𝔾𝕌𝕀𝕃𝔻𝔼𝔻𝔼ℕ𝕍𝕐 — an independent roleplay blog written by syn. 25+, they them. mst. this blog will include dark, taboo, dead dove and other nsfw themes. if that’s not your thing, please don’t interact.
rules. muses. wanted plots. opposites. opens.
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@gildedenvy
𝔾𝕌𝕀𝕃𝔻𝔼𝔻𝔼ℕ𝕍𝕐 — an independent roleplay blog written by syn. 25+, they them. mst. this blog will include dark, taboo, dead dove and other nsfw themes. if that’s not your thing, please don’t interact.
rules. muses. wanted plots. opposites. opens.

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closed for @gildedenvy . . .
“your pops called earlier,” it's a measly attempt to sound casual while bennett is turned away from his daughter, practically bent over the kitchen sink as he scrubbed helplessly at the grease that seemed embedded in his knuckles. he swallows, eyes flickering up once to the window just above the sink, catching the light in gage's place finally flickering off. he huffs out a breath, tension in his shoulders only managing to grow more persistent. he's all too aware of her presence behind him in a way that should have been something that gave him more pause than it truly did. he shuts the sink off, the tap dripping for a few more seconds, making him frown. “said you were tryin' to get into it with alicia last time you were in nashville. we talked about that, tals. i know — i know you ain't my little girl anymore, but y'gotta start playin' nicer.”
bennett’s voice was rough, careful, like he was trying to navigate a conversation he didn’t want to have, and talia had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. of course he had called. always playing messenger for alicia, his perfect little wife, the woman who had always looked at talia like she was a project that needed managing. talia sighed dramatically, the sound long and suffering as she perched on the stool, bare feet dangling just above the cool linoleum. the oversized t-shirt swallowed her frame, fabric soft against her skin, hem riding up just enough to hint at the boy shorts beneath. she rested her head on her open palms, “you want me to play nice with alicia?” her laugh was sharp, bright and bitter. “the woman who’s spent years acting like i’m a burden? and thinks she knows better than i do about how i should live my life?” she leaned against the counter, the cool surface a contrast to her heated skin. “i graduated from tisch, dad,” she said, her voice dropping, “i did everything i was supposed to. i shouldn’t have to settle for being a camp counselor!” the kitchen smelled of grease and regret, the scent of her childhood clinging to the walls like a stubborn stain, and she hated the way it wrapped around her, threatening to pull her back into the life she’d fought so hard to escape. her dreams of stardom always felt a little further away with every mention of that woman’s name. the clink of the tap dripping was a dark punctuation to the silence between them, each drop a tiny hammer against the porcelain. get into it with alicia? she couldn’t help but scoff, as if that was the only thing she’d been getting into lately. is that why her dad had brought it up? sour her otherwise good mood so she’d leave him alone for the night? fat chance. she shifted on the stool, the wood smooth beneath her thighs, and let her gaze drift over the older man, eyes wide and innocent. “beside daddy, i think i’ve been plenty nice lately,” she countered, voice dripping with false innocence. leaning into the double meaning only she and bennett would understand. the memory of their last shoot, his hands on her waist, her back arched against him. it all came rushing back, a thrill that made her pulse race. “i mean, if helping you get to use all your untouched toys doesn’t count as being nice,” she continued, ocean hues alight with a playful spark despite the pout forming on her lips, “i don’t know what does.” she sighed again, the sound long and dramatic, and let her gaze drop to her lap, fingers picking at the hem of her t-shirt. “but if she’s that worried about me being jobless that she sent pops after you, maybe we should just tell them how i'm making money?”
@mysticcls
🌸✨️🌸✨️🌸✨️🌸✨️
I will always be patient for your reply! Go at your own pace 🩷
🌸✨️🌸✨️🌸✨️🌸✨️
ara's voice is like a warm blanket, covering georgia completely. she shivered slightly as her words were repeated back to her, and her whole body grew tense as ara finally, finally dragged her fingers between her thighs, cunt throbbing in time with her heartbeat in response. her whole body was hot, almost embarrassed as she felt herself flutter around nothing, georgia swallowing harshly at her fingers pressed tighter, a soft, needy whimper spilling from her lips. her knees were already smarting against the hardwood floors of ara's apartment, even though she's been in this position more times than she could possibly count. “no,” she starts before she can stop herself as ara walks away, her body curling in on itself slightly as she resists the urge to squirm. her whole body was trembling like a dandelion in the breeze, and she whimpered again as she watched her closely, cataloging her every move. she doesn't dare to even move. knows her own release hinges on ara's decisions, on if georgia is deemed good enough, and she wouldn't do anything to jeopardize that. she swallows as she's told to come closer, before she nods, almost immediately crawling across the floor to get closer to ara. this was humiliating, once upon a time. the action of being on her hands and knees, crawling toward her domme as if georgia were a disobedient pup, but she also knows that now it was hard to hide just how badly she craved it. lots of things with ara had been deemed new to her — her desperation was a genuine piece of that, how easy it seemed for ara to make her fall apart with just a simple touch. even the cat ears had been something that had made her squirm, but now they just seemed to make her mind shut off completely. she settled on her knees in front of her, the bell on her collar jingling with every harsh breath that seemed to sputter from her lips, and she couldn't stop the whine that slipped from her as she heard ara's command. even then, following it was nothing, and she shuffled forward, cheeks going even redder as she settled herself down, thighs bracketing the rough leather of her boot before she sinks down even lower. the first touch of the leather to her clothed cunt had lightning practically racing up her spine, and she hadn't even moved yet. she bites down hard on her lower lip, movements clumsy as she rolls her hips just once, looking up at ara with bright, wet eyes. “mommy,” she starts, breath hitching as she gets the hang of it finally, hips rolling slow as if she's testing it. she can't make herself look down. can feel the slick drag of her soaked panties against her cunt and doesn't even want to perceive the kind of mess she's probably smearing all over her boot right now, and georgia whimpers again, back arching slightly as one of the buckles grinds against her clit just right. “mommy, please, please — s'good, feels s'good —”
ara watched georgia with a slow, satisfied smile, her gaze sharp and assessing as the girl settled herself against her boot, hips rolling in that first tentative grind. the sight was breathtaking. georgia, her pretty pet, all flushed skin and desperate eyes, her body moving against the leather like she was born to do it. the bell on her collar jingled with every movement, a sweet little chime that might as well have been a dinner bell for ara’s hunger. leather gleaming beneath her. it was a masterpiece of submission, a filthy work of art that had ara’s own pulse quickening. mommy, please, please, s’good, feels s’good georgia’s voice was a breathy whisper, thick with the weight of her need, and ara had to bite back a laugh. swallowing the urge to preen under the proof of her control. she leaned back against the loveseat, the leather creaking beneath her like a sigh, and let her gaze rake over georgia as she found her rhythm, hips moving in a slow, deliberate circle. the sound of her wet panties against the leather was obscene, a sultry symphony of their desire, and ara could feel the way her own body responded, her skin prickling with the thrill of it. “oh, pet,” ara murmured, her voice a warm blanket that covered georgia completely, “do you like that?” her fingers curled around the armrest, her nails digging into the leather as she watched the way georgia’s body trembled, dark hues watching her breaths come in faster.
“does it feel good, humping against mommy like a little slut?” georgia always looked the most beautiful with her cheeks flush with embarrassment, and right now, it was all ara wanted to see. wet eyes and red cheeks. her perfect girl. “you look so pretty like this,” she continued, her voice dropping to a purr, rich and honeyed. “all desperate and needy, grinding against my boot like it’s the only thing that can save you.” her gaze flicked to the leather, to the way georgia’s arousal was smearing across the toe, a glossy sheen that caught the light like liquid sin. “and look at the mess you’re making,” she tsked, her voice light, almost cheerful, as she reached down, her fingers curling around georgia’s throat, forcing her gaze up to meet ara’s. her thumb brushed against georgia’s jaw, her touch possessive, claiming. “i do hope you’re planning on cleaning that up, pet. or do i need to throw these boots away after this?” the thought was almost amusing, the way she could picture it. georgia on her knees, scrubbing at the leather with her little tongue, trying to remove every last trace of her need. the scent of georgia’s arousal was thick in the air, a perfume of need that made ara’s mouth water. “can you really cum like this?” she murmured, her voice a velvet whip. “i’m really curious to see whether you can. mommy will be so proud if you do.” her smile sharpened, cruel and beautiful. “don’t you want to be a good girl who makes mommy proud?”

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THE CARRIE DIARIES 2.09 ― "Under Pressure"
@gildedenvy
Tom Hiddleston, Diego Calva & Camila Morrone in The Night Manager Season 2 Episode 3 (2026)
@euphemoria
L.A. CONFIDENTIAL (1997) dir. Curtis Hanson
@gildedenvy
Theo can see the war waging behind her almond eyes — relishes it. The wash of color over the femme's rounded cheeks, rosy and every bit as flush as the sweet hot cunt a mere breath from his face, is damningly delectable. Everything about this shameless creature is temptation with a capital T and just as much trouble. Pliant but playful, eager but impish. Sydney begs like a wanton whore and then threatens like a petty brat in nearly the same breath. 'Maybe I'll just have to find two other men who can.' The lady doth protest, but the author knows better. "Fat fucking chance of that, sweetheart." The look that Theo levels on the bewitching little thing with his stormy gaze is both impossibly indulgent and fatherly admonishing, saliva pooling in his all too hungry mouth as he peers at her face through the thick of his unfairly long lashes.
If he wasn't so fucking enamored — if her pussy wasn't a dripping altar of devotion to him — he would have just stopped this whole thing then and there. Punished her the way that she so very much deserved. Fortunately for her, the man behind the pen is too much of a selfish glutton to punish himself too.
"You're mine now." Solo's chuckle punctuates the statement, both of them of the same mind. Theo takes hold of a perfect and pale leg, moving and shifting to drape the length of it over one of his broad shoulders so that she's caged by the both of them. No escape, no getting out of this fire turned raging inferno that she's guilty of having started. His blunt teeth sink into her thigh without mercy. No preamble. No softness. The mark of possession that he carves into her flesh is similar but discernable from the one his dark haired friend etches into her throat at the same time. It'll be a fun game between them later, trying to decipher whose brand belongs to whom.
But first...
The author's insatiable mouth trails a damp path over her velvety skin once more, every dragging and ragged inhale of breath full of the sickeningly sweet scent of her dripping sex. Theo is bold and brash in his conquest, afforded the confidence of knowing that Solo's is an iron grip that never breaks until exactly the right time. His right arm shifts, hand clawing at the meatier flesh of Sydney's gorgeous thigh to crack her open and hold her perfectly in place. Pointed tongue laps against her slit, throat rumbling its approval of her decadent taste as it coats his tongue and throat. Thick. Divine. Her juices smear over his nose and cheeks as he presses on. Hard. Deliberate. He laps at her swollen clit, writing his name into the nub before nipping and sucking at the bud. "Mm — fuckin' perfect." His knees dig into the floor and his tongue spears through her lush folds, drowning in the hot wet embrace of her cunt. Ambrosia. He growls his hunger into her soaked skin, drinking in her nectar like a man who has never so much as known a sip of water.
For his part, Solo licks the angry welt from his bite against her throat. The feel of her pulse thrumming against his tongue sparks a litany of sinful urges and there isn't a one of them that he intends to deny. The man is having too much fun, both as spectator and participant. His kisses adhere to the curve of her elegant neck, following the marble trail to just behind her ear. He breathes in the scent of her shampoo, ruts his hard cock into the small of her back for even just the semblance of friction. "You're so fucking nasty, baby." He both taunts and compliments, his voice a barely there whisper for only her to hear. "God, I'm gonna love watching you cum on your brother's face."
a gasp tore from her lips as theo’s teeth sank into the soft flesh of her thigh, but it was the velvet slide of his tongue against her slit that truly undid her. sydney could feel the way her body trembled between them, caged by solo’s iron grip at her waist, one leg draped over theo’s broad shoulder, her hips held open and exposed for his wicked mouth. the mark on her thigh burned like a brand, a possessive claim that matched the one solo had carved into her throat, and she could taste the copper tang of her own blood on her tongue, her pulse pounding beneath solomon’s lips. you’re so fucking filthy, baby. solo’s voice was a rough whisper against her throat, his tongue soothing the angry welt of his bite, and the words sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in her belly. sydney had to bite back a whimper, nails digging into his flesh behind her as theo’s tongue lapped at her like a man starving. god, i’m gonna love watching you cum on your brother’s face. the threat was a spark to the inferno already burning inside her, and she loved it. loved the taboo thrill of it, the way theo looked between her legs, his stormy gaze hidden beneath long lashes identical to her own.
his mouth a wicked devotion against her flesh. her oblivious, beautiful brother. so unaware of the true depravity he was taking part of. the brat in her was being tamed with every flick of theo’s tongue, every drag of his lips against her clit. sydney could feel the way her control slipped, the way her body melted against solo’s chest, her weight held upright only by his strength. the pleasure was a living thing inside her, coiling and uncoiling with every stroke of theo’s tongue, every press of his lips against her swollen flesh. she could feel the way her climax built, a crimson tide that threatened to drag her under. and then it crashed over her, a wave of ecstasy so intense it stole her breath, her vision, her thoughts. lithe body went limp against solo, her leg still draped over theo’s shoulder as her hips jerked against his mouth, her release painting his face in a glossy sheen of her desire. the sight of him, her brother, her precious theo, between her thighs, his lips glistening with her cum, it was a wicked perfection. a forbidden masterpiece that had her heart stuttering in her chest. she could feel the way solo’s grip tightened, the way his cock pressed against her back.
hard and needy, and she knew he was watching too, knew he was loving the sight of her coming undone on theo’s face. “f—fuck,” she gasped, her voice rough with the force of her release, her body a trembling mess in solo’s arms. sub space pulling her under like a velvet tide. sydney could feel the way her mind floated, her body humming with the aftershocks of her climax. she was boneless, a sacred offering between them, and all she could think about was the emptiness inside her, the desperate desire to be claimed. immediately. “please,” she babbled, her voice a breathy whisper, her eyes glassy with tears of need. “someone, anyone,” her fingers scrambled against solo’s chest, her touch desperate, pleading. “put your cock in me, please.” her gaze flicked between them, her lips parted and swollen, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. “i need to be filled,” she whimpered, her voice breaking with the desperation of it. “i need it so bad,” her free leg kicked restlessly, body a wanton offering. “theo, please,” she begged, her voice a honeyed purr. “or solo, i don’t care which, someone just fuck me, breed me, make me yours.”
oliver finds it particularly difficult to focus when ivy's around. it happened initially the moment she walked through the door and julian introduced her to both him and his siblings. there were moments he'd find himself wandering out of the back office to watch her sets in between meetings, he'd become enamored with her so early on that her little quirks were something he'd memorized in such a short amound of time. he knows that when she's bored, she starts doing anything but listening into the conversation, even when it has to deal with her and the bank account they share. the men around the table stare at the couple, she continues to make paper cranes, and he continues to turn his head every so often to press soft kisses to her forehead. ivy thinks he's trying to seal the deal and make it believable, but oliver is doing it just because he feels compelled to. a pair of eyes land on his wife, and he can't tell if they're watching so they can report back to their boss, or because oliver has his hand on her knee, stroking it absentmindedly as they go over the casino's accounting. he was good at multitasking, what can he say?
her comment makes him chuckle, to which all the men at the table now shoot their head up to find out what's so funny. one even goes as far as to ask if he had something on his face. oliver quickly apologizes, another kiss is pressed to her forehead. “i'm afraid we'll have to wrap all this up now. happy wife, happy life am i right?” that earns a loud, boisterous laugh from all the men agreeing in unison. he stands up and walks over to shake all their hands one by one, leaving ivy in the presence of her origami zoo. “i'll have isa reach out with the details of our next meeting as soon as possible, thanks for coming by.” the last man finally walks out of the conference room, and oliver, at last, is able to loosen the all too tight tie around his neck. “swans, cranes… is that a dog?" he stands behind her, hands back on her shoulders as he looks down at her creations. “can i keep a couple of these for the shelves in my office?”
the last man barely clears the doorway before ivy's shoulders drop two full inches. a decompression so immediate and total it's almost audible, the performance of contented wife folding up neatly and tucking itself away. the origami zoo however remains. she looks down at it. seven pieces now, arranged in a loose migration pattern across the conference table's polished surface. the swan, a couple cranes, a lotus that lists slightly to the left, and yes, technically, the dog. structurally ambiguous. she'd committed to it anyway out of spite toward the last forty minutes of casino accounting. oliver's hands find her shoulders and she tips her head back to look up at him from the inverted angle, the conference room light catching the particular exhaustion behind her eyes that has nothing to do with tiredness and everything to do with sustained performance in front of men who were taking notes. is that a dog? "it's abstract," she says, clearly defensive even though there was no reason to be. his question lands and something moves through her that she doesn't immediately have a category for. it wasn’t the calcified suspicion she'd arrived with tonight or the performance of softness she'd been deploying for the benefit of watchful eyes across the room. but something that notices, with the careful attention of a woman who memorizes details the way other people memorize prayers, that he laughed because she made him laugh and then kissed her forehead about it in front of people without calculating whether he should. ivy has been calculating everything for four months. she picks up the swan. turns it once in her fingers, smoothing a crease along the neck that had been bothering her since the second fold.
"the swan's structural integrity is questionable," she finally responds, setting it back down. her voice has lost the particular tension it carries when the room is full. "i'd recommend the crane. second from the left. the folds are cleaner. and the lotus, if you want something for the corner of a shelf. it sits flat." she doesn't say yes, keep them. she says which ones to take and how to place them, which is the same thing dressed in different clothes. her eyes drift to the two men still visible through the glass partition across the room. one of them looking at his phone, the same one who'd been watching all night. she clocks it with the passive attention of someone who has stopped being surprised by surveillance and simply begun accounting for it. "they're going to report that you ended a meeting early for me," she says. her fingers find the edge of the table, tracing the seam of it absently. "that's either very convincing or very suspicious depending on how their boss reads it." she looks up at him then, properly, turning slightly in her chair so that the watchful eyes across the room get married couple wrapping up their evening, get exactly what they came for. "you were doing the thing again," she says. the observation placed between them without accusation. simply curiosity, the same tone she uses when she's identified something she wants to understand before she decides what to do with it. her eyes hold his with the directness she's stopped trying to moderate around him. the look that had gotten her into this arrangement in the first place when she'd sat across a very different table and refused to be the thing that looked away first. "the forehead thing."

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closed starter → millie && kamal ( @gildedenvy )
"God, you are such a bastard!" Millie can barely contain herself, adrenaline and anger coursing like a dangerous cocktail of electric and wildfire through her boiling veins. After days of being punished by the Council for 'missing' her patrol, night after night after boring night of being forced to stake one measly fledgling vampire after another, the agitated blonde had been itching for a good fight from a high level demon and the rogue slayer had just stolen it right out from under her. Quite literally. "That was my kill and you think you can just waltz out of the darkness like some — some..." Her words trail off, replaced by a breathy scream of frustration.
She hasn't forgotten. Can't. Her every idle moment has been spent thinking about Kam and that night on his lap with smoke swirling around them like unholy incense. The things that happened. The things that hadn't but still could with the wicked imagination the slayer has in her secret keeping. She reaches down with her hand to (needlessly) help him up from the cemetery grounds only to roughly push him away by the chest once he'd found solid ground for all of her troubles. "You really do need every square inch of your ass kicked." Not that she didn't know he could put up a good fight. Even with her Slayer healing, the worst of her battle wounds had only just now begun to fully fade. What they'd done had been absolutely depraved and the taste of Kamal's blood still lingered on her tongue like sacrament. He'd brought out something in her that she was having a hard time locking away again.
"So are you playing Good Slayer, now?" She has to curl her burning palms into fists, forcing them to stay still against her svelte hips as she lets her gold-flecked gaze rake over him at her own forced leisure. "Because if it's roleplay you want..." She simply allows the insinuation to hang heavily in the air, the dangerous promise of something dangling like Tantalus' fruit.
kamal finds his feet with the ease of a man who has been knocked down enough times to have made a science of getting back up. fluid, unhurried, as if the cemetery ground was somewhere he'd chosen to be and has now simply chosen not to be anymore. her hand is in his for exactly the duration it takes him to stand and then her palm is flat against his chest and he's moving backward a step. he lets it happen, lets her have the push because she's earned it and because the alternative is not moving and he isn't sure he trusts himself with that particular experiment right now. god, you are such a bastard. "probably," he agrees. unbothered. the word falling out of him the way smoke falls. directionless, already dissolving before it lands. the demon is cooling somewhere behind her. level six, maybe seven, the kind of kill that leaves his blood singing for hours after. he'd clocked it from three blocks out and tracked it here and found millie already mid fight, which meant he had two options and chose the one that would get her attention fastest. mission accomplished.
she's furious. incandescent with it, the way she gets when something has been burning in her for too long and the nearest available flame finally gave it permission. jaw tight, chest heaving on the last of the adrenaline, gold flecked eyes doing something lethal in the low light of a cemetery that smells like turned earth and old stone and the specific atmospheric charge of a slayer who has been thinking about him. he knows she has. he's been thinking about her too, in the quiet hours between sleeping and not sleeping where honesty moves through you whether you invited it or not. the weight of her on his lap. the smoke. her mouth finding the place on his throat where his pulse lives. a slayer drinking a rogue's blood in the dark like it was holy, like it was necessary, like she was starving for something she hadn't known she needed until it was already inside her. kamal has done a lot of depraved things in his considerable time outside the council's good graces. that one stays with him differently. so are you playing good slayer now? his eyes track her slow. a deliberate rake of her gaze mirrored back at her. taking inventory of the places where her battle wounds have faded to nothing, slayer healing stitching her back together in the days since. he'd put some of those marks there himself. the memory of it sits low in his gut with the patient heat of an ember that hasn't decided yet whether to die or catch. the insinuation hangs between them like weather. kamal tilts his head. just slightly. the ghost of something that isn't quite a smile living at the corner of his mouth. not amusement, or not only that, something more complicated and less polite. "roleplay," he repeats. tasting the word. "that what you're calling it." he takes one step toward her. unhurried. the kind of step that announces itself. giving her every opportunity to hold her ground or close the remaining distance. the decision exactly where it belongs, in her hands, with her fists still curled against her hips. he stops close enough that the air between them has temperature. "i've been called a bastard for a lot of things, millie." quiet. the cemetery absorbs it. "stealing your kill's a new one." his eyes drop briefly, deliberately to her mouth. then back up. "though i'm starting to think the kill isn't what you're actually angry about."
the moment cornelius wrapped his hand around her throat, jude put hers on top of it. together they felt how his cock filled her, the vibrations from the moans she made around it. but all too quickly, there's nothing tender about the moment. darkness sets behind his eyes, lust and power swirling like a storm. jude gags, chocolate hues watering from the force and surprise. she didn't need him to be gentle. she didn't need him to be kind. instead, the blonde lets the mess of spit flood from her mouth, lets it drip down onto the cleavage that peaks out from the top of her shirt. everything that happened was a visual for his pleasure. she moaned and whined each time he thrust harder into her, bobbing her head in complete submission. but neither relented. even as cornelius spoke, words laced with venom, jude kept her eyes on him. she placed both hands on his thighs and would let him use every inch of her throat until he was done. he could say whatever he wanted, but they both knew the truth. they both knew jude meant everything she ever said to him. and if he didn't want to lose himself down her throat, if he wanted more of her, he could have it. her body was nothing if not his toy. her heart was nothing if not a vessel to carry her love for him. in the brief moment he pulled himself from her mouth, jude rasped, "the only way we'll get caught is if you don't decide where you want to come soon."
she spit into her hand and began to stroke him while he decided, foolishly letting the spark of her attitude turn downright bratty. "do you have a preference? do you want me to pick? do you want to call me a liar a few more times so we can really get you hard?"
the moment her fingers settled over his, cornelius felt the last of his restraint snap like a bowstring at full draw. her throat was a silken trap around him, each moan a vibration that shot straight to his spine, a chorus of want that had his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. the way she gagged, her chocolate eyes glistening with the force of it, it sent a jolt of heat pooling low in his gut, a tide that made his grip tighten around her throat. and then the spit, a glossy cascade dripping from her lips onto the swell of her cleavage, a lavish offering to the altar of his desire. she was perfection like this. messy, defiant, his. her moans filled the room, each one a sultry vow, a sacred litany as she bobbed her head in complete submission, her hands a heavy weight on his thighs, her gaze never leaving his. but then she pulled back, her lips glistening, her breath ragged.
the words that spilled from her were a gilded taunt, a challenge wrapped in laughter. cornelius could feel the way his cock twitched in her grip as she stroked him, his control slipping, teetering on the edge of something he couldn’t name. his free hand tangled in the silk of her hair, holding her there. the scent of her, citrus and sin, the musk of her arousal thick in the air. wrapped around him like a lover’s embrace. he could taste the truth of her words, the way she meant every one, sincerity in how she craved this as much as he did. his thumb brushed over her bottom lip, smearing the last traces of her spit there, his touch possessive, claiming. her fingers were a wicked tease around him, her strokes slow and deliberate, her voice a honeyed taunt as she asked him where he wanted to come. and something inside him snapped. cornelius didn’t think, he moved. hands were on her waist in an instant, lifting her off the ground as if she weighed nothing.
her body a sacred offering against his. the air between them crackled, charged with the weight of his need, of his claim on her, and he could feel the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers scrambled against his shoulders as he carried her to the loveseat. the leather was cool beneath her as he threw her face down into it, her body a sinful promise against the cushions, her ass raised and waiting for him. he didn’t waste a second, fingers hooking into the lace of her panties, slipping them to the side with a feral growl, the fabric a flimsy barrier between him and what he craved. and then he was sinking into her, the heat of her a perfect completion, a bliss that had them both gasping, her walls clenching around him as if to keep him there, to own him as much as he owned her. “from now on,” he growled, his voice rough as sandpaper, each word a solemn vow, a promise that tasted like sin on his tongue, “i’ll only cum inside of you.” his hips rolled forward, testing the depths of her. “that's what you want, right? to be daddy's little cum dumpster?”
she was beautiful. he hadn't quite noticed it until now, as she pulled herself from him and sat up. there were flecks of golden honey in her eyes, when they fluttered to land on his for a split second. as she spoke of his weeks of absence, and how it appeared to her outside eyes, his stomach churned, and a frown formed.
valor was never supposed to be king. he'd never wanted to be, either. just a bastard son, forgotten and raised well away from the palace. maybe he'd have picked up a trade, if he hadn't of picked up a sword first. maybe he would be artisan now, with a wife and children already nestled away at home. maybe then, he'd be happy. " they don't tend to ask me much of anything i'd want either, if it's of any consolation. "
but this wasn't a land of imagination, it was a realm of brutal reality. the thawing war put a strain on everyone, and valor handled it worse than some. the pressures of the crown, especially returning from some time away, often made valor wish he could take sick to his bed most days and avoid the whole court. he never did, though. so his kingdom rebuilt, and survived, and worshipped the generous throne moreso than any predecessor. valor, though not raised for it, made an excellent king. it came, apparently, at the cost of being a decent husband.
aahna looked smaller now, without her teeth bared and knife against his throat. " your questions are fair and well overdue. maybe if i hadn't had my life threatened minutes earlier, i'd apologize for my delay. " his eyes shone with that gleam of amusement, but he didn't speak for a long moment. instead, studied her curiously, taking the time to see her now. and to realize what she was to him, what they were. of course he understood on paper, the legality of it, but now that they were close enough he could smell distant florals on her... valor really understood.
" you are dealing with a king who expects little. i desire your happiness, and you are welcome to matters of the court if you desire to meddle with them. in honesty, i care little what you do, so consider the palace your playground. just stay loyal, and you will have no issue from me. " but there was more, and it hung there on the air between them like a held breath, waiting to exhale. " and... " his eyes held hers. " i do expect for us to have a child. ideally two or three or four. "
aahna goes very still. the way still water goes still. not peaceful or settled, nothing so simple as calm, but surface flat in the way a lake becomes when the wind disappears all at once and everything beneath remains alive. moving. pulling. a dangerous kind of stillness. a child. ideally two or three or four. the words settle between them like sediment disturbed at the riverbed. slowly descending, grain by grain, until the water clears and reveals exactly what was always there beneath it. she looks at him as they land, watches his expression without blinking, and lets the silence stretch just long enough for him to know she has heard every word and is deciding carefully how she intends to answer. “one.” the word leaves her cleanly. no ornament. no softening. it falls between them like polished steel laid carefully atop velvet. elegant in presentation, unmistakable in purpose. her gaze does not waver. “i will give you an heir.” the knife still rests in her lap. she is aware of it with startling clarity. “and perhaps more after. children, plural, if that is what you desire. if that is what this kingdom demands from us.”
her chin lifts, the slight incline of someone who has learned how often women are misunderstood on purpose and has no intention of allowing it. “but i have a condition of my own.” the word condition lands with the same gravity as ideally had from his lips. civilized in shape. absolute in substance. a thing wrapped in velvet and courtesy and sharpened underneath to a blade’s edge. “i am the only woman bearing them.” she watches him. every minute shift of his face. the faint narrowing of his gaze. the breath he takes or doesn’t take. “not a mistress. not a—” her jaw tightens. a brief movement, nearly invisible, except for the way something flickers behind her eyes. something brighter than irritation and quieter than fury. the kind of anger born from inheritance. from centuries of queens smiling graciously beside husbands who made promises in public and broke them in private. “not anyone else.” the room feels smaller suddenly. or perhaps only more intimate. as though the walls themselves have leaned in. “if you want my loyalty, my body...children with my blood in their veins,”
a small motion of her hand follows, elegant and devastating all at once, encompassing the bed beneath them, the chamber, the palace, the invisible architecture of treaties and expectation and the strange fate that has carried them both here. “then mine is the only bed you return to.” the words are low. steady. without tremor. “mine is the only name attached to your heirs.” she never raises her voice when she means something this completely. her quiet has always been more dangerous than anger. it has teeth. “i know what i am giving up.” and there, the slightest fracture in the polished surface. honesty, unvarnished and startling in its softness. “i will share you with your court. with your kingdom. with every council chamber and ceremony and diplomatic obligation that pulls at you. with every war that takes you from this palace and leaves me counting months by candlelight and messenger birds.” her voice lowers. a hush. the confession of something that hurts enough not to require emphasis. “i have made my peace with all of that.” a breath. barely there.
“i will not share your cock, your mouth, your body, your heart, with any other woman. not when it is mine,” and when she says it, she means it with a conviction so complete it feels older than language. her eyes hold his across the narrow distance between them. close enough to count the pale flecks scattered through his irises. close enough that this no longer feels like negotiation. no parchment. no signatures. no advisors standing witness. just two people seated at the edge of something irreversible, speaking truths sharp enough to draw blood. and perhaps something else, too. something neither of them has named yet because naming it would make it real. “so.” the knife shifts in her hand. a deliberate movement. slow enough to be unmistakable. she lifts it from her lap and sets it gently on the bed between them. steel against linen. a quiet sound. and yet somehow louder than anything either of them has said. an offering. a surrender. or perhaps simply proof that she has laid down the only weapon she arrived with. her hands return to her lap. open. unarmed. then she lifts her gaze to his again. steady as moonlight over dark water. “do we have an agreement…” the smallest pause. and then, softer, but somehow no less powerful. “…husband?”
the plan today was to be in the dash but then i ended up having to go out to run a bunch of errands. only just got back in. i will be responding to discord dms first, settle in, and then see if i have any juice left in the tank for dashboard replies. if not i'm also off tomorrow and with all my errands having been run today i'll have no responsibilities!!!! which means syn on the dash all daaaaaay!!!!!
OFF CAMPUS 1.06 "The Breakaway"
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a man admitting that he touched himself to the thought of you is sooo hot
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DISTRITO SALVAJE (2018-2019)
@kingslaeyer