressed against the space where your neck met your shoulder, fingers dancing along your spine with your back faced to him. “is this corset supposed to be a labyrinth of sorts?”

his palm moved down the expanse of your back, nimble fingers tangling in the laces of your corset. tonight had been your wedding, and after years of betrothal and courting, years of pining and longing, jace finally had what he wanted in the palm of his hands.

the entire night, jace had been staring at you longingly, imaging when he was finally able to rid you of the albeit gorgeous dress you wore so he could ravish your skin. he’d wanted this for as long as he could remember, and now that it was finally happening, his eagerness ran hot and his patience ran thin.

a laugh bubbled from your lips, hands clasped in front of you in excitement and nervousness. “the maids made sure it was superbly confined to my frame.” your response had come out in a whisper, leaving jace to forget his frustration for a second to coo at your breathless voice. “i’m sorry, my love.”

“oh sweet girl,” jace breathed, the fingers entwined in your laces tugging harshly so your back pressed firmly against his front. you gasped, a blush creeping along your cheeks as jace’s nose bumped against your jaw. “don’t apologize. if you would only give me a moment…”

with a harsh downwards motion, jace yanked at the laces, the sound of fraying and pulled apart silk permeating through your ears as your beloved husband ripped the back of your corset wide open. a gasp so intense it shocked your bones tore from your lips, body jolting with jace’s ministrations.

the brute force of it all made you bite your lip, core becoming impossibly wet as you thought about jace using that type of strength with you when you finally bedded each other. as the corset loosened around your body, the hungry eyes of your husband took in your exposed frame, his tongue kissing his teeth before he spun you around, leaving the dress to pool at your feet.

“now theres my pretty girl.” you didn’t even have time to chastise jace for ripping your dress, the wily prince crooking two of his fingers, beckoning you over with a grin.

“c’mere.” jace ordered, voice holding a stroke of softness and dominance. “i can’t spend another minute not touching you.”

[romeinexile]

George R. R. Martin and his commitment to brown-haired firstborn pretty boys who exist purely to suffer emotionally, briefly thrive, and then meet an absolutely unceremonious tragedy.

[maybestrid33]

Bedrest

Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader - House of the Dragon (spoilers for s3 ep1!!)

Summary: Jacaerys survives the Gullet, so naturally the maesters have opinions about what he should and should not be doing during his recovery. Unfortunately for them, Jace has opinions too.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT hurt/comfort, handjob, oral (blowjob), eventual smut, near-death aftermath, medical treatment, injuries/blood, married couple shenanigans, excessive flirting, Jace Velaryon lobbying campaign

A/N: this works as a standalone or sequel to Saltwater, except this fic is significantly less angsty and significantly more "what if jace spent a month trying to argue with medical professionals." :) must admit i cracked myself up a lil writing this and also PLEASE send in reqs im running out of ideas

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 4.0k

A month after the Gullet, the castle still smells faintly of medicines, as though the sea itself has followed Jacaerys home and settled in the stone with him.

You have grown so accustomed to it that you hardly notice anymore.

A month ago, you would have given anything to smell it. A month ago, there had been blood. So much blood. But now there are only maesters, all the time.

Three of them stand gathered around the table right now near the window, speaking in low, serious voices while Jace sits in a carved chair looking increasingly irritated with every minute.

Sunlight spills through the narrow panes behind him, catching in his dark curls and turning the edges of them gold, softening him in a way that makes him seem almost boyish despite everything he has endured in the last couple weeks.

His injuries have faded from terrifying to merely alarming. The worst of the bruising is gone, the cuts have begun to heal, and colour has returned to his face, though not yet enough for you to relax.

Unfortunately for everyone else, so has his stubbornness.

You stand beside him with one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, partly affection but mostly precaution if you're being honest with yourself, because the prince has developed an unfortunate habit of forgetting that nearly dying is supposed to slow a person down.

"Your Grace is recovering admirably," Grand Maester Gerardys says at last.

Jace straightens immediately, as if the words themselves have restored him. Gerardys clears his throat with the patient air of a man who has spent his life delivering unwelcome truths to the powerful. "Recovering admirably, however, does not mean recovered."

Jace slumps back with all the theatrical suffering of a man condemned to the Wall. Gerardys continues as though he has not noticed the prince's offence.

"Your ribs are still mending. The wound to your side has not fully healed. The fever has passed, but weakness remains. Any unnecessary strain could set back his recovery considerably."

Jace folds his arms. "What strain?"

The three maesters exchange a glance, and you immediately become suspicious. Jace notices it too, his brows drawing together. "What strain?" he repeats, sharper this time.

Nobody answers.

The silence stretches, and stretches, and then stretches a little further, until finally the old maester clears his throat again, looking faintly pained. "This includes physical exertion."

Jace nods at once. "Yes, I gathered that, obviously."

"Excessive physical exertion."

"Yes."

"Particularly..." Gerardys pauses, and one of the younger maesters suddenly finds the floor fascinating. "...marital exertion."

The room falls completely silent.

For a single moment Jace simply stares at them. Then his face changes all at once, horror and outrage arriving together.

"I beg your pardon?"

You turn away quickly because you can already feel laughter rising in your throat and you know if you let it out now you will never stop. Beside you, Jace looks scandalised beyond measure. "What do you mean?"

"My Prince-"

"No." The word echoes off the stone walls. "Absolutely not. This is absurd and I refuse to accept it."

Gerardys remains maddeningly calm. "It is only temporary."

"Temporary?" Jace sounds personally betrayed. "You are forbidding me from bedding my own wife."

The younger maester goes slightly red. You stare very intently at the tapestry across the room, because if you look at Jace now you will lose whatever dignity you have left. He points an accusing finger at the entire collection of healers. "I survived a naval battle."

"Indeed."

"I was shot."

"Yes."

"I nearly drowned."

"Correct."

"And your conclusion is that my greatest threat is my wife?"

The maesters look vaguely embarrassed. Jace looks outraged. And suddenly, despite the lingering ache that still lives in your chest whenever you remember the sight of him bleeding on a bed, you feel lighter, because this is familiar. This is your Jace. He's alive enough to argue and complain. Alive enough to glare dramatically at innocent old men and be stubborn.

Your hand slips from the chair to his shoulder, and immediately he covers it with his own. Gerardys notices, and his expression gentles. "My Prince," he says, "the restriction is not punishment."

Jace groans. "I would beg to differ."

A few of the maesters smile despite themselves. Gerardys gathers his papers, "It is only another month."

Jace nearly chokes. "A whole month?"

"Perhaps less, if recovery continues."

"A month."

"You survived the Gullet. Surely you can survive a few more weeks."

Jace mutters something deeply disrespectful under his breath, and you squeeze his shoulder in warning and affection both. His fingers immediately tighten around yours as he looks up at you, exhaustion and frustration playing on his features.

You smile at him, and his expression softens immediately.

Then Gerardys speaks again, and the spell breaks at once. "And separate beds may also be advisable."

Jace's head snaps around, "No."

Silence settles over the chamber. Jace's hand remains wrapped around yours, firm and warm and immovable. "I nearly died, so I am not sleeping without my wife."

They exchange glances and then, wisely, surrender. "Very well."

You lower your head to hide your smile, because truly, there are battles even the maesters cannot win.

That evening the matter should have been settled, at least in theory.

The maesters had spoken, their instructions delivered and their warnings had been repeated no fewer than six times over supper, as though saying them often enough might somehow make Jace more inclined to obey.

Instead, he is attempting to negotiate, which is perhaps exactly what you should have expected from him and yet still feels faintly absurd when he is sitting there shirtless on the edge of the bed, looking incredibly offended by the very concept of restraint.

You sit beside him with a fresh roll of linen in your lap while he holds one arm lifted so you can reach the wound along his side.

The chamber is quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the distant, steady sound of waves striking the cliffs below; night has fully settled beyond the windows, leaving only darkness on the other side of the glass and the warm gold of candlelight within.

Carefully, you peel away the old bandage, and he hisses through his teeth at the movement. You glance up at once. “You are being dramatic.”

"Three arrows pierced my body.”

“A month ago.”

“It still counts.”

You make a skeptical sound and reach for the ointment, though you cannot quite keep the corner of your mouth from twitching. For a few moments silence settles between you. You smooth the salve across healing skin, studying the angry scar that is beginning to form there, the sight still makes something twist painfully in your chest.

There are moments when you look at him and see only Jace; your husband, your best friend, the boy who once raced you through castle corridors and stole lemon cakes from the kitchens with the shameless confidence of someone who had never once been told no in his life.

Then there are moments like this, when memory comes back all at once and with it the blood, the fever, the endless waiting, the terrible certainty, however brief, that you might lose him. Your fingers pause before you can stop them.

Immediately, his hand settles over yours.

He notices. Of course he does.

You lift your eyes, and his expression softens at once. “I am all right,” he says quietly.

“Mm.”

His thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles.

Then, because Jacaerys Velaryon possesses the survival instincts of an overconfident golden retriever, he says, “I still think the maesters are being unreasonable.”

You close your eyes for a brief, weary moment. You had been wondering how long it would take.

“You are recovering from grievous injuries.”

“I am recovering exceptionally well.”

“You still tire walking up stairs.”

“Well, I dislike those stairs.”

You begin wrapping the fresh bandage around his ribs. “They are not unusual stairs, Jace.”

"They are steeper than other stairs."

Despite yourself, you laugh, and his grin appears immediately. He tilts his head, thoughtful in the way that always makes you suspicious.

“What exactly constitutes marital exertion?”

You nearly drop the bandage. “Jacaerys.”

“It is a reasonable question.”

You finish tying the linen perhaps just a little tighter than necessary, and he winces. You feel no guilt whatsoever.

“They were quite vague,” he says after a moment.

“They were not vague. They were, in fact, extraordinarily clear.”

Jace considers this with the air of a man weighing evidence in a trial he has already decided to win. “Perhaps to you.”

“To everyone.”

“Not to me.” His smile widens, and you are suddenly struck by the realisation that the maesters should perhaps have prescribed confinement in separate castles.

“They said strain,” he says, as though he's continuing a perfectly sensible conversation.

“Yes.”

“And exertion.”

“Yes.”

“So theoretically-”

“No.”

“What if-”

“Jace.”

He stops, though only because he is laughing now, actually laughing, and the sound fills the room so easily that for a moment you forget everything else.

“You are impossible,” you inform him.

“I have been told.”

He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. His fingers close around yours with a warmth that feels almost unbearably familiar, and when he speaks again his voice has lost its teasing edge. “Another month is a very long time.”

You shake your head, smiling softly, but before he can begin constructing another ridiculous argument, you lean forward and press a kiss to his mouth.

The effect is immediate. Jace falls silent, blessedly, wonderfully silent, and when you pull back he blinks once, then twice, as though he has forgotten every thought he was having.

A second kiss lands at the corner of his mouth, then another against his cheek, and with each one his smile grows slower, softer, warmer, until by the third he has entirely abandoned his campaign against the maesters.

You feel rather proud of yourself.

He grins and reaches for you, and you allow him to pull you nearer. The blankets shift around you both as you settle beside him carefully, because he is still healing and you are both painfully aware of it.

His arm slides around your waist. Your head finds its familiar place against his shoulder.

The first week after the maesters' decree is irritating.

The second becomes ridiculous.

By the third, it's infuriating.

Jacaerys Velaryon approaches recovery the way he approaches every obstacle in his life: by refusing to accept that it is truly an obstacle at all.

If the maesters insist upon restrictions, then he will simply find exceptions.

One evening, as you sit beside him on the bed with your book open in your lap, he glances over and says, almost casually, “I stand by my opinion that their instructions were imprecise.”

You do not look up. “No.”

“They never actually provided definitions.”

You turn a page. “They are maesters, Jace, not scholars debating philosophy.”

He sighs, long-suffering and theatrical, and shifts a little closer.

Recently, he has become fond of finding excuses to sit beside you, or hold your hand, or drape an arm around your shoulders, or rest his head in your lap while insisting he is 'too weak' to move despite having spent the entire afternoon arguing in council.

“What if,” he begins. You close your eyes.

“What if,” he repeats, undeterred, “the concern is specifically overexertion?”

“It is.”

“Then surely the solution is simply avoiding overexertion.”

At last you lower the book and look at him properly. His expression brightens at once, as though he has won something merely by drawing your attention.

“Jace.”

“Yes?”

“No.”

He groans, and you return to your book.

Three nights later, he appears to have developed a new argument. You discover this when he is sprawled across the bed with his head resting against your shoulder, warm and comfortable and entirely too pleased with himself.

“What if,” he says thoughtfully.

You nearly laugh. “Again?”

“I have had several days to refine my position on the issue.”

“Gods preserve me.”

“What if I simply did not move very much? You could do all the... moving... uh, like difficult parts.”

You lower your embroidery hoop and glance down at him. He looks entirely sincere, which somehow makes it worse.

“Jacaerys.”

“I am not going to do any part because we are not going to do anything.”

He studies the ceiling for a moment, then turns his head just enough to look at you. “I think you are dismissing my proposals too quickly.”

“I think you enjoy hearing yourself talk.”

“I enjoy talking to you.”

Oh, you hate how good he is at being charming.

His arm slips around your waist. “You know,” he says quietly, “I do understand why you’re worried.”

The humour fades a little. You look at him, but his gaze remains fixed on your joined hands.

“You frightened me,” you admit.

Something flashes behind his eyes. “I know.”

Silence settles between you, gentle and sad and comfortable all at once. Then, because he is incapable of allowing a serious conversation to remain serious for too long, he lifts his head and says, “So that is still a no?”

You stare at him.

Jace immediately begins laughing, and when you throw a cushion at his face he catches it easily, looking delighted by the rejection.

Which, unfortunately, only convinces you that recovery is proceeding exceptionally well.

One morning at the beginning of the fourth week you're standing at the edge of the bedchamber, the salt-laced wind moaning through the open shutters as the last embers in the hearth crackle low.

Jacaerys is desperate today, even more than usual

He lies propped against the pillows, his bare chest rising and falling with quick, restless breaths, the angry red scars along his ribs and hip still mapped in fresh pink, but they are scars now, nonetheless.

It's been two months since the Gullet.

To the naked eye he seems fully recovered — he partakes in council meetings, goes on long walks with you along the shore, is no longer winded by those particularly steep stairs — but the maesters’ edict remains iron.

No strain, no exertion, no touch that might tear what they say has barely knit. Yet here he is, dark eyes fixed on you with shameless hunger, voice low and frayed.

“Please,” he murmurs, the words thick with frustration, his hand extended, palm up, fingers flexing as if he can already feel the shape of your waist.

“I cannot do this, I’m not some broken thing anymore. I feel you every night in my dreams, and then I wake up and you won't even let me touch you properly. I need your hand, your mouth, anything. Just… let me feel you again.”

He sits up a little straighter, a small grin finding his lips, voice dropping to a growl. “You’re aching too, I know it. Two months without feeling how wet you get for me-"

"Jacaerys, stop being so crude, you cannot possibly think-" but he continues, completely disregarding your objections.

"Gods, I’d give anything to see you under me like I used to, but I won’t move. I swear it. Just you, I'll even lie still.”

Your fingers tighten on the bedpost, because you cannot dent he's right. You do miss him, painfully so. You miss the feel of his hands on you and the stretch of him inside you, but reluctance still coils tight in your chest.

You take one hesitant step closer.

The cool stone floor beneath your bare feet gives way to the softness of the mattress as you perch carefully at his uninjured side, your fingers brushing the edge of the linen without yet touching him.

“Jacaerys,” you whisper, “I cannot, the maesters said-” But the way his hips twitch, just once, desperate and involuntary, stops the protest on your tongue.

A soft, helpless sound escapes him, and something shifts inside you, because this, in a way, is also him in pain, except this time you actually have the power to help him.

Your hand drifts over the sheet, hovering just above the bulge you can just start to see emerging beneath the linen.

“You must promise me you’ll lie perfectly still,” you remind him, the words gentle but unyielding, “There are reasons they forbid it; you could open one of the wounds.”

His dark eyes flash, jaw tightening as if he might argue, but apparently the months of forced stillness have left him too raw, too aching, and he nods once, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.

You smile then, small and maybe a little teasing, and let your fingertips graze the linen over the head of his cock.

Slowly you peel the sheet down, then work on the laces of his breeches before pulling them down and finally revealing him fully to the firelit air.

His cock thick and flushed dark, the vein along its length pulsing visibly as you wrap your fingers around the base with deliberate lightness, still not quite sure how this is going to go.

He groans, low and broken, head tipping back against the pillows, but he holds himself rigid as promised, muscles trembling with the effort.

You lean in, breath ghosting over the sensitive head, and press the softest kiss there, tasting the salt of him while your free hand rests lightly on his uninjured hip to remind him of the boundary.

“Only on my terms tonight, dearest husband,” you whisper against his skin, stroking him once, slow and torturous, savouring the way his breath hitches and his fingers clutch the bedding instead of reaching for you.

“I will give you this, you just lay there and let me take care you.”

You tighten your grip just enough to draw another shuddering groan from him, your thumb circling the slick head of his cock in slow, deliberate strokes that make his thighs tense against the sheets.

He’s so hard it must be painful, the heavy length twitching in your fist with every pass,

The sight of your big, strong husband, normally so commanding, now reduced to biting his lip to keep from thrusting stirs something warm and aching in your chest.

It feels like the biggest relief.

You still remember every moment of the last two months, watching him wince at every breath, lying awake beside his bandaged body while fear gnawed at you both, and now here he is, flushed and leaking for you, trying so hard to obey even as his hips give one tiny, involuntary roll.

It’s adorable, that stubborn flicker of dominance surfacing in the way he grits out your name, only for it to dissolve into a whimper when you lean down and drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft.

His fingers fist the bedding harder, knuckles white, and you can see the war in his eyes, the urge to grab your hair and guide you deeper warring with the maesters’ warnings and his own fragile healing.

“Fuck… just like that,” he rasps, voice cracking with need so raw it makes your own neglected body clench.

You take him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks with a soft suck that has him arching his head back.

It's as if you're watching him heal in real-time, because he’s becoming himself again, that fierce, passionate man who once pinned you laughing to the furs.

You hum around him, savouring the salt-bitter taste of him while your free hand strokes soothing circles over his tightening stomach.

You pull off just enough to murmur against the flushed skin, teasing the slit with the tip of your tongue until his breath stutters.

“Still, Jace.”

Then you resume your rhythm, slow, twisting strokes of your hand paired with wet, deliberate licks. He trembles beneath you, every suppressed sound proof of how desperately he’s craved your touch.

You quicken your pace with deliberate mercy, not seeing a point in dragging this out any longer than you have to, lips sealed tight around him as your tongue swirls and your hand pumps in steady rhythm, feeling the way his thighs quake despite his vow to stay still.

His voice breaks on your name, half-command and half-plea, while one of his hands finds your hair and grips tight, not that you mind at all.

Finally, he spills hot and pulsing across your tongue, thick spurts you swallow with a soft moan of your own. You keep stroking him through it, gentling your touch as the last tremors fade, watching the tension drain from his battered body until he lies boneless and breathless, dark eyes glassy.

For a long moment afterward, neither of you says anything.

The chamber is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire and the distant rhythm of the sea beyond the windows. The candles have burned lower than either of you realised, leaving the room washed in warm gold and shadow.

Jace lies beside you with that same dazed, contented smile still lingering on his mouth, as though he has not quite remembered how to put it away.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye and shake your head. “What?”

His smile only deepens. “Nothing.”

“Mhmm.”

He gives a quiet, breathless laugh and reaches for your hand where it still rests atop his stomach, threading his fingers through yours. His thumb moves over your knuckles, warm and absentminded.

The sight of him like this, softened and unguarded, makes something in your chest loosen.

You fuss over him out of habit more than necessity, fetching a washcloth, straightening the blankets around his hips and making certain he is comfortable, searching his face and posture for any sign that he has overdone himself despite every promise he made.

Jace watches the whole business with open affection, his expression growing gentler by the moment.

“My darling,” he murmurs, though there is no real complaint in it. You ignore him. “You are checking on me.”

“Someone has to.”

His teasing fades then, leaving something softer in its place. For a moment he simply watches you, and when he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, the gesture is so familiar that it catches you off guard all the same.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You look up at him.

The words are not playful nor triumphant, not even particularly clever. Your chest aches unexpectedly, because beneath all the bargaining and persistence and impossible shamelessness, you know what this has really been about.

Weeks of fear. Weeks of recovery. Weeks of being careful. Weeks of wondering whether life would ever feel normal again.

You squeeze his hand, and his fingers tighten around yours at once.

“You do not need to thank me.”

“I do.”

His voice is gentle. “I know I was insufferable.”

You giggle softly. “Do you now?”

Without either of you needing to say anything, Jace opens his arm toward you. You move into it at once, as naturally as breathing, as though you have done it a thousand times before. Because you have. Your head settles against his shoulder, his arm folds around your waist, and the blankets shift around you both as you settle more comfortably together.

Eventually you feel his lips brush lightly against your hair, a sleepy, lingering kiss that makes you smile before you can stop yourself.

“Tired?” you murmur.

“A little.”

“You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

The waves continue their endless song beyond the walls.

somehow i ended up writing a several-thousand-word account of jace velaryon attempting to find loopholes in doctor's orders. i regret nothing <3 lemme know if you guys liked this, trying to decide wether to write more for jace or not.

[hanginginthevoid]

If i had a nickel for every time a character that i cared so unbelievably deeply for died in the sea to a piercing wound, i would have two nickels. which isnt a lot but its weird that it happened twice right?

[neteiam]

SWEET!

the elders had asked you to wear a specific scent, even advising you to put it on only when you were alone. but things took an unexpected turn when your best friend came to your kelku and caught the scent.

warnings : (18+ MDNI), neteyam x omatikayafem!reader, explicit s3xual content, smut (P in V), aphrodisiac (?), consensual, dry hmping, grinding, marking, oral (f receiving), 😺 eater, fingering, handjob, light edging, light possessiveness, theyre both a freak for eo, cursing, praise k1nk, he talks u through it, reader is lowkey shy nd desperate, pet names, mature themes, strong language, etc. (lmk!!)

a/n : this was a request i got on my main account which is ironic cuz i dont even write for avatar there so im guessing anon prolly saw me liking something 😖 if u recognize my writing just keep it to urself hehe. also, just putting this out there ... english isnt my first language so i might mess up here and there. ill see how this post does, if it does well, i might actually start a neteyam account (i have a VERY long one in the making). if not… ill just leave this here then 👅

wc : 4k i think (no proofread)

Neteyam pushed aside the woven curtain of your kelku after a long hunt. His body was tired but he always looked forward to seeing you at the end of the day.

The familiar mix of herbs and flowers greeted him first, but then something else hit him hard, something that made his nose twitch.

He stepped closer, ears perked up in confusion. You were standing near the counter surrounded by bottles and dried herbs, just organizing them like usual.

No new batch was brewing. Yet that scent kept pulling him in stronger the nearer he got.

“What is that smell?”

His deep voice got you to look up at him, making you smile like you always did when he came back. “Oh, you’re back. How was the hunt?”

He did not answer right away. Instead he dropped his bow and walked to you, leaning in without thinking.

The scent was coming straight from your neck. It was sweet but addictive, something in it just made his tail curl behind him.

You tilted your head, giving him more access to your neck, but you were a little confused. “You okay?”

He breathed in deeper, almost pressing his nose against the side of your neck. “This scent… did you make this today?”

You laughed and shook your head. “No, I wasn’t making anything new. The other perfumers told me to test this one when I’m alone. They said it might be too strong for normal days. Do you not like it?”

Neteyam stayed still, breathing you in. His right hand rested on the counter, while his left gently gripped your waist, keeping you in place.

“It’s… really good. Too good.” He pulled back to look at your back properly. “You smell… really dangerous right now, y/n...”

You felt your cheeks warm up fast. He had never said anything like that before. “Dangerous? It’s just a perfume, skxawng.”

He turned you around, now you’re facing him as both his arms trapped you with the counter. “I have smelled all your creations, this is not your style. What did they put in it?”

You shrugged, trying to ignore how fast your heart was beating by his presence. “Some night blooming flowers, i think. A little musk from the forest, and something sweet they wouldn’t tell me the name of.”

Neteyam nodded but his eyes kept drifting back to your neck. “It suits you.”

You swallowed hard. The two of you had been best friends for years. He helped you test every scent, carried heavy baskets for you, and always gave the most honest feedback for your scents. But right now he was looking at you in a way that made your stomach flutter.

You nudged him like you always did. “C’mon, you’re just exhausted from the hunt. Go wash up before you start saying… weird things.”

He did not move though, instead leaned in again, nose brushing just under your ear. “I’m not that tired...” he whispered to your ear.

The air between you felt thicker now. You bit your lip knowing you had liked him for a long time, way longer than you would ever admit. I mean, how could you not, right? He was strong, respectful, kind, and always there for you.

But he was Neteyam, Toruk Makto’s first son, a mighty warrior, your best friend.

You were lucky enough to be even called his best friend.

“Neteyam…” you whimepred.

”Should I stop?”

You did not say stop. Instead you stayed quiet, cheeks burning hotter as he searched your face.

He moved first. His hand came up to cup your jaw gently, “May I?”

You gave a shy nod as he leaned in and kissed you. The kiss started slowly but quickly turned deeper. You kissed him back, heart pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

He moved closer, his body brushing against yours, making you gasp. Taking the moment, he deepened the kiss, when his tongue touched yours, you couldn’t help but let out a moan against his mouth.

You pulled away, putting your hands on his chest and the other on his biceps, breathing fast and blushing hard. “We… What are we doing?”

Neteyam rested his forehead against yours, chuckling. “that was better than any fantasy i’ve ever had.”

You laughed nervously befoee looking away. “Stop lying. You never said anything.”

He smiled a little, thumb brushing your cheek. “Because I didnt wanna ruin what we have. But this scent… I’m sorry... it’s making it very hard to hold back right now.”

You bit your lip, trying to calm your racing thoughts. You glanced at him, whose eyes shut tight, before your gaze drifted below to notice the bump beneath his loincloth.

Oh...

He lifted his face and kissed you again, harder this time. Your hands grabbed onto his shoulders as the kiss grew messy and needy.

You had dreamed about this more times than you could count, but feeling it for real was completely different.

When you broke apart again you were both breathing heavily. “Neteyam wait,” you said, voice shaky. “Are you sure? This isn’t the perfume talking?”

He shook his head and looked straight into your eyes. “The scent made me stop pretending.”

“Really now?”

“Trust me, baby, I have more to thank than just this perfume for making me act this way.”

Your chest felt tight at his words. You pulled his jaw back into another kiss, this one deeper and more desperate.

His hands moved to your waist, holding you closer. You could feel how hard he already was against your thigh. He lifted you suddenly, strong arms wrapping around your legs. Your back hit the wall of the kelku gently.

Neteyam pressed against you, mouth back on your neck as he breathed in that addictive scent again. “Fuck... you smell so good right here…” he groaned, lips brushing your skin before he started sucking.

You whimpered, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. He ground his clothed cock against your covered pussy. The friction made you moan into his shoulder.

“Neteyam… it feels…”

He kept grinding, one hand holding your ass while the other braced against the wall. “Tell me what you feel. I need to hear it.”

You gasped as he rolled his hips again. “It feels really good. Don’t stop.”

He marked your neck more, leaving small bruises while he kept rubbing against you. Your hands tangled in his braids, pulling every time pleasure shot through you.

It wasn’t helping knowing there was only fabric blocking you from the pleasure, but even then, it was enough to get you riled up.

Neteyam pulled back to look at you, eyes full of heat. “Is this okay?”

You nodded fast, cheeks flushed and breathing ragged. “It’s okay… please.”

He kissed you hard again, grinding slower but deeper against you. The conversation stopped for a moment as you both got lost in the feeling. Your fingers traced his chest, feeling how fast his heart was beating.

“Tell me what you like,” he whispered against your lips. “I wanna make you feel good.”

You bit your lip while whimpering. “I... like when you keep… kissing my neck like that. And keep m-moving like this.”

He did exactly what you asked, mouth back on your neck while his hips rolled against you. The friction on your clit through the thin loincloths was driving you crazy. You could feel how wet you already were.

Neteyam groaned against your skin. “You’re so warm already. May I take this off?” His fingers tugged at your top.

You nodded, lifting your arms so he could pull it away. He stared at your bare chest for a second before leaning down to kiss between your breasts.

You moaned louder, back arching off the wall. “Neteyam…”

He looked up at you. “So beautiful, baby…” His words made your heart flutter even more than the pleasure.

He kept kissing lower, mouth closing around one nipple while his finger played with the other. You held his head there, hips still grinding against him desperately.

The intimacy between friends was still there in the way he checked your face every few seconds, making sure you were okay and you wanted this, too.

After a while he pulled back and carried you toward your sleeping mat. He laid you down gently, hovering over you. “Still okay?”

You reached up and pulled him down for another kiss. “More than okay. I can take you, Neteyam. Hurry.”

He grinned against your lips. “Yeah? You can?” His hand slid between your legs, fingers brushing over your soaked loincloth. “You’re really wet, yknow?”

You blushed harder and tried to hide your face. He chuckled and pulled your hands away. “Do not hide. I love seeing you like this.”

He kissed you again as his fingers pushed the cloth aside and touched you directly. The slow build continued as he explored you with his fingers, learning what made you moan the loudest.

You returned the favor, stroking him through his loincloth until he was panting into your mouth. He kissed you like he had been holding back for years, technically speaking, he is.

His hand moved to your wrist that was teasing him, gently pinning it beside your head before he kissed you again. you kissed him back just as eagerly, soft whimpers slipping out each time he sucked on your bottom lip.

Neteyam groaned and buried his face in your neck again, inhaling that addictive scent while grinding his tewng against your pussy.

“Fuck… so good,” he groaned against your skin. He started kissing and sucking on your neck, leaving marks while his clothed tip rolled into you. You whimpered loudly, hands gripping his shoulders as heat rushed through your body.

“Please...”

As he inhaled your neck, he untied his loincloth to free his ccock that was hard and throbbing, the tip already leaking, and pulled one of your legs around him, pressing you closer so he could rub against you.

Your whimpers cut off when he ground against you harder, his cock rubbing right against your clit. Both of you moaned at the same time.

He lifted his head and looked down at where the two of you were caught in the moment, breathing heavily, a purple flush spreading across his cheeks from the heat and adrenaline. “It feels really good, baby…”

His voice was deep and rough. You blushed even deeper, so turned on by how desperate he looked and sounded for you.

You pulled him back into a messy kiss, tongues sliding together as he kept grinding into you. Your puszy was already getting wet from how good it felt.

His hand squeezed your ass, his hips never slowed down. He kissed you harder, one hand sliding between your bodies to find your slick folds and rub your clit in slow circles.

You moaned into his mouth, thighs trembling around him. He groaned at how wet you were. “All this for me?” You nodded, hips moving against his fingers as he kept teasing you.

He stopped teasing you with his fingers and moved down your body, slowly kissing from your neck to your collarbone, then lower, tracing his way with lingering kisses as he continued downward. your legs were lifted against him, resting near his shoulders as he stayed close to where your body ached for him.

You watched him closely as he, throughout, kept eye contact with you. he was humming between your legs and smelling your scent; even from a distance, near your neck, he could still smell the lingering sweetness of it, as if it was guiding him to your pussy.

“Stop teasing and just...”

you pouted your lips as he wouldn’t even give you the pleasure yet he was so close, but still keeping it just out of reach. He chuckled between your legs, marking every side of your thighs. “let me take my time, baby.”

You looked away from the scene and let your head hit the soft mat, playing with his braids as he marked his way down your body, making sure every one of the elders would get the message that the scent had successfully captured his attention.

“mhm…” you hummed as his other hand lifted to play with your nipples, making sure you weren’t left wanting as he took his time, greedily marking your thighs.

You wanted to rub your thighs together from the way his fingers gently played with you, it was as if he already knew exactly how to get to you.

He could see your pussy glistening with wetness, making him grin before he looked up at your expression and pressed a kiss against your clit, making you jolt.

“N-Neteyam, it—” you couldn’t catch your breath as he licked and circled around your pussy, your grip tightening in his hair.

your eyes rolled to the back of your head, you didn’t even realize you were basically humping onto his face as he helped you reach your pleasure.

He chuckled against your pussy as he witnessed you getting caught in the pleasure, the vibration of his mouth against you making you moan.

“You like that?”

You couldn’t even form full sentences or put your words together as the pleasure really got to you. The way he knew how to move his tongue, with his fingers adding to your pleasure as well, was overwhelmingly good.

You sat up from lying down, using your elbow to guide his head even deeper between your legs. “keep doing that, neteyam...”

“you taste so good, girl… makin’ me wonder if someone else is lucky enough to have this.”

“no… just you.” your voice trailed off; you couldn’t really find it in you to speak further, unable to trust your voice to say the right things.

he hummed, and you could feel every swift movement of his tongue on your body, and it wasn’t helping you at all. “’teyam, i can feel something—”

He stopped licking you, making you whine, and you let yourself fall back onto the futon, pulled away from the rushed pleasure but it left you feeling deprived.

Neteyam chuckled at your reaction. “i apologize, baby. i wanna do something else…” he mumbled.

He went back to your neck once again, sniffing your scent, while your legs wrapped around his hips as he connected your lips together. “What is it?” You whispered.

“i’m sorry, y/n. I just feel… disgusted with myself.” he pulled away from kissing you, looking down at your trembling body.

He could hear your heartbeat dancing in rhythm with his. you cupped his cheeks. “don’t be… if you are… then i should be with myself as well, right?”

“no, baby,” his hand rubbed yours as it caressed his cheeks. “it’s just… i wanna do a lot. i wanna do something that— i shouldn’t even be doing. i shouldn’t even be thinking about doing. to you… it’s really… inappropriate of me. i can’t help it.”

“neteyam, if you’re thinking about… inappropriate things, as you say, then wouldn’t you find me disgusting too? i’m pretty sure you’d be surprised by how my mind is functioning right now…” you bit your lip, unable to let any more words out. it felt like every sentence you held back only exposed your vulnerability and desperation further.

“Tell me please... I wanna know what you’re thinking of.”

You let your hands travel to his hair before pulling him down to kiss his lips, then you licked along his jaw. “want you to… put it in…”

“damn it, baby…” he muttered, taking hold of his cock slowly, giving it a stroke before rubbing it against your wet pussy, coating himself in your slick. “tell me more.”

“I… please. i’m begging you, just put it in…” you cried out, making him grin at your desperation, matching his internal urge, almost screaming need for something to wrap around his cock other than his big palm.

“I will, baby.” he gave you a kiss before slowly pushing the head inside. you gasped at the stretch, nails digging into his shoulders.

He went slow, letting you adjust while kissing your neck again, breathing in that scent. “So tight… you feel perfect around it…”

Once he was fully inside, he started thrusting.

“relax for me, please,” he groaned next to your ear. You could only hold onto him and moan in response as the pleasure hit you quite hard. “S-Sorry...”

Neteyam just kissed your apologies away and fucked you good, one hand supporting himself while the other gripped your thigh. “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted you like this,” he confessed between thrusts.

You kissed him again, messy and desperate as he picked up speed. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the kelku along with your moans.

He felt so good inside you, thick and hot, hitting the perfect spot every time. “You’re doing so well for me. If only you could see how beautiful you look right now...”

His continuous praises for you only made you squeeze around his cock and moan uncontrollably, the way his hips slapped against yours driving you further.

“Don’t move, baby,” he suddenly pulled out, making you whine at the loss. But he quickly lifted your hips, placing a soft fabric pillow beneath them so they rested comfortably, before climbing on top of you, spreading your legs wide and sliding back inside in one smooth thrust.

This time he fucked you harder, eyes locked on your face, the position let him go deep with every roll of his hips while also watching you make pleased faces. “Talk to me, please... Wanna hear your voice.”

You did as he asked, cheeks burning as he pounded into you. Your hands roamed his chest, nails scratching against his biceps every time he hit your sweet spot. “N-Neteyam… you feel— oh, you’re so big…”

The scent on your skin kept driving him crazy. He buried his face in your neck again, licking and sucking marks while his hips snapped against yours.

“It’s big, baby?”

“Y-yes... it is...”

“You can handle it, right?”

You were getting close already, your walls clenching around him, you just kept nodding. His thrusts were halting as he was unable to keep himself steady with how your pussy was clamping around his cock, and the way he was groaning and moaning loudly without hesitation next to your ear was making you feel wetter than you already were.

Making the strongest warrior within your age group moan this loudly, you felt giddy but embarrassed as well knowing somebody could have walked in near your kelku or walked in on you two doing the deed, but you couldn’t care less.

“Let go, baby... I’ll hold you.”

“Neteyam… I’m gonna—”

Your words turned into a loud moan as you came hard, thighs shaking around his waist. He groaned at the feeling of you squeezing him and kept thrusting through it, chasing his own release.

A few moments later he pulled out and spilled across your stomach, thick ropes of cum painting your blue skin.

“…why didn’t you finish inside?”

He hesitated, cheeks burning. “Sorry… I remembered something my father warned me about. I’m not even sure if it applies to us. Also, I panicked.”

“Seriously?” you rolled your eyes before giggling along with him.

He breathed heavily, smacking his neck before his forehead pressed against yours. You both stayed quiet for a second, just catching your breath.

Then you bit your lip, still blushing. “So… Im guessing you really like the new scent?”

Neteyam chuckled and kissed you again, “I think I need you to wear it every day from now on,” he said, grinning against your lips.

“Skxawng… you were wild.”

© neteiam - any form of stealing is hereby strictly prohibited.

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: noncon, toxic relationship, misogyny, chauvinism, possessiveness, controlling behaviour, other toxic traits, sorta spineless reader, but not really

♡ FEM reader

♡ PS: sorry to anyone named Franny or Carrie. The story required a couple of girl names.

You're on your way home in the dark. 

It rained while you were at the club, having power-washed the asphalt now glittering under the moonlight. It's pretty when it's like this, but as a woman you can't help but feel a little on edge. 

Your heart isn't entirely in your throat, but it’s definitely somewhere up there. Heels moving hurriedly, unbothered about splashing in shallow puddles as you stomp decidedly in a pathway straight home.

Drunken groups loiter around as the clubs all close up for the night, some hollering about grabbing a bite, others about grabbing some ass, and all you can think is hopefully, not your ass.

You could have gone home with a friend instead—it would have been smarter maybe, and by smarter you mean safer—but you’re getting older and the older you get the more the urge to sleep in your own bed at night becomes a necessity more than a preference.

Footsteps are all over the place, walking in different directions. Pat, pat, pat, pittering just like the rain. Aside from a few icky stares thrown your way and a handful of catcalls you’re not sure were for you or for some other poor girl, you’re starting to rest easy, knowing you’re nearly there. 

But then you single out a pair. Pat, pat, pat, just behind you.

You cast a glance over your shoulder. Heart, now definitively, in your throat, with shudders running through you at the sight of the hooded figure at your back.

You walk a little faster. Eyes skittering around to see if there are any others around to witness the worst of your fears. Seeing you’re alone, you pick up the pace even more. Any faster now and you’d be jogging. Yet, you don’t want to be too presumptuous. After all, you don’t know if the guy’s even following you. It would be rude to treat him like he’s already committed a crime, when he isn’t guilty of anything other than walking home. And so, out of courtesy,  you give him the benefit of the doubt and stick to power-walking. 

Gratefully, you make it to your outergate. Keys already in your hands. You're happy to find the keyhole on your first try. Even so, with thoughts regarding the worst still unpleasantly lingering in the back of your head, when you pull the door to yourself, you make sure to crack it open just wide enough for only you to slip through. Wanting it to close behind you quickly, so that the automatic lock could do its job and shut out whoever it was that might be following you. 

You skip along, through the passage leading to the inner-yard, paranoid with a simultaneous feeling of being silly for feeling paranoid, side-eying the gate again before you turn the corner—utterly horrified upon what you catch in your peripheral. 

Shit, fuck-fuck-fuck, he made it inside. It's official then, he’s definitely fucking following you. 

This time you skip jogging and go straight to running to reach the door to your block. Hands shaking a little too much to make it on the first try this time, but somehow you manage in your scramble, making sure to pull the door closed behind you, hearing it click in place, signalling that it’s been locked tight. Despite it, just in case you still straight jump up the stairs, two at a time to reach your flat.

You can’t see it, but you hear it—how he makes it through the second door.

Feeling a mix of terror and confusion all at once. You don’t understand, you’re certain you heard the door lock, but somehow now it’s open again. Your keys jingle as you steady them to open your door in a panic. Listening to the stranger climb the stairs. Once it’s open you nearly tumble inside your apartment, all but slamming it shut to lock it—only… along with your keys, there’s another pair jingling in the staircase.

That's when you realize. He’s not following you. He lives here. He’s your fucking neighbour. 

He lives in the apartment under you. He lives in the apartment under you and you’d clearly just treated him like some sort of a criminal. He’s your neighbor and you’d all but slammed two doors in his face and sprinted away from him.

Embarrassment takes the place of your fear, filling it with regret and guilt. “Shit.”

But can he blame you though? Dressed like that? Dark hood hiding his face, like some sort of thief in the night. What were you supposed to do? Hold the door open for him and say “Heya there, mysterious stranger, you wanna come join me for a nightcap?”

“Shit,” you repeat to no one but yourself. Now you’re just being sarcastic because you feel bad. 

You sigh, then decide you’ll apologize next time you see him. A most dreaded and most-certainly awkward event which turns out to be as soon as the next day.

“Oh! Hey!” Newly awoken from your drunken slumber, you’d just stepped out after a failed mission to find some breakfast in your fridge—having found it completely empty except for a couple of expired tubes of condiments. “Hey, you!”

You rush down the steps, seeing the guy from last night lurking outside his apartment door, keys in hand like he’s just locking up to go as well. He pulls out his earphones once he sees you, a little taken aback by the sight of you panting, all out of breath in front of him.

Jeez, you need to start taking the gym more seriously, you think to yourself as you catch your breath. “Hey, listen, I’m real’ sorry ‘bout the other night. That was so rude and uncalled for,” you apologize. Face all riddled with embarrassment and guilt, smiling at him in the awkward hope of his understanding forgiveness.

The only problem is, he’s got no idea who you are or “What’re you on about?”

Oh, you pause, maybe he hadn’t noticed you? Still, you start explaining, “Last night, or well, this morning I guess, we came home at the same time. I was sorta… nearly, kinda running away from you? I was drunk and paranoid—I didn’t know you live here—I should have held the door open. Anyway, I just wanted to say sorry.”

His chin tilts up in recognition after that, “Ah, right, yeah,” then waves his hand, saying, “No worries. I know how it is. Dressed the way you were, I'd have been scared too. Hardly recognized you without that little dress you had on.”

You look down at yourself, all covered up in baggy sweatpants and a hoodie—a far cry from yesterday’s get-up—now make-up free, not to mention your hair in a messy updo. No wonder he didn’t put two and two together.

“Right,” you giggle then, suddenly feeling embarrassed for a whole other reason. You were just going to pop in and out to the store—you hadn’t exactly accounted for anyone to see you. “Yeah, I was just gonna grab some breakfast. Mornin’ after and all that—need something fatty, you know?”

He returns your smile, way cooler than you, eyeing you like he’s amused before offering, only with a small pause, “How ‘bout we go to the bakery around the corner? I'll forgive you for yesterday if you pay.”

It stuns you. Thinking, that’s brazen—a little impressed by his forwardness. Your smile gets brighter with another laugh. This was not the morning you were expecting. But heck, why not?

“A’right, sure,” you agree, before putting up your pointer, jokingly stating, “But then we better be square.”

He whistles, “Sounds good to me.”

And that’s how you end up having breakfast with your downstairs neighbour.

And as you sit there, opposite each other, you let your eyes wander because holy cow, he’s absolutely massive. You’d noticed when you were standing inside as well, but you’d been too busy making your awkward apology to really have taken him in.

No wonder your female heart was cowering in your chest last night, it must have sensed the size of the guy from the sound of his footsteps. You're completely flabbergasted how you’ve never seen him before. Two meters easily, big broad shoulders with a back you could build a house on and two gigantic arms that could easily lift it straight above his head and toss it across a football field if he wanted to.

He's a cop, you learn over breakfast. He hits the gym early and comes home during the day or works the late shift and comes home in the morning, which explains why you’ve never run into him except last night. He’s a bit of a routine junkie, he admits. 

And, well, though he doesn’t come clean about it, it’s not hard to tell how he’s also a bit of a flirt.

“I gotta be honest, I thought you’d lost your pants or something,” he chuckles, smirking at you playfully from atop his coffee cup, forcing a permanent heat in your cheeks as well as a cramp from the bashful smile you’re unable to make settle through all his teasing.

“Quit bullying my dress!” you nearly whine. “It’s cute. You can’t deny it’s cute.”

He gives a can’t-argue-with-that type of shrug. “I mean, yeah, I've just never seen such a thing besides on film,” he says, then inquires, “What were you up to anyway?”

“Oh, you know…” You pluck the last blueberry off your plate, wondering if you should order more pancakes. “Just’ at the club with some friends. Dancin’.” 

Popping the berry in your mouth, you decide against another round as you suck the cream off your digits—thinking you should show some restraint in front of the gym-freak across from you. You wouldn't want to come across as a complete glutton either.

Besides, just looking at him is a meal enough on its own, and you can tell he’s enjoying you the same way. And so, you lay it on extra thick for him. “It gets hot in there, so the less you wear the better.”

He scoffs, “Oh, really?” brows raised, grinning at your display. “You sure it ain’t got nothin’ to do with makin’ people look?”

You make a show out of getting offended with a fake gasp, before bringing forth your wrists. Your voice thick with sardonic theatrics, speaking your words through a pout, “Well, arrest me, officer. I didn’t know that was a crime.”

Shaking his head, he chuckles some more at you. “Nah, you’re good. But maybe I should come along to chaperone you next time—you know, make sure you get home all safe and sound.”

He takes another sip of coffee while watching his words and how they affect you. Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing, the scoundrel—you know he knows, shamelessly making you gush like this. 

You bite your lip—it’s all you can do to keep yourself from kicking your feet. A man hasn’t flirted with you in broad daylight like this in some time, you don’t even know how long, and you’re not going to lie, it’s making you weak.

“You don’t have work?” you ask—perhaps a little too eager.

But he doesn’t seem to think so, answering with charm, “I get time off just like everyone else.”

You bite your lip, trying to force yourself into acting casual even though you’re squealing on the inside, “Okay, sure, why not? But you gotta promise you won’t be all police-like and stuff though.”

He chuckles again. “Don’t worry. I’ll leave my gun at home.”

Yeah… You end up dating. 

In fact, you make pasta together and fuck that very same night. Multiple times, multiple positions, multiple rooms, and, most important of all, multiple orgasms. 

You’ve never been with a guy like him, outside of your fantasies. A monster truck of a man, he’s practically herculean—he could literally carry you on his back up a mountain if he wanted to. So of course the sex is amazing. He puts you in all kinds of crazy states you’ve never been in before—full-nelson, pile-driver, standing missionary—he fucking rails you like a jack hammer until your positively destroyed.

Honestly you weren’t too sure you liked muscle freaks who could manhandle you any way they want, but now you can say you’ve been fully baptised into the church of size difference and you’re afraid there will be no going back. 

Not only is he built for it, but he’s good at it too. He knows how to foreplay, how to get you going, how to tease and make you all hot and bothered and desperate for it. Not just sexy, but playful. Always joking when knocking on your door—saying FBI open up while posted there in his uniform—roleplaying with it, frisking you after putting you under arrest with real handcuffs, even using his gun sometimes—unloaded, of course.

Outside of sex, he’s a real gentleman too. Takes you out for dates—dinners, parks, movies. Tells you that you look good and wraps you in his jacket when you’re looking chilly—or when he spots other guys leering.

He’s just a really good guy overall. You actually really like him. And that’s saying a lot, given how many shitty dating situationships you’ve had over the past years. This might be something real.

Is what you thought until, well… 

After a few weeks, it's revealed he doesn't like it when you go out by yourself.

It’s nothing, at first—not something you pay much mind to. He’s just a bit protective, is all—any decent man who cares for his girlfriend will show some instinct regarding her safety when he’s not around. It’s normal. 

Still though, you can’t help that it rubs you the wrong way just a bit.

It’s dangerous, he’ll argue, and you can’t really disagree when you've already admitted to being scared going home alone. But even though you know it comes from a good place—that he’s just looking out for you—it’s still a little… you don’t know. Patronizing? 

At least, that’s what it feels like…

Then again, he doesn’t strike you as very traditional. He’s supportive of your studies, comfortable watching chick flicks with you, doesn’t care when you dress like a slob, joins you shopping, cooks for you, he even goes down on you. Like you said, he’s a good guy. And you really like him.

But shit… this increasing need of his to chaperone your every move? You’re not going to lie, it’s getting a little annoying.

“Going somewhere?” he stops you on your way out.

You’d given one another the keys to each other’s apartment some time ago now, and he’d taken it as an invitation to come by anytime he wanted. You thought it was sweet at first, and you still do—your schedules don’t always line up, so it’s nice to keep it easy-access. It’s just, you already told him you’d be busy today.

“Yeah, just out with some girlfriends,” you repeat, sitting down to put on the pair of strappy black heels you’d just bought, excited to hear what the girls will say—already hearing them go silly with cat-calls, howling compliments at you.

“Like that?” he questions, standing with his shoulder leaning against the wall and arms crossed over his chest.

You get up and do a spin, wearing a tight but classy black cocktail dress. “What’s wrong with this?”

He throws his brows up, scratching the back of his neck while stepping closer. “Nothin’.” He releases a sigh, dwarfing your waist in his hands, pulling you flush against him. “You don’t think it's a little dressy for a girl’s night?”

You pout, placing your chin on his chest, batting your lashes with puppy-dog eyes looking up at him. “I like looking nice, is that so bad?”

His hands travel, over the small of your back, down the dome of your ass, swaying with you in his arms. “No. Of course not.” He sighs again, squeezing you tight. “I'm just jealous of whoever’s gonna get to look at you all night.”

You smile, thinking, despite how it gets on your nerves just a bit, it’s still kind of cute how needy he is.

“Where’ you going?” he asks, chin atop your crown, still keeping you close, as though charging himself up, knowing he’s going to be without you for the evening.

“Just the lounge down by the pier.”

He groans then, hauling you off by your forearms to give you a stern look. “You know I don't like when you drink when I'm not around.”

You tilt your head and return his look with a softly patronizing one of your own, silently trying to tell him he’s being childish again like the two of you’d spoken about. Because you had told him—how unreasonable it was. And as mentioned, you were beginning to get a little sick of having to tell him off about it.

When he doesn’t say anything, you roll your eyes and show him enough sympathy to reassure him of how “It’s just gonna be a glass of wine.”

“Mh…” he hums, looking at you, not fully convinced. “Give me five minutes and I'll join you.”

“No.” It slips before you give it much thought. And yet, even after having said it, despite it having been a bit rude, you still don’t regret it or make any proceedings to take it back.

“No?” he echoes. A little affronted—to be expected.

Still, you don’t let it deter you. “Well, it’s a girl’s night. You know…” you explain, hoping to appeal to his sense of reason. “It would be rude if I brought you when the rest of the girls have left their man at home.”

It doesn't seem to persuade him. His face just scrunches, as though the entire idea of a girl’s night is absurd in and of itself, arguing, “Tell ‘em to invite them then. Problem solved. None of you should be out on your own anyway.”

And it’s comments like that that really upset you. You bite your lip, trying to think of the most disarming response—not wanting to fight it out right now, thinking you could bring it up later at a better time.

“I'll be home before ten. I'll only have one glass of wine. I'll take a taxi home. And…” You give him a playful smile as you wrap your arms around his neck and give the locks on his nape a light tug. “I'll make it up to you all night long.”

You feel his frame tense up at the offer, enticed by your words until he, at long last, finally grumbles out a defeated, “Fine.” 

He releases you then, but doesn’t leave you alone for too long before grabbing your chin. 

“No need for a Taxi, I'll come pick you up,” he says firmly, laying it forth like a condition to his allowing you to go. “Stand ready outside at ten o’clock sharp.” 

Giving you a small kiss, he continues before you can voice any complaint. 

“Or else I really will have to spend all night long punishing you.”

It gives you goosebumps. And yet, because you don’t entirely hate the sound of it, you decide to treat it like a joke, and against reading all that deep into it—even though you’re aware there might be some small truth behind the warning. 

You know if your friends were to have heard it, they’d probably disapprove, but come on… Being threatened with sex is harmless enough. 

And so, you brush it off and play along, answering him with a bright and bushy-tailed, “Yes’sir.”

To which he proudly smiles, “Atta’ girl.”

Despite promises made, that first glass of wine disappears quickly. 

You never were much of a slow drinker. Not that you’re an alcoholic either, of course, it’s just… it’s hard pacing yourself when you’re in good company. And your girls? Well… let’s just say they know how to bring the party.

“Another round of wine?” Franny declares more than asks.

You shrink back a little in your chair. Not only not wanting to be a bummer, but also fearing how they’d most likely see right through it not being your decision, then actively begin to judge you for letting yourself be governed by your boyfriend. 

Still, you shake your head and hope they might not catch on. “I shouldn't—”

“What? Why?” Franny immediately boos, all but gawking at you from across the table like you’d just declared you were becoming a nun or something else equally baffling.

Carrie, on the other hand, doesn't seem surprised at all, throwing the rest of her wine back before mumbling, “Or else Mr. Officer will put her under arrest.”

Franny’s head snaps to her at that, again, gasping, “What? Really?”

Carrie throws up a brow, cool like a mean-girl about it, “Oh, you haven’t heard?” before cocking her head back at you, putting you on the spot, “Tell her then. Go on.”

You pout at her judgementalness, knowing you won’t be able to hide it either if she decides to push—which she most certainly will. “Come on, he’s not that bad...”

That’s when her cool demeanor takes a twist, all but banging her glass on the table with her outburst, “Girl, be so real! Man’s a total chauvinist, you gotta break up with him.”

You weren’t in the dark about her attitude regarding your relationship, so it doesn’t exactly come as a big shock to hear her criticize it to your face. It wouldn't kill her to learn some tact though. Even so, you’re willing to forgive her, given you know her tolerance to be rather low and her need to be candid evidently very high.

“I like him,” you defend under her disapproving glare and Franny’s wide-eyed stare, the both of them awaiting something more persuasive.

“Besides…” you drift, feeling the wine in your system forcing you to be a little more honest with both them and yourself. “He’s my neighbour, you know… If I break up with him I'll still have to run into him.”

Carrie deadpans at that. Looking at your square in the eye with dull ones of her own, her mouth catching flies, back to being as suave as always while stating in a more-than-obvious manner, “Start looking for places to move.”

You sigh, pouting even more while you whine, “But I like my apartment.”

There’s a moment of silence, as though in solidarity of your situation, letting you come to terms with what you have to do.

Franny lifts her glass after a moment. A sympathetic quirk on her lips, repeating, now suggestively in comfort, “Another round of wine?”

You look at her, then at Carrie, who just shrugs, also with her glass in hand—tone equally suggestive, “We won’t snitch.” 

You bite your lip, letting their mischief rub off on you like you do so well. Smiling. “Oh, fine. You win.”

The three of you chat more about each other’s hopeless love pursuits, how no men are perfect, how friendship is so much more reliable, and how being alone might just be the only reasonable thing for any one of you.

You like him, but you can see Carrie’s point. You’ve had the same concerns yourself, despite not wording them as harshly as her. Of course you don’t enjoy having to argue about going out with your friends or dressing the way you want. 

Having to ask permission for such things doesn’t make sense to you, and it never will. You’re a grown woman who pays her own bills. You don’t have to run your decisions by anyone. And even if you did feel the need, it would be out of pure consideration—simply to keep the other person in the loop, and not something to be discussed—at the very least not something to be prohibited. You’re not a prisoner, and you’re certainly no child either.

Shit, you don’t know… maybe dating the guy in your building wasn’t the brightest decision after all.

“I said ten,” he admonishes as you step towards the parking lot. 

It’s just gotten dark. You’d hadn’t seen him yet and so the sudden sound of his voice spooks you, making you slap a hand over your pulse with a gasp.

If he notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. Not offering you an apology. Rather the opposite. Standing there, posted against his squad car with his arms folded upon his chest—staring at you like some criminal, awaiting your confession.

“Sorry, it took some time figuring out the bill–”

“You're drunk,” he cuts you off, shaking his head in disapproval as he goes to grab your purse in one hand and your upper arm in the other.

“No,” you argue sharply, saying “I'm not drunk.” because you most certainly are not. In fact, between two glasses of wine and a whole meal, you wouldn't even describe it as being tipsy.

He ignores you while opening the door to the passenger seat, ushering you inside with a strict, “Get in the car.”

You have to roll your eyes. Sarcastically thanking him for not going so far as to place you in the back like an actual arrestee, muttering, “Yes, sir.” under your breath.

He then even leans across you to put on your seatbelt, prompting you to almost push him off. Saying, “Dude, chill. I had two glasses of wine. Like, how—”

“We agreed on one,” he cuts you off again, making it very clear how little interest he had in hearing  any of it.

Again, like his previous comments, it upsets you. In fact, it’s the last straw. “Yeah? Well, you’re not the boss of me. If I want another glass of wine, it’s in my rights to fucking have one.”

You don’t scream it, and yet, he acts like you do. Scolding you like you’re some child throwing a tantrum, nearly growling at you in return, “Lower your voice. I'm not having this discussion with you if you’re going to be yelling.”

You can only scoff, completely flabbergasted by him and his behaviour. “Ugh, you’re so infuriating sometimes,” you nearly shriek, though he shuts the door in your face before hearing it.

He gets in the driver’s seat, snaps his belt in place, and veers out of the lot in one swift movement. In any other circumstance, you’d find his capabilities assuring—maybe even a little arousing. But, right now it only serves to piss you off.

The rest of the drive is silent. You keep your gaze fixed out of the window, not even acknowledging the way his wrist go white wringing the wheel—probably sitting there waiting for you to beg his forgiveness or something stupid.

You don’t know what to say. All you know is that you’re going home by yourself. 

“Give me my purse,” you demand once you’re outside his apartment. Your hand stretched out, waiting for him to hand it to you. You’d abandon it if it weren't for the unfortunate fact that your keys and your phone were both confiscated within it.

“You’ll get it once we’re inside,” he sighs, his entire back bulking with the action, standing with it facing you as he unlocks the door. Again, flat-out ignoring you as if you had no say in the matter.

“No,” you protest, insisting, “I'm going to my own apartment, so give me my purse.”

With his hand once again around your upper arm, he tugs on you despite you planting your feet and pulling back. “Don’t be difficult.”

You grab his wrist, trying to twist it off, but failing. “I don’t need you to baby me—I’m not a fucking child.”

“Oh yeah? You could have fooled me, standing here throwing a fit for everyone to hear.” He only tightens his grip, tugging you harder—so hard you’re forced off balance and nearly fall straight into him. “Now get your butt inside before I throw you over my shoulder.”

He doesn’t give you any time or room to refuse, all but dragging you inside and placing you on the couch with a mean and very nearly brutal shove. “Sit down.”

He then gets down on one knee in front of you. Hands lifting your foot onto his thigh as he begins undoing the straps to your heels.

“I can do that myself—” you try to pry it away from him, but he only pulls it back into place.

“Just sit.”

You don’t know what to do at that point. Eyeing him and the way he was positively radiating annoyance. You’re equally frustrated, and still, you can’t help but be struck with this sensation that it doesn’t matter much when he’s more equipped in enacting his will. 

In the end, you just sit there like he’d commanded, at a loss for what you could do or say—and only getting more frustrated by it.

“Now this,” he declares once done, gesturing to your dress as he gets up, fingers clawing under the hem, beginning to pull it up.

“Stop it already. I said I can do it myself!” Your hands are on his chest then, having had enough—this time officially. “Ugh, just get off, I’m going home!”

You don’t know what happened, but something instinctual must have kicked in once it was clear he wouldn’t listen, because suddenly, without warning, you kicked him in the shin in order to get him off.

But little good it does you...

In fact, it only makes the following events that much worse.

“What's gotten into you, huh? Acting so fuckin’ bratty—” 

His hand is atop your mouth like a piece of duct tape, trapping all unwanted noise beneath it. He’s got you lying on your back now, himself on top of you. Your dress balled up in his other fist, this time opting to rip it off rather than tug you out of it. 

“I swear, nothing good ever comes from letting you women yap amongst yourselves—you always come back with so much attitude and dumb ideas I gott’a straighten out.” 

Your struggles seem to mean nothing to him—all efforts to thwart him, easily ignored. 

“You can bet your ass this is the last time I let you go anywhere with those sluts. I mean, just look at you—dressed like a fucking whore. A shitty fucking influence the lot of ‘em.” 

He succeeds in tearing the dress, throwing it across the floor like trash—passing little consideration to the way it has you squirming beneath him with fat tears now streaming down your cheeks, soaking his fingers in a way that should have been enough to reconsider.

And yet, his eyes seem more concerned with your other articles. 

“You even wear pretty underwear for ‘em—fuck’s that about, huh?” Clicking his tongue, the frown on his face is enough to make your stomach churn—fully terrified of what he meant to do next. 

“What’s left for me?” His eyes meet yours, demanding an answer from you even though your lips were sealed under his grip. “If you go parading around for the entire fucking world to see, what’s left?” 

His other hand balls up into a fist, then bangs against the back cushion to the side of your face, hard enough to make the entire couch skirt just a bit, making you let out a muffled scream, followed by a whimper as you shut your eyes hard and start praying.

“I’m the only one who’s supposed to see you like this. It’s supposed to be my fucking privilege. Something special for me to cherish.” 

You feel his touch return to you, and you tremble receiving it, despite it only softly stroking your skin in ticklish touches, down your chest and belly until stopping at the lace of your panties. 

There’s a heavy sigh, loud enough for the pursuing silence to feel deafening.

“But I guess… if you’re gonna act like a cheap whore, I might as well treat you like one.”

The quickening beat of your heart makes it hard to breathe while your eyes blow open wide at the feel of him tearing at the lace. Your sobbing turns more violent, while your hands fly to keep the flimsy garment in place. 

“No? You don’t want that?” he mocks without humor, and you try your best to shake your head under his hold, every thought begging him to stop. 

Teeth grit, he continues, “Then quit being difficult and start doing what I say. Can you do that?”

You peel your eyes open, now nearly choking on the tears clogging your nose. Sniveling as you give him pitiful nods, hoping it will suffice.

“Good,” he affirms. 

His hold relents after that, just enough for you to be able to suck in a breath. Sill though, calming down takes you a moment, and even then you never fully manage completely—just enough to turn your sobbing into softer bleating.

He allows you the time to recover, before getting up and demanding the same of you. 

“Come on. Bathroom.”

His hand’s on your nape, guiding you like a leash and collar. You keep your head bowed, feeling exposed as you shuffle along just in front of him. Regarding him like a beast on your heels.

You enter the bathroom, where he positions you in front of the sink.

“Let’s get all this clown shit off.” 

His actions are gentler now, but they still feel anything but. Still making you sniffle as you stand there, knees wobbly, stuck in shock as he proceeds to find your makeup remover.

Your breaths are wintry as you stand there, both hands shaking, holding onto the white marble, staring into the drain, terrified to meet his reflection in the mirror above as he starts to drag a wet wipe over your cheeks and lips, rubbing your no-doubt ruined make-up off. 

You watch as each cotton-cloth is discarded one after the other in the basin below, flecked with black mascara streaks and pink rouge, the latest one cleaner than the first few.

“There she is—that’s better,” he coos once done. Caressing your face in his hand as he lifts it up to look straight ahead. 

You don’t want to, but the way his fingers all rub against your jugular, is enough for you to take as a warning. Seeing yourself—your eyes puffy, lashes gathered in wet wisps, bottom lip trembling. 

“My pretty girl.”

He sags forward, lowering his mouth to your neck, kissing you there in slow but heavy mouthfuls. His other hand, the one not holding you by the throat, is snaked around your midriff with his arm across your body, pushing you against him and the way he angles his hips against your ass and grinds into you from the back.

“I’m sorry for getting upset,” he murmurs with a groan then, but it’s not an effective apology. “It’s just so frustrating, you know? To be here, worrying about you out there—epsecially when you don’t take any safety precautions. You just…” His mouth reaches your ear, nuzzling the shell, his breath making it burn. “You drive me fucking nuts.”

You don’t dare reply. You don’t dare do anything. You just keep clutching onto the sink, as though letting go would result in him pulling you away somewhere more dangerous.

“You’re so cruel—always leaving me with my dick in my hand.” His hands fall to your hips, his grip bruising as he kneads you against him and the hard thing jabbing itself against your ass.

“I’m sorry–” comes out of your mouth before you can think.

To which he releases a pent-up chuckle. “That’s okay…” 

He rests his chin on his shoulder, mouth perfectly level with your ear with words holding onto something utterly horrid, saying, “It’s like you said—you can make it up to me.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Kirishima, Dabi, Hawks, younger Enji, Natsuo ♡ JJK – Sukuna idk, Geto, Gojo, Naoya ♡ HQ – Daichi, Kuro, Sakusa, Atsumu, Osamu ♡ BLLK – Reo, Isagi, Aiku ♡ WB – Suo, Umemiya, Togame ♡ Boyfriends & Husbands masterlist

[poodpoopsie]

So an old man meets an old friend with a new face...

[syrex22]

Vergil

Devil May Cry NEW SEASON

》 Don't use my gifs without premision, screenshots, downloading. Thank you. Credits.

[theazureartist]

I have been watching a lot of Netflix inbetween my projects and I have unlocked a new crush but...

I'M NOT ASHAMED OF IT VERGIL FROM DEVIL MAY CRY CAN GET IT!!!!

LOOOOOOOORD HAVE MERCY THIS MAN IS FINE.

Me when I saw Vergil appear on screen:

[lvmimis]

cw: smut with vaginal penetration. love as violence a little bc yk. minors dni.

Sometimes Vergil just can’t help it. 

There’s something about the sensation of his teeth grazing along the surface of your skin - a bare shoulder, the curve of your neck, the mound of your breast that incites something primal in him, an augmented form of desire that beckons to the part of his self that isn’t human, the one he both venerates and abhors if it really comes down to it. There’s something that tells him to grow fangs and bite, to sink deep into your flesh, and let your voice cry out in the erotic nature of pain that is indulged, not unexpected.

But, pent up as he is today, the fear of devouring you outstrips the desire to bite, because of how your eyes look, pupils dilated and dark, lips gently parted and wanting.

How could he ever harm you?

He means to sigh, but it sounds staggered, like drawing in a deep breath that’s more like a gasp.

“Turn around.” 

You don’t fight him this time, not because you’ve already been pinned down to the bed, hopeless and helpless but because you’re needy. An index finger transformed into a claw has already torn down the midline of your nightdress and the open piece slips off effortlessly as you turn, presenting yourself to him. Rump angled upwards, pussy in full view, lips glistening and wet, docile. Human.

At some point in his younger years, he may have purported that he’d never kneel for anyone, no less a weak human of your ilk, but he’s on his knees as his tongue explores that precious space, sucking and slurping as if it were a sort of ambrosia that dripped from between your thighs. His teeth gently raze the surface of your labia and the desire comes back - to nibble, to bite.

He can’t harm you, he thinks, as his tongue circles your clit from behind, as he inhales your scent and massages your thighs and draws out your first tremors with his treacherous mouth alone.

Breathy, soft, you call his name, as you collapse forward, and once your knees have folded under you, he’s ready to slip his aching cock in and you gasp at the fullness, just as he shudders at the precious clamp of your body around him.

Such a weak, petulant thing, and yet you might as well hold him physically and emotionally in a vice grip. Recovering himself, he lets his hand slide down the arch of your back to take a fistful of your hair. And then it loosens. 

How could he ever harm you?

“Breathe,” he whispers, gentler this time as you whine, adjusting. It’s an order to both you and him, and his eyes close as he slots himself in firmer, more flush with your ass. You exhale, and he moves.

Slow first, gentle, taking advantage of long arms to cradle the front of your delicate neck, tilting your head upwards, a finger creeping into your mouth. Then fast, hungry, both hands squeezing at your waist, grabbing at skin and flesh. Then needy, again, pressing weight atop you as he presses his chest close to your back.

Your hand creeps backwards, bold, to caress a cheek.

“You can look at me, you know,” you offer softly between sighs. “I won’t run.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, but he allows himself the indulgence of nipping at your earlobe.

“You can’t run.”

It’s true and yet said, tentatively, begging for you to say otherwise.

“Nor would it ever cross my mind.”

Your waves flow to a stop, which only seems to accentuate how thick he is inside you, how heavy and warm his body is despite the ice he surrounds himself with, the beat of his long-neglected heart. Suspended together for a moment, without movement, you inhale the moment.

“I do want you. Terribly. You don’t have to take anything from me... you don’t have to worry about hurting me - you never can.”

His hand finds yours spread against the mattress, his fingers intertwining with yours.

“You’re foolish.”

“Love and logic don’t necessarily mix,” you murmur, a smile on your face.

Another bite at your shoulder, sharp enough to draw blood. You wince, but you endure. 

Another stroke, harder, faster this time, and you cry out, but hold his hand tighter.

“Want you,” you eke out in soft reassurance.

A few kisses scatter against your neck and a muffled, “want you,” imprints itself into your skin.

[seirxi]

revelations

[girlluvkatsuki]

"katsuki," you giggle, shying away from his nose tickling your neck. "i'm trying to bake."

"mm, you can bake with me here," he rumbles, pressed to your back. you're freshly showered, skin smooth and lotioned, you smell good. he's wrapped himself around you, as close to you as he can possibly get.

"not easily," you grumble, but your chest feels warm.

"doesn't matter. you smell s'fuckin good," he mumbles breathily, in the middle of smelling you.

"i'm glad you like my lotion," you sigh, trying to measure out the sugar despite the way he's restricting your movement.

"you're so—mmm," he trails off into a frustrated groan, squeezing you tightly in his arms. "i think we should go to the bedroom."

your hand grabs his face and playfully shoves him off of you. he goes easily. "kats, i need to bake these cookies for tomorrow. you know i can't."

his brows furrow, lips pout a little. he's a bit flushed, his hair slightly ruffled, pupils dilated. "how long?"

you roll your eyes, turning back to the ingredients on the counter. "i need to chill the dough for at least 30 minutes, and then there's two sheets of cookies which will need to bake for around 10 minutes each. so, an hour?"

you hear him huff behind you. he presses up against you again, lips finding your neck. "you'll be free while it's chilling. 30 minutes is long enough," is all he says. you sigh.

notes -> i think there's a joke to be had here about baking cookies

[devinellekurtz]

When we first met

[daily-op-ed]

Saint Seiya (Toei & TV Asahi, 1986)

Pegasus Fantasy - MAKE-UP (Opening 1)