[cloggedarteri]

you guys have been in this trash heap for a while now

so i think its only right i ask what you guys wanna see more of

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ill be taking any request in relation to

𑣲⋆slasher reader

𑣲⋆rancher dad reader

𑣲⋆nomad reader

𑣲⋆vampire reader

𑣲⋆loser reader

𑣲⋆mer reader

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

have fun🩷🩷🩷

[pastel-pink-psycho]

[cloggedarteri]

okay so now that ive officially finished reading The Dawn of the Future i just gotta say one thing

i would have killed to see noctis and regis have more hinting to their dragon heritage in their designs since their family was made in the image of the draconian (fuck him by the way. me and my homies dont fuck with the draconian)

[crescendoserenade]

baby yuji loves his pretty auntie who brought him his favorite plush tiger! I wanted to do something cute cos I love bby yuji

“auntieeeeeeee!!!” the little glob of sunshine screeched and crashed face first into your thigh. he always loved when you visited him and his uncle kuna. you always indulged his childish antics, let him ramble for literally hours about tigers and his best friend megumi (poor kid had the attention span of a hyperactive puppy) how could he not love you?

“can she at least get through the damn door before you go tacklin’ her?” sukuna scolds the tot but there’s no true bite to his bark. “and stop calling her that, punk.” the kid hisses at him, bearing his two missing front teeth, all the while you chuckle above him. the man couldn’t get two seconds alone with you while the kid was around, but honestly it seemed healthy to have you around. yuji opened up about some of the things he was going through to you a lot easier than he did with his uncle. sukuna had temporary custody of the little boy until his twin brother and sister in law got themselves together. you gave both of them some relief when it came to that delicate situation.

back to the present, yuji clings to your leg, arms and legs wrapped around you in a vice grip. he tries to take a peak inside the paper bag you’re keeping out of his reach.

“stop being mean to my nephew,” you say, and commence an awkward waddle-walk to the couch where sukuna’s leaned back on. once you finally coax the boy off of your leg, he squeezes in between his two favorite people on the couch to watch, in sukuna’s words a “boring ass movie,” to which you reminded him a child was present and not to swear in front of a kid.

“auntie?” he asks, brown eyes magnetized to the movie still.

“yes?”

“whats in the baggie?” he notices the glance you give up to sukuna, who’s casually snuck his arm across the couch behind your head. sukuna shrugs. your bones pop as you stretch, and you hop off the couch to head to the dining room table where you placed the bag. yuji springs up right after you, feet pitter pattering across the apartment floor.

“close your eyes,” you say, but yuji’s too excited and is already barreling a plethora of questions at you. it’s so cute—you honestly would let him go on for the rest of the night, but ryomen cuts the toddler off.

“just close your eyes, brat,” he commands with a slight bass in his voice. he snaps his eyes shut and puffs out his cheeks, holding his breath in anticipation as he hears you rustle the bag for a moment.

“okay, you can open them now!” he slowly opens his eyes, and as he does, they nearly pop out from his head. he squeals excitedly and bounces up and down, his tiny body spasming in pure joy.

“baby, the neighbors!”

“sowwy!” sukuna sighs. yuji reaches for the tiger, but recoils, as if he’s not sure if he wants to take it or not.

“uncle sukuna told me you were having a hard time sleeping, so I thought this little guys would help keep the nightmares away,” you explained. you urged him to take the toy. he looks back between the stuffed tiger and his uncle, who was watching from his spot on the couch.

“you just gonna stand there or are you gonna take the damn tiger?” yuji snatches the tiger and squeals a bunch of rushed together “thank you’s!”and crushed the toy in a death hug.

“THANK YOU THANK YOU! I LOVE YOU FOREVER!! I WISH MY UNCLE WOULD MARRY YOU!!!”

“alright, bedtime,” sukuna suddenly says and gets up from the couch and ushers the child to the back of the apartment. you giggled at the scene before you. sukuna glares but you pay him no mind. you of course, also help him get ready for the night.

later on, you tell the little boy goodnight, and leave him with his uncle for a few moments. he looked so comfy and snug with his little tiger he affectionately named after you.

as yuji drifts off into sleep, he reaches his stubby fingers for his uncles strong hands.

“uncle ‘kuna, um, can she stay?” it was a loaded question. he watches as his nephew falls asleep instead of giving him an answer.

“yeah, punk, i’m working on it.”

[cloggedarteri]

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

𑣲⋆tilly with the "i was a twin" monologue but its "i was a sister

𑣲⋆tilly sitting side by side with her child in the dead of night, stroking their hair

"i had brothers...their names were arthur and john"

𑣲⋆ahhhh just tilly talking to her kid about the only brothers she'd ever known in her life and not knowing whether or not they'd survived just

the absolute heartbreak of having to live day by day without your family

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

[cloggedarteri]

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

𑣲⋆nah but im just thinking about the boys getting into so much trouble whenever desmond's over at the citadel

𑣲⋆cause noct is typically so well mannered yah kno, he (though reluctantly) allows his attendants to follow him without fuss, he's goes about his duties with diligence and patience, he is a near perfect prince

that is until hes in the company of his cousin prince desmond

𑣲⋆whenever desmond happens to come back to the citadel noctis is like a new person

hes skipping classes

hes checking in late for curfew with weak excuses

hes up and causing chaos with desmond just because they can and just because its fun

and even worse

the hide and tag

you heard me

hide and tag

𑣲⋆a simple childs game in the hands of the two princes turned into a battlefield of tactics and deadly stealth

...

𑣲⋆regis sweating bullets whenever his brother sends word that desmond is coming to visit cause he already knows how much more work hes gonna have to do when he gets there...nothing could ever be so simple for the caelum's huh? 𑣲⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

[cloggedarteri]

seen a tiktok of arthur introducing his baby issac to mary during his visit in saint denis and i cant stop thinking about an alternate universe in which issac had survived and was thus taken in by the gang

and similar to the tiktok, ranch dad!reader is in the place of mary

...so if you really think about it, you and arthur are adopting one anothers sons and im personally gonna cry myself to sleep now

[cloggedarteri]

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

𑣲⋆back in the day, before hosea got sick, he and dutch would make it a point to visit the boutique to get their clothes fitted.

dutch would stand behind the tailor as they worked on hosea and admire him from the mirror as the kids had little dress up sessions of their own

𑣲⋆little tilly draping herself in silks an frills she'd only dream of wearing one day while, a few feet away, john and arthur busied themseleves with the shiny trinkets and dudades layer about the place. they did what children did best when their parents dragged them along, touched things they had no business touching

𑣲⋆the shops been closed for years now, the elderly couple that once owned the shop having moved away.

but those moments are forever fondly remembered.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

[cloggedarteri]

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

𑣲⋆thinking about a mer!reader who's subspecies is big and beautiful but very dangerous if handled wrong...

𑣲⋆....like a fucking hippo or orca or some shit

𑣲⋆thinking of charles and the reader having complete trust in one another that they can do dangerous tasks without batting an eye but HR is fucking sweating bullets bro...like what do you mean you can basically lay half of your torso in the jagged jaws of a mers mouth and not have to worry they'll snap shut? how did you even come to that realization?

𑣲⋆orca!mer!reader whos totally cool with it too. they're sleeping as charles goes about his business without any complaint. i mean, what is there to complain about? you're spending time with your favorite handler

𑣲⋆ahhh just think about orca!mer!reader who fucking finds any opportunity to bully arthur into giving them treats whenever charles' back is turned cause you know arthur has no backbone when faced with your puppydog eyes...charles is gonna have a few words with both of you.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

i love writing about mer!readers its actually crazy i havent thought of doing so till now

[cloggedarteri]

its actually interesting to think about how hazel's mom is the one who was most in contact with the supernatural (before the story started i mean). cause her mother in law is a false sticher, then her ex is a fucking bird, and then shes working with a fucking giant ass spider lady who kidnaps neglected children

her life was already fucking wild before hazel got her powers

love that for her

[cloggedarteri]

huggin molly x lacey yuuri anyone?

[cloggedarteri]

that black flag remake taunting me like the green goblin mask knowing damn well i aint got the money rn

[tricksh0t]

★ i ain't your daddy

☾ jaime lannister x older top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ this thing sat in my drafts for almost a year (jul 8), which means the request is also almost a year old. nonnie if you're still reading my fics: aqui esta

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 3.90k

cw: one spank, spit as lube, little prep, i tried not to make it grooming but uhhh be warned, doggy, mean reader, boy as name for jaime

Tywin Lannister didn't have a best friend, but he had something close.

In the ten long years since Robert Baratheon's Rebellion, peace had developed over Westeros. Naught for the reign of the Baratheons, but for the absence of the Targaryen Mad King.

Officially, you were still a general. In practice, you were Tywin's closest advisor, his "best friend".

Jaime Lannister has known you as far as he can remember, likely since before he was even born, as a hand to his mother's belly. Then you were an uncle in his earliest years, the knight he squires for after, a swordsmanship teacher in his teens, a general during the Rebellion, and finally, his father's best friend; a presence in his life through and through.

Alongside wet nurses and his father, you had a hand in how he was raised. You were always the praise to his father's scowl, the sweet treat after dinner, the thoughtful gift on his nameday.

Officially, Jaime knew you had no business beside his father. You were just a restless war general in the presence of peace. In practice, he has long grown used to your presence at his father's side. So much so, he doesn't question it.

But he should now, and he has half the mind to, with the bile of insults that threaten to rise from his throat, because he realizes it now. Who are you, to call him out like this? You are not his uncle, and neither are you his general, as a true-born Lannister, he has all the power above you.

And yet.

Tywin has grown tired of Jaime and his little mistakes, so much so that when Jaime returned home from the frontlines quelling this decade's little Iron Islands outburst, he cannot even give him anything except sigh and a dissmissive hand; as if he did not call him back home himself with an angry letter.

It began first with an unfortunate ambush that could've easily been avoided had Jaime used his eyes, which cost his men their lives. He was lucky to escape alive himself.

Then, it continued on with the way he handled the Ironborn the following battle, pulling reckless moves and charging on not like the calculating Lion, but like a brazen Bull, avengeing his mens' lives. You had called it foolish. He had called it a matter of honor.

It ended unforgiveably with a retaliation ambush, one that went terribly wrong, and again, Jaime survived, scraped by the skin of his teeth.

And now here he was. After his father didn't even grace him with the energy of a shouting match, you had the gall to step up. Fresh back home after a season against the Ironborn, the only rest you gave yourself was peeling off your riding gloves before you got to speaking.

"This would've cost you your life ten years ago. You are lucky that our opponents are only the Ironborn, with their reckless ways and lack of discipline. In fact, it seems to be the only thing you know. I can see that it is why you underestimate them. Before all those ambushes, that is your first mistake. You would've learned otherwise a decade prior, if you were in the front lines of the Baratheon's Rebellion, but instead you were up in King's Landing, safe in the Mad King's fortress, up until you dealt the killing blow."

Jaime knows that. In fact, he almost paid for it with his life. Even if he didn't know it before, he certainly did now, bruised and burned and injured from the battlefield. Oh, he hated how you repeated it. He holds his tongue, instead showing just how much he is seething with the stare in his eye.

You ignore it. "I ought to keep you chained at the war table. Perhaps then you'd learn what it is like to think before you act."

Between the weight of his own mistakes and your mockery of him, Jaime snaps. "And who are you to scold me? You are not a father of mine, and you are certainly not my superior. I am a Lannister, you old fool."

And you have the audacity to put your hands on him. Jaime is twenty-seven, and you are just as old as his father. He should be able to overpower you, but something about the way you lift him from his chair has his knees buckling when his feet make contact with the floor.

This is only one of many times that you have made his knees weak.

It's not often that you see him out of armor. He is a King's Guard after all, but this time it is a social calling, a wedding important to one of the Lannister's vassal houses. That's why his father and his sister are in another carriage with the all important King Robert. It is a miraculous thing that, in an occasion such as this, Jaime is not lumped with the rest of the guards.

He is still a second priority though. He won't be the smooth talker or the center of attention. That's why he's in another carriage with you, of all people.

And you... you don't make him feel like a second priority, with the way your gaze drags over him and the expensive fabric draped over his body. He looks divine, the picture of youth and power, with his tailored outfit sticking to the curves of his muscles and his golden locks looking the way that they do, like a prince's.

Your stare almost makes him feel special, hot under the collar; and then your eyes linger on his lips for a moment before they find their way back up, where they are supposed to be, locked with his own. "Jaime."

His adam's apple bobs up and down with a nervous gulp. He is grateful for a chair to fall back against, then. "Ser."

He has known chaos, war and destruction since he was a young boy under the reign of the Mad King. Much like you, a war general, he has not known what to do with himself in the face of peace. The peace only leads to time, which only lends to thinking, and for a time he was almost beginning to unravel the complexities of your relationship... but then you had both regressed so quickly to soldiers when the Ironborn began their umpteenth rebellion.

"Stand up, boy, and say it to my face. Tell the man who played a hand in raising you that you do not respect him."

Jaime winces at your tone, the shout into his ear, but he doesn't give you what you want. He spits out instead, "You are not my father."

It clicks, then. You are not his father.

Jaime surges forward, hands on your shoulders, to kiss you. His mind returns to him quickly in the feeling, and he expects you to push him off, maybe even slap him, but then you're kissing him back. You escalate it, even, pushing your tongue into the heat of his mouth, and Jaime groans.

"You fucking brat." You whisper into his ear, and he shivers. "Kissing me like that, have you gone mad?"

"Ser–" What is he supposed to say? That he is sorry? He's not sorry for kissing the object of his desires, most certainly not. He is just afraid of the consequence.

"There is no apologizing for this." You tug his hair, his foolishly long hair, to look him firmly in the eye. It has him whimpering, and Jaime quickly silences himself by biting his lip. In the end, all it took to quell his anger was a kiss you didn't even force upon him. The worst thing of it all wasn't how easy it was to make him regretful, it was that you wanted to continue.

If anyone finds out, you'll both be dead before morn. Tywin's best advisor caught in an affair with his son? Even the whispers of it are more harmful than the death of a fertile heir, something you know Tywin to be capable of causing.

And yet.

You kiss him again, and again and again, because despite everything, you desire Jaime. It is a disrespect to his father, your closest friend, but you will have him anyway.

You walk Jaime backwards until his back hits a wall and you pin him against it. You are still in your armor, fresh from the road, stinking of mud and horses; while Jaime has been home for a little while. He's bathed, and he wears the red and gold house garb. Like this, he seems like a youth again, before he joined the King's Guard, before he learned of the world, and you, you look like before, too, a general in his physical prime. It's all so familiar.

Jaime feels small, pinned between you and the wall. You in your armor makes you all the bigger, all the more intimidating.

You're not his father, it is not your job to discipline him; and yet, a the same time, because you're not his father, you get to degrade him, spank him, and fuck him. You're not his daddy, you don't have to do things gently.

You should pull him over your lap and spank him for all that he's done, to set in the lessons, and that is probably what he's thinking of; but you won't. You will have him as you have wanted him, pathetic still, perhaps, but properly.

You don't want to praise him, you don't want to degrade him, you don't want to scold him, you just want to fuck him good and thorough as defiance for the long years you have resisted taking him.

For some reason, Jaime believes he has the same privilege. His hands come up to your hair to caress, to touch, to take. You take his hands and pin them to the wall above his head.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"What–?"

"Have you gone brainless? Did you take a blow to the head in battle?" You throw him, with that grip on his wrists, away from you and towards a hallway. "Walk."

Jaime, in his state of mind, can do nothing but obey. He walks down the hallway with the destination in mind that he thinks you both share, with you stalking behind him. In your armor, it's not just like his youth, it's like you're a guard protecting him, for once.

He has to pretend like things are all normal as the two of you walk past servants who can't mind their eyes, who look at Jaime's tousled hair and wonder.

He knows the walk to your room, though he's never walked inside since he was a child. Is it the same as he remembers, or has his constant daydreaming of returning for other reasons—daydreaming he's never permitted to last for more than a couple seconds—skewed his memory?

Jaime throws the door open without your permission, but he stops at the doorway. It's not different in here, not at all. He doesn't know what it brings him: relief, nostalgia?

You push him forward before he can let himself feel, slam the door behind you.

"Help me with my armor."

He scoffs, "I'm not a squire."

"No," You agree, grabbing a thick hold of his hair, "you're not. You're a disrespectful boy and I am disciplining you."

Jaime gulps at being called a boy. He's twenty-seven. He should be protesting, but instead he's gulping nervously like a child caught red-handed. He makes up his mind enough to say, "I'm not a boy."

Your nose scrunches up with anger. You push him harshly down and his knees give way like a worshipper's. He whimpers, you continue, "I said what I said, and you will obey it."

He hasn't helped to take another man's armor off since, well, you, when he was younger, when he was your squire. In his right mind, it should feel like a circle—but right now, it feels like you've taken him back to when he used to whine about not being able to decipher letters, to when squiring for you was a reprieve from his lessons.

He takes your armor off more diligently now, used to doing it for himself. You note this with a click of your tongue that pleases Jaime's ears, "You're better now than you used to be, do you know that?"

You're thinking of the same memories too. It makes him throb, knowing that you share so many fond memories, that you've a history together.

"I noticed." Jaime admits, because he's not sure if the question was rhetorical.

Some things come better with age, but some other things stay behind. Arrogance can only be so big for children. They can boast about having a stronger father only to their peers. To adults, they show reverence.

Jaime has grown more arrogant and less obedient with his age. You're going to fix it.

You undo whatever armor straps you can reach on your upper half, surprising Jaime. Two work faster than one, and the platemail comes off in no time. You kick his ankle with no softness to get him to stand, then gesture towards the bed, "Come on."

Jaime dumbly stays down until you grab his shoulder and pull him up yourself, then push. He stumbles backwards until his knees hit the bed, which makes him fall onto it.

"Is this how you nearly fell to an ambush?" You ask, mock, stalking forward until you're standing in front of him—then you lower, plant a hand between his legs to lean over him. "You're like a bumbling fool, Jaime."

You've got his knees weak and his whole attention, "I can't help it."

"Oh, but you can. Every time you say "I can't", you're giving up. Turn around."

Jaime turns onto his stomach. He can do that. You pull his trousers down without asking for permission, but the way he arches his back and pulls his ass up shows that he wants it.

You're not scolding him for saying "I can't". You're pointing out all the times he's said it, in your presence, and it invokes all the shame of him saying it without you around too.

Your fingers come up to his mouth. Jaime doesn't take them immediately, not until you say, "I am offering. Don't make me use force."

He takes them between his lips straight after, because the alternative is you choking him with them. He realizes now, though, as his tongue wraps around them, that he might've liked that; and that he liked your fingers in his mouth, a rudimentary way of shutting him up, when you take them out.

They're back in him the next second, two in his hole already. It makes him gasp.

You're a patient man, always, and it makes him burn to think you're too impatient to be inside of him to care if it hurts him—or maybe it's punishment.

Jaime rolls his hips back, grinding against your fingers, for more of that stretch.

"Brat." He only needs the words to make him stop, but you spank him too, eliciting a moan from him. "You will take what I give you."

You have power over him, you always have, but this is a different kind of power. You don't need to plant his hips down. Jaime stops grinding down at your command.

You've always been good to him: in childhood, in youth, in visits to King's Landing now that left the nest. The power you've had over him was unspoken, just there, never challenged.

He's challenged it today. He's seen you angry before, but very rarely at him, and not to this degree.

Two more fingers slides in. The stretch is almost more than he can handle, because you've skipped the more manageable increase of a third. He doesn't protest, he just takes with heavy breaths. He hopes it pleases you.

This power is different, of course. It's not just that he must take your every command—it's that you're the giver of his pleasure, that he can't get it himself.

You lean over him, now, by planting a hand next to his head. Your body presses against his, rough, dirty underarmor clothing pressed against his back. Your legs are pressed against him too, along with the bulge of your cock against his thigh...

He's not ready, not yet. Even if he wants your cock now that he's felt it, he knows his hole is not ready.

But you're pulling down your trousers already. Jaime turns his head to protest, but he's caught first with a gasp at the sight of you.

You're fucking big. Too fucking big. He says immediately, "I can't."

You'd split him open in his current state, you'd probably still split him open even if you prepared him properly.

"What did I say? You're giving up."

His hips and limbs go willingly when you prop him up on his knees to make his back arch and present his ass to you; but his hole clenches around nothing in resistance. You'll force your way through, he knows, just like how you force your way through blockades. You don't ask permission, you use your strength.

"I can't." Jaime repeats, fear in his eyes. The stretch of your fingers inside of him is good. The stretch of the beast between your legs can't be good.

"You'll take it." You say, sure as water. "You're afraid of being broken—but it's what I'm going to do to you. You need to be disciplined, don't you?"

He burries his head into the pillows when your tip presses in. It hurts already, and yet it feels like a good shock too, traveling through his nerves. Pain overpowers anyway, pain that makes him say "I do" as if appeasing you will stop the pain.

It won't. You press further in, and every time he thinks he's been filled to the brim, you push even further. His hole stretches wide and painful over your girth, unprepared.

When you're fully inside of him, with enough mercy to still if for a minute, Jaime finds it hard to even breathe.

"See?" You grab a handful of his hair and pull his head off the pillows just so he'll reply. "You took it."

What does that say to that? Jaime can't think, he's too focused on what his nerves are screaming at him, so whatever comes out of his mouth is impulsive. "It's too much."

"And soon enough, you will argue that it's not enough."

You pull your cock back a mere inch, push it back in. Jaime whimpers. You continue that way, pulling more whimpers and groans out of him, until finally you get a sweet moan. "There. Wasn't I right?"

The stretch is still stark, just not quite as painful. Pleasure bloomed each time you thrust into him, but slowly it started to overpower the pain. "Y-Yes." Jaime replies, the stutter from shame. You were right, of course you were, you always are, and he's pathetic for even thinking you wouldn't fit.

Your pace quickens absurdly fast. You pull back more of your cock every time, reminding him of the legnth of it that Jaime had barely memorized earlier, when he could see it.

The speed of your thrusts, the act of taking you without oil, it makes the friction come harder and faster. You hadn't eased into the speed. Jaime's knees buckle finally in the weakness you invoke, and you click your tongue with disappointment.

"Get up, boy."

Jaime fights to obey, but his limbs don't cooperate. His knees don't, either. He moves sluggishly, like the pleasure is weighing heavy on his limbs. In the end, you do it yourself.

You manhandle his hips up with tight, painful holds on his hips that will surely burn red marks into them. You hold him there, too, suspended in the air, taking his thrusts. He moans as a thank you, it's not a good thank you, but it's all the has to give.

"You finally get to have me, and you're lazy about it."

Jaime whimpers as if to complain, say that it's your fault, but no words come out of his mouth, at least not coherently. He babbles, mouth full of saliva that drips whenever he opens it.

"Have you lost your tongue, too, boy?"

"No!" He exclaims, because he cannot mediate his volume, not now.

The one word he gives you goes straight past you. You continue to mock him as you fuck him full of your cock and your pre. "Look at you, in your youth. Relying on an old man to fuck you."

It's not about old men, it's about you. Jaime swallows the spit in his mouth and finds the will to speak, because he wants to show his devotion and the regret you've knocked into him from your discipline, "I've wanted you for forever."

"Oh?" You have the audacity to laugh at him.

His blood boils with heat, the heat of your bodies and his emotions coming back to him. He swallows back pride, "I fucking mean it, Ser. It's not that you're old, that you're as old as my father, it's that it's you who–who's fucking me."

"There's that respect. Good, you've learned."

Your thrusts slow, was that all you wanted from him? Were you only fucking him to drill your lessons into his head? Jaime whines at the loss. With his mind coming back to him and sense too, his admiration for him persists. He's not crazy to desire you, to yearn for you, but now that he's expressed it, you're pulling away from him.

"On your back."

Jaime moves eagerly—you haven't dumped him.

"All it took was my cock to knock some sense into you, is that it?"

He nods his head vehemently, just as eagerly, and this time when your cock slides into him, he wants it more than he wants power, and it doesn't hurt.

This is a reward, getting to look you in the eye as you fuck him, not like a predator, but with passion. Looking at the man who fucks him in the eye, his desire burns brighter. He wraps his legs around your waist willingly as you start to fuck him again.

His knees are still weak, but his legs around you hold on still, with strength, persistance. They shake every time you bottom out inside of him, and yet he keeps them there to hold you close.

"You were never mad at me." He says naively.

"I was, still am," You laugh, for he's stupid to think otherwise, to think that the hand that spanked him was anything but. "but I never could stay mad at your for long."

You crash your lips together, just like before, sloppy and teethy and bloody and passionate and longing.

There is nothing holding you back now, you're together. You have him the way you want him, losing his mind under your cock, stuffing him full of you.

You're still mad at him—but you expend that energy in your thrusts that give him no reprieve, not even for breathing properly. You're still mad, but that anger makes Jaime grow harder, grow closer to his release.

He finishes over himself. It should be embarrasing, but it's your power over him and the fact you've made him come that makes him not feel the shame. And then you spill inside of him and he forgets himself, he just feels how full you've made him, how you've claimed him.

He was always yours, but this claim is now, finally, physical.

"Thank you, Ser."

[cloggedarteri]

i hesitate to admit this but i think red dead dutch and slasher reader would be two peas in a pod if they were pushed into a room together

[cloggedarteri]

alejandro: I cant call soap 'johnny' soap: dont. only ghost can pull that off ... huh so only ghost can call you that huh

these bitches gay

[cloggedarteri]

if i go further into the thought that iggy works in a professional kitchen id like to think that he wouldnt be alone in the chaos

now id be easy to say that prompto would be off doing pastry but i wholeheartedly believe he'd be a little powerhouse on the meats and pasta line...and the thing about that line is that everyone and i mean EVERYONE orders that. so 9 times out of ten most of those tickets are gonna be printing an order of steaks, or burgers or a fucking rigatonni that'll take forever to make cause you dont want to cook your food TOO in advance cause it'll die OR become overcooked and then youll need to refire the dish anyway. but despite all that chaos, prompto thrives. he moves along with the rush of service without a blink of an eye. and by end of service when everyone is breaking down their stations and counting off their tickets of their spikes, someone's left a little treat for prompto as a thank for basically carrying the service on his back

now gladio. i love gladio so much but i think all those muscles would be most useful with delicately rolling out croissants and whipping up pastry creams and jams. i just think it would do him well for his stress to just take his time meticulously preparing pastries and tarts while the entire kitchen is imploding. it tickles me pink istg

now ive already talked about iggy and his role in the kitchen already so i wont go on and on about it but i do think he'd be a jack of all trades. someone calls out at fish station and they need about 100 fillets for an upcoming party, iggy is gonna get it done. oh someone needed to step away from the line for a second, dont worry iggy's got them covered. i say this with my whole chest: iggy is head chef without the title cause if he accepts the title that means he'll get even less sleep than he already does.

noctis is nowhere near the line. the closest he'll get to food is when he needs to run into the back to tell the kitchen he fucked up an order OR when he comes to collect on his daily basket of fries. and its not like he cant handle the pressure of the kitchen, no. its cause he cant stand the smell of food on his clothes. (me too tbh)

(inspiration for prompto is dedicated to the first chef i befriended when id first started working in the kitchen. she was a tiny black queer women (im short btw. im 5'3. she was SHORTER THAN ME. fucking wild) who was basically a powerhouse in the kitchen and had MASSIVE fucking muscles to beat the shit outta proteins and carry heavy ass pots and pans...i miss her)

[cloggedarteri]

i love tilly with all my heart and id never badmouth her but i just know her sunshine and rainbow energy would attract losers like flies...shes really just like her brother smh

...

loser!reader looking up at tilly with puppy dog eyes trying to get a smidge of attention from tilly and tilly just laying a quick peck on her cheek before going about her business

what a women🥴