thinking of how older boyfriend!maekar just loves to pull you onto his lap early in the mornings, bare and breathless and waiting, and spreads your legs wide open so he can drag his fingers down inside your sopping slit.
he's not hard. he's not swollen.
his hair is mussed up from sleep, and his lips are pursed in a scowl. he's tired, and his head is heavy with sleep. his mouth still tastes like chamomile, and his back is still pressing against his pillow.
his touch, however, is full of you.
his cock throbs, alive with want yet limp despite his hunger, hanging a different kind of heavy between his legs.
and there's a part of him that knows he has to make this good for you. that knows he has to make this suffice, and recognizes this is all he can give you in this moment. his fingers. his touch.
and because he's feeling you against him, because he has you in his arms, he allows himself to think of sweeter things.
of things more mellowed, of things that are softer.
he thinks of the taste of your lips. vanilla, like your lip balm. he thinks of the scent on your skin. warm, like the notes in your perfume; deep, like the notes in his cologne. he thinks of the touch of your skin. soft, tender, pulsing under his touch. alive.
greed overcomes his senses, and he wants more.
wants to taste you until he’s drowning in ichor. wants to touch you until he’s burning as he stands.
he wants more. more, more.
two of his fingers slip inside your hole, long and lithe and rough, and warmth swallows him hole. your head falls back against his shoulder, and you turn your face, ever so slightly, to press a ghost of a kiss to the side of his neck.
he’s overcome with feeling, and made up entirely of want. and he pulls a moan from your lips with his touch, his digits move against your walls.
you press back against him, writhing against his frame. the hair on his chest burns against your skin. his other hand is splayed along your inner thigh, keeping you open, keeping you close. he presses down against supple skin, and feels your breath hitting faster against his neck.
a kiss upon his pulse. a flex of his fingers.
you can barely refrain from closing your eyes. his touch is unrepentant, intoxicating, and you don’t want to miss a second of it. not when it feels like being struck with lightning. not when it feels like you're being overcome with bliss.
you moan again, and your cunt clenches around his touch. you're dripping down his hand, his skin glistening as he moves fingers in a rhythm that grows faster with every passing second.
he doesn't pull away. he pulls you closer, as if called by a siren's song, as if pulled by unseen string, as if tugged by divine hands. he allows himself to be mellow, and he allows himself to be soft. he allows himself to be present, and sees, and hears, and feels, nothing that is not you.
he kisses your shoulder. he doesn't bare his teeth.
a noise, something unfamiliar, born in the depths of his belly makes its way up his throat, and slips past his lips as he exhales.
it is rare. it is special. you store it deep, deep inside, and decide to treasure it forever.
he adds a third finger, presses his thumb down against your clit, and feels himself leaking down against your skin. down onto the sheets.
and he relishes in the feeling.
it’s sweeter. and it’s softer.
he wants more, more, more.
he doesn’t think he will ever get enough.
first maekar contribution to the erectile dysfunction thoughts plaguing my head and my blog, yippee! i hope everyone likes it!
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you are the silence on sacred shores. you've got diamonds for teeth, my love.
vampire!reader and vampire hunter!ormund being best defined by words of rilke: i’ve never seen you without wanting to pray to you. i’ve never heard you without wanting to place my faith in you. i’ve never longed for you without wanting to suffer for your sake. i’ve never desired you without wanting to be able to kneel before you.
“we act with holy purpose,” he says, every time he leaves for a hunt whenever the moon rises full.
it's a lifetime's vow: a life spent under the oldtown guild, commanding forces and using his might when the beacon comes alight. it’s sacrifice, fealty, reverence.
“we act with holy purpose,” and they’re words that are more than just so; words that have been carved down on his bones, words that burn down to the very core of his being.
"we act with holy purpose," and doom befalls him, as does all men, for having forsaken his faith with actions that are anything but holy.
they’re words that die on the tip of his tongue.
"we act with holy purpose," and he comes to hear your voice in the wind. it is carried by the trees as they sway under the moon, and his ears give in to your song.
it speaks of sorrow. ancient. cold. it's distorted by want. aching. pulsing.
you wait under the growing moon, you're bathed in silver. patient. waiting. he stands by the edge of the forest, drawing closer to your lair, and is guarded by his flames. patient. waiting.
he knows what you are, and you know what he is.
and he will claim foul play, say you have bewitched him. entranced him. beings of the night have their ways in the dark, and fire does not burn angry enough sometimes.
"we act with holy purpose," but he, as if a moth called towards a flame, as if pulled forth by unseen hands, allows himself to feel all that threatens to swallow him whole.
he feels the hunger, and feels the want, and he realizes they have teeth. they gnaw at his insides, and they're cold and sharp, and the feeling grows inside of him like a raging fire.
it sits heavy under his skin. it tastes bitter against his tongue.
"we act with holy purpose," and it is a dagger unsheathed. fangs that have not risen, and the sort of devotion one does not find in a sept.
"we act with holy purpose," but he runs his fingers down your body, and speaks a prayer to your skin. he spells it out with his fingertips, and swallows it down in a kiss. to the great father i pray, for justice in war, this day—
“we act with holy purpose,” but he kneels at your feet, laps at your slit with a hungry tongue, sucks on your pearl with greedy lips, and comes to lay worship to your taste. he breathes in deep, lungs expanding as he imbues himself in your scent.
"we act with holy purpose," but then the seven turn their heads and he closes his eyes, and his cock—hot, pulsing—drives repeatedly inside your cunt, and knows he can do nothing but pray for forgiveness as he loses himself in your touch.
“we act with holy purpose,” but his thoughts are bent in your shape, and his faith stands where you do, and his devotion is bequeathed to your feeling.
and then the spell breaks, the moon goes down, and the earth is bathed in warm, golden light.
the beacon is not yet alight, but he knows the memory of you—of your touch, of your taste, of your scent—will come back to haunt him when it glows.
and there will soon be another moon hanging full, and there will soon be another hunt.
he will repent. he will do right for his wrongs.
vampire!reader and vampire hunter!ormund being best defined by words of rilke: i’ve never seen you without wanting to pray to you. i’ve never heard you without wanting to place my faith in you. i’ve never longed for you without wanting to suffer for your sake. i’ve never desired you without wanting to be able to kneel before you.
