May 8
𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ; 🪢, 🌙 , 🏳️🌈 , ↕️ , 🫶
! nsfw below '°•➷
seen from United Kingdom
seen from France
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from Argentina
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Canada
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from China
seen from China
seen from Hong Kong SAR China
seen from Germany
seen from Russia
seen from Germany
seen from Germany
𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ; 🪢, 🌙 , 🏳️🌈 , ↕️ , 🫶
! nsfw below '°•➷
The hotel was a nothing place – all sand-coloured laminate and halogen light, a coffin dressed in bridal satin. It stank faintly of antiseptic, of scrubbed sins and laundering done too late. For now, it was theirs. The sheets, still warm from the sun, clung faintly with the perfume of industrial bleach and the shadow of strangers. Ciaran liked that. She liked pretending she was one of many women, all hollowed out in the same pose beneath the same flickering lamplight. It made her feel eternal.
The television blared dumbly in the background, a crown of static noise and soft moans, absurd in its theatrics. One thumb-press and it had sprung to life, offering her an anaemic procession of flesh and silicone. She left it running. Not out of curiosity, but to laugh, or to sneer, or perhaps to stage herself in opposition. What could those women know of this work? Their pleasure was painted on like frost on a mirror, gone at a breath.
She was not one of them.
She was not faking.
He lay beneath her, that man of noble ruin, half-saint and all animal now. There was nothing of chivalry in the way his hands lay slack by his sides, trembling only when she shifted her weight, his face her seat. Thighs, sun-kissed and toned, tensed faintly around his head. A little cruelly, she rolled her hips. A flicker of protest, muffled and dear, but she knew he could breathe. She could feel it – the rhythm of his life, hot against her skin, laboured and adoring. He would die for her, yes, but she would never let him.
The air conditioning clicked and rattled, struggling to cool the heat they were making. Her long braid lay down the curve of her back like a noose, catching at her ribs. Her phone was discarded on the windowsill, reflecting the city lights like a sliver of moon in a wine-dark sky. Ciaran sighed. Deep, contented, unhurried. Her voice, when it came, was velvet crushed and smoking:
“Mm… I should leave you there, Artorias. Set a crown on your brow and keep you like this forever. My sweet martyr. My ruined king.”
The blue light of the screen cast a pale, flickering halo over the room, over her bared chest and freckled belly, over the fine gleam of sweat at her throat. She dragged one hand down over her ribs, over the flat plane of her stomach, over the notch of her hipbone. She touched herself lazily – not for climax, but out of idleness. A little gesture of dominion. Of luxury.
Her pleasure was not violent. It was not fast. It was a feast that came in waves. Long, slow-dragging breakers that built behind her eyes and pulsed out through her limbs. She did not moan like the women on the screen. Instead, she smiled. Thin-lipped. Glorious. Eternal.
— from @apifacture
There is only her, all around him: the warmth of her sex, inches from his mouth, the rise of her stomach ascending to the gentle curve of her chest, and the press of her thighs to his cheeks. Her king, she murmurs - and she, his kingdom, his home, here beneath her, where has always, always belonged. He watches her hand dip between her legs, spread herself wider, a thumb languidly passing over her clit. His tongue feels thick in his mouth.
He has never wanted anything more than her, and the ache - the delicious ache - sat low in his stomach, thudding through him, is enough to drag his eyes upward, traveling the expanse of her, to meet her gaze with his own naked need.
Before he met Ciaran, he never submitted to anyone, not properly. He took on jobs, and paid due respect to his employers, and made a point of being kind and helpful to anyone and everyone he could - but it was never submission. He never gave up control, just deference. Now: now he is hers, wholly, and he revels in the sensation of it - of being so loved, so desired.
The idea had once terrified him. Now, it thrilled him. She thrills him.
His hands ache, too, to touch her; she has forbidden it for now. If she were to glance back, she'd know the proud of arch of him stands thick and hard with need - he doesn't touch that either, as desperately as he wants to. He can see the television glow paint her in snowy florescence; he can see shadows dancing on her skin. A goddess, wrought immortal in the memory of his moment. He's sure of it. He's sure he'll remember the sight of her, watching him imperiously, awash in snowlight, for the rest of his living days.
The proximity between need and release sings in his chest, in his throat, a taut line throughout his body that feels so, so close to snapping. The tension is incredible, intimate. He's not sure he's ever felt so alive.
In a moment, his tongue will seek out the pleasure in her depths, swipe and caress the hollow of her until her dominion is complete. In a moment more, he will surge upward until she is on her back, and he will rail her into the mattress as they exchange control, and trust, and love. And in the moment after that, they'll tangle up in one another in the sweatslick cool of their hotel room, and neither one of them will have ever better understood what home feels like.
But for now, he watches the way she pleases herself, teases him with those wandering fingers, those breathy little explorations of her heat, and he gives her a helpless, loving smile.
"Keep me here, then," he breathes. "I am yours, Ciaran - to keep wherever you please."
[ 23. ] desperately grinding on them through layers of clothing. ( her husband ) @pertinaxism
By a twist of the fates , Hadvar was made hand of the king. It pleased his wife to have their brood back nearer to her family.
What was left of them ... the black sickness , the stranger , death , had reaped enough of their souls. Even Hadvar had seen his blood buried , not burned , like the ruling class. His people were not dragons. They returned to the soil , the blessed earth , that they once had tilled. But peace had reclaimed their hearts and saddled itself beside grief so they became intertwined and heavy in their chests. The mother was merciful in her wisdom and had spared Hadvar and his beloved, as well as the dragons that ran by her skirts.
The solar was stifling. The downpour outside kept Hadvar from opening any of the windows and the fireplace still fiercely burned. The evenings had started cooling and deep in the night one would feel a chill of the oncoming season change. The door of his room is quietly opened and closed and he is more than happy to toss down the reports that he had gathered.
"What is my wife doing out of bed at this hour? Don't tell me the boy is running around with hammers again.... " His wife laughs and promises their wildest son is fast asleep , as is the rest of the castle. Her intentions for the night are clear. Her legs straddle his and Hadvar purposefully broadens the space between his knees to force her further apart. She hungers & so does he, gripping her body between his hands and situating her on his lap.
"My husband has been missing. Four nights this week." The king's hand laughs into her lips. She has a point ; Hadvar misses when life was simpler... but had it ever been? Perhaps he simply misses when his responsibility was only to her. "Feel that, wife.." She is easy for him to slide over his clothed cock. "Even one night is too much for me." Viserra is no less greedy for him now than she was when they were younger (not so many years ago, at least) and she slides her figure over him so many times Hadvar feels how wet she grows. His hand finds she wears no smallclothes. He finds himself overdressed now, and reaches for his belt.
"My wife, ever the vixen from the start."
shit, they're getting good at this.
blood speckles lisa's face, stray splatters from when jd had brought the axe down a final time. their victim's dead on the ground and it's fucking exhilarating, better than the first time with her bitch stepmom because that was nothing, that was instinct, and they'd planned this one, carried it out flawlessly. the perfect crime: who's going to blame a dead man?
she looks good. slightly transfixed. her wide baby-deer eyes are still locked on the corpse for a moment. jd wipes his hands on his jeans, clears his throat politely. when she looks at him, he grins, raises his eyebrows at her. happy?
@sordidery: ( tug ) : for SENDER to tug RECIEVER closer by their clothing. /+ lisa
she glides over to him in that long lace dress, practically pounces. yanks jd closer by the collar of his shirt, and there's no mistaking the look in her eyes. lisa swallows is kind of a freak, he's been noticing throughout their acquaintance. jd can work with that. he kisses her red mouth like he's been dying for it, hands coming up to span her waist.
and it's not like he isn't a little aroused already, just from the adrenaline, the thrill of it. he turns them so her back's against a tree, doing his best to hitch her ridiculous skirt up to her thigh with one hand while he bites and sucks hickeys down her virgin-white throat. he wants to fuck her right here -- who would see? they're alone, except for the dead. (present company included, as it were.)
jd sex meta but it's only things i have said on discord.
@pagent
he’s between her legs on her canopy bed. he’s fucked in worse places — fucked her in worse places, even. but the comforter has ruffles, for god’s sake. and sera seems allergic to participation. when he’s not getting the response he desires, jd slaps the outside of her thigh like she’s a disobedient stable horse.
“falling asleep on me, sweetheart?” the pet name is spat like a derogatory epithet. “i can head out if you’re not enjoying yourself.” he’s currently eye level with a cunt that seems to suggest otherwise, but let it never be said that jd put words in a woman’s mouth. figure this is what he gets for trying to do something nice.
𝐒𝐄𝐗, 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 & 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒
bold what does apply to your muse , italicize what applies sometimes , strike through what never applies .
it wasn't often that he found himself pressed up between a wall and someone like @bl4ckdevl but there he was . normally his conscience or his drinking buddy or his own lack of game had some reason to get in the way . he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth though , especially not when his tongue was licking a stripe across the side of the gift's neck , right under billy's jaw . foggy's hands were warm with restless energy , one holding the side of his jaw and the other resting on his hip . the night had been cold , burning at his cheeks and tips of his ears but now he was too warm , pushing at the shoulders of billy's jacket . the lawyer groaned , ' my bedroom is that way , if you want to ? '