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lunaritex · 3 days ago

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𓏲࣪ ִֶָ ︎ִֶָ UNDER THE GLOVES 𖤐. — lee heeseung.

(๑>◡<๑) ৎ୭ lee heeseung + fem! reader co-workers to lovers office romance reader is part of the finance department brief appearances of the other members 𐙚 warning fighting, blood, violence, tooth-rotting fluff, confession, one kiss scene, someone save riki . . !? & 3930 — navigation

note. i like office romance and why not write something for the CFO aka lee heeseung haha... @riekiss

You let out a long and exhausted sigh, rubbing your temples as you looked away from the blinding screen of your computer. Hours had passed and you were still trying to figure out the solution for the problem you had encountered since eight in the morning. One glance at the time on the bottom right of the screen tells you it was close to five, which means you had wasted nearly the entire day wrecking your brain over a problem. You were tempted to slam your head against the desk, hoping the pain could make your brain cells come back to life.

I need a break.

Rubbing your eyes, you stood up and left your desk, heading to the pantry area to make a cup of much-needed coffee for yourself. You halted in your tracks when you realize someone was there before you. It was none other than the Chief Financial Officer of your company; Lee Heeseung. You remembered meeting him for the first time, back when you were still a newbie half a year ago. You remembered how you were practically trembling when your name was called and how you were instructed to see him in his office.

Heeseung was not an intimidating person. You have seen how he interacts with his friends; Jay and Sunghoon. Both men were from different departments but they always had their lunch together and sometimes went drinking with other people who you do not recognize. However, a part of you finds him hard to talk to and if preferred, you would rather avoid him at all costs. You were not sure why you were acting this way. Perhaps it was due to your shyness or perhaps, it could be something more.

“Oh, hi (Name), did you come here to catch a breather too?” Heeseung’s voice snapped you out of your trance. You blinked and saw your fellow co-worker leaning against the counter with a cup of freshly-brewed coffee held in his left hand.

“Uh,” you opened and closed your mouth before regaining your composure, “yeah, I’ve been staring at the same sheet since morning and I’m nowhere done,” you sighed, entering the pantry to make a cup of coffee.

The man gave you a sympathetic look as he took a sip from the paper cup. “That sounds rough, but I don’t mind helping you out. That is, if you don’t mind, of course.”

You blinked, “A-Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to waste your time-”

He dismissively waved off your response with his hand, “Nah, don’t worry about it. Besides, I don’t think helping a colleague out can be considered as wasting someone’s time. The sooner we get this done and over with, the sooner we can go home.”

You knew he had a fair point with that and you ended up agreeing. The both of you returned to your desk and you watched as Heeseung sat on your chair, pulling himself forward to get a clearer look at the screen. You, on the other hand, stood behind him on his left, leaning against the wall that separates you from the other people seated around you. Since you were hidden from his view, this grants you the rare opportunity to stare at him.

It was with no doubt that Heeseung is attractive and you had seen how many women tried to woo him, be it during or after working hours. He is a gentleman who knows how to treat women right and not to mention, he is kind-hearted, friendly and the list goes on. Your eyes slowly trailed down his cheek outline and that was when you noticed it.

A faint, tiny cut etched across his cheek, barely noticeable unless you looked closely. It was not the first time you had spotted something like this. A couple of weeks ago, it had been a bruise on his forearm, the yellowing edges suggesting it was healing. Before that, a small cut on his knuckles he brushed off as "nothing important." Each time, Heeseung had given you a vague response, quickly changing the subject or flashing his easygoing smile to disarm your curiosity. But this time, the suspicion gnawed at you a little harder.

Your gaze lingered on the faded mark, your mind racing with possibilities. Where did he keep getting these injuries? And why did he always seem so intent on hiding the truth behind them? As he straightened up and glanced at you with that ever-casual grin, you quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the computer screen. But the question had already planted itself firmly in your mind: What was Lee Heeseung hiding?

“...and that’s it. You just need to save it and you’re done for the day.”

Heeseung’s voice snapped you back to reality. Blinking, you realized he had finished explaining and was looking at you expectantly. You felt embarrassed at how you were not listening to a single word he had said and you awkwardly cleared your throat. He sighed and light-heartedly rolled his eyes.

“You weren’t listening, were you?” He questioned.

“Uh, well,” you opened and closed your mouth, resembling a fish. The other chuckled and you regained your composure, feeling your ears heating up, “Sorry, I was lost in my own thoughts.”

“It’s fine, I’m sure you must be tired. You can leave early if you want,” he proposed and you were about to protest but you were silenced when he raised his hand, stopping you as if he knew what you wanted to say.

“And before you say anything, I insist. I’m your superior and the last thing I want is to find out one of my colleagues is forced to work overtime on a Friday. You should go home and rest,” his eyes softened, concern seeping into his voice.

You ended up obeying him and you left the office, heading to the carpark where your car was parked. Once you got in and closed the door behind you, you let out an exhausted sigh as you leaned back into the seat, closing your eyes for a brief moment before reopening them. You started the engine, hearing the vehicle purring to life before driving home.

The second time you bumped into Heeseung was when you were trying to fix the printer. All you wanted was to print a few documents that you needed to compile together for the meeting today but just to your luck, the papers were stuck halfway. You sighed, kicking the printer in hopes of getting it to work despite knowing your attempt was futile.

“(Name), why are you kicking the printer?”

Jumping, you swirled around to see your superior looking at you, amused. You sheepishly scratched the back of your neck. “The papers I printed are stuck and I think the printer’s spoiled,” you replied, moving to the side when he drew closer.

Heeseung hums, eyes focused on the machine. “Is that so? Let me take a look to see if I can help you with that.”

“But-” You zipped your lips when he shot you a look and you allowed him to do as he pleased.

He crouched near the printer, rolling his sleeves up as he fiddled with its inner mechanics, trying to resolve the problem. The soft glow of the overhead lights casts a gentle shadow across his face. As he shifts slightly, something catches your eye—a faint purplish mark peeking out along his jawline, just below his cheekbone.

Your brows furrow, the sight stirring a mix of curiosity and concern. It was not the first time you have noticed marks like this, and the coincidence feels too uncanny to ignore. This time however, you were determined to get answers. You cross your arms and step closer, tilting your head as you speak.

“Heeseung,” you say, your tone carrying a hint of softness but also unmistakable firmness, “what happened to your jaw?”

Heeseung pauses, his fingers freezing mid-adjustment as if caught off guard. Slowly, he straightens up, brushing his hands off on his pants. His gaze flickers to you for a brief moment before darting away, his usual confidence replaced with a quiet hesitance.

“Oh, this?” He reaches up to touch the mark casually, almost as if just noticing it himself. A small, sheepish chuckle escaped his lips. “It’s nothing, really. I probably bumped into something—clumsy as always.”

But the way he avoids meeting your eyes, the slight delay in his response, feels off. You narrow your gaze, stepping a bit closer, determined not to let the matter drop so easily.

“You bumped into something? Again?” you press, folding your arms tighter. “Heeseung, you’ve had a lot of these ‘accidents’ lately. What’s really going on?”

For a moment, he opens his mouth to respond, but then he hesitates, letting out a soft sigh. He scratches the back of his neck, his usual easy going demeanor faltering. “Look, it’s nothing serious, okay?” he finally says, his voice quieter now, almost defensive. “Just... drop it, alright?”

You frowned, getting annoyed with how he kept dodging your questioning but he had already left without saying another word. You remained where you were, watching his retreating figure until he was out of your sight. Sighing, you approached the printer and you noticed the documents you needed had been fully ejected from the printer. You grumbled a string of curses under your breath as you snatched them away, storming back to your seat and slammed it down on your desk.

Bam!

The sudden sound startled the people around you. Some gave you annoyed looks while some were curious, wondering what had happened to ruin your mood. Riki, who sat on your left, leaned back so his head was popping out.

“You good?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

You looked at him and sighed, “No, I’m this close to losing my mind.”

Your friend only flashed you a sympathetic look before returning to his task at hand. You took a sip of your now cold coffee, rearranged the documents and got back to work.

Fine, if that’s how you want to play then two people can play that game. I’ll make sure I find out what you’re hiding, if that’s the last thing I do, Lee Heeseung.

The rest of the week passed in a blink of an eye and it was finally Friday, much to your relief. It is a weekly routine for you to eat and drink with your small group of friends; Sunoo, Jungwon and Riki. The four of you graduated from the same college and to say you were surprised to see familiar faces in your company would be an understatement. You had finished packing, waiting for Riki who was ready to send his final email for the day before logging off.

“So, where are we going tonight?” You asked, leaning back in your chair as you idly swayed side to side, legs outstretched before you.

“Oh right, I forgot to tell you but there’s been a change of plans,” Riki answered, shutting down his laptop as he closes it before shoving it into his work bag. You stared at him, bemused and he continued, “Jungwon has invited us somewhere and we’re going there now.”

You owlishly blinked your eyes. “Like right now?”

“Yes right now,” Riki nodded, rising to his full height and dragged you out of your office. One moment you found yourself seated in his car and the very next moment, you found yourself standing before a pair of closed metal doors.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and adrenaline as you and Riki stepped cautiously into the dimly lit building. The door creaked shut behind you, its sound swallowed by the cacophony of voices and the rhythmic thud of gloves hitting flesh. Inside, the room was a stark contrast to the desolate streets outside.

It was alive—crowded with people of all kinds, from spectators yelling over the noise to fighters warming up in corners. Dim fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting an eerie glow over the chaotic scene. At the heart of it all was the boxing ring, its ropes frayed and canvas stained with years of battles fought and won.

As you tried to take it all in, your gaze wandered to the center of the ring. A match was already underway, the sound of rapid punches echoing through the room. It was not until the fighter ducked to avoid a hit, his sweat-dampened hair catching the light, that your breath caught in your throat.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Lee Heeseung—your superior, the same person who always seemed composed and meticulous at work—was in the middle of an intensive match. His usual buttoned-up demeanor was gone, replaced by a raw, almost primal intensity. His movements were sharp and calculated, each strike delivered with precision. Yet, even as he landed a clean hit on his opponent, his jawline bore faint bruises you now understood all too well.

“What the hell is he doing here?” you murmured, more to yourself than to Riki.

You could not tear your eyes away from him, observing his movement as he delivers a final blow to his opponent, effectively knocking him out. The crowd went wild, cheering and yelling at the top of their lungs when Heeseung was announced as the winner. You saw how his eyes scanned the crowd and your heart stopped when they landed on you. He was stunned, not expecting to see you here and you looked away.

The noise and heat of the boxing gym became too much, clawing at your chest like a vice. You turned abruptly, heart pounding, and pushed your way through the crowd. The voices around you blurred into a muffled roar as you stumbled out into the open, the cool night air hitting you like a slap to the face.

You kept walking, your steps uneven and aimless. The distant hum of streetlights and the faint echo of your own breathing filled the void left by the gym’s chaos. You didn’t know where you were going; you just needed to get away—to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the suffocating scene you’d just witnessed. But then, a sudden tug at your wrist stopped you in your tracks. Your body jerked backward slightly, and instinctively, you turned, your heart leaping to your throat.

It was Heeseung.

He stood there, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath, his face partially shadowed by the dim streetlights. Sweat clung to his skin, and his knuckles were faintly red—either from the match or the cold, you were not sure. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that made you freeze.

“Why are you running?” he asked, his voice low and steady, but there was a crack in it—something vulnerable, almost desperate.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. The raw image of him in that ring—fighting with a kind of ferocity you didn’t think he was capable of—flashed in your mind, and a knot of emotion tightened in your chest.

“I—” You looked away, shaking your head as you tried to find the words. “I couldn’t... I just needed to get out of there. I didn’t know you—” You stopped, your voice trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me, Heeseung?”

His grip on your wrist loosened slightly, though he did not let go. “Because it’s not something I wanted you to know,” he admitted, his tone quiet but firm. “This... this part of me—it’s messy. Complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeated, your voice rising in disbelief. “You’re risking your health, your safety, and for what? To keep it a secret?”

Heeseung’s jaw tightened, the flicker of defensiveness crossing his face. “It’s not about keeping it a secret,” he said sharply, then paused, exhaling slowly. “It’s... it’s how I deal with things. It’s something I need.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. The Heeseung you thought you knew—the calm, collected superior—felt like a stranger in that moment. And yet, there was something raw, something achingly human in his vulnerability that you couldn’t ignore.

“But why didn’t you let me in?” you asked softly, your voice breaking. “You didn’t have to go through this alone.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might say something—something real. But instead, he let out a soft, bitter laugh and looked away. “Because I didn’t want you to see this side of me,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then his eyes met yours again, and there was something in them—guilt, maybe regret. “I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

Your frustration bubbled over, and you yanked your wrist free from his grasp, stepping back to put some space between you. The cold air stung your cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the sting of his words.

“Think less of you?” you repeated, incredulous. “Are you serious right now, Heeseung? You’re out here throwing punches like your life depends on it, shutting people out, and you think that’s what would make me think less of you?”

Heeseung flinched slightly at your tone, but you did not care. The words poured out before you could stop them, each one fueled by the flood of emotions you had been holding back.

“You’re supposed to be this confident, composed guy who always has it together, but you’re human! You’re allowed to have flaws, to struggle, to need help! God, do you think I care if you’re messy or complicated?”

“(Name)-”

“I care about you, okay? I care about you so much that seeing you in that ring—seeing you like that—hurt more than I can even explain! And the fact that you didn’t trust me enough to let me in, to tell me what you were going through, makes me feel like I’m nothing more than just some... some coworker to you!”

You froze the moment the words left your mouth, realizing too late what you’d just said. The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, as the world seemed to go silent around you. Heeseung’s eyes widened slightly, the shock evident on his face. His lips parted as if to say something, but no words came. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the streetlights and the distant buzz of the gym behind you.

“I—” you started, suddenly panicking, the weight of your vulnerability crashing down on you. “I didn’t mean—”

“Wait,” Heeseung cut you off, his voice soft but urgent as he stepped closer. His expression had shifted, the vulnerability you’d seen before now mixed with something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

“You... care about me?” he asked, his tone careful, as if testing the words.

Your heart raced, and you felt the heat creeping up your neck. You wanted to deny it, to brush it off, but the look in his eyes stopped you. It was a look that made you feel exposed but also strangely safe, like he was seeing all of you—the good, the bad, and everything in between—and wasn’t pulling away.

“Yes,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I do.”

Heeseung lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his damp hair as a small smile tugged at his lips. “I don’t know how to say this right,” he began, his voice softer now, filled with hesitation. “But you’re... so much more to me than I think you realize. I’ve been scared—scared of what you’d think if you saw this side of me. Scared you’d look at me differently.”

Your chest tightened, but this time, it was not with frustration or hurt. It was something warmer, something that melted away the tension from before.

“I don’t care about that, Heeseung,” you said softly, your voice steady now. “I care about you. All of you. Messy, complicated, whatever. None of that changes how I feel.”

Heeseung blinked, his expression a mix of awe and relief, as if hearing those words for the first time lifted some invisible weight off his shoulders. His lips quirked into a small, genuine smile, one that reached his tired eyes.

“Why are you always so... amazing?” he muttered, almost to himself, as his hand hesitated in the space between you. Slowly, he raised it, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his touch so gentle it made your heart flutter.

You let out a small laugh, feeling the tension dissolve into something light and tender. “Amazing? Says the guy who just beat someone to a pulp in a boxing ring.”

Heeseung chuckled, the sound soft and warm. “Yeah, well, that guy didn’t make me feel like my heart was going to explode every time I looked at him.”

Your cheeks burned at his words, and you playfully shoved his shoulder. “You’re such a dork, Lee Heeseung.”

“And you’re stuck with me now,” he teased, his grin widening, though his voice carried a hint of sincerity. The banter melted into silence as the both of you stood under the streetlights, the night air no longer feeling so cold. Then, as if drawn by some invisible force, Heeseung took another step closer, closing the gap between you.

“Can I...” He hesitated, his gaze flickering to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t hesitate. “You better.”

A soft laugh escaped him before he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was equal parts gentle and fervent, like he’d been holding back for far too long. The world around you disappeared entirely, leaving only the warmth of his touch and the rapid beat of your heart. When you finally pulled away, Heeseung rested his forehead against yours, his smile so soft and tender it made your knees weak.

“I’m really glad you care about me,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

You grinned, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of his jawline. “I always will.”

The first person to find out about your relationship was Riki. The poor guy had gone to the pantry after coming to work at nine in the morning, only to drop his tumbler when he saw you and Heeseung making out in a public space. The horrified screech he let out made the both of you pulled away from one another, startled by his sudden appearance. You tried to pat down your hair but it was futile as Riki had unfortunately witnessed the whole scene.

“Wait, Riki-” You called out.

“Oh, Jungwon owns me lunch now,” he cackles like a maniac, bending down to pick up his tumbler. He was about to walk away when he turned to you. “Oh and congrats on your relationship but for God’s Sake, please do that nasty shit somewhere else.”

“RIKI!” You yelled, face turning as red as a tomato as he ran away while laughing. You sighed, turning to your superior who is also now your boyfriend, only to find him poorly hiding his laughter.

“I didn’t know this is funny to you,” you deadpanned.

“Sorry,” Heeseung coughs, running a hand through his unkempt hair. “Well, now that the cat’s out of the bag, how about we grab dinner tonight?” “Are you asking me out on a date?” You cocked your head to the side, grinning.

“And what if it is?” He copies your action, resting one hand on your waist.

“Then I accept but you’re paying, of course,” you replied, leaning in to press a kiss on the corner of his lips.

“Anything for you.”

#ꨄ writings #enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #lee heeseung x reader #lee heeseung imagines #lee heeseung x you #lee heeseung x y/n #lee heeseung fluff #heeseung x reader #heeseung imagines #heeseung x you #heeseung x y/n #heeseung fluff

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fenicearts420 · 3 days ago

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I’ve been seeing lots of art of Mr. Puzzles with a tail and people wanting to bite it, lately. And that reminded me of something which gave me an idea so have this late night sketch.

Bonus:

Oh yeah, btw, my self-insert (in the SMG4 universe) can turn into any dragon from the httyd franchise except for the books and the games. I wanted her to be a shapeshifter but I figured it was too over done so I opted to limit what all she can turn into and something in line with her/my personality/personal interests. So, yeah :D

ENJOY!!

#smg4 #mr puzzles #smg4 mr puzzles #smg4 puzzlevision #mr puzzles fanart #self insert #self insert x canon #my art #httyd #httyd rtte #I was debating whether or not I should make her a shapeshifter #Because there’s a good amount of mutuals and self-shippers who go that route as well in a certain way #And I wanted to try to separate her shapeshifting abilities from the others #So here’s the self insert that can change into dragons from httyd XD #Add her to the pile #I really hope this doesn’t come off as being over done because I know it is #But people are allowed to have fun with things like that!!#And idc too much because that means I get to draw Mr. Puzzles interacting with dragons!!! :D #So yeah

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gravestrain · 2 days ago

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gave you too much but it wasn't enough (qh43)

In which you wonder if your relationship with Quinn might end in death by a thousand cuts.

This is my submission for the eras tour fic challenge hosted by @wyattjohnston and @comphy-and-cozy! I am thrilled to be a part of this event. I received DBATC, and if you know me you know any kind of angst is not my wheelhouse, but I was thrilled to get this challenge and try to create something angsty. It will never be unresolved in my world but hopefully this does the trick :) 2.5k words, fem reader, no warnings that I know of, not proofread.

When Quinn was named the captain of the Vancouver Canucks, you had never felt so proud.

Being with Quinn for two plus years at the time, you were over the moon to see the love of your life, your favorite person in the world, being given such an honor, an honor he worked so hard for, an honor you know he deserved. Quinn was one of the most dedicated people you've ever met. With that dedication of course, comes time. Quinn dedicated countless hours to improving his game, practicing with his teammates, working out in the gym, going on runs, anything he could do to be the best he could be, he was doing it.

Under the moonlight, as you and Quinn celebrated his accomplishment, he promised you that he wouldn't stray away. That his commitment to the team wouldn't outweigh his commitment to you. To being a loving partner. A companion. However, when you woke up, stretching your arm out to feel an empty bed yet again, despite knowing that it couldn't have been much past 7 am, you wondered what went wrong. What happened to cause those promises to crumble. His words to be empty, lifeless. Void of meaning. When did you and Quinn become a couple that told each other lies? Told each other things just because the other person wanted to hear them, not because they genuinely intended to fulfill them.

It was the start of Quinn's second season as the Canucks captain. At first, you thought it was too good to be true. Quinn was thriving in his new role, yet still being the perfect partner. Attentive and on time, compassionate and loving. Now, that version of Quinn is a distant memory, mocking you as you think of him.

It started after the holidays in Quinn's first season of being captain. You chalked it up to post holiday stress and all star weekend buzz, maybe even trade deadline drama. Then the all star game passed, and even the trade deadline. Shortly after you started blaming it on the playoff push, then the playoff loss. And now here you were in November, searching for answers, trying to figure out what happened to the love of your life who turned into a stranger right in front of your own eyes, with nothing you could do about it but watch it happen.

You got yourself ready for work, looking around in the bathroom, on the bedside table, and eventually the kitchen to see if maybe Quinn left you a note, a cup of coffee in your favorite travel mug, a bagel from your favorite bakery around the corner, a sign of his love, signs that he used to never leave the house without showing. Just as you thought, there was nothing. You couldn't even remember the last time you felt Quinn kiss your forehead before he left for God knows what. Another workout, another two mile run after the three miles he did on the treadmill, or locking himself in his office watching film.

Work came and went that day, taking the long way home, dreading going home to an empty house. You thought it would be worse trying to interact with the stranger you lived with, but the silence, the emptiness, the sterile, unwelcoming cold was always worse. You stared up at the traffic lights, wondering if others saw just how foolish you felt. Writing lines to a story that was long over. Grasping on to the book, hoping for a surprise ending, one that would make everything worth it.

To say you were surprised to see Quinn's Porsche in the driveway was an understatement. Usually on practice days he didn't get home until well after 6 pm. You unlocked the front door, not expecting much. Just because he was home, doesn't mean he wasn't locked up in his office, taking notes from last night's game. A game that you never bothered to go to anymore. You knew the other WAGs missed you, people speculated about your absence on the internet, always cruel and judgmental. You couldn't bring yourself to go. You had learned to despise hockey for taking Quinn from you.

You opened the door and were surprised to see Quinn in the kitchen, grabbing a snack. Quinn looked as surprised to see you as you were, almost like he didn't know where you were, or if he even remembered that you lived there. Quiet "hi's" were exchanged, Quinn leaving a soft kiss on your cheek then awkwardly brushing past you to go towards the fridge.

"I thought we could have chicken and pasta for dinner tonight. It sounded good on my way home, I hope that's okay," Quinn muttered out, but already getting a pot of water for pasta ready, as though it didn't matter what you truly wanted. "That's okay," you offered back. "I'm gonna go sit down and read my book. If you need me, just holler." You offered and Quinn gave a nod in response. You wanted to grunt and groan under your breath. How could this be okay with him? It was as though you didn't know him, despite him knowing everything about you.

You tried to distract yourself with your book, but frustrated tears welled up in your eyes. You wiped them away aggressively, not wanting Quinn to see you cry. He couldn't muster up simple greetings, and an I love you would be almost toxic coming out of his mouth. He didn't care anymore, that much was obvious. So why should you?

You didn't know how long time passed, but it was enough time for Quinn to come over with a plate of dinner, unaware of your state. Your heart swelled. Most days, you had been eating dinner at the table, the memories of the two of you loved up on the couch, enjoying your meal and watching your latest binge watch were long gone. It seemed that Quinn was looking for one of those nights, until he saw your tears. His face dropped, setting your plate down and kneeling in front of you.

"Everything okay, sweetheart?" He asked, trying to get you to meet his eyes. You shook your head. How could he be so oblivious? "Are you serious?" You ask and Quinn's expression changed, like you had hurt him. "What do you mean by that? Why would I not be serious?" he asked, causing you to shake your head. "Quinn, things haven't been right between us for months. You leave me everyday without saying goodbye or even kissing me goodbye, you act like spending time with me is the worst thing in the world. I never go to games anymore because I resent hockey for taking you from me. When you were named captain, I was so proud of you I could explode. Now I can't even bare to be in the hockey setting because it reminds me of everything you chose over me. Quinn, I don't even know if you love me anymore." You took a breath after getting it off your chest, but at the same time a wounded gasp came out of Quinn's mouth, like he was a wounded animal.

"You think I don't love you anymore? How could you think that?" he asked, clearly hurt by what you had said. "What else do you want me to believe, Quinn? I can't even remember the last time you told me you loved me. And beyond that, that you ever even showed that you might. I feel like I live with a stranger. You can't honestly tell me that you have felt satisfied in this relationship. That you feel that we love each other to the fullest, that we love spending time together. I haven't felt confident that you feel that way in a long time." At this point you both had tears in your eyes, Quinn feeling devastated by what he was hearing.

Of course Quinn wasn't 100% satisfied with your relationship. He wasn't delusional enough to believe that everything was perfect. He knew that hockey had been his number one priority lately, and he had been trying to make that not be the case.

"Baby, I know I haven't been putting you first lately, and I'm sorry for that. I truly am. But I feel like it's only been this way since the start of the regular season." This had you scoffing immediately. "You don't seriously believe that. Quinn, I could say I have felt this way on and off since January." This caused another hurt gasp to leave Quinn's lips. "Why didn't you say something..." he trailed off, hurt, but he knew the answer.

"I shouldn't have to beg you to love me, Quinn. I shouldn't have to tell you that you have been neglecting me, neglecting us. If you truly can't see what's been going on, I don't know how I can explain it to you. If you think that this relationship has been satisfactory for both parties, I can't change your mind of that. But I won't be treated like this any longer. I think we should spend some time apart." Quinn backed up as soon as the suggestion came out of your mouth, looking like he had been shot.

"You don't mean that, you can't" he gasped. "Quinn, I'm not saying I want to breakup. If I didn't believe this was salvageable, if I didn't believe you could fix this, I would just say I wanted to break up. I believe we can fix this, but I think some time apart would do us good. For us both to figure out what we're looking for and what we truly want. If we find that this is still what we want, that's great, I believe that we will make it work. But this, this... arrangement, this isn't working. I know you seem shocked and hurt, but I know you don't believe that this is working for both of us, or honestly either of us."

"I'll go stay with Petey, I don't want to be in your way," Quinn suggested and you shook your head. "It's okay, really. I can go stay with Brock's girlfriend. Since she lives by herself it won't be awkward for any of us. I do believe we can make this work Quinn, I just don't think we can do it in these conditions." You put your hand on his cheek and his face softened, leaning into your touch.

"Tell me how to fix it, please, I'll do anything," he begged, tears steadily streaming down his face. "I can't tell you that, Quinn. I want you to figure out. To understand where I'm coming from, and want to work to fix it. I haven't been perfect either Quinn, we can both work on this. I shouldn't have to tell you that spending time together once a month isn't enough. I don't know how it can be enough for you, either. If that's okay with you, then this just isn't going to work."

"I'll fix it baby, I promise, I'll do anything." he whispered, almost defeatedly but feeling much better. "I believe you, baby. I do."

-------------------

The flowers started on Mondays. Each Monday, a different bouquet of beautifully arranged flowers arrived at your office. The message was also different each week but it always ended the same way: " I love you, I believe in us." You texted Quinn every week when the flowers came to let him know you got them and to send your thanks. After four weeks of flowers, you were sitting in the front room of Brock's girlfriend, Bella's, apartment, getting stuff done on your computer on a chilly Saturday afternoon. A knock on the door sounded, causing you to pause your work. You had been staying with Bella long enough that you felt comfortable getting the door. Not to mention Bella liked to sleep in super late on weekends, meaning you would be the only one to even be available to open the door.

Your heart sank to your toes as you looked through the peephole, seeing Quinn. He looked different. If your gut was right, he looked tired, a far away look in his eyes, almost as though he missed you as much as you missed him. You didn't want to believe it, wary of getting your heart broken. He was holding something in his hands, fidgeting with it as he waited for the door to open.

"Y/N, hi," Quinn whispered out, taking a step towards you. "Hi Quinn, it's great to see you. How have you been? Would you like to come inside?" You asked, causing him to shake his head. "I can't stay, but thank you for offering," he stopped himself, wanting to keep boundaries in between you two in order for you to be most comfortable.

"It's been a while since we've seen each other, and I wanted to come ask you something. I was hoping you'd like to come to the game tomorrow night? I was hoping this would be enough time, but if not it's okay." His voice was shaky, unsure, almost like he was scared of your response. "I'm not sure, Quinn. Won't it be weird that I'm there? I don't want to cause any drama." You said apprehensively. You were also nervous of what that step in your relationship would be.

"There would be no drama at all, babe. You could just sit with Bell in the stands if you would prefer that, but I know the WAGs have really been missing you. I heard Millsy's daughters have been waiting for you to paint their nails on intermission again," he joked, causing you to smile. His heart melted at the smile on your face, finally feeling fulfilled, that he made you happy.

"I'll be there, Quinn. You can put me in the box. Don't worry about parking, though. I'm sure I can catch a ride with Bella." You both smiled, joyful at the step in the right direction for the both of you. "I can't wait."

________________

For all the time you had spent at Canucks games, you never thought you would be so nervous about what to wear, but here you are. Finally, settling on a stylish Canucks long sleeve with no distinction of Quinn on the shirt, paired with dark jeans and sneakers.

Quinn played a great game, getting a goal and an assist, the Canucks winning 3-1. You were ecstatic. Being back at the games, with your friends, cheering on Quinn, just felt right. It felt like where you were supposed to be. When you met Quinn after the game, he couldn't help himself either, jogging up to you and wrapping his arms around you, lifting you up off the ground. "Quinn!" you exclaimed, laughing out loud. "You did so good!" You laughed as he set you back on the ground. "It's because you were here, my good luck charm." He mused, causing you to blush.

Before he could stop himself, Quinn asked: "come home with me?" Your breath shortened, definitely not expecting that to come out of his mouth. "Are you sure?" You asked him, heart racing at the idea of going home with Quinn, truly where you belonged. "I would want nothing more."

It felt at times that no matter how much you gave to Quinn, it would never be enough. But as you both grew and learned more about yourselves, you both knew that all you could give would always be enough for the both of you.

#qh43 #Quinn hughes #Quinn hughes imagine #Quinn hughes x reader #vancouver canucks #Vancouver canucks imagine #hughes brothers #elle’s writing

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spiderb00 · 3 days ago

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Fam out - Sophia Laforteza

Sophia Laforteza X Reader

Synopsis - Sophia loves when you're caring, serious, she LOOOVES ;)

Genre – Fluff, a little suggestive at the end?

a/n - Was I so excited to write this, for some reason??? I think I also kind of like domestic things, so...

I think it has a little bit of Yn!Oc in that, I mean, Yn is a little bit based on me and my personality <3

part 1 part 2

The theater was full, people quickly finding their seats, all excited by the movie. Yoonchae was happy to have someone she could share this experience with. The younger girl knew that as soon as she talked to Sophia she would agree to watch the movie instantly, but when Yn agreed to watch the movie with them, Yoonchae was more surprised than ever.

You've been dating Sophia for six months, Yoonchae has always liked you, despite having similar personalities, you two were very different, Yoonchae thinks the age difference does that. The younger girl knew that you had a somewhat peculiar taste for a 21-year-old girl.

Yoonchae liked to describe her personality as the "personality of a divorced father", she always said that Sophia's girlfriend liked rock, preferably older bands, wore band shirts, played guitar, loved horror and action movies, and had a vintage car (old) that seemed strangely comfortable to Yoonchae. She would say that you were quiet, a born observer. Yoonchae liked that, she found your personality cozy, even though other people found you scary.

Yoonchae thought Sophia was happy in her relationship, and boy, could she not be more right. Sophia loved every detail of Yn, she loved you was always attentive, as you always did everything to make everyone comfortable. Sophia noticed every single thing, how you always grabbed the highest things from the shelves when the Kats couldn't reach, and how you always pretended not to care about the "thank you" from the girls, responding only with a brief "Hm".

Sophia always noticed how you always left a bottle of water nearby at rehearsals you went to attend, or how you always applied the sidewalk rule when you went out for a walk, or how you always made sure Sophia had gotten home before starting the car and going home. Sophia has always noticed everything.

But sure, her favorite interactions were with Yoonchae, Sophia loves it when you do something for the younger girl, something about it warms your heart. So when you said yes when Yoonchae invited you to watch "inside out 2" your girlfriend was automatically jumping up and smiling silly.

Everything was cozy, the trip to the cinema in her vintage car – cof cof old cof cof – the smell of popcorn and even the feeling that the choice of seats was perfect, everything seemed extremely domestic to Sophia.

When the movie started you were super entertained, all the colors and captivating animations held your attention. As the movie played, you noticed that Yoonchae's drink had run out. Looking at the Filipino girl's cup and seeing a good amount of liquid, you decided to get a little more just for the younger girl.

"Hey, I'll be right back." You say, leaning in and giving Sophia a kiss on the head, leaving before she could say anything.

After buying the drink and some candy that you think the girls would like, you went back to your seat, trying to be discreet and not get in the way of people.

"Where have you gone?" Sophia asks as soon as you sit in the armchair.

"Buy some things."

You put the drink in Yoonchae's cup holder and hand her one of the candies you bought, knowing that it was her favorite.

"I bought this for you, you like those, right?" You ask, looking at Sophia, who now had heart eyes.

"Yes baby, thank you." The Filipino girl says before grabbing the back of your neck and giving you a kiss.

"Of course, I'm here for that." You say, focusing on the film again, not before intertwining your hand with Sophia's.

In the car, once again, Sophia felt that feeling, the cozy and domestic environment that she quickly learned to love. Yoonchae and you debated about the movie (More like Yoonchae talking and you agreeing and making comments here and there) while Sophia listened to everything in the passenger seat, scratching your head as you drove to the restaurant.

When you arrive at the restaurant you unconsciously pull the chair to Yoonchae, doing the same to Sophia and then taking the seat next to your girlfriend. The food came, and you ate it amidst silly conversations and jokes. One of the jokes making Yoonchae laugh and unintentionally hitting the glass of water next to her.

"Watch your clothes, Yoonchae." Sophia said as she picked up the glass that fell.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry." The younger girl says as she gets up from her chair so that the water doesn't get on her clothes.

"It's okay Yoonchae, it was just water. And the glass didn't break, I'm just going to ask the waiter to clean it, you can sit in my seat while I call the waiter, okay?"

Very interested in calling the waiter to clean up the mess on the table, you unfortunately missed the look that Sophia was giving you, but if someone who was around saw it, that person could tell that it was like a jaguar ready to attack her prey.

You threw yourself on the bed next to Sophia with a sigh, the day had been fun and you were ready to rest. After leaving Yoonchae at home with the Kats, Sophia insisted that she would sleep at your house, you didn't question it, after all she could stay the night whenever she wanted, no matter how different something seemed.

"Tired?"

"A little, but nothing out of the ordinary. Did you have fun?" you asked, crossing your hands under your head and looking at the black-haired girl.

"Yes, it was the best day," she said. "But it's about to get better."

Sophia mounted on your waist with a smile on her face, legs on either side of your body, taking you completely by surprise.

"With you everything always gets better."

__________________

yes, they are Yoonchae's mothers... that's it :/

#gxg #katseye #kpop gg #katseye imagines #katseye x reader #kpop fluff #sophia laforteza x reader #yoonchae x reader #kpop scenarios #megan skiendiel x reader #sophia laforteza

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lover-of-mine · 2 days ago

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Hi, welcome to Anna wants to point shit out about the quiet scene in 806 because why not :)

Bachelor party color combo but inverted, Buck is in black and dark green (because he is still wearing the breakup shirt) and Eddie loses his shirt which happens to be the darkest part of his outfit, and in contrast, on 806 the only thing he keeps is the baby pink shirt.

Green and pink is also the color combo of the hildy prank.

Also, similarities with this particular framing, including the beer (Eddie chasing tequila with beer my beloved), but the lights here are a lot more blue, and obviously, there isn't the space that exists between them on the couch in 806, and considering that the bachelor party both of them were dating other people and are currently single makes it interesting that they won't touch.

The beer they are drinking? New brand. A red brand. Not the regular yellow genuine or the blue one from the coming out scene.

A lot of elements there are interested when you consider pink is a much more Buck color than Eddie and Eddie is in green all the time. The possibility of the pink and green combo having something to do with them having fun is real cuz 3 examples is a pattern lol. The way they don't talk to each other or touch or even look at each other add a lot, it's not about anything specific, it's about the presence. Buck is part of Eddie's joy and Eddie is part of Buck's safety yet again. Great scene. So much done with no lines.

taglist (interact with this post if you wanna get tagged)

@sparkedblaze @caw-salem @dreamofsomepiphany @100ceruleaneyes @linus-lucy @chaosqueery @gina-spike @chimchiminie98 @elvensorceress @singitforthegirls @dangerpronebuddie @182daysof @steadfastsaturnsrings @sparklespiff @inell @miles--to--go @jesuisici33 @wolfdeans @lunarsolar1 @joshwritesfics @glasscities @kejfeblintz @stagefoureddiediaz @mosaicstardust @eddiedisasterdiaz @hermioneindisguise @queerprincesseddiediaz @lookforanewangle @becausebuckley @lemotmo @thenainitaldisaster @epiaphany @trudayss @shelfthe-reader @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @buckgettingstruck @scoupsahoy @the-whispers-of-death @iced-coffee-jesus @izzysbeans @starkytower @thegeekcompanion @sunflower-eddiediaz @bucks-daddy-issues

@dingdongfries @angelcamael

#911 #911 spoilers #thoughts thoughts thoughts #911 meta #this was not what i sat down to write but i wanted to make this post

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 days ago

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Cannibals [Chapter 3: Mist and Bricks]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, a tiny bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, dragons being weapons of mass destruction, King's Landing gets some visitors, Larys gets alarming news, Alicent gets an idea, Red gets a shock.

Word count: 7.2k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

There is a chilly steel-grey mist on Blackwater Bay, and another in your skull, your thoughts slow and muddled, the past bleeding into the present. It’s weeks later, the longest you’ve ever been away from Aemond, and the pebbles on the shore needle your shins through your velvet gown the color of cinnabar as you kneel to claw seashells from the muck. Helaena is here with you, and while you haven’t told her your plans for your next mosaic, she somehow knows what color shells to drop into your basket: dark green like Vhagar’s scales, shimmering white like Aemond’s hair. Sometimes there are still creatures hunkered inside, and Helaena can never bring herself to pry them out. She passes the doomed crabs and snails to you for a swift exhumation that you deliver with your bare hands, and then you wash the vacated shells in the surf. Mother and a flock of maids are playing with Jaehaera and Maelor farther down the beach. You can’t go near them, or Maelor will start screaming.

Grandsire comes plodding down the stone steps carved into the cliffside, carrying a plate laden with lemon cakes and slices of fresh bread slathered with butter and blackberry jam. “Helaena, you must eat,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Helaena, please.” And his voice is gentle in a way it has never been with you. “My gods, why are you wrist-deep in wet sand?”

“We’re collecting shells.”

Grandsire gives you a familiar look: disapproval, frustration. The he turns back to Helaena. “I can’t watch you disappear. You must eat something, I’m not leaving until you do.”

“You like blackberry jam,” you encourage her. But she flinches away when Grandsire offers her the plate, and suddenly you understand, you feel the thought as if it is your own. “It’s the color,” you tell him. “The jam, it’s like…” Like blood, like gore. Like the night Jaehaerys died.

“Oh.” Grandsire is quiet for a moment, remembering. “The lemon cakes, then.”

Helaena reluctantly rinses her hands in the seawater, takes a single lemon cake from the plate, and sits on a nearby rock to nibble on it, gazing blankly out over the inlet. You attended Jaehaerys’ funeral procession in her stead—an act of mercy, of penance, while Helaena spent that day sobbing in the Dragonpit, clinging to Dreamfyre, a pale blue century-old monster with infinite patience. The people of King’s Landing saw the dead prince, his head crudely stitched back onto his tiny body, and howled for vengeance. They burned white-haired effigies of Rhaenyra and Daemon. They gave rare autumn flowers to you and Mother. It’s always strange when you leave the Red Keep to interact with the smallfolk. They call you by your real name, something your family seldom does; they seem to believe you are righteous and wise. Perhaps they even pity you: no husband, no children, no dragon.

Mother has left Jaehaera and Maelor with the maids and is venturing closer. “Are there any new letters?” From Criston or Aemond, or even Daeron in the Reach. The Hightower army has been delayed there, cutting through the treasonous soldiers of House Rowan and House Caswell, Tessarion burning them alive in their armor.

“Ravens,” Helaena says thoughtfully from her rock, and no one knows why.

Grandsire shakes his head. No letters today. Butterwell, Stokeworth, and Rosby have bent the knee; the defiant lords of the Crownlands are being put to death. By now the Green forces will be marching on House Staunton at Rook’s Rest. When Aemond does write, you are not mentioned. With each passing day you find yourself thinking: Has he forgotten me? Does he truly love me? Perhaps this is not so irrational a question. Aemond has never used the word love to describe what you are to each other.

Grandsire frowns at you. You gaze mournfully back. He snaps: “And what’s wrong with you?”

Mother’s reply is hushed and sympathetic. “She’s lonely, Father.”

“Lonely?! She still has us here. Don’t we matter? No, I suppose not, she prefers arrogant fools who imperil the realm with their self-obsession. Perhaps she’d like us more if we wore silver wigs and eyepatches.”

Mother is distressed. “Father, please.”

He waves an irritated hand at you. “I better not find out you’ve been keeping the cats away from your chambers again.” Grandsire had a hundred cats brought to the Red Keep to do the tasks the dead ratcatchers left unattended.

“They scare my babies,” you say.

“Your vermin, you mean. Revolting creatures. Flying pestilence.”

You rise from the sand and pick up your basket, now full of shells. Your head is beginning to ache. Maester Orwyle removed your stitches this morning, but the wound in your chest still pains you more or less constantly, a gnawing sensation like an animal chewing on your ribcage.

“Where are you going?” Grandsire demands. You don’t answer him as you ascend the stone staircase, the waves growling behind you and gulls squawking in the foggy air.

In your chambers, you leave the basket of seashells on the floor and call for wine. The maids fetch it and you drink straight from the pitcher, staring at the little wooden figurines on your dresser until they turn blurry. Among them is Vermithor. You recall what Aegon said when he gave it to you years ago, when you were so stung by the dragon’s rejection: You might not have the real Bronze Fury, but you can keep this one.

Your bats are beginning to scrabble out of their roost and vanish through the window. As the sun sets and the room spins, you crawl into bed and lie there in the darkness clutching pillows, your pulse thudding just above your left eye. You doze in and out of consciousness. Aemond told you to think of him when you are here, and you do whether you want to or not: Aemond spilling red wine down your bare chest and then licking you clean; you straddling his lap and stroking him as he reads myths aloud to you in gloomy alcoves of the library, dust motes wheeling in the air, grinning victoriously when you make him lose his focus; the five game pieces racing around the wooden board, Aegon’s green snake, Helaena’s yellow butterfly, Aemond’s blue wolf, your red bat, Daeron’s purple shadowcat before he was sent away to Oldtown and the rest of you never played again.

Then something hits you, not like a vision but like knuckles that could crack teeth, and you are besieged by what Aemond is seeing in the Crownlands. There is flesh, horribly and ruinously burned, sheets of it sloughing off as Aemond peels away scraps of charred fabric, and the smell of it—like blackened pork, oily and stomach-turning—is in your nostrils, and you can feel the calamitous heat rising off the man who must be dying. You can feel Aemond’s terror, disbelief, desperation; you can feel his tears on the right side of your face.

Dragonfire??

The dreamscape abruptly disappears like a candle blown out. Your head throbs, your eyes are squeezed shut as you whimper into your pillows. Your fingertips go instinctively to the scar on your chest.

Who was burned? Criston? Gwayne?

But now the dire portents are here in your room, and they are real: the ringing of bells, smoke, shrieking, scorched flesh.

You open your eyes, and your bats are soaring back inside through the open window; but they have been turned to comets. They are on fire, squealing as their fur is singed off and the fragile membranes of their wings melted from their bones, herding around their roost as they try in vain to seek shelter inside. The dark blue velvet cover has been engulfed in flames.

“No!” you scream, bolting off the bed.

Your door is thrown open and Mother rushes in, dragging Jaehaera behind her. Helaena waits in the doorway holding little Maelor in her arms. He hasn’t seen you yet, but he is already wailing. The horror is back. When will it end?

“We have to go!” Mother shouts, grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your bats. You know you can’t save them, and yet you are compelled to. They are pieces of you, pieces of Aemond. They are burning to death in the house you built for them.

“What’s happening—?!” And then you hear the screeches of dragons, not Vhagar or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre or Tessarion. Through the window, you see an inferno bloom in the night sky. You get a firelit glimpse of a beast you do not recognize: dark, angular, very large and covered with jagged spines. People are screaming. Rooftops are ablaze.

A wild dragon? Claimed by who?

“We’ll go to the beach,” Mother says frantically. She’s thinking of the escape hatch in Aemond’s bedchamber, the only secret passageway in Maegor’s Holdfast. The king known as “the Cruel” wanted no spies or assassins in his walls. But one door was enough for Daemon’s executioners to kill Jaehaerys. “Helaena will try to get to Dreamfyre.”

But you won’t be able to fly away with the rest of them. Dreamfyre would sooner reduce you to ashes than let you touch her.

Mother knows this. She tells you, low and fierce, her coppery hair like glowing embers: “I won’t leave you. You and I will find another way out of King’s Landing.”

“You should escape on Dreamfyre if you have the chance.”

“Never,” she says. And then again: “Never.”

In the hallway, Grandsire has arrived, panicked and urging everyone towards Aemond’s bedchamber. He wheezes, breathless from his sprint through the castle: “I saw Syrax and Caraxes, and Vermax too I think, or maybe Moondancer, a small dragon…but who is the other one? It’s not Meleys. It’s a hideous creature, it looks deformed.”

“I don’t know,” Mother says. Hordes of yowling cats careen past your bare feet.

“Could Rhaenyra be finding new riders?” And Grandsire, a man who is afraid of very little, is petrified down to his bones by this.

I should have a dragon, you think, forlorn. I should be able to help fight this war. And instead I am worthless.

“I don’t know, Father,” Mother says again, and you follow her through the threshold and into Aemond’s abandoned bedchamber, illuminated only by the moonlight that streams in through the windows. You have not been in here since Jaehaerys died; the stone floor is still stained with his blood. Helaena begins sobbing, clutching Maelor closer to her chest. Downstairs, you can hear swords clanging and men groaning as they die.

You hurry to the hidden door and ram it with your shoulder, but as the passageway opens, you see red-orange torchlight approaching through the blackness like fire boiling up in the throat of a dragon. Rhaenyra’s soldiers are already here. You try to close the door, but now knights in armor are forcing their way inside the room. And Grandsire, who has never liked you, pulls you away from the breach and puts himself between you and the intruders.

“The hallway, back to the hallway!” he booms, giving you a shove, and that is the only place left to go. You, Mother, Jaehaera, Helaena, Maelor, and Grandsire flee from Aemond’s bloodstained bedchamber. But your captors have climbed the Grand Staircase—the place where you once waited for Aemond to return from Storm’s End, so convinced that he would not fail you—and now they are here.

Under the torches carried by her guards, Rhaenyra alternates between firelight and shadows. Daemon marches beside her, his face severe, his sword Dark Sister drawn. Mother pushes you, Jaehaera, and Helaena, still carrying Maelor, against the cold stone wall. Grandsire stands in front of Mother. Jace is walking behind Rhaenyra and Daemon, you notice, dressed in red and black, his cloak billowing behind him. The last time you saw Jace, you were smirking when Aemond shoved him off his feet at the last dinner King Viserys ever attended. Now you are trembling with thunderstruck terror.

Rhaenyra is supposed to be bedbound on Dragonstone. Daemon is supposed to be in the Riverlands.

Daemon points at you with the tip of his blade. “You should have that one executed,” he says to Rhaenyra. “Isn’t she Aemond’s whore?”

“They were never married,” Mother tells him, her dark eyes huge and reflecting the torchlight, her arm thrown in front of you.

“I didn’t say wife, I said whore.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warns, and she studies you, Helaena, Grandsire, Mother. Her blue eyes are sharp like fractured glass, edges that glide effortlessly through arteries and veins; there is a queenlike composure in her face, but beneath that wrath, wrath, wrath. After a moment, she says to her guards: “Take the adults to the dungeons.”

Mother and Helaena are shouting and protesting, trying to stop the guards that rip Jaehaera and Maelor out of their grasps. Grandsire is attempting to negotiate. Rhaenyra and Daemon ignore them, continuing on down the hallway, taking possession of the rage-red castle where they first fell into their peculiar, destructive breed of love.

As he passes by, Jace glowers at you and you glare back, and when he reaches for the hilt of his sword you bare your teeth at him; but before Jace can draw his blade—to threaten you, to frighten you, to spill your blood the way Aemond spilled Luke’s—the guards have dragged you away.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your head is very bad now. The pain is almost impossible to think through; you are sick with it, retching into a wooden bucket until there is nothing left to expel. If Aemond was here, he would be holding you, murmuring to you in High Valyrian, pressing a cloth soaked with cold water to your forehead. But Mother is here instead, and she is doing the best she can.

It’s the next day, cold grey light tumbling in through cracks in the walls. You are imprisoned on the second level of the dungeons, reserved for highborn captives; you and Mother are in one cell, Helaena and Grandsire in another on the other side of the aisle. Helaena has been weeping constantly, worrying for her children. Grandsire and Mother try to console her as you lie pitifully on the floor, wishing the pain would knock you unconscious. You need Orwyle and his milk of the poppy. The guards have brought bread and water, but nothing else.

There is a creaking sound from several cells away, and then a slow shuffling accompanied by the tapping of a cane. Mother keeps one hand on your shoulder as she cranes her neck to see her visitor. Grandsire and Helaena move to the front of their cell, their fingers gripping the rusted iron bars.

Larys Strong appears, his hands resting on the handle his cane. Unlike Maegor’s Holdfast—the residence of the royal family—the other buildings of the Red Keep are rife with secret passageways, a latticework of corridors that one unfamiliar with their paths could get lost in forever. Surely Daemon and his confederates are in the process of searching them, but it is a task that could take a week.

“Lord Larys,” Mother says, relieved. “They have not found you.”

“Not yet, Your Grace,” he replies docilely. “Though I’m sure it will not take much longer.”

“Can you retrieve some milk of the poppy?” For you, she means.

“I will try.” Then he stalls, as if he does not wish to share what he has heard through his clandestine chain of whispers. “Something has happened at Rook’s Rest.”

Mother’s brow furrows. “Where?”

“The seat of House Staunton,” you tell her from where you lie on the floor, remembering it from the maps in Aemond’s bedchamber. He would tell you things, show you things, sometimes kindly, sometimes tauntingly, sometimes as he undressed you. He would quiz you and if you got an answer wrong, he would put your clothes back on.

“In the Crownlands?” Mother says to Larys, alarmed. “Is Aegon alright?”

Larys takes a moment to decide how to proceed. “The castle was captured without much difficulty, but a maester there must have gotten a raven out, because Dragonstone received word of the attack and was summoned to defend Rook’s Rest and retake it from the Greens. It is located very close to Dragonstone, and thus cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy.”

Larys pauses and looks at his audience. Grandsire asks: “So who answered the message?”

“It seems that Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jacaerys were already preparing for an invasion of King’s Landing and were elsewhere,” Larys says. “The other dragon, the large brown one, is called Sheepstealer and is ridden by a peasant girl that Daemon found. There are rumors that he has grown somewhat…attached to her.”

Mother grimaces, tugging on the seven-pointed star necklace she never takes off. “He’s a beast.”

“The girl is a Targaryen bastard?” Grandsire says, confounded. “Whose? She’s not a child of Viserys, surely. Where the hell did she come from?”

Larys is apologetic. “I could not tell you, my lord. If I discover anything else concerning her origins, I shall share what I learn. She is known as Nettles.”

“Nettles?” Grandsire snorts.

Larys continues: “When the raven reached Dragonstone, Baela received the letter. It appears she was told that Sunfyre was the only dragon guarding Rook’s Rest at the time, and that Vhagar was away feeding. She must have thought she could best the king, or at least chase him away from the castle.”

“An understandable error,” Grandsire says, and you scowl at him between fruitless retches into your bucket. The thrumming in your skull is like blows from a hammer, rhythmic and disorienting. Your face is hot with fever; it radiates off of you in waves. Mother rubs your back—although somewhat cautiously, as if she is afraid that barbs might split through your skin to prick her—and offers you sips of water.

“Baela left Dragonstone, likely without permission. Rhaenys followed her on Meleys, but Moondancer was faster.”

“Meleys?” Mother says, startled. “Meleys was there too?”

Larys nods solemnly. “Aegon and Sunfyre attacked Moondancer and broke her neck high in the air. Baela perished when her dragon fell to the earth.”

“Daemon’s daughter,” Mother exhales, wondering what the retribution will be. “Jace’s betrothed.”

“And one of Rhaenys’ only two trueborn grandchildren,” Larys says. “When she arrived at Rook’s Rest and saw Moondancer’s carcass smoldering just outside the castle walls, she pursued the king before he could retreat. And Sunfyre…he was no match for a dragon as large as Meleys.”

“Aegon, he’s…?” Mother cannot bring herself to speak the words aloud. Tears gleam in her eyes. “Is he…is there no hope…?”

The ruined flesh, charred and raw, you remember from your horrifying glimpse into Aemond’s mind. It wasn’t Criston or Gwayne. It was Aegon.

“He was burned,” you whisper, and Mother stares at you.

“Aemond returned on Vhagar, and they slayed Rhaenys and her mount. But not before the king and his dragon were engulfed in Meleys’ flames.”

“He’s dead?” Grandsire says, emotion you’ve never heard before in his voice.

No, you think. Not yet.

“Aegon and Sunfyre are both gravely wounded,” Larys replies. “It is uncertain whether either will survive. The Blacks received the news just before their assault on King’s Landing.”

“Where is Aegon now?” Mother says.

“I’m not sure, Your Grace. He was still at Rook’s Rest last I heard, but they might move the king elsewhere to keep him hidden. I would imagine Aemond and Sir Criston Cole are requisitioning maesters from nearby houses to treat him.”

“Burns,” Mother sobs. “He must be suffering terribly, the pain…the disfigurement…”

Grandsire drums his fingers on the bars of his cell, his rings clinking against the rusted steel. His expression is remote, somber, resigned. “So we have two dragons capable of combat, one of which is young and small and pinned down by battles in the Reach, the other is on the far side of the Crownlands and trapped there while Aemond tries to keep our king alive. And Rhaenyra is here in the capital with Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, and this new dragon Sheepstealer, larger than any of her others, and her faction seeks vengeance for not one but three royal deaths.”

In reply, Larys Strong only bows his head. Mother swipes tears from her cheeks and tucks your hair behind your ears as strands escape your braid.

“Well,” Grandsire sighs. “I believe we might be losing this war.”

There is the distant noise of a door’s hinges creaking, and Larys hobbles out of sight, retreating to the secret passageway he previously emerged from. A minute passes, and then footsteps echo down the corridor. Daemon strides into view, swinging Dark Sister in his right hand, and you are suddenly reminded so much of Aemond’s mannerisms that the absence of him guts you all over again, vital parts of you excavated like the organs of a slaughtered animal. Daemon is accompanied by several guards and a group of noblemen who you assume are members of Rhaenyra’s council. You recognize among them a tall man with short grey hair, Lord Bartimos Celtigar.

Daemon says: “Princess Helaena, the queen has taken your tiny, traitorous children to ward. Perhaps one day you will see them again. Perhaps not.” She gazes out from her cell vacantly, her face bloodless with shock and fear. Then Daemon turns to Grandsire. “Otto Hightower, you orchestrated an unlawful rebellion and therefore you will be put to death.”

Grandsire gapes at him. “What? When?”

“Oh, immediately.” Daemon steps back and the guards unlock the cell, seize Grandsire, knock him over and drag him wriggling on his belly into the corridor. Mother pleads for his life. Helaena shrieks and claws for him, trying to keep him with her. The guards fling her roughly away and slam the door of her cell shut before she can escape.

“No, no, do not mourn me!” Grandsire is bellowing as he is hauled away. “I am an old man, I have lived a good life, do not think of me, think of the living and what you can still do for them!”

“Father!” Mother wails, reaching through the bars of her cell though she knows she will never touch him again.

“I am ready to see your mother, Alicent,” Grandsire says; and then he is gone. The men of Rhaenyra’s council begin to file out of the dungeon.

“You followed us across the Narrow Sea, Lord Celtigar!” you shout after him, crawling across the floor and pressing your face against the bars of your cell. “House Targaryen saved you from the Doom, and now you rip it down from within by aiding a usurper. We will not forget your treason when the war is won. We will visit you on Claw Isle and bring with us fire and blood. And you will have no defenses. You are no dragonrider.”

“Neither are you, princess,” he says cooly, and leaves you in your prison.

Daemon is the only man still standing in the aisle. He peers down at you with shadowy deep-set eyes and twirls his Valyrian steel sword again. He grins, humorless, hungry, burning up inside with fury. “Perhaps I’ll be back soon.”

Mother yanks you away from the bars, and you can see what she’s thinking etched into the desperate lines of her face: How can I save her?

“I’m going to behead your father now,” Daemon tells Mother, then sweeps down the corridor. There is the sound of a heavy door closing when he reaches the end of the hall.

“Do not speak to them,” Mother hisses to you, and you are in too much pain to respond. Now you can hear men jeering out in the courtyard of the Red Keep. Daemon is listing Grandsire’s crimes. Crows are cawing.

He’s going to die too? you think dizzily. When does this end, how do we stop it?

The door at the end of the hallway opens again, and Mother stands and places herself in front of you; but it is not Daemon this time, relishing his chance to drag another Green to their death. It is Rhaenyra and Jace. The Blacks’ queen stops at your cell, her son a few paces behind her. He looks at you with heartbreak, with hatred, and of course he does; one of your brothers murdered Luke, the other killed Baela. And he does not believe you to be blameless like Helaena. You are a very different sort of woman.

“Alicent, your degenerate son’s insurrection is over,” Rhaenyra says. “I have taken the city and—”

“Jace needs to strengthen his claim,” Mother interrupts. Outside, men are cheering; Grandsire’s head has been struck from his shoulders. In her cell across the aisle, Helaena sinks to the floor and sobs quietly into her palms.

Rhaenyra studies Mother, incredulous. “What did you say?”

“There have always been people who doubted his parentage, as you well know,” Mother says, and you can see her hands are trembling; but her voice is steady. “And there are many who favor my line. They fear Daemon’s recklessness, and perhaps yours as well.”

“You speak so boldly for a woman who stands behind bars.”

Mother is unflinching. “Perhaps you imagine that you will kill every last Green, and all of our loyalists throughout the Seven Kingdoms, millions of people, and therefore you will have no use for bricks upon which to build a lasting peace. But I think that would be a mistake.”

“And you wish to help me?” Rhaenyra mocks.

“I wish to safeguard what is left of my family.”

The woman who calls herself queen considers this. Surely the same hope lives in her ribcage as well, the same catastrophic fear that it will prove impossible.

“One way or another, the war will be won,” Mother says. “And whichever side triumphs will have the other at their mercy.”

“I will have you at my mercy, yes.”

“Aemond and Vhagar are still out there. Underestimate them at your peril.”

“And what is your suggestion?” Rhaenyra demands. “To bolster Jace’s claim, to save your own skins?”

“Baela is gone and he is unspoken for. You once offered to unite our bloodlines by marrying Helaena to Jace. Perhaps if I had accepted that, I could have spared us this torment. I was wrong to dismiss your proposal so swiftly, Rhaenyra. I did not give you the respect you deserved. And I have reconsidered.”

Rhaenyra is puzzled. “Helaena is already married. Unless you have proof that Aegon is dead, which would be welcome.”

“No. I have another daughter.”

Both you and Jace begin to object at once; your mothers silence you with fearsome glares.

Rhaenyra is aghast; her sharp blue eyes dart to where you are slumped on the floor of your cell and then back to Mother. “This is a sickening insult.”

Mother seems calm, measured. It cannot be easy for her. “Willingly marrying my daughter to Jace is accepting his legitimacy. She is a Green, and very close in age to your son, and from what I have heard of Jace’s temperament I believe them to be well-matched.”

“I don’t,” Jace says.

Rhaenyra shakes her head in disbelief; but is there a ripple of uncertainty across her regal face? Yes, you think there is. “Aemond has already bedded her.”

“And who has said this?” Mother asks. “Daemon, who hates my family and has no mind for strategy or alliances? Rhaenys and the Sea Snake, who hungered for the Iron Throne all their lives and saw a chance for their descendants to possess it through Baela?”

Rhaenyra is looking at you again. “I’ve seen the way they watch each other. The way they move.” The dinner, she means. The night that Viserys died.

“She is a maiden,” Mother insists, but she gives you a transient sideways glance. Are you? “They had a flirtation, yes, as is so common for siblings of your foreign house, but nothing more. I would never have allowed fornication or the use of moon tea to disguise its consequences under my roof. They are grievous sins. You know me. You know my devotion to my faith.”

“She will submit to a maester’s examination to make sure?”

“Did you, Rhaenyra? Before you and Laenor Velaryon were wed?”

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. And you have the sense—vague and dreadful—that perhaps it is dawning upon her that taking something Aemond holds dear might have its advantages. “What do you want in return?”

“We have both lost innocent people,” Mother says. “There has been enough bloodshed. It must stop somewhere, or all the Targaryens will be dead and their dragons too, and this dynasty will vanish from the earth, and our ambitions will be for nothing. If you do indeed win the war, I want my surviving children and grandchildren spared. And my brother Gwayne, and Sir Criston Cole.”

“I cannot give you Aemond.”

“If you swear that you’ll pardon him, we shall do the same for Daemon if it is our armies that triumph.”

Now the hope is unmistakable on Rhaenyra’s face. “And my remaining sons will be allowed to live? All of them?” Even Daemon’s?

“Yes.”

She muses on this. “You make tempting promises, Alicent. But I don’t have any conviction that Aemond will heed you if Aegon dies and he is made regent until Maelor is grown. I don’t believe you can control him.”

“He’ll listen to his sister,” Mother swears. “He will not do anything that would bring her despair. And if she is married to Jace, she will come to love his family as her own. All the more so if they have children together.”

“She might not be trustworthy,” Rhaenyra says.

“She is of no threat to you. She is untrained with the sword, she rides no dragon. And you have her mother, sister, niece, and nephew held captive. She would not endanger us.”

“You have great confidence in her. Your hopes for survival are in her hands.”

“She is spirited, but she is clever, and she loves deeply and enduringly. She will do whatever is required to protect her own.” Now Mother’s voice breaks. “I want her sent away.”

“Mother, no—”

“Far from the war, far from Daemon,” she says, ignoring you.

Rhaenyra is nodding. “Somewhere secluded and peaceful…all the better for her to quickly give Jace an heir. The Riverlands, yes? Perhaps House Footly of Tumbleton.”

“No, not far enough. The Westerlands.”

“The North,” Rhaenyra counters.

“The Stormlands.”

“The Vale,” Rhaenyra says. “There will be no battles there, winter has already begun in the mountains and the roads are treacherous. She will be tucked away in obscurity until the war is won.”

“The Vale,” Mother agrees. She looks down at you and smiles, soft and sad and merciful. At last, after eighteen years, she has saved you.

Jace is whispering furiously to Rhaenyra, but she holds up a hand to stop him. He is exasperated. The supposed queen tells Alicent: “I shall think on this tonight.”

“She needs Maester Orwyle,” Mother says, kneeling beside you. “She is ill, she gets headaches. This place is bad for her. It’s the cold and the dampness. And the fear.”

“I’ll consider that,” Rhaenyra quips, and then she leaves, the hem of her black gown displacing dust on the floor of the aisle. Jace gives you one final glance—seething, appalled—and stalks after her. At the end of the hallway, he slams the heavy wooden door.

“I won’t do it,” you snarl, sick in body and soul. “I won’t, I won’t. I don’t care what you say.”

“We are in a fucking dungeon,” Mother says, grabbing and shaking you, and you’ve never heard her curse before. “Do you want to try to save your brothers’ lives? Or do you want to surrender to the destruction of our house? If you care for Aemond, as I know you do, you will give him a chance if he and Criston cannot win on the battlefield. You will earn Jace’s affection and convince him to spare us.”

You look at her, weak, stunned, at war with yourself. Jace can’t touch me. Only Aemond.

She asks you something; it takes great effort. “You are still…you haven’t…you’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

You hesitate. “In the literal sense.”

“In the…? Never mind, stop, I don’t want to hear any more.” Mother takes a deep breath. “Good. Then we haven’t lied to them. Jace might be able to tell. Sometimes there are…signs. Pain, blood.”

“He’s a bastard,” you hiss.

“He’s Rhaenyra’s son, and so he is a Targaryen and a dragonrider. And if Jace’s side wins, he will one day sit the Iron Throne. He can be proud, but no one says he is cruel. I don’t believe he would harm you. Your brothers are warriors, but you’ve never killed anyone.” Then she goes soft and hushed, and she cups your face with her gentle hands. “I know you’ve always thought you would marry Aemond.”

“Mother, I love him.”

“My darling, my brave girl, what you and Aemond have is…” She shakes her head, her large dark eyes grim and glistening. “It’s strange, and violent, and obsessive and profane and…and…unnatural.”

You are defiant. “If we had grown up in a true Targaryen court, we would have been expected to be this way. We would have married years ago, and no one would have condemned us for acting exactly like what we are. We aren’t First Men or Andals. We are the blood of the dragon.”

“It’s an affliction that brings nothing but sin and suffering.”

“You wed Aegon to Helaena!”

“And it has been a source of tremendous sorrow for them both,” Mother says, and now she is weeping again. “I should have stopped their marriage. But I was young, and I had already refused Rhaenyra’s offer of a match with Jace, and Viserys was so adamant, and I thought…maybe…maybe it’s not an offense to the gods. Maybe it’s just something I don’t understand. It was my husband’s custom, and so I deferred to him, as I had been taught to. But I was wrong. It’s too late for me to undo the pain I’ve caused Aegon and Helaena. It’s too late for me to mend Aemond’s eye or his soul. I can’t spare Daeron from the horrors of war. But I can still save you.”

“I belong with Aemond.” I belong to him.

“You don’t know better. You never had a choice.”

“I’m not you, Mother,” you say. “I’m not a Hightower or a Lannister or a Baratheon. I’m not like them, and I don’t want to be. I want to be Visenya.”

“You’re not going to be anyone if Daemon convinces Rhaenyra to have your head hacked off your shoulders.” Her vast eyes, dark like the mouth of a well, plead for you to understand. This is not a punishment; it is tenderness, it is compassion. “I would do anything to save you and Helaena and your brothers. Anything. You marrying Jace unites the realm. It provides a cornerstone around which to build a peaceful resolution. He will protect your kin. When the battles are past, we can negotiate a divided Westeros, or a line of succession, or exile to Essos or banishment to the Wall, or anything else that will preserve the lives of the people we love. And if Aemond can still win somehow…” She shrugs, and you know whatever affection she once had for Rhaenyra is dead now. “Then he can do whatever he wants with the Blacks who are left.”

I don’t want them to die. Aemond, Aegon, Criston, Daeron, Mother, Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor.

Mother asks: “Will you do it?”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Again, desperately: “Will you do it?”

And you cannot look at her when you answer. “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Maester Orwyle appears an hour later to dose you with enough milk of the poppy to kill the pain in your skull, and when you sleep it is deep and dark and dreamless. Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jace arrive at first light, dreary grey dawn trickling into the dungeon. You know what she has decided. Both Daemon and Jace are scowling, and you think, somehow knowing that it is true: The more they try to dissuade her, the more convinced she is. She feels the need to remind them that she alone was Viserys’ heir, that she is a queen in her own right.

“Just marry him to Rhaena!” Daemon is ranting.

“Rhaena brings nothing to our cause that we do not have already. And she will always feel second to Baela. She knows Jace loved her sister. It is perverse.” Then Rhaenyra collects herself and asks Mother: “She consents?”

“She does.”

Rhaenyra turns to Jace. His reply is toneless. “I will do as you bid me to, Your Grace.”

“She will be in the keeping of House Corbray until the war is over,” Rhaenyra says, nodding to you. “They are an honorable but old and modest house, and of little strategic importance. No one beyond who is absolutely necessary will know where she is, for her own safety and that of the children she bears. Jace will fly her to Heart’s Home.”

House Corbray. You remember their banner, Aemond once taught it to you: three black ravens, three red hearts. You have a memory of being in the library with his lips on your throat, his fingers skating up the inside of your thigh, whispering for you to keep quiet as maesters stock books on the other side of the shelf.

“She cannot ride a dragon,” Mother says.

“Sure she can, if he puts her on Vermax.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Mother insists. “Dragons hate her. She cannot go near them. They will attack her, they will kill her. She and Jace will have to travel by ship.”

Rhaenyra is taken aback by this. Daemon scoffs: “What the fuck kind of Targaryen repels dragons?”

“The kind that will never be able to fly to battle against us,” Rhaenyra mutters, and you think: She is angry with him. He has done something, he has displeased her somehow. And you wonder about the girl who rides Sheepstealer.

Your eyes drift to Jace, you cannot stop them. He stares back from beneath dark curls, his gaze hard like the cold stony earth of the Vale, his fingers tapping on the hilt of his sword.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the very first time.

You are at your vanity, and you are supposed to be getting ready for dinner: choosing your earrings and bracelets, combing out your hair before you braid it, a silver river that shimmers like moonlight in the mirror’s reflection. You have bathed, and steam still clings warm and dewy on your skin. You wear a silk robe the color of ripe cherries and nothing underneath it. Candles flicker, cool evening air breathes in through the windows…and your mind is wandering.

For years, you have felt episodic pangs of longing, an indistinct need, a deep untouchable hunger, and you have never found a way to satisfy it. It waxes like a moon growing full and then wanes into nothingness, but it always reappears again, and tonight you are feeling restless, occasionally shifting on the cushion of your chair, seeking the pressure that gives you a taste—and only a morsel, a nibble, a drag of the tongue—of what fulfillment might feel like. Lately, when you are like this, you find yourself thinking of Aemond. He has never spoken of it directly, but you have noticed the way his eye catches on your chest and your hips, how his hands linger when he grabs or shoves or embraces you. You can’t stop wondering what it would taste like to kiss him. You can’t stop imagining which positions he would fuck you in, remembering the lustful figures on the tapestries that hang from the walls of Aegon’s bedchamber.

Your hand settles in your lap, and there—over the glossy blood-colored silk of your robe—presses down tentatively. You sigh, you writhe, you picture Aemond forcing your thighs apart and gazing transfixed at the rare pieces of you he’s never seen.

How do I satiate this craving, how do I make it go away?

Your bedchamber door opens and Aemond stands in the threshold, black leather and silver hair. “Are you ready yet—?” Then his eye drops to where you snatch your hand out of your lap, not quickly enough to escape him noticing. There is a stretch of silence that seems very long. Then Aemond’s scarred forehead furrows and he asks: “What were you doing?”

You consider lies; they dangle in front of you by the dozen, so many ways to deflect or deny or even to disparage him, those prickly games of wordplay. But when you speak, it is not just the truth. It is an invitation. “Thinking of you.”

And Aemond steps into your bedchamber and shuts the door behind him. He crosses the room, kneels in front of you, reaches beneath your robe to hook his arms under your thighs and yanks you halfway out of the chair. You yelp in exhilarated shock as he buries his face between your legs, and then your fingers knot in his hair, and then you are pushing him closer, shaking, awestruck.

Is he really here? Is this finally happening?

You cannot stay quiet when the pinpoint ecstasy opens, blooms, drags you to places you never knew existed. It is something too powerful to be found in the world of mortals. It is bloodmagic, it is shade of the evening, a poison so sweet you’d let it ruin you.

Afterwards—collapsed and gasping on the stone floor, your robe open and your body laid bare for him, flesh that he has claimed irrevocably, bones he owns like a dragon or a blade—you say: “What was that?”

“You had a climax,” Aemond murmurs. “It’s easier for a man, but they are possible for women too.” He smooths your hair back from your face; it is unbound and wild, spilling all around you. You think vaguely: He wants me even when I don’t look like Visenya? He ghosts his thumb across your lips and then kisses you, and it is nothing but warmth, desire, the shared minerals your blood is built of, undying affinity like the celestial kinship of stars in the same constellation. “You can always ask me to take care of you, and I’ll do it. I’m the only one who is allowed to. No one else, not ever.”

This is no sacrifice. You have never wanted another man, and now you know you never will. “Teach me how to satisfy you,” you say, smiling. “I want to see you helpless too.”

Before you dress and leave your bedchamber, you erase as much of the evidence as you can, washing your skin clean and taming your hair into a tidy braid; but still, Mother frowns worriedly at you and Aemond all through dinner.

#jace x you #jace x reader #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen

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fromtheseventhhell · 2 days ago

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Remember George's outline notes that had "joy of giving" and "mercy at the gate" for Arya? Mercy is crossed out and we obviously have that as her sample chapter, so what if Arya's next alias is "Joy"? Over-thinking the significance of that phrase and how it could apply to the rest of her Braavos arc🤔

#arya stark #asoiaf #something something /joy of giving/ could align with /all men must serve/ and Arya's apprenticeship with the courtesans #Arya learns more about courtly manners and becomes more comfortable with engaging in highborn spaces #while becoming more privy to Braavosi politics and how that connects to her responsibilities/identity as a Stark #when I imagine Arya reclaiming her identity I imagine it coming with her acceptance of even the /hard/ parts of her identity #I think Ned's words about /summer games/ and growing up will be incredibly relevant to her here #her reclaiming her identity while ignoring the /Lady/ aspect of it makes no sense...especially considering how often we're reminded of it #literally every time she reveals her identity it comes with people acknowledging her highborn status #one thing that makes me wish we had on-page Cat/Arya interactions cause I think her twow arc will be heavy on remembering Ned's words 😭#imagine her reuniting with Jeyne before she knows Bran+Rickon are alive and deciding to reclaim her identity at the unmasking festival #I have a pet theory that she could end up /taking responsibility/ for Jeyne's marriage to Ramsay in order to offer some protection to Jeyne #I think it fits considering she has a very protective nature and could feel guilty since she had the opportunity to reveal herself to Roose #basically I want the reclamation of her identity to be incredibly personal and about her feelings + values #which is why I like to imagine it happening before she's aware rickon+bran are alive but after she gets news that Jon is dead #I want her motivation to return home to be primarily about her internal development while outside factors are supporting #/need/ Arya exploring and accepting her identity in her own way #deciding to be Arya while her family is lost to her and that identity is connected to an unwanted marriage would feel so significant #(and yes it was Jeyne that was married to Ramsay but it was Arya's name used and it's still (partially) about/will impact her)#anyways I think about Arya's Braavosi arc a normal about can you tell? 😀#one day I won't put the majority of my post in the tags but today is not that day #I definitely thought too hard about this though that's why I have to hide it lol

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shitposting-fox · 2 days ago

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Personal head cannon: the reason Okarun gets depressed in his yokai form is due to the lingering effects of Turbo-granny and the location-bound spirit. Spoilers for the manga will be under the cut!

This is due to a few things:

1. The backstory of the tunnel, yokai, and spirit

2. "Dandadan" as a word's potential meaning (major manga spoilers at that point!)

First, the spirits. We've already seen with Momo her ability to view the past of a yokai (Arco Silky) and we know Seiko was aware of the ongoing history behind the tunnel both Turbo-granny and the location-bound spirit where in.

With a combination of the curse, it's not a far stretch that the lingering emotions from the deceased may be having a subtle effect on Okarun.

While it's not been very overt, we've seen how the origin of a yokai is important to how they act. Those who are more vengeful will be more likely to attack whereas those who are from grief may try to protect (albeit a violent way).

While Turbo-granny is in the maneki-neko and her powers are in Okarun, there's a chance that the feelings that helped form those powers may have a subconscious effect on him. Hence, the general depression but extreme protectiveness.

Spoilers from the manga below!!

We saw him literally get on all fours like a guard dog, and push his body to the breaking point repeatedly. Going with the assumption the deceased are subconsciously effecting him, it makes more sense why the protectiveness is amped up too.

Many of the girls were probably desperate for someone to save them, anyone, and that urgency could translate into the need to protect the others (especially Momo) as a result.

The second reason I have this theory is because of the potential meaning of "dandadan"!

This one is a lot more flimsy so bear with me here. While I've already wanted for manga spoilers I'm gonna mention again MAJOR SPOILERS for the manga.

Alright so! Dandadan as a word is similar to だんだん or "dandan" which often translates to "gradually".

I don't know very much about Japanese wordplay besides a few from songs (Love Ka, song based on the Japanese word for frilled shark and the English word love), so I could be completely wrong in this guess. But I feel like the word could be an original creation for implying the gradual change of an individual due to surrounding yokai and spirits

Before I get into the Shinto rambling, I'll mention the big point that got me thinking this was the effects after Okarun lost his powers. He still excelled is a lot of sport areas and, while it could be attributed to him working out consistently, there's also a possibility he has some... Influence, let's say, from a certain yokai.

We haven't seen much of him yet after all of this, so it could be very wrong, but the way it was brought up seemed to imply a greater importance than just normal athleticism.

Now for the Shinto rambling!!

To keep it pretty short: the body plays a major role in Shinto. We've seen it with the golden balls (strong life force amped up by a yokai) plus the give and take of various yokai forms (physicality for Okarun, hair treatment for Aira).

Shinto itself has the body on a pretty high importance. Most Asian religions tend to have more focus on the body, weather it be on asceticism (bodily denial) or purity

Dandadan has shown a lot of Shinto aspects already, from the existence of Yokai and Kami to the various interacts people have with the world.

Since the body is important, it's not too far a stretch to assume the continued themes of religion and the body are going to continue through the rest of the series.

While it may not be as overt as Okarun attempting to get the rest of his genitalia back, it's still likely to appear as a major plot point.

Hence, the potential implications of "dandadan"

I could be remembering wrong, but I believe at one point Count Saint Germain even asked someone if they knew the meaning of the word, which implies it may be crucial to his current purpose in the story

We already know there's a large group of aliens who want to steal the yokai and Kami abilities so they can take over Earth and colonize more planets, and many are looking into ways of stealing them.

With the introduction of Kouki and people's powers being able to be stolen from a direct injury, we can reason that the current goal is for the aliens to find a way to get more people's powers to be then transfered to themselves.

If we go under the assumption dandadan is the gradual bleeding over of powers and/or merging of aura to where it allows a human to gain more supernatural powers they wouldn't have otherwise, it makes sense that Count Saint Germain and/or the invading aliens are attempting to find a way to utilize this ability

Of course this could be completely wrong, but it's been rotating in my brain for a while. Wanted to get it out there somewhere lol

#dandadan #fox.txt #long post #okarun #dandadan okarun #ken takakura #dandadan ken #turbo granny #count saint germain #dan da dan

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bluedalahorse · 3 days ago

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I feel like there’s some meaningful stuff here about Sara and August’s relationship, so I wanted to reblog and lift those up here! Sara has traditionally been unfairly slammed by the fandom, even though her actions were meaningfully different from August’s in season 2. And a lot of times saraugust is held up as this ontologically evil foil to wilmon, even though both pairings juxtapose the capacity to be sweet and loving with some pretty intense teenage flaws.

Personally, while I understand why they happen, I’ve always been a little wary of discussions of “is Sara a bad person/is August a bad person.” I understand why this framing works for some fans, but it doesn’t work for me. Mostly because a while back, Omar was talking in an interview, and he talked about Lisa’s writing philosophy being that there aren’t good and bad people in her stories, there are people in her stories who are capable of good and bad actions. Now, authorial intent can only go so far, I get that. But I do think this is a theme that underpins the series. I think they did a great job of showing Sara’s complexity and growth over the season. I do think there were some fumbles to August’s writing in season 3 that led a portion of the audience to believe he never changed, ever, over the course of the series. I think the show would have benefitted from him and Simon having a chance to do restorative work outside of their relationships with Wille. At the same time, I don’t think season 3 was without growth for August. @sflow-er’s post on the Fleabag parallel does a great job of breaking down August’s arc. I’m not saying any of this negates the harm August does—far from it—but I do think the show is inviting us to envision a better future for August where he grows and changes, especially in our fanworks.

And that’s what I want to talk about in this reblog: fanworks. It’s been a long time since people were acknowledging the saraugust nuance in season 2, and ultimately how fascinating the pairing is, but there’s still only 96 fics tagged Sara/August on AO3 and only a few are actually about them.

I think, what I’m sad about most when it comes to Young Royals fandom, is that there is no fanworks community around Sara and August the way there is for wilmon, at least on tumblr. There are individual people who are interested in their dynamic, and some of them create fanworks from time to time, and some of us reach out to one another and have meaningful and wonderful one-on-one conversations in our inboxes. But there’s very few reblog chains about them where people are just expressing fun headcanons, there’s very little circulating fanart, there’s some gifsets and edits but they don’t circulate as frequently, no fandom events or challenges themed around them, no following and cheering on of Malte and Frida’s careers, (to my knowledge) no epic multichapter saraugust fics we discuss together and swoon over and make starry eyes over.

To be clear: I don’t think I’d ever expect saragust to have the same size of following wilmon does. There are many factors that make wilmon more popular, first and foremost being that August does real legitimate harm and is annoying and kind of sucks. Like, hey! I get it! Not everyone is going to like him, and that’s perfectly okay. And then there’s the fact that not everyone who’s drawn to an m/m show is going to feel excited to ship a f/m pairing. As @crownedwille points out, fandoms sure can do some stuff when female characters are involved. Of course saraugust will get smaller numbers.

But as someone who’s been tracking the saraugust breadcrumbs in fandom for a while, and has been following their tag on AO3, what I’m noticing is not exactly a natural absence of interest in the pairing. It’s more like I see a lot of people who have an interest in the characters and the dynamics, but something about the way YR fandom interacts socially reinforces the notion that you keep your saraugust feelings to yourself. Or, for a while if you were expressing those feelings, you were encouraged to express them in ways that are full of apologies and disclaimers. When you’re spending all your time doing that, it becomes a lot harder to create fanworks. Like, even in the tags of this post, I see a lot of people saying they liked them or found them interesting or cute or they’re hooked in by the drama or whatever else! Clearly the enjoyers exist and are out there. I think the discourse (and the harassment of actors/writers/creative team on social media) has died down a lot since the finale and there’s more space to like the characters, but I also think that some of the patterns of fandom interaction that sprung up post-S2 have had a continued impact on how people express themselves.

And yes, it’s important to be mindful of the morally dubious sides of this pairing, but we can do that while creating space for people to openly enjoy it through fic and headcanons and edits and such the way that many people in the fandom openly enjoy wilmon, even if it’s a smaller group of us. (Heck, some people enjoy saraugust because of the moral dubiousness and that is part of a Valid Fandom Tradition of enjoying morally dubious pairings.)

As someone who’s currently feeling a little burned out on wilmon by itself and doesn’t really have a desire to read works centered on them, but who’s still in love with the broader YR world and its characters, especially my two favorite characters—I am desperate for a little bit less saraugust discourse and a little bit more joyous fannishness about them. I’m not entirely sure how to make that happen. I’ve been writing fic, blogging about the characters, creating ask games, posting pictures of the plushies, and also doing some other stuff behind the scenes. But I often don’t post or reblog as much as I could for fear of discourse returning, and I feel disconnected from fandom most of the time, even though I have some strong individual ties to individual people. (I also feel like I may have burned some bridges at times when I was upset.) It’s a bit of a sisyphean conundrum, isn’t it? I wish I could wave a magic wand and make more fanworks and community happen around this pairing in particular, but also around other pairings and characters on the show for the fans who want those other pairings and characters. I just wish there was a little more variety in the characters and pairings talked about.

Anyway, I don’t have any answers and it’s time for me to acquire groceries for the week, so. Blue out.

There's so much discourse around Sara and August. Whether they were good together or not. Whether they loved each other or not.

What we tend to overlook is the fact that they talked to each other. Enough that they knew each other.

He wanted someone to talk to and he thought about her. So he went to find her and he knew to find her in the stables. Then he immediately proved to her that he was someone "safe" by petting her horse. She misunderstood his invitation that evening but he didn't make her feel bad about it. We know she talked to him about the Felice Horse Selling Thing™️ because when she comes to say that Felice was officially selling the horse, he just said "I thought you already knew that" because she had already told him.

Sara talked to August. The same why August talked to Sara. He opened up about the drugs and why he used them. He opened up about being Wilhelm's back up. He opened up about his guilt and about feeling like a horrible person.

She talked to him about her horse and about Felice. Two things that she considers the most important in her life. She also opens up to him about wanting to fit in. Wanting to "be like him" meaning that she wanted to be like the Hillerska crowd.

They talked to each other.

So like, yes, they did horrible things. They are bad people. But they aren’t incapable of caring. And they aren't entirely self centered. That's what makes their individual betrayals even more heartbreaking. Because we know they're capable of caring and they made the choices they did anyway.

#young royals #saraugust #sara eriksson #august horn of årnäs

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sunasilhouette · 1 day ago

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「your intentions」 - s.rintarou x f!reader

✧summary:

what happens when a notorious manwhore, stoner, and player, encounters someone who doesn't seem all too interested. or: you piss suna off so much that he wants you

✧wc: 5.2k

✧au: college!au, freshman!suna, freshman!reader, miya twins side characters

✧ tags + warnings under the cut

♪♬ intentions - starfall

✧warnings: explicit smut, minors dni, bratty!reader, experienced!reader, sadist!suna, dom!suna, fuckboy!suna, stoner!suna, sexual tension, alcohol consumption, fwb, suna is an asshole with standards,

✧tags: fingering (f.), oral (m.f.), teasing, degradation, pet name (kitten/ princess), unprotected sex, rough, edging, mirror sex, dubcon, creampie, face-fucking, cum swallowing

frat parties themselves were frustrating—loud, crowded, sweaty. but on the bright side, they always accompanied themselves with free booze and weed. a lot of the guys here played for various sports teams on campus, most of them on the volleyball team.

one in particular, suna rintarou. the guy you so happened to sit next to in the blunt rotation and the very guy your friend warned you about yet also praised. rumour has it suna rintarou only calls up girls when he's high but he was an insane fuck. you didn't take much notice until it was your turn in the rotation. with a tap on your shoulder, you turned to the tall, foxy-featured volleyball player.

“hey. you want some or not?" rintarou suna said lazily, expression blank. his sharp, foxy features complement the entire vibe he was exuding. plus, you were surprised that you could smell a sexy, earthy cologne on him and not just the weed.

you turned around, meeting his eyes with a similar blank expression, not really vibing with his tone. you might have had a resting bitch face... but, you didn’t say anything as you took the offered blunt, taking a big puff and blowing it at his face, saying, “thanks," clipped with a fake smile and then turned back to your friend, dismissing the surprise on her face.

what you didn't notice was how suna raised an eyebrow, slightly taken aback by your boldness yet intrigued. as you blew smoke in his face, he had taken a slow, deliberate breath, his eyes never leaving yours. even when you turned away, he kept his gaze drifting lazily over your body in a way that was both assessing and appreciative.

leaning back casually against the couch, he pulled out his phone but continued to sneak glances at her from the corner of his eye. a slow, sly smile spread across his lips.

meanwhile, your friend yui was erratically sputtering about your passive-aggressive interaction with the known ‘manwhore’. honestly, you didn’t get the big deal and continued sipping at your drink and making conversation with the other sports guys, purposely ignoring suna.

sure, you'd be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive but he was surprisingly not the kind of guy you usually go for. suna’s and your mutual friend osamu was more up your alley since you shared an elective with him and he seemed way more of a green flag than a notorious womaniser.

yui was in the middle of not-so-quietly warning you about him, no doubt painting him as some kind of villain suna thought. with that, you felt as though a certain someone was staring a hole into the back of your head causing you to shift your gaze briefly—mr hotshot himself already looking with that same lazy, blank yet sharp expression of his. he quirked the side of his lip. you rolled your eyes at him, something suna definitely wanted to see again.

you were alerted to a ringing and a name that pissed you off reading. “shit… sorry, I gotta take this call.” you told yui, putting your drink down and leaving the group, trying to find your way through the crowded living room and up the stairs into a hopefully unoccupied room.

you waltzed upstairs and managed to find an empty room where people weren't fucking in to take the phone call. it wasn't a very fun one.

"christ, anzai, I told you not to call me again. do I really have to block you?" the conversation was pointless and getting on your nerves. you sat down on the bed, rubbing your temples out of frustration. sighing and about to cuss out your ex-fwb over the phone, the door opened, letting a bit of light into the dark room.

suna rintarou. your eyes grew at the coincidence but you needed to end the phone call. suna was just quiet, watching you with that blank expression and stare of his.

"you're blocked. don't call me."

the invader leaned casually against the doorframe, watching you with keen interest as you hung up. you sighed as you rubbed your temples which probably struck a chord in him—you're sure he knew this feeling all too well. the room fell silent except for the muffled noise and shit music from downstairs. wordlessly, he pushed off the doorframe and moved further into the room, closing the door softly behind him. suna came to sit beside you on the bed, close but not quite touching. reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a joint and lighter.

"trouble in paradise?" he asked quietly, sparking the lighter. his tone was devoid of its usual sarcasm, surprisingly gentle. he took a long hit before offering it to you, exhaling smoke slowly through barely parted lips. his eyes, usually sharp and mocking, had softened as he regarded you in the shadows. for now, the game was on hold - it seemed he was simply offering a moment of quiet understanding.

this was the infamous manwhore on campus people were dying to get in bed with? you glanced at the joint that he offered. you didn’t take it, saying, "can't a girl get a little bit of privacy? I prefer escaping the party alone, actually."

"this is my room, actually," he replied calmly, taking another drag from the joint.

“shit- sorry.” you started, about to stand up and leave but he didn’t seem bothered or react as if he was so... you slowly sat back down.

suna exhaled slowly and shrugged. "don't worry, I'm not going to try anything. just thought you could use someone to vent to, if you want." his tone was casual, non-threatening. holding the joint out to you again, he added, "or... we could just get high and forget about our problems for a while."

his expression gave nothing away as usual, but his eyes were open and attentive, implicitly letting you know he was genuinely offering an ear. the ball was in your court now - you could take the outstretched joint as a peace offering and relax in comfortable silence, or tell him to fuck off.

“well, guess I'll take you up on that,” you said in reply, the faintest hint of a smile on your glossy lips.

a ghost of a smirk tugged at suna's lips as you accepted said peace offering, brushing against his fingers slightly (intentionally or not), clearly pleased with himself. he leaned back on one arm, mirroring you, close but not quite touching and watched the end of the joint glow orange as you took a hit.

"so, what's with the aggressive call?" he asked casually, your brief contact sent a subtle spark through him, though his expression remained as bored as ever. "ex giving you trouble?"

he took another long drag, holding the smoke for a moment before releasing it. his hooded gaze remained fixed on you, waiting patiently. there was a comfortable silence as the weed started to take effect, blurring the edges of discomfort.

during the brief silence, you took him in, only now realising how long his legs were and how huge he actually was without that oversized jacket- arms, hands, fingers; everything.

averting your eyes, you instead noticed a few things about his bedroom. one - a massive wall-to-ceiling mirror on his built-in wardrobe and a volleyball as well as some trophies on display on the shelves. some of his clothes were thrown about, as you would expect in a first-year guy's room. not to mention his impressive PC set-up.

suna had followed your gaze around the room, catching the subtle once-overs of his physique and belongings.

you finally indulged him by replying to his question, “not that big of a deal. just an asshole that begged to tap again despite being a one-minute wonder," you smirked through the confession - subtlety not being one of your strongest suits.

"really? wouldn't know what that's like." you could practically hear the smirk in his voice too, confidence oozing through.

you rolled your eyes at his comment, "though, seems like you're the same in that you don't know how to take the hint. heard all about you." you continued before you could really think over what you had just implied.

he hid a smirk by taking another drag.

"hmm, really?" he replied lazily, "and what exactly have you heard?"

of course, suna knew the rumours that circulated about him - manwhore, player, only calls girls when he's high and or drunk. but he was curious what impression you in particular had gotten. his hooded gaze watched your expression closely.

the joint was starting to take effect now, softening the edges of his usual sharp demeanour. a pleasant buzz hummed through your veins.

letting out a soft chuckle, closing your eyes and replying with shrug, "you only call girls when you're high or drunk. and… you're an 'insane fuck'. a friend's words - not mine."

as you spoke, suna reached his arm past you, leaning over your thighs to stub out his joint on an ashtray atop the bedside table. your eyes grew wide at the sudden proximity.

"hmm, your friend isn't entirely wrong," suna hummed, his breath ghosting over your ear. he took his sweet time stubbing out the joint, not missing and clearly enjoying the subtle tension of your body.

when he sat back, he turned his head to meet your eyes, mere inches away. his gaze, usually sharp and mocking, had softened into something molten under the haze.

"but, what do you think?" he asked quietly, a hint of challenge in his tone. one of his long fingers came up to brush a lock of hair from your cheek, lingering there for a moment as his eyes dropped to your lips. the game was still afoot, but the rules had changed - this was no longer just casual banter.

this was an invitation.

and, your own gaze failed you too. for a split second, your eyes flicked down to his lips and then back up to his greyish-yellow eyes. you decide not to swat his hand away.

“well, shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, and so on...” you whispered low and sultry, “as for ‘insane fuck’… let’s just say I don’t have the experience to give my own opinion.”

"wise words," his thumb tracing soft circles on her cheek. your admission both surprised and intrigued him. he liked the way you talked.

leaning in slowly, giving you ample time to pull away, he brushed his lips against the shell of your ear once more. "what do you say we change that?" he breathed, letting the question hang tantalizingly in the air.

his free hand came up to tangle gently in your hair, tilting you enough to expose the long, column of your neck. suna pressed a lingering kiss there, feeling that pulse quicken under his lips and forced a breathy sigh out of you, the pressure feeling so good.

"or d'you wanna continue our little game of cat and mouse?" he whispered, hot breath ghosting over sensitive skin. his eyes, when they meet yours again, gleam with promise and challenge.

"that depends,” you whispered out, “who’s the cat and who’s the mouse?” contrary to conflicting words, your own hands moved to slide up his shirt—to the back of his neck, fingers tangling into his brown locks. hands on his bare skin sent sparks through his veins, sharpening his focus.

"good question," suna murmured just above your lips, eyes half-lidded with intent.

in one smooth motion, he pushed you down, caging you against the plush mattress. his knee parted your thighs, making that tight mini skirt ride up just enough, pressing against your core, eliciting a gasp.

"for now, I think it's safe to say the mouse has been caught. but, I have a feeling you're more kitten than mouse," he gazed down at you with hooded eyes, taking in your flushed cheeks and sweet curves. "so you gonna let me kiss you, or...?

that shit-eating grin on his face made the idea of denying him so much more tempting. alas, suna rintarou was stupidly good with his words. but, so were you.

"I'll let you do more if you hurry up."

you could hear suna curse under his breath right before capturing your lips in a searing kiss. he rolled his hips against yours, grinding his hard length through the thin layers of fabric. a low groan rumbled in his throat at the exquisite friction.

breaking the kiss, he trailed his mouth down your jaw and neck, nipping and sucking marks into the tender skin. “so you’re the impatient type, huh?” he teased, hands making quick work of that skirt. "alright, I’ll give you what you want.”

not a second later and you’re stripped bare. he’s settled between your thighs. no more teasing—he delved right in, lapping eagerly at those dripping folds. his reputation precedes him, ministrations focused and skilled, clearly well-practised in the art of reducing his flings to a quivering mess.

you didn’t know what to expect but suna going full-throttle was definitely not on the list. either suna really was a god with his hands and tongue or the weed in your system was making you feel pleasure tenfold. you hoped it was just the latter.

you couldn’t even stop to think about trying to avoid the mounting orgasm. suna didn’t help with the way his tongue perfectly circled your clit. or how his fingers curled and prodded that sweet spot in your tight, soaking wet cunt.

it wasn’t your fault how your thighs quivered and threatened to close around him—but suna kept you spread, happily lapping up the slick and wetness from your cum.

you cursed and could feel his fucking grin, taking his time kissing and nipping down your inner thighs. only when you stilled did he crawl back up your body, grabbing at the flesh of your curves.

his lips and chin glistened with your essence, kissing you once more and letting you get a taste of yourself on his hot tongue.

suna nipped at your swollen lips, erection straining painfully against his jeans. “your turn,” he said, taking your hand and guiding it to the tent in his pants.

your brows frowned and smirked somewhat irritably. that nonchalant, confident arrogance of his really did a good job at pissing you off (and turning you on). two could play at that game.

recovered from that mind-blowing orgasm, you pushed against his chest, making him sit up and lean on one arm. “you really are full of yourself, aren’t you?”

you claimed his lips once more, undoing the belt and unzipping his pants with practised ease as he helped by kicking them off.

his grunt out of surprise was delightful to hear as you gripped him by the base, cock twitching eagerly in your grasp.

“guilty as charged,” he breathed when you parted, watching with that lazy grin and hooded eyes. “but you seem to be holding your own just fine,” he reached down to stroke your cheek. suna’s expression softening from his usual mocking edge into something almost tender. almost.

now that you were quite literally face-to-face with his cock, you couldn’t think anything else other than, ‘fuck, he’s big’. stupid volleyball players and their stupid big hands, big build and big dick apparently.

“you’re not the only one who’s been around,” you confessed, teasing the tip, flicking salty pre all around, all while looking at him doe-eyed through your lashes.

suna sucked in a sharp breath, hips twitching slightly from the teasing touches. “mm, I’m learning that,” he replied, voice roughening with barely restrained desire. what he would give to shove his cock down that diabolical mouth of yours. the mental image of your full, pouty lips stretched wide around him might have been enough to send him over the edge on its own.

his fingers tangle into your hair, not pushing but definitely encouraging, giving it a light tug. you took that as the go signal, licking up a stripe from the base of his cock. your spare hand, already coated with the juices from your cunt came up to pump once and then twice.

and, just as you finished licking up that stripe, you closed your mouth around the tip, bobbing your head and experimentally hollowing out your cheeks.

the throaty groan suna let out was more than satisfactory, head falling back as you sucked harder. “fuck, just like that…” he growled encouragingly, hips wanting to jerk up into that perfect mouth but he held back, letting you set the pace.

furrowing your brows at him, you swallowed him deeper until the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat, moaning, sending waves through his cock. he was in so deep. you could feel it twitch inside your throat and taste what was uniquely suna rintarou.

"f-fuck," he stammered, hips bucking up helplessly at the sensation of your throat fluttering around the head of his cock. oh, you were taking him so well, like you were made for swallowing his length. "so fucking good," he praised roughly, stroking your cheek. his release was coiling hot and tight already.

just before sending him over the edge, what could a little more teasing do? with a lick of your lips, you gazed up at him from below and with a smirk saying, “you holdin’ back or somethin’? I’m not a stranger to being face fucked," and licked another swipe down his cock.

suna scoffed. his eyes flashed dangerously.

in a flash he flipped you backwards, pinning your wrists above your head with one large hand. his cock jutted heavy and eager between you, glistening with his pre and your saliva.

"you asked for it, kitten," he warned, a wicked gleam in his eyes. without further preamble, he plunged back into your mouth, setting a punishing pace as he fucked that perfect throat.

suna's hips snapped forward relentlessly as he took what he wanted. one hand tangled roughly in your hair to hold you in place for his merciless punishment.

"such a naughty little slut, begging to be face fucked," he growled, feeling his release coiling tighter with each slick thrust. "swallow it all when I come, got that?"

his groans and grunts were honestly music to your ears. a few more hard thrusts and he was spilling down your throat with a guttural groan, pounding into your mouth through the entirety of his climax.

you weren't immune to having tears well up in your eyes as white hot cum spurted down your throat, closing your eyes to focus on the feeling and to not choke around him.

when suna ‘generously’ (not) pulled out of your mouth, you puffed your cheeks and swallowed hard, turning to cough. you faced suna after, licking your lips and swallowing all while looking at him dead in the eye almost defiantly, “people usually stop fucking moving when they blow,” you complained, voice slightly hoarse but that just made suna even more prideful.

he just chuckled at your complaint—that same evil laugh accompanying that shit-eating smirk. "dunno who you're tryna convince since..." he shifted, fingers tracing your hips and tapped your sopping wet cunt, wetness practically dripping down your thighs. "you're ruining my sheets."

you detested that suna rintarou face-fucking you made you wet to the point where you dripped all over his bed. it was now clear to him exactly how he should continue treating you.

rolling smoothly atop you, he caged you in with strong arms and settled between welcoming thighs. "I’ll clean that up for you," he purred, dipping his head to sample the sweet flavour lingering on his tongue.

suna let his fingers do most of the work stretching you out, making you mewl, moan, and arch your back. “s'that what you say to all the girls you fuck?”

suna chuckled darkly against her slick flesh, tongue delving deeper in response. "not always," he replied, lips and chin glistening when he pulled back to meet your eyes. two fingers scissored inside you, curling to stroke that sweet spot, while his thumb circled your aching clit in lazy eights.

"now quit your yapping and enjoy the ride." he resumed his oral devotion with renewed vigour, determined to reduce you to a quivering mess once more before claiming you fully. only when you were sobbing his name and gripping the sheets in abandon would he deem you ready for his cock.

fuck— his fingers really were magic. you were questioning why he was so adamant on stretching you out. though, after taking his cock in your mouth, you were actually wondering how it’d fucking fit inside. you were so, so close to coming for the second time that night. but, you oh-so badly wanted to cum on his cock. you’d rather die than admit it though, stubbornly biting your lip, muffling cries so as to not give him satisfaction.

suna hummed, smirking around the mouthful of flesh his lips and tongue were lavishing. he could feel your inner walls fluttering, body coiled as tight as a bowstring on the edge of release.

pulling back with an obscene pop, he withdrew his fingers to your disappointed mewl. "tsk, so impatient," he chided, nipping at your inner thighs. "don't you want the real thing?" he purred, rubbing the thick head of his cock through your slick folds in slow, teasing circles. he was fully hard again, ready to plunge deep.

"beg for it like a good girl and I'll consider it," he challenged, grey-golden eyes glittering with mischief. his thumb returned to rub tight, fast circles around your clit, keeping you right on the razor's edge.

your brows furrowed, eyes closing tight in hopes to stop yourself from coming. you swallowed hard and managed a smirk despite your hazed eyes, closing your legs around his torso, pulling him in, playfully nipping at his bottom lip. "not until you ask me for my name, asshole."

suna growled low in his throat. little minx was going to be the death of him. his cockhead nudged insistently at your entrance, aching to breach that tight heat.

his voice was low and smooth, lacking its usual teasing edge. for once, his full attention was focused solely on you, "alright then, kitten. what's your name?" you waited on his question, and then you'd give your answer, along with the fucking of a lifetime.

whispering your name into his ear, you continued, "but, you can call me your slut if you let me cum on your cock this time. and, if you’re good I might even let you have my number."

the way your voice stayed low and sultry almost lulled him into some sort of spell. it didn't help suna's patience when your legs tightened around his waist, making his cock kiss the entrance of your cunt.

suna's eyes darkened at the sinful proposition, cock twitching eagerly. oh, he was going to make you beg for release before the night was through.

he purred your name, tasting it on his tongue as he rolled his hips, "such a pretty name for a dirty slut." he chuckled, nipping your lobe.

in one swift thrust, he finally sank home, burying to the hilt in one smooth stroke. your velvety heat clenched so tight around him. it was exquisite torture. the moan you both shared together was downright diabolical and the proceeding muffled cries that you let out in your mess of a kiss felt delicious on suna’s tongue.

bracing himself on muscular arms, he set a punishing pace, hips snapping forward to grind against your clit on every pass. "you'll probably be begging for mine once I'm done," he mumbled against your lips, grey eyes alight with primal hunger.

with the way your pussy clenched down on him, the way your nails dug into his shoulders and the way you moaned his name: how could he not feel like he was running on pure ecstasy.

suna gripped your hips and flipped you over, leaning over your arched body. he nipped the shell of your ear with a smirk. his free hand gripped your chin, pulling your head up, making you look up at that full-length mirror on his wardrobe, "remind me how you want it, again?"

you wanted to curse him out so bad with how badly your walls fluttered achingly around nothing. biting your lips, you let out a shaky sigh as your cheeks flushed an even deeper red. finding the strength to lift a hand to turn his head and whisper devilishly into his ear, "rough."

with a breathy chuckle, he replied, "sure thing, princess." without further warning, he gripped your hips once more and slammed back in. you cried out, whether in pain or pleasure or a sick mixture of both, you neither knew nor cared. all that mattered was the feeling of suna wrecking your insides.

suna's hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to look at the debaucherous reflection in the mirror. the muted sounds of the frat party downstairs faded, replaced with the noises of sex and slapping skin.

your skin flushed pink and red from the marks he left on your body. looking up for a brief second, you met his blown-out pupils in the mirror, managing to get out, "a little fucked in the head, aren’t you-"

suna's lips curled into a feral smirk at your words, meeting your gaze unflinchingly in the mirror. "takes one to know one, princess," he growled, angling his hips to drive even deeper. his thrusts were relentless, pounding into you so hard the force shifted you forward.

leaning over you and reaching around, he splayed his large hand over your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock. "feel that?"

of course you fucking felt it—he was practically splitting you open. and you'd hate to admit it but you felt high and it was definitely not the weed.

he caught your mouth in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue. his eyes bored into yours in the mirror, a feral challenge gleaming in their depths.

you couldn’t stay up. you lowered your head, body high on firey pleasure as suna pounded a second orgasm into you. you cursed and sputtered out, "f-fuck...! I'm gonna..."

his own face twisted in ecstasy. fuck, he needed to fill you up. your cries raised an octave and walls began to spasm around him, making him groan deeply into the crook of your neck. as much of an asshole he was, he found a slither of control inside him to care enough to ask.

he cursed, his control hanging by a thread, "you on anything?"

his cock pistoned in and out of your walls, hitting that spongy sweet spot every single time. the slap of skin filled the room along with your mingled moans. suna's orgasm was coiling tight, ready to explode.

somehow summoning the last shreds of willpower, he panted against your skin, "hurry, tell me before I lose it…" the decision was yours, but he wasn't sure he could stop even if you said to. not when you felt this fucking good.

part of him wanted nothing more than to spill deep inside, and claim you as only his. a few more erratic thrusts were all he could manage, hanging on the razor's edge for your reply before the dam broke.

“f-fuck... just— fill me up…!” you couldn’t even think straight as you peaked. your back arched like a pretty moon with a death grip on the sheets, trying to at least hold on to a bit of your sanity.

a guttural groan tore from suna's throat at your permission, the last of his restraint shattering. he slammed home one final time, spilling hot white cum deep inside your clenching walls with a full-body shudder.

wave after wave of pleasure crashed over him as he pulsed into you, your climax dragging his out for an agonizing eternity. your velvety heat milked him for all he was worth, and he swore he saw stars behind his lids.

coming back to himself, he collapsed heavily over you, panting for breath. suna buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your intoxicating scent as you both floated down together.

"fuck…" was all he could manage in a gravelly rasp, still nestled inside.

the previously faded noise of the party had now become slightly audible and matched with the beating of your heartbeats and panting breaths. holy fuck. suna rintarou really was an insane fuck.

pulling out slowly, he watched his seed leak from your abused cunt with a satisfied smirk. rollling onto his side, he tugged your limp, well-fucked body towards him, tucking you under his arm.

was he still high? cus the way he was looking at you was kinda dangerous… you didn’t say anything else and pressed your lips against his again, wanting to forget about everything else and enjoy the ‘insane fuck’ that was suna rintarou.

suna readily returned your kiss, losing himself in the feel of your pretty soft lips. for once, his mind had gone blissfully blank - all he knew was the girl in his arms and the taste of you on his tongue.

reluctantly breaking the kiss, he pressed his forehead to yours, noses brushing almost intimately as you both caught your breaths. his fingers traced idle patterns along your flushed skin, committing every curve and plane to memory.

his eyes cracked open to meet your gaze, and for a heartbeat, something almost tender flickered in his usual sardonic depths. "stay the night?" he murmured, voice uncharacteristically soft. fingers tracing the bow of your lips, he awaited your answer.

“what, can’t get enough of the girl that accidentally walked into your room?” you teased, biting the finger that traced your lips.

suna huffed out a soft laugh at your retort. he replied, "can you blame me? think I hit the jackpot with you." his fingers combed idly through your tousled locks, gaze roaming your well-fucked form with unabashed hunger and appreciation.

"besides," he purred, nosing along your jawline to nip at the spot below your ear that made her gasp, "you still need to answer my question."

his voice had dropped to a low, gravelly rasp that went straight to your core. he smirked against your flushed skin. "do I live up to my reputation as an 'insane fuck'?"

yes, you answered mentally—but you weren't about to feed his ego even more.

trailing his fingers down your spine, he purred, "and I believe someone promised me her number? for being 'good' and filling her up.”

despite the way you shivered at his touch once more, you huffed and pushed against his chest. “your volleyball friends not gonna miss you?” you said sarcastically, rolling your eyes at him.

"probably too busy getting shitfaced to notice I'm gone," he replied with a lazy shrug. "I'd much rather stay right here and wreck you a few more times before calling it a night." his hand slid down your stomach to tease that oversensitive clit, smirking at your involuntary gasp.

“you’re impossible.”

unfortunately for you, you did surrender your number to suna in the end. and, you even stayed the night, surprising a few of suna’s house mates from the sight of the smoking hot girl he managed to somehow get into his bed. you paid them no mind as you left his place. well- apart from giving your classmate, osamu miya, an awkward greeting before leaving.

it wasn’t long before you and suna would meet again, and again, and again…

#suna rintarou #suna rintarou smut #suna rintarou x reader #suna rintarou x reader smut #suna x reader #suna x reader smut #suna smut #haikyuu smut #hq!! smut #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x reader smut #potentially doing more with this au #what happens when suna begins to fall in love with his favourite fwb?#honestly he's probably already started falling #follow for next instalment o/

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theealbatross · 2 days ago

Text

Headcannon: Sebastian takes care of people

Tags: fluff, kinda low self esteem, kinda unhealthy codependency, short read had to get it out of my head

He takes care of strangers

Like silly little first years lost in the moving stairs, albeit with a frown and a sharp lecture about the dangers of walking around the castle and being too prideful to carry a map when they could barely locate their dorm rooms, firmly putting a quick end to older students' teasing when their jokes cross a line, and even ending up as the reluctant volunteer tutor (live training dummy) for Defense Against the Dark Arts after Professor Hecat assigned him the role to complete his detention.

This, in turn, makes him surprisingly popular with the kids to his bewilderment as they gravitate toward their grumpy but reliable senior.

"Have a good day, Sebastian!"

Both of you frown in confusion at the gaggle of cheerful first-year Hufflepuffs who eagerly greet him as you pass the halls. One even waved at him before they turned into a corner.

"What was that?"

He shrugs. "Hell if I know."

He takes care of his friends

"Amitt! Watch out!"

The Ravenclaw could barely turn to the familiar booming voice before he was shoved to the ground.

"Hey! You aren't allowed in the field!"

"Are you alright, Amitt?" He realizes the concerned voice of his friend, Sebastian, brought him out of his stupor. And in his hand is the bludger that nearly had an intimate interaction with the back of his head.

"Oh! Sebastian! Many thanks! I didn't know Slytherin practices ran this late. I was on my way to the top of the bleachers -- the best views of the summer night sky, I tell you."

"Thakkar, you don't have permission to be here!"

Sebastian rolls his eyes, feeling Amitt's anxiety rising as Slytherin quidditch players land one after another, looming over him. "Back off, all of you. He nearly got hurt. I'll handle it."

"But --"

"My apologies everyone! I truly meant no harm --"

"The captain's right, Sallow. Who knows if those Ravenclaws are using this nerd over here to spy on us --"

"I said back off, Thorncrest," Sebastian turned his back on Amitt to face all of his teammates, daring any of them to take another step. "The next time you ignore my orders, I'll stop using words since they can't seem to penetrate through your skull. So you either learn to play nice or I won't let it pass that it was because of your subpar performance that a bludger almost hit my friend."

Sebastian and the other Slytherin student glared at each other until Imelda smacked Thorncrest's head, cutting through the tension. "Listen to your Vice-Captain," he turns to Sebastian with a nod. "I'll take care of him, you get Thakkar out of here."

Sebastian nodded back at Imelda, ensuring everyone was back in the skies before turning to a guilty-looking Amitt.

"I'm sorry, Sebastian. I did not think I would cause such a disturbance."

Sebastian just waved him off with a friendly chuckle and a comforting hand on his shoulder. Amitt can't believe his fellow Ravenclaws don't believe him when he tells them Sebastian is a warm person, laughing to his face was just quite rude. To be fair, they could barely believe they were friends at all. "Don't worry about it, athletes are assholes during Quidditch season."

He looked sheepish, "Can I still go up the bleachers?"

Despite his subdued character, Sebastian can see that Amitt has all the determination in the world when it comes to achieving the things that interest him the most. Maybe that's why he liked the Ravenclaw boy so much. "Yeah, go ahead, Amitt. Just don't let any prefect see you."

"Ah! Thank you, my friend! I shall be as quiet as a mouse!"

Sebastian waved as Amitt haphazardly said his goodbyes.

"If anybody bothers you tell them to talk to me!"

He takes care of Ominis

Despite his great interest in the dark arts and his pure-blooded status, Sebastian will take any and every opportunity to fight Ominis' family. He hates them simply because they hurt his friend, which is unforgivable in his eyes. He had every opportunity to get in their good graces but he blew all of that to pieces when he got in a crude fight with the eldest son of the Gaunts the moment he called Ominis a 'useless cripple'.

From then on, Sebastian has been banned from the Gaunt's estate indefinitely.

"Yeah, they better fucking ban me or I'll burn that haunted house to the ground and lock that prick inside of it."

Despite himself and his pacifistic tendencies, Ominis couldn't but scoff out a laugh while Sebastian nursed a bloody lip, glaring at the gates of the manor as it closed on them. "You didn't need to do that."

"I don't think I did enough," he sneers, blood boiling at the fact that Ominis seemed used to their cruel words. Not wanting to fester on their cruel treatment, he throws his hands across Ominis' shoulders. "Who the hell wants to spend Christmas there anyway? Feldcroft is way more cozy."

Ominis smiled, patting Sebastian's back, the closest 'thank you' he could show now that he knew he had found a true friend. "You're right," He thinks of Anne, Solomon's bland stew, and the blinking lights of the Sallow home.

"Are you alright?" And Sebastian -- kind, true, painfully loyal. His first friend.

Ominis nods.

"Let's go home."

He takes care of his family.

Even though Anne no longer communicates with him after 'the incident' Sebastian still religiously sends letters to Beauxbatons Academy along with whatever trinkets he finds that remind him of her. And even though he detested Solomon and barely felt bad about his death, he still made a point to clean his grave, knowing the old man didn't like it when things were messy, and even emptied his favorite whiskey on his birthday.

"Seb?"

He blinks as you slip your hands into his. He squeezes it, letting the heat on your skin ground him as the two of you stare at the gravestone. Just as remorseful guilt creeps into your heart, he cuts it off. "I don't regret it, you know," he mutters firmly. "He almost ... he was hurting Anne. He was going to hurt you."

You nod, leaning your forehead on his shoulders, trying to comfort him through his quiet struggles knowing words or pieces of advice won't help.

"But I know he did his best. It wasn't enough but it was his best," he empties the other half of the whiskey on the grave, and his grip on you tightens. "I owe him this much."

He takes care of you.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Sebastian flinches awake at the recent memory, his breath shaky as he looks around the dim light of the Room of Requirement.

He did what he had to do, he knows this. Solomon has been eaten up by his own anger, if he didn't stop him ... Merlin knows what would've happened.

If the three of you had gotten out of that fight alive, with your participation in his insipid plans, it wasn't unlikely that Solomon would ship you off to Azkaban with him. That can't happen, he dragged you into that hellhole, he had to get you out of there unscathed.

No matter how high the cost.

"S-Sebastian?"

He sits up from the couch, surprised to see you awake on the open door that leads to your personalized bedroom. The two of you had holed up in your safe haven after the events of the night but it would seem rest evaded the two of you.

"I can't ..." you sigh shakily, biting your lips. "I can't sleep. I'm scared."

As if your fear had overpowered his own, he swiftly set aside the last traces of his fear and guilt, extending his hands, which you eagerly took. Sebastian pulls you in his lap, preceding any thought of impropriety as he curls himself around you, letting you bury your face in the crook of his neck while he covers the two of you in your blanket.

"It's all going to be all right," he promises, pressing his lips on the crown of your hair. "I won't let anything happen to you."

And takes care of you.

"Hey, Sebastian is waiting for you in the common room."

"Sallow said he'll pick you up after class."

"She's not coming, Sebastian's got her."

"Your hound is here."

You turned with a frown from Imelda to what she was staring at with a mischievous grin and by the door stood Sebastian, smiling when your eyes met.

"I --"

"-- have to go," Imelda playfully rolled her eyes. You gave her a smile as you gathered your books.

"Same time next week?"

"Maybe let's hide somewhere your hound can't sniff you up?"

"Get your own witch, Reyes," a deep voice from behind proved her point. Sebastian grabbed your book and satchel from your hands, hooking it on one arm, and the other gently offered his free hand to yours. "This one's mine."

And wants to take care of you forever.

"You should marry me."

Your next step faltered as you turned to Sebastian on the shore of the Black Lake, the setting sun illuminating his face and the vulnerability and determination written across it.

"W-What?"

"I've thought about it," he swallows, walking closer until he is right in front of you, the cold shallow water above your ankles a welcome reprieve from your burning body at such an announcement. "I've thought about letting you go, letting you find someone better than me. "

"Sebastian --"

"But I figured that I'm a selfish man. I always have been. And I want you more than anything else," you shudder at his fervor. "I love you more than anything else in this world."

Gently, as he always does, he took your hand, placing it on his warm cheek. "I can't offer much, I know, but I ... I will make you the sun my world will revolve on."

He presses a kiss at your palm, a warm tear falls from your eyes.

"Marry me," he begs. "Let me be the one to make you happy."

#sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x mc #hogwarts legacy sebastian #sebastian sallow headcannons #sebastian sallow fanfiction

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