#sciapod writes

Winter Scenario 3-Part Series

Pairing: Tom Hardy x Female OFC (First person POV) Warnings: Fluff, slight mention of smut Summary: A fairytale-like visit to Tom Hardy’s secluded cabin in the woods

Part 1: Frost in the Pines

Part 2: Awakened by Fire

Part 3: Creature in the Woods

Morning with Tom

Pairing: Tom Hardy x Female Reader (non-descript body type+ethnicity) Summary: Morning sex with Tom. Warnings: Crackfic. Explicit language. Pure vanilla smut. Fluffy smut.

I watch with intrigue as men hurt you, ravish you. Spoil you.

Make you cum. Make you unravel, loosen up. Give in, give up. So we can give ourselves to each other; a tight embrace.

Closeness. Divinity. Divination in each other's eyes and hearts.

I see you, my love, as deeply as I sense that you see me.

It’s a sensibility I have.

Similar to the sensibility I have for darkness, dark experiences and emotions.

They drive me. They make me strive to become better. Do you better. Do better for you. Pleasure you. Be there for you, if you will have me, in times of need.

I need you. Please.

Walk with me. Talk with me. Talk to me. Hear me. Listen.

The raven sings. It’s singing. It's a love song. A song for you, my life. My love. Do you hear? Do you feel it in your chest?

My heart is pounding. The drumbeat to the raven’s melodies and love-songs. Serenade.

Let’s go back home, drink lemonade.

We can put in some alcohol, if you want. Get drunk. Make love. Compassionate, passionate, devotional love to each other.

My devotion is you, to you, my love. Purely. My love is tainted yet at once pure. It’s only source, the only goal is you, your heart.

If you want it. My love. Mine. You are. My heart. Do you hear? Feel it?

Put your hand on my chest, my love. My life. Feel the beat behind my ribcage.

There is a bird in there; captured, encaged. In rapture, enraged, in love and dazed. Bewildered, seeking forgiveness. Seeking expression. There aren’t enough words to explain, to express. My love, my life. You. My heart.

My raven. It sings, it sings such a beautiful song. If you could only hear. If you would only listen. To my love, my life, my heart.

It’s here for you, my love. My heart’s for you, my life. My raven sings, flutters, as my heart, for you, my dear.

My utmost devotion, all that I have to give. Do you feel it? With your gentle touch?

Hit me, hurt me, as long as you feel me, hear my call, my song, my expression.

Tears run down my face, do you see? Do you see how strong my love is? My heart? My bird?

It’s crashing in my chest, it’s pounding in the cage, bursting through. I can’t hold back.

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I have so much to say to you, so much to tell you, so much I want to speak with you about. You’ve inspired me so much, there’s so much I want to ask you, question you about, hear your opinion on and stories and such. I could go on. But we’re not in touch. You told me you would, you promised in fact, alas… I’ve barely heard a word. Another man struck with stress, is all I know. Why does that happen to the men I engage with? Is that my effect on them? Sure not? I have barely… made any moves this time, I even set restrictions – were they to my own, or our, detriment?

I’ll never know until you speak to me, that thing is sure. Oh well, for now, there’s only me and my cup of coffee. And chocolates that the cute boss at work threw to me, saying, “Merry Christmas!” with a cheer. I swooned. And then I may have thought of you, because that’s what seems to happen when any guy passes my mind; I’m instantly reminded – Oh! There’s also… That guy, you know? The only guy that I’m actually interested in, the one I actually want to be mine, you know? You. That’s the one.

Ah. I’ve been forbidden, first and foremost by myself (which is a lie, firstly it was my dearest friends who advised me –to say it lightly– to –frankly– keep the hell away from you while you figure your shit out and man yourself together (exactly like that, yeah) and learn how to treat me right. I’m glad we got that out of the way) to contact you. Any further, at least. Which makes perfect sense, because in theory and essence I’m a needy little bitch and brat and if I don’t get what I’m craving when I ask for it, I… I can’t seem to stop and end up swallowing myself whole?

As you know, I have a sweet tooth and thought you to be quite the sweetheart, but alas, in times of need, when need be, I myself, will have to be enough. Cute and sweet as I, myself, am, isn’t that right?

Oh, I don’t know. I don’t know. I can’t even. Can I? What am I trying to say? To the point, Mia.

Right.

We talked about playing music, particularly playing guitar. I was struck by how your parents didn’t want this for you, not before at least you started at boarding school. I feel sorry for you, although it’s been 15+ odd years since then, and I imagine you’ve kept it up somewhat and still play and I imagine you’re quite good at it and I know you’re a singer too. I must admit, I’m intrigued and in awe and I want to hear more, literally, I want to listen to you play and sing, and not just on the recordings which make me cringe a little bit but also makes my heart flutter, you know? It’s the oddest sensation. And then when you sent me a particular song of yours and before that you told me that a piece of my writing inspired you, that you wanted to write music for it, something along the lines –or notes or rhythm– of that particular song, well, it was new to me, it wasn’t what I had envisioned, not that I had envisioned anything at all for that particular work I’ve done, but for my other “scriptures”, if you will, I imagined something a bit more… classical or folky? Like Agnes Obel or Anna von Hauswolff, at least, that’s what I aspire to… but again, the track you sent me, when I heard it and you described how you’d change it and briefly described what you’d do differently, well, I felt it. I could hear it, and I want it. I want it so badly. It would be a dream come true, but I told you this, didn’t I? That it was –and still is– a dream of mine to have music written to my words, either inspired by or just that, written to my words with them in mind and accompanied by… a musician's tunes.

Back to the notion that your parents didn’t really want you to play music, or at least weren’t keen on it, but rather had you learn dancing for whatever reason. But also the notion that they didn’t enjoy listening to your noisy attempts and playing because, well, it surely didn’t sound particularly good right at the beginning. Well. Both of those things, or all three or however many little bits there are to pick, all of the above remind me of my own father’s childhood. He basically had to sit in a cupboard to practice playing the clarinet, because otherwise his father would scold or tease him for how awful it sounded. Like someone pulling the tail of a cat, he said. I feel so sorry for that. Both for the hypothetical cat, but also for my father, and you, for those miserable practice moments. That’s not what anyone needs. But also, my father went to dancing lessons too as a child, and I have to say that it’s quite… peculiar. Quite an interesting set of… occurrences that correlate between you and my dad.

Did I tell you about my great aunt? I forget her name, but she was a violinist. I’m… sure she was quite good, I believe for a period of time she played with an assembly of musicians, if I didn’t misunderstand the story. Apparently, in regard to appearance, I take after her. Something about my eyes and smile, my more closely related aunt said, well, told me when she was looking at a picture of her. She showed me the picture too. This woman in her black robes and hair tied in a bun, again I apologize if I remember wrongly, but I must admit, the resemblance was uncanny. It was obvious that it wasn’t me, but it was also fairly obvious that we were, or surely are, related. How funny is that? And there aren’t any other musical people in my lineage or ancestry or however you say.

This story of her, and story of yours, and the conversation we had, well, it prompted me to pick up my guitar again and start playing. That was another thing I wanted to tell you. While you were away on your trip, hunting deer and wild boar, well, I picked up and started plucking at my guitar. The first day was rubbish and I didn’t really enjoy it much, but the day after I tried again, and it was as if everything came to me, bit by bit. It was as if, what my fingers had learned all those many years ago, 10+ to tell you the truth, well, they picked it up again, as if remembered. As if they were suddenly lost in thought, lost in a not particularly recent, but rather a distant time, where worries and obligations were fewer and farther between, only school assignments and boys and oh who am I fooling it hasn’t really changed a bit… but my point is, time has undoubtedly passed, I can’t wear the same clothes I wore then, I have new relationships and my hair is no longer blond but red… but my fingers seem to be the same, and the memories in them when they strike the strings of my guitar. I quickly clipped my nails, this had to be done, and then… and then, song after song, as if beckoning the tunes and melodies forth, they all came along as if it were only yesterday that I had played them last.

... fuck other men before he gets the chance to meet you. And he wants to see it on tape.

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Masterlist

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Tags under the cut dotted line 🖤🥀 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

@littlefreya @captainsyverson @henrythickcavill @the-winter-witcher @wardl0w @leylaxhanusa @wendimydarling @radaofrivia @wondersofdreaming @hell1129-blog @fuckoffbard @randomlikesmaybe @henryfanfics101 @breannaiscool1234 @henchry @stars-meets-the-sunlight @mary-ann84 @sweetsistergingerspice @laketaj24 @brexrif @kursed @supersweetstache @grungyspacepirate @0palder0s @fucking-hell-cavill @miscficsilike @iwastornsincethestart @viking-raider @sebs-daybreak @peakygroupie @agniavateira @magdelen69 @iloveyouyen @carlya65 @wutheringhomos @aflamboyanceofgays @thereisa8ella @keiva1000 @mollymal @edgeherallanpoe @lady-evans @lunarthoughts @sparklesmolwarriorprincess @thelastsock @yuxatengri @princess-of-riviaa @luclittlepond

I want him to mount me so badly. I want to feel the weight of his body over me, his broad chest and shoulders covering me, his dick entering me, forming me, adjusting me, making me his.

I want him to see my face tense as he pushes his way through my narrow crack, pushing my slit open, accommodating his girth.

I want him to see as I sob from the yearning and finally feeling him, finally being with him.

I want… him.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do with this feeling.

I want to run my fingers through his hair and sob and cry in his ear, holding him tight, let a tear run down my cheek and slide onto his. No, I’m not sad, I’m… tragically exhilarated. I can hardly believe that it’s true.

Alas, it is still a dream. I’m still dreaming.

As of yet, I’m not even entirely sure if it will ever come true.

I don’t know what to do.

I love him, I’ve told him so, he’s told me the same too.

I’m his woman, I have no regrets – only that I have yet been able to satisfy him fully – trust me, I’ve done my best. Perhaps I’m just not good enough.

Sobbing. I want to sob onto your chest. Hold you close, near, feel your heart and arms around me, feel your dick twitch inside me, or, maybe not even… I want to sit on your lap, straddle you, kiss you like the teenage girl I feel that I’ve become. I want to kiss my sweetheart in a desperate, yet chaste kiss – feeling a knot in my tummy that somehow, you won’t ever, fully, be mine.

So unapproachable… I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I've become. I don’t know. But oh, I love you so.

02.11

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I make these freewriting sessions in 10-minute bursts. Once the 10 minutes are done, I will either go back and edit or continue on another route depending on my flow of inspiration. If I happen to find it shareable, well, I will. Like this one. That said, I won’t be sharing every one.

I hope you enjoy reading these scattered thoughts of a young woman.

If you want to read more, here’s my Masterlist

'Tis my Birthday month; I be stepping into the' dirty 30s — ahaa — aaaaand my follower count is edging a steep milestone. It would be AWESOME if I hit the spot and finally climax by the end of this month.

But I realize that I need to post more consistently and more "original" content at that, in order to achieve this. *but I really want it* 🥺 So... I seek the support and cheering of my beloved followers and mutuals to keep me accountable and actually stick with it. 🥀🖤

☝️You guys holding me accountable ☝️

Right now I don't have a plan of action in any way, shape or form. I've got a mountain of WIPs stored, I've got new ideas for old stores to continue on, I've got about two pages of tiny scribbles to the "Notes by the bedside table" series-thing... Aaah, and I've missed writing calligraphy, and want to get back into that.

I aspire to post something original every day.

Now. Give me your best advice as to how to approach this, my Amazing Board of Royal Advisors also known as my Followers, Mutuals and TagCrew. Pretty please? ❤️

*calling for support in this dire situation*

Ps, I LOVE YOU ALL SO DESPERATELY AND ANY SHAPE OF SUPPORT BEING IT JUST A LIKE ON THIS POST IS MOST WELCOME. But I also really want to connect and interact with y'all, so please comment or reblog with creative tags or whatever your inclination my be 🥀❤️🙏 Or poke in my ask or DM/PM ❤️ You're more than welcome to do that any day, btw 🥺❤️🙏

PPS, I realize that I often ask what you want and I usually fail to pull through with any of it, so hopefully this is a slighty different and better approach 🙈❤️

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