𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐃: confessions, questions, and private disgraces may be offered here. 18+ ONLY. minors do not belong here. no exceptions. no loopholes. do not make me repeat myself.
── ❝ 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐓𝐇𝐘.
𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄. ❞
܁ᛪ༙ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐄݁ 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐑
elías. any pronouns. legal age. colombian / mexican. made of appetite and remorse. weak penitent. self-consuming, self-surveilling, and not built for clean hands. archivist of shame. patron saint of private ruin. this blog is a locked room for filth, failed devotion, and the humiliations of the body.
⋮ 𓃵 ┊𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅-𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓
the gospel of shame | the fellowship of filthy hands | the hand that offends | relics of the flesh | hymns for the profane
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this is impossible to answer because my room is less “contains a haunted object” and more “curated by a widow in 1973 who absolutely knew a curse by name.”
do you mind sharing some thoughts about not-necessarily-sexual medical play as a punishment system if you have any... my brain is rotting off that needle collar repost and what it symbolizes 🥩
yes, absolutely. and to me the thing that makes not-necessarily-sexual medical punishment so compelling is that it takes the visual language of care and drains it of comfort until all that remains is procedure, obedience, and that terrible immaculate intimacy of being handled.
because medicine, at least symbolically, is already a domain where the body stops being purely private. it becomes legible. examinable. correctable. something observed under bright light and translated into systems, measurements, responses. so when that gets folded into punishment, it stops being about heat or frenzy and becomes something colder, stranger, almost liturgical. not “i want to hurt you” in the vulgar sense, but i am going to administer consequence to you. i am going to treat your disobedience like a condition with a prescribed response. i am going to make your body receive what your mouth refused. there’s something so severe about that. so clean. punishment with all the mess of anger washed off it, until it gleams.
and that collar image specifically is so arresting to me because it feels less like a weapon than an ordinance. a sentence. a doctrine made brass and glass.
the throat is what really does it. the throat is such a defenseless, holy little bridge on the body. it carries voice, breath, swallowing, prayer, confession, begging. it is where the inner self has to pass in order to become sound. so to place the mechanism there, right under the jaw, right at that soft vulnerable arch, feels almost biblically deliberate. like the punishment is not for the skin alone but for speech, for defiance, for whatever tried to rise out of the body and name itself sovereign. it’s not just restraint, then. it’s a kind of authored silence. a threat poised at the border between thought and utterance.
what i also love about it is that it isn’t chaotic. it doesn’t look rabid. it looks engineered. almost devotional in its geometry. brass, glass, curvature, restraint. something handmade and ceremonial. and that, to me, is where the beauty curdles. because now the punishment is not only intimate, it is designed. someone conceived of this. someone measured for it. someone imagined the exact angle at which consequence should wait for the body. that is where it stops being generic cruelty and becomes obsession, architecture, theology.
the title, one way system, makes it even worse in the best possible way. because that’s the whole shiver of it, isn’t it? the absolute directional nature of authority. one will enters. one body receives. one side determines the terms. there is no reciprocity in the mechanism itself. no democracy. no mutual exchange. only the horrifying elegance of a single command traveling in a single direction. it feels like law. like sacrament. like judgment.
and because it borrows the sterile visual grammar of medicine, it carries this almost unbearable contradiction: it looks like something meant to help, to heal, to preserve life, but in the symbolic register it becomes an instrument of correction. that contradiction is deliciously unsettling. care and punishment sharing the same face. mercy wearing the mask of threat. discipline disguised as treatment. it turns the punished body into something halfway between patient and penitent, specimen and supplicant, as if wrongdoing itself has become an ailment to be managed.
that’s why i think imagery like this can hit so much harder than anything overtly sexual. because it lives in the realm of ritualized vulnerability. it’s about surrender, yes, but not in a soft or sentimental way. more like being brought to heel by a system that is calm enough to never raise its voice. being made to understand that your body can be read, positioned, and answered. that consequence can arrive not as frenzy, but as immaculate design.
🥩 anon, your brain is correct to be rotting over it. mine would be too.
✩ the club's loud, even from the outside. the bouncer waves you in as soon as he sees you— apparently, you're on "the list". drunk bodies fill the room to the brim like sardines. the smell of sweat and sex mingle with a mixture of perfumes and colognes. the DJ, some guy named amelia, screams over the music: "welcome to the fucking party!!!"
welcome to my 1k event inspired by my current fav hyperpop/supercunt songs <3 this event will run until i've finished everything accepted. have fun & stay sexy.
i don't wanna use my brain, lobotomy, it feels so good—sitting on the DJ's face, i feel the beat through my puss!
💬 — smau. max capacity: 15.
instagram, imessage, or twitter. character x character, character(s) x reader. features some writing (likely less than 0.5k). include character(s), aus, reader specifics, & other details.
🎧 — au hcs/fics. max capacity: 5.
0.5k-1k. character x character, character(s) x reader. whether these are fics or hcs will depend on my inspo/motivation (but these reqs will always be at least 0.5k). include character(s), aus, a prompt/vibe, & other details.
🥂 — group hcs. max capacity: 5.
0.5k-1k. characters responding to xyz / characters with xyz. characters don't have to be from the same fandom. up to 6 characters accepted at a time. include characters, aus, a prompt, & other details.
🍰 — full nsfw. max capacity: 3.
~1k. character x reader. include reader details, aus, kinks, & other details.
ANNOUNCEMENT FROM THE DJ: "we're pushing past capacity. fuck it, let's keep going with no limits!" (in other words, there's no max to these).
🍋🟩 — marvel rivals main(s).
me assigning a character, one of my readers, or even you a marvel rivals main (or two or three, depending). features a moodboard & explanation. include the character/reader or details about yourself (games you play, playstyles, favorite marvel characters, personality, anything relevant).
🎱 — random wip/idea dump.
yapping about a random wip/idea i've been working on. hopefully these will help me gage interest for future posts, lol.
i fucked this beat like i fucked your dad! i made his shit bop, spittin' these bars like i spat on his cock yeah!
ugh! rules:
all posts related to this event will be tagged #✧͏ CRANK IT! and will appear on my masterlist with the disco ball emoji (🪩) so that they can be easily located.
i will not be posting regular reqs/content alongside this event. still, please remain patient. do note, also, that i can reject or ignore requests at any time (though i'm not prone to doing so).
be descriptive with your requests! it helps me a lot. if you have any additional ideas/inspo, include it in your ask.
be mindful of the max capacity limit for certain request types. anything sent in over the limit will be deleted. you can find the current status of everything on this event masterlist post.
other than that, all my typical rules apply & any fandoms/characters i write for are included! if you have any further questions, feel free to ask!
to send in a request: start with the emoji of what you want, then include the necessary details (listed under each req type), add any additional details, maybe a compliment, and then send.
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neon pink lights bleeding across mirrored walls. rhinestone bras catching every flicker of the stage. poles gleaming under velvet-dark ceilings. crumpled bills fluttering down like confetti. acrylic nails tapping against shot glasses. gold chains resting warm against perfumed skin. body glitter dusting collarbones and thighs like stardust. lipstick prints staining napkins and dollar bills alike. high heels abandoned beside the stage between sets. laughter rising above the music. knows every bouncer by name.
vanilla perfume tangled with cigarette smoke and cheap tequila. late nights melting into neon mornings. bathroom mirrors crowded with lip gloss tubes and glitter compacts. silk robes slipping off shoulders while counting tips. perfume spritzed on pulse points. knowing smiles traded with bartenders and bouncers like quiet alliances. hair smelling faintly of hairspray and nightclub fog machines. the thrill of eyes watching every move. power worn like lingerie. smiles sweetly while emptying someone's wallet.
stripper!reader who keeps small things in her bag: lip gloss, extra lashes, safety pins, a lighter she swears she doesn’t use but always carries. sometimes there’s a folded receipt with a number written on the back, sometimes a half-finished candy bar from the vending machine.
stripper!reader who moves through the club like the neon lights belong to her. the music might be loud, the crowd messy and drunk, but the moment she steps onto the stage the room shifts. she knows exactly how to hold someone’s gaze just long enough to make them reach for their wallet.
stripper!reader who has a little ritual before every shift: glitter brushed across her collarbones, perfume dabbed on her wrists and behind her ears, rhinestone heels lined neatly in the locker, lipgloss glistening on her lips.
stripper!reader who always smells like vanilla perfume and cigarette smoke after a shift. the scent clings to her clothes, to the tips of her hair, even when she gets home long after sunrise. sometimes she sits on the edge of her bed still wearing half her makeup, counting crumpled bills while the sky outside slowly turns pale.
stripper!reader who knows everyone in the club. the bartenders who slide her water between dances. the DJ who plays her favorite songs when she nods at him across the room. the bouncers who keep an eye on the stage and give her a small approving smile when the tips start piling up.
work for stripper!reader . . . ♡ none yet.
꒰ best paired with . . . any characters in the tags & more!
hi! i’m the hozier anon :] earlier this week, especially yesterday i’ve been listening to his discography a lot and had the unreal unearth: unending on repeat and all i could think of is you, all of his lyrics on that song just scream eli to me.
every song, every lyric, every emotion, and enunciation just kept reminding me of you! & if you told me you were hozier himself or vice versa, id believe you both. cause wow the way he describes such feelings and such details and things no one really think that deeply of, again, reminds me of you and your beautifully unfiltered and unsoftened words that just cracks me open in a way ive never felt before and i old it
it’s the first time i’m listening to it like that now all i can think of while playing that album, hozier in general, is you and i couldn’t have it any other way.
oh this is so tender and unreal to read :( hi hozier anon. thank you for telling me this, genuinely. the thought of you looping unreal unearth: unending and having it braid itself around my name like that—like the album became a little private conduit between your room and mine—makes my chest ache in the softest way.
and i get exactly what you mean about him, too. hozier writes like somebody who refuses to dilute feeling into something socially convenient. he doesn’t just “say” emotion, he anatomizes it turns it over until you can see the grain, the bruising, the sanctity, the dirt under the fingernails. there’s a kind of liturgical precision to the way he names desire and grief, like language is a ritual tool and not just decoration. so to be associated with that with that level of attention, that unsoftened honesty, that willingness to let beauty stay a little feral feels like being handed a compliment i don’t even have the right vocabulary to hold without dropping it.
“if you told me you were hozier himself” is killing me (ughh :(( !!!) but it also means the world because what you’re really saying is: you feel seen by the way i’m willing to look at things. not just the pretty parts, but the parts people rush past, the parts they don’t want to name too clearly. and i’m so grateful my words do that for you crack you open, like recognition, like something inside you finally has room to breathe.
also, i love that now when you play him, you think of me. that’s such an intimate kind of imprint. like i’ve been filed into your listening habits as a little ghost note, a private annotation in the margins of the album. i don’t take that lightly at all. thank you for letting me live there with you.
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summary ﹏ After repeatedly challenging Prince Baelor during council, one stubborn young lord is summoned to a private chamber in the Red Keep. What begins as a quiet reprimand quickly turns into a tense power struggle, where Baelor makes it very clear that provoking him comes with consequences.
The Red Keep had many quiet chambers, but none of them felt quiet when you were in them with Prince Baelor, you had learned that the hard way.
The door shut behind you with a heavy wooden thud, and the sound echoed through the stone chamber like a warning bell. Candlelight flickered across the carved table and the narrow windows, painting the room in gold and shadow. Baelor stood with his back to you at first; tall, broad-shouldered, still wearing the dark velvet doublet he had worn during the council session you had just spent the last hour ruining.
You had questioned him, interrupted him, corrected him in front of half the court like some reckless fool who had forgotten exactly who he was speaking to. Which was precisely why you were here now.
Slowly, Baelor turned, his expression wasn’t angry but that would have been easier. Instead, his gaze was calm in a way that made your stomach twist. “You enjoy testing my patience,” he said. The words were quiet and controlled, because that’s exactly how Baelor was. You leaned one shoulder against the wall as if you hadn’t just been summoned like a disobedient squire.
“I was only speaking my mind, Your Grace.” Baelor’s brow lifted at your attitude. “Were you, now?” You shrugged, but ended up nodding your head too. “You asked for opinions.”
“I asked for counsel,” he corrected mildly. “Not… interruptions.” The silence stretched after those words. The prince studied you in the same way a knight might examine a blade before deciding whether to sheath it or use it. “You do this often,” he continued. “At council, at court, in the training yard.” Your pulse beat harder, though you refused to move.
“Do what?” His mouth curved very slightly, his hands moving to intertwine and his mismatched eyes lowered for a second before looking back at you. “Provoke me.”
You snorted. Literally snorted at the Targaryen Prince in front of you. “I don’t think princes are that easily provoked.” Baelor took a slow step toward you, one that felt dangerous and then, another. The air in the room shifted at that.
“Most princes, perhaps,” he said. “But you seem determined to discover exactly where my patience ends.” Your back was still against the wall when he stopped in front of you. He was close enough that you could see the mismatch of his pretty eyes; blue and brown. Close enough that you could smell leather and steel and the faint warmth of wine on his breath.
“Tell me,” Baelor said softly, “do you enjoy it?” You met his gaze, his eyes squinting as he waited for your answer. “Enjoy what?” You asked back, a bit stupidly, if you were honest.
“This.” His hand came to rest on the wall beside your shoulder, not touching you but trapping you there all the same. One more step and his chest would brush against your own. “Pushing,” he continued. “Arguing, seeing how far you can go before someone reminds you of your place.” Your throat felt suddenly dry as you gulped.
“You brought me here to lecture me, Your Grace?”
Baelor laughed quietly. “No.” The word was warm and dangerous all at once as they rolled from his mouth. A warmth coursed through your lower belly, hitting your groin, making your shaft twitch inside the trousers you wore. “I brought you here,” he said, “because you clearly require… correction.”
Your heart thudded harder in your chest. “And you think you’re the man for that?” The words sounded like mocking, like teasing once more. Baelor’s eyes darkened with something almost amused.
“I know I am.” His words hit your ears and before you could answer, his hand moved.
His fingers closed around your hair, pulling your head away from the wall and closer to his own in one smooth motion. Your breath caught and a sudden hiss escaped you at the action you didn’t expect from the Prince. Your head was thrown backward, throat bare and Adam’s apple bobbing.
“You speak like a man who wants consequences,” Baelor murmured and you tilted your chin stubbornly toward him. “And if I do?”
His fingers tightened their grip into the locks of your hair, tugging a bit more firmly now.
It made your pulse jump beneath his touch and Baelor noticed. Of course he did. “Then you should be careful what you wish for,” he said quietly. You tried to pull your head back but he didn’t let you. It wasn’t forcefully, just enough to make it clear that he wouldn’t let you go so easily. “You spend half your time trying to rile me in front of the court,” he went on, voice low. “Yet here you are, breathing like a man who suddenly regrets it.”
“I don’t regret anything.” Baelor stepped closer again after the words escaped your mouth. Your back met the wall completely then, the back of your shoes hitting the plinth.
“You will,” he said softly and the words should have sounded like a threat. Instead, they felt like a promise. His hand finally released your hair—but only so he could rest both palms on your shoulders and suddenly pushed you down with force. Your knees buckled and you ended up hitting the floor, body boxed between him and the wall. He was standing in front of you, mismatched eyes looking at your new position.
“You are one of my lords,” Baelor said, studying your face. “Which means you should know better.” You gasped at that; the words, being on your knees in front of him, having to look up at his face. “Probably,” you muttered at the Prince.
“And yet you persist.” Your lips curved faintly, not able to keep yourself from keeping it up. “Maybe I like seeing you lose your composure.” Baelor laughed again; low and dangerous. He shook his head at the sentence coming from your mouth, amusement in his blue and brown eyes. “Oh, I haven’t lost it.”
His hands moved before you could understand what he was doing; careful fingers unlacing the knot of his trousers, letting sliver of skin showing with a dark and grey happy trail that ran all the way down to mix with pubic hair. Your mouth watered at the view of his lower belly, at the muscles taunting there, waiting to be worshipped. You gulped and a shiver ran down your spine before you could stop it.
Baelor noticed that too, he noticed everything, you knew that. “That mouth of yours,” he murmured, “has caused me trouble since the day you arrived at court.” He spoke, strong veiny hands tugging the fabric of his trousers open. “And yet you keep inviting me to council.” You couldn’t help but express, even if your voice was low, secretive.
“Because,” Baelor said, straightening just enough to look you directly in the eye again, “I enjoy the challenge.” Your breath caught at that, your own cock twitching in the thin trousers you wore. It begged to be freed, to be given attention, even if you knew Baelor would do nothing for you uncomfort. His mismatched gaze moved slowly over your face, like he was committing every reaction to memory.
“And because,” he added, voice softer now, “I think you enjoy being put in your place far more than you pretend.” You gasped at the way he said those words; because, Gods, you couldn’t even deny those. He was right. All you did was for his attention, for his reactions, for him. The room felt smaller with every passing second. Baelor’s hand moved again—this time resting lightly at your jaw, tilting your head up just enough that you had to meet his blue and brown eyes.
“Next time you decide to challenge me in front of the court,” he said gently, “remember this moment.”
“And what moment is that?” His thumb brushed along your jaw after you spoke, you could feel the beating of your heart inside your chest, ribs keep the organ protected but not enough against the heavy eyes of the Targaryen Prince. You almost whined at his touch, face searching for more, nuzzling his palm.
“The one where you realize,” Baelor said, “that you may enjoy provoking me…” His mouth curved in a faint, knowing smile, teasing you. “But I enjoy taming you far more, you little brat.” His grip on your jaw then tightened to tilt your head, giving him the opportunity to see all the features of your face and how wide your eyes now were. His thumb brushed up to your bottom lip, slightly pushing against it.
Baelor didn’t even have to say the words as your jaw went slack and you opened your lips for his digit, only making him chuckle at the view he had. How pathetic of you, suddenly wordless, obeying to his commands. “Now, open your mouth. I think you need to remember when to shut up.” He said, eyebrows furrowing, voice firm. A shiver coursed through your body, your cock twitching inside your pants; heavy and demanding attention. For once, you didn’t try to go against his words, only nodded your head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The Targaryen’s Prince hand left your face then, only to push down the trousers he wore, enough to finally free his cock. The shaft slapped back to his lower belly, his tip a pinkish red color and you realized he was circumcised which wasn’t surprising for someone his rank. He was a Prince, after all. Pre-cum leaked in beads from his bulbous head, slowly dripping down the length of him, drying at mid-course. You felt saliva pooling in the back of your mouth and you gulped as your eyes focused on his member.
Baelor’s hands moved—one grabbed the base of his shaft, his fingers grazing at the dark hair resting there as he started to slowly jerk himself in front of your face. His second hand moved to the back of your head, free fingers running through your locks just to pull on them, tilting your head backward like he had done before. “Are you going to be good and learn how to shut the fuck up?” He asked, his voice quiet and heavy as the words hit your ears. Your thighs shook, rubbing against one another to give friction to your own shaft.
You nodded. “I could try, Your Grace.”
He clicked his tongue up against his palate, shaking his head at the answer. “I do not need you to try, I need you to do it. Open your mouth, now, boy.” His hips jerked toward your face, hand back at the base of his cock to guide it to your lips and you sighed, nodding at him.
Your eyes couldn’t leave the pretty pink color of his tip when it approached you, your tongue slipping out of your mouth to swipe across your lips, wetting it. The immediate taste of sweat and salt hit you as Baelor brushed his mushroom head over your wettened mouth, beads of pre-cum catching there. A sigh escaped him when the tip of your tongue slicked out, giving him a kitten lick. The Prince pushes his hips closer to your face before his tip enters your warm cavern.
Your lips stretch to accommodate his girth as he guides his cock deeper inside your mouth. Your eyes immediately lifts up to his face, only to see him having his mismatched orbs on your already, fixating on your expression and the way you react. You don’t have time to breathe through your nose before the hand tugging at your hair pushes you to his pelvis, pubic hair tickling your nose and chin. A gag escapes you and both your hands move to Baelor’s thighs, trying to push away. “No, no, stay here. You have to learn.” You hear him say.
The sensation of his tip hitting the back of your throat is enough to make you squirm and with the movement, your sensitive cock brushes against the fabric of your pants. A whine tries to echo out of your mouth, but is eaten by Baelor’s shaft and the vibration of the melodic note makes him roll his hips. “Gods—” You hear from his mouth, your nails burying themselves in his skin. Your mouth is full of his cock, heavy and pressed down against your tongue. It’s salty, musky; all so new to you.
The Prince’s hand pushes your head once more, making your nose brush through his pubic hair once more and you gag, saliva pooling at the corners of your lips. Though he is not moving yet, you can feel the twitch of his fat cock in your mouth. You feel disgusting when your own shaft hardens between your thighs, begging to be touched and played with. You close your eyes to push the thoughts away, but they open wide as Baelor starts to move, pulling his hips backwards and his cock slips out.
“Isn’t it better when you keep your lips closed? If I knew it was the solution, I would have done that long before.” The words hit your ears but you can’t react to them before the older man thrust his cock back inside your mouth, fingers tugging at your hair to move your head like he wants it. His tip hit the back of your throat, making you gag for the third time. Your tongue rolls around his shaft then, pressing against a vein. Your lips tightens their seal around his girth, jaw slack so you wouldn’t bite him by accident.
Only then, Baelor starts fucking your mouth—he’s careful only in the way someone is when they know what they are doing. He rolls his hips, burying his cock so deep inside your mouth that he can see his tip hitting your uvula, and your muscles contracting around his shaft, making you choke on him. Your saliva coats his length, all the way to his base, drool slowly dripping to the skin of his heavy balls. You can feel them, sticky, slapping your chin as he fucks your mouth without any restrain.
Tears slowly pool at your eyes, your nails scratching the skin of his thighs, your orbs looking up at his face. Baelor is breathing heavily, his eyebrows furrowed with focus as he moves his hips, slamming them against your face. “Gods, fuck, see… That little mouth of yours was made to be fucked.” You hear him say after a beat of wet-sounds and skin-slapping-skin silence echoing in the room. His cock is slipping in and out of your cavern so easily, dragging threads of saliva back and back to splash around your lips. It drips to your chin and neck, making a mess you would have never thought of making before.
“Keep crying, you brat, tears looks so good on you.”
Suddenly, his hand pushes your head all the way so his cock is buried inside your wet and warm mouth, making you gag around his length again. Your nose is pressed to his pubic hair; it’s musky, sweaty, so appetizing. You think he’s going to pull away like before, but he does nothing of the sort and his free hand moves to your face. His thumb and index fingers are pinching your nose, cutting the air that flowed from here. Your eyes widen and you try to pull away, but the hand he has in your hair keeps you there.
Your throat contracts around his cock, tongue pushing against the heavy member resting there as Baelor moves his hips, thrusting his shaft inside your mouth. His pre-cum is mixing with your saliva, the taste becoming salty and a telltale of how close he was to his orgasm. Tears now rolled down your cheeks to mix with the mess of drool on your face, heavy balls slapping your chin and sticking there. You whined, melody vibrating around Baelor’s shaft as he kept slamming it to the back of your throat.
“Fuck, I think I’m going to fill that sweet little mouth with my cum. What do you think, brat?” His thumb and index fingers moved finally, air flowing back through your nose and you coughed around his cock. The tip pushed all the way deeper, and now, both of the Targaryen Prince’s hands were on the back of your head to keep you still as he fucked your mouth. Heavy and loud gagging noises echoed in the room, squelching following from your mouth, skin-slapping-skin due to his balls. “I can feel your little throat closing around my cock.”
You tried your best to roll your tongue around his girth, to the slit of his tip to bring him more pleasure. The floor was starting to hurt your knees, making the skin raw under the fabric of your trousers. Only then, you started to rub your thighs against one another, giving friction to your sensitive cock. The slick tip rubbed raw against your pants, making you whine around Baelor’s cock. His grip on your hair tightened then, you felt his hips jerking uncoordinately.
One of your hands left his thigh just to rub at your hard shaft, rammies in the way of your pleasure but you didn’t have the time to be whining about it. The older man’s mismatched eyes followed the movement of your hand, chuckling at your actions when he realized what you were doing. “How pathetic of you.” He simply said, making you whine around his cock. The heat in your lower belly intensified with the pleasure you gave yourself, you knew you wouldn’t last too long.
Threads of saliva connected your lips to Baelor’s reddish tip when he pulled out, just to slam back inside your mouth, hitting your uvula. You gagged once more, choking on his fat cock, heavy balls now contracting as they hit your face. The room was filled with perverted, disgusting and icky noises caused by your mouth and wet gurgling melody.
There was no warning when one of Baelor’s hands moved to your face again, fingers pinching at the tip of your nose to cut the air from being inhaled. From then, your hand between your thighs started to rub at your poor, lonely cock faster. You squirmed to breathe, tears rolling down your cheeks and to your neck, sweat covering your forehead. “Going to fill that filthy little mouth, you brat. I’m going to show you what happens when you talk back to me.” Baelor spoke above you, hips jerking to bury his cock deep one last time.
Your nose then brushed his pubic hair once more, a loud gag echoed from your throat and you tried to pull away. The hot, salty taste of his semen hit you, cum painting the walls of your cavern white. It was thick, leaking from the corners of your lips as you coughed to breathe, mixing with your saliva and tears. Baelor’s hands left your head and face and you pulled away, lungs burning from the lack of air. Semen pooled at the curve of your tongue and you swallowed, making the Targaryen Prince hum. “Now, I supposed I should call you a good boy, uh?”
Your face was a mess of bodily fluids, sticky and slick like it had never been before. A finger wiped some of your saliva away from your sensitive lips and you whined. In the precipitation of Baelor’s orgasm, you hadn’t even realized that you also had your own. Your trousers were damp with semen, dampening the fabric to create a darker spot. Embarrassment flowed through your body, and you had nothing to say, lifting your eyes to the older man.
“Now, are you going to keep that little attitude of yours, brat?” He asked, hands already moving to push his softened cock back in his rammies, lacing the knot like nothing had happened. You were half-tempted to give a snarky remark back to you, but decided not to, with the way your throat hurt now.
FUCCK this theme is exactly what we wanna see (i love it eep!!!)
thank you, anon!! i’m so glad it’s landing the way i wanted. i built this theme like a small private liturgy, honestly: all heat and humiliation, all iconography and appetite, a little chapel for the profane where desire isn’t sanitized and shame isn’t decorative, it’s structural. i wanted it to feel like a curated wound, like a reliquary of self-defilement with the lights kept low on purpose.
so hearing “this is exactly what we wanna see” makes me feel insane in the best way, because yes. this is the thesis. this is the aesthetic doctrine. this is me arranging my obsessions into architecture and inviting you into the room.
Sorry! I didn't mean to be annoying with the question. I've just seen you repost it before and was just wondering.
no no you’re totally fine!! you weren’t annoying, i promise.
i repost fluffy stuff sometimes mostly because it’s from my moots and i like supporting them + boosting their work. it’s less “i read/write fluff lane” and more “i love my friends and i love seeing them win.” like, my reblogs are not always a declaration of what i’m personally writing at that exact moment, sometimes they’re just me being a little cheerleader with a megaphone because i adore the people i follow. so genuinely don’t worry at all ♡
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take all the time you need eli, we’ll always be here waiting for you with open arms trust!!!!!
thank you, angel. i promise i’m not disappearing forever, i’m just moving a little slower right now, tending to the boring mortal logistics and trying to come back with something real rather than forcing myself to perform activity for the sake of appearances. and thank you for the open arms, sweet anon. i’m keeping that softness with me like a little talisman.
