[fic] for Eleonore
TVD, Klaus/anybody : spanking, daddy!kink.
[All Klaus ever wanted was Michael's attention.]
All Klaus ever wanted was Michael's attention.
Elijah was always the best and he never had to explain but then he hurt him and now it’s New Orleans and all he has is a pretty boy that his sister loves, bending him over his knee and telling him he’s bad, and it doesn’t matter who and it matters so much that she’s watching and laughing and he’s naked and crying and it’s just like he always needed.
They laugh, they all laugh, but their laughing is sweet and later that day he drops a dead girl in their bed and it’s messy and they scold him and when the pretty boy, naked and majestic and hard, whips Klaus’ own belt off his pants, pulls them down around his knees, and whips him there on their bed, his head in his sister’s lap and she coos at him because he has been so naughty, playing with his hair as the belt comes down again and again and his skin breaks and bleeds and the boy is breathless, he’s already thinking of how to be bad tomorrow.
She pets him and cleans him and dresses him and they tell him he’s a good boy and tuck him into bed between them, his head on her bare breasts, the boy’s erection digging into his back, his hand softly caressing the wounds he made; and Klaus sleeps like a baby.
________________________________________________________________________
Lucius/Narcissa : long hair fetish, hair-pulling, hair-washing.
[Lucius' silky mane makes many envious. What people don't know is how the platinum hair really is Narcissa's exclusive property. [Bonus if Narcissa is the only one allowed to trim her husband's hair.]]
Lucius' silky mane makes many envious. What people don't know is how the platinum hair really is Narcissa's exclusive property. [Bonus if Narcissa is the only one allowed to trim her husband's hair.]
She likes to pull on his hair when his tongue is inside of her, pull until the tears stream from his eyes and onto her thighs, her fingers all twined up in the long, silvery locks, lost in the excess of him as he loses himself in his (due) worship of her, and if he tries to pull away before she is done and finished with, tries to lessen the pain, her calves dig into his shoulders keeping him in place and he is punished later.
If he is good and cries until she comes and laughs into her thighs with release she will take his hand and lead him to the bowl of warm water waiting, she sits him down and they have an antique hair-washing stand set up in her bedroom, and she massages his scalp, using only the best shampoos and creams and rinses and if he’s been very good or she is feeling very generous, the whole process can last up to an hour.
Once he came back from a trip that had kept him away for over a month, she didn’t kiss him first or embrace him, she snatched his hair and waved it in his face, screaming at him - she could tell from yards away that he had allowed someone else to trim his hair - she kept him tied to the end of the bed for a week as she pleasured herself, spelled his eyes open, as she ran her fingers over her own clit and came again and again and again and still she wouldn’t let him touch her, wouldn’t let him touch himself or come or eat except the treats she gave him from her own fingers; he never let anyone else touch his hair again… that is, until the next time...
________________________________________________________________________
Jeremy/Anna : ghost blow-job, infidelity.
[The visual is so crystal clear that it's as if he could feel her breath ghosting over his skin. If he closes his eyes, he senses her presence like a feathered caress.]
The visual is so crystal clear that it's as if he could feel her breath ghosting over his skin. If he closes his eyes, he senses her presence like a feathered caress.
It isn’t that he was thinking of her exactly, it’s just that her face and her hands and her lips and her tongue and her teeth and blood litter the pages of his sketchpad; it’s not that he misses her or craves her touch or can feel the phantom pull of her teeth at her skin and his blood pumping into her mouth and filling her and she lives for the sake of his life only now she’s dead and his blood swirls in his veins just for him and it feels selfish and wrong and there it is on the page without him thinking: his wrist in her mouth and her eyes dark and his head thrown back and in the shower later that day he can’t abide to touch himself even though he is swollen and stretched and crying from the pain of it.
It isn’t that she’s watching him or waiting for him to notice her or screaming and sobbing to be returned to him, but she’s standing in the shower with him and her hands reach for the organ that his own hands ignore and her fingers itch to brush away the tears streaming from his face in the cold shower and she doesn’t feel dead; she can’t be dead if his blood still careens under his skin with reckless abandon, waiting for her to suck him dry and he is so wanting; she hovers as he sketches her face again and again and she cries out but he can’t hear her and all she wants in the world is to take him in her mouth again, to feel his life on her tongue.
It begins as a sketch, sitting at his desk sketching and he’s naked and hard and she’s there underneath the table and her mouth is around him, hiding his memory of her jutting out from his body, an ever-present reminder that she is dead and he is alive; but it isn’t enough to draw and so he sits in the place to finish the fantasy; and her phantom is beneath the desk, curled up and small (and she was always so small) and her ghost lips takes the place of the girl in his drawing and she weeps that he cannot feel her teeth grazing against him, her tongue lapping up the blood she spills, and he never has to touch himself for she is there and he comes and she is gone.
___________________________________________________________________
Blair/Jenny : lingerie, grooming.
[Jenny still has a lot to learn about being an Upper East Side debutante. ]
Jenny still has a lot to learn about being an Upper East Side debutante.
“I’ll teach you,” she says and her eyes are hard and bright and she’s wrapped in a towel and she is wet and soft and Jenny feels her mouth go dry because this wasn’t what she was expecting: Blair playing the doll and waiting, waiting, waiting to teach Jenny how to be a princess on her own body as if it were a canvas upon which she could write her conquest of the world; and Jenny is the artist, always the artist, the servant, on bended knee, at the foot of her majesty, and upon skin she will write a poem of a sorceress and her handmaiden.
First there are lotions, to be smoothed in slowly and purposefully, then sprays and creams, and Jenny’s hands play her hair like a harp; then lingerie that must be put on carefully, taken off, options considered, and she is getting breathless with this reverse striptease until the perfect set is found, then the perfect outfit and heels, and Jenny is painting silent, still lips a light, perfect peach and when her hands shake, Blair only raises an eyebrow at her, daring her to draw outside the line - for a brief, impossible moment Jenny wonders what would happen if she did, if her hand slipped, she can almost see the line of lipstick on that perfect chin, can feel the sting of Blair’s hand on her cheek, her cheeks redden as she imagines a public speech, pointed looks, doing penance for the Queen on the steps - but Blair just says her hand and says, “Good job, Humphrey.”
And that isn’t what she wanted at all.
___________________________________________________________________
Annie/Abed
[rape fantasy (trigger warning)]
rape fantasy
He always gets to play the game and she never knows when he is coming, when Abed is safely tucked behind another name and then he’s deep inside her and he’s protected most when he has his shield and she is on top, beneath, behind, bent over for him; it’s her turn and she knows the game she wants to play but he will need a shield so strong it will be unbreakable (because he is so easily broken and he plays the knight but it is only play), he will need a name that won’t break the rules.
She takes him by the hand to the Dreamatorium and outlines the setting, the scene, the moment, the idea - and he’s getting nervous, she can see him retreating and she needs him there to make the decision, to decide to be, to decide how to hurt her the way she so desperately wants to be - and she is soft and he understands and takes a name easily, without thought - he knows all the stories and he wants so desperately for her to find a place inside them that pleases her - and she takes another name and his eyes light up because she has never joined him here, in his mind and in his desire and she is always the comfort but she is the one who needs a shield today, and that fills him up in a brand new way.
It isn’t quick, she didn’t want it to be, she is dragged, bound, hit, hurt, and she’s never been more turned on, and he’s there and dark and solid and he lets her throw herself into the fantasy, he is the rock she stands upon as the waves of her imagination and desire are made flesh and wash over her and she’s safe in arms that throw her against the wall; afterwards Abed comes to Annie’s room and it is just them two again and he touches her leg where a dark, sprawling bruise is covered by her skirt and he knows and she knows and their fantasies intertwine and they protect each other from the world, from their fantasies, they are only raw when they call out false names in passion and pleasure and pain, they are only exposed when they are hidden.
___________________________________________________________________
Key/Woohyun : phonesex.
[It starts like this : what are you wearing tomorrow? But soon : what are you wearing right now?]
It starts like this : what are you wearing tomorrow? But soon : what are you wearing right now?
It’s Thailand, or it’s not and it really doesn’t matter anyway, and Key’s voice is breathless on the other end of the line and his hand is wrapped around his swollen cock, moving quickly to keep up with the speed of the breath in his ear.
Is there a line between lover and friend, between fuck and comfort?
It’s Bangkok, or it’s not and it really doesn’t matter anyway, and he just called to say goodnight and how are you and how is home I miss you, but then his hands are sliding down and there isn’t fabric anywhere and he’s in a bathtub like a heroine in a romantic movie and he’s not wearing anything at all - what are you wearing - and the question ends in a gasp and a shout; and maybe it doesn’t matter anyway.
______________________________________________________________________
Bonnie/magic : autoeroticism
[There are a few spells that Bonnie always keeps close to bed.]
There are a few spells that Bonnie always keeps close to bed.
Her favorite is the one that feels like a sharp blade tracing patterns on the skin; and it’s a simple matter really to blend that with invisible bonds gently tugging on her wrists and ankles and knees, spreading her wide open and still; and there’s a gag, too - but she only uses that on nights when she needs to feel the stifled screams in her throat, caught and bound like the rest of her, filling her larynx with unused sound.
There is always a feather that hovers over her clitoris, as the knife writes invisible stories in her skin and the bounds dig into her flesh and yet she does not bleed, it sways and it teases and it depends upon the night, but sometimes it hardly touches her at all - other nights it is reckless and cruel, swiftly pressing back and forth across her most sensitive of parts, and the bounds keep her from reaching up for that gentle touch, sometimes it is only the air moving beneath the swaying feather that touches her and makes her writhe, always wanting more.
It is always enough, she screams every time - with pleasure, from pain, from the two linked together making sport of her body (though sometimes in the shower afterwards she makes great use of other tools at her disposal), it is a secret that she buries deep beneath her girlish smile when she leaves her bed behind, if only they knew the stories it could tell.
[this time I am slightly sorry for spamming your flists... slightly]