#<- tentative names for the characters on the left hand side | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wispitty · 2 months ago

Text

(short reacts) | "he confronts you after a spicy dream" + one piece men

summary: you left on a mission for a few days. but you haunted his dreams each and every night. moaning his name, begging for him. now you're back. and he can't take it anymore.

characters: crocodile, mihawk, marco, ace, shanks, law, corazon

CROCODILE

The office is dark when you step in.

The only light? The glow of a cigar. And a man in a chair, surrounded by smoke and silence—eyes locked on you.

“You’re late.”

You blink.

“What? I came as soon as I got ba—”

“Not tonight.”

His voice is low. Rough.

“Two nights ago.”

He stands.

You barely get out a breath before he’s in front of you.

Back hits the door. His real hand catches your chin. Tilts your face up.

You inhale.

His scent is overwhelming—smoke, spice, and something darker.

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me?” he murmurs.

You shiver.

“I—”

“You think I didn’t feel you in those dreams you left me?”

His lips brush your jaw. Not a kiss. A threat.

“You said my name like it was the only word you knew.”

His hook rests cold at your hip, grounding you as his hand slides down your side.

“Begged me to touch you. Open you.”

“I—I don’t remember—”

“Then let me remind you.”

He kisses you.

Not soft. Not tentative.

Devouring.

You gasp. He groans—like he’s been starving and just tasted salvation.

“You haunted me.”

“Crocodile—”

“Say it like that again and I’ll bend you over this desk until there’s nothing left.”

You whimper.

“That’s the sound.”

He nips your collarbone. Hard enough to mark.

His hand drags down. Under your shirt. Fingers grazing your skin, slow and possessive.

“You sure you don’t remember the dreams?” he whispers, lips brushing yours.

You shake your head. Barely.

“Then maybe I should show you everything you begged me for.”

And this time?

He doesn’t stop.

MIHAWK

You return late, without a word. Just how you left.

Boots click softly through the marble halls of the castle-like manor. The candles are dim. The place is quiet.

You round a corner.

He’s there.

Leaning against the wall. Cloak heavy around his shoulders. Eyes gleaming under low light. Watching you like he knew the exact moment you stepped foot on the property.

You blink.

“...Mihawk?”

He says nothing.

Pushes off the wall.

Walks toward you—purposeful. Silent.

Something in your chest tightens.

You take a step back—

He’s faster.

His hand slams the wall beside your head. You flinch—your spine hits stone.

He leans in. So close your noses nearly brush.

“You’ve been gone. Too long.”

His voice is low. Rougher than usual.

“I—I had something I needed to—”

“And every night since...”

His hand trails down your side. Grips your hip.

“You came to me in my sleep. Whispering my name. Writhing beneath me.”

You freeze. Lips parting.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

His other hand catches your jaw, fingers tilting your face up.

“You think I believe that?”

His eyes lock to your lips. And for a moment—he hesitates.

But you’re looking up at him like you want him to break.

And that’s all it takes.

He crushes his mouth to yours.

Hard. Heated. Deep. It’s not gentle. It’s not slow.

It’s possessive.

His lips bruise. His tongue leaves no space between you. His hand on your waist tugs you tight into him.

Your gasp gets swallowed.

He presses you to the wall like he’s trying to anchor himself there.

“You cast quite the little spell on me.”

“Mihawk—”

“Say my name like that again and I’ll ruin your throat.”

You moan softly into his mouth.

He groans.

Your legs go weak. He notices.

And he loves it.

“Don’t you ever disappear like that again.”

You nod, dazed.

He kisses you again. Slower. But no less deep.

This time, it’s not about frustration.

This time, it’s about need.

MARCO

You return to the medbay late, expecting a quiet reunion. You’re humming. Tired. Just hoping to get off your feet.

But the moment the door shuts behind you—

“Oi.”

His voice is low. Hoarse.

You turn.

He’s standing near the supply shelf. Lab coat undone. Sleeves rolled. Hair messy like he’s run his hands through it too many times.

And his eyes? Locked on you.

“...Marco?”

He doesn’t say a word.

Just strides toward you, slowly, like a lion pacing down from its throne.

You barely open your mouth—

SLAM.

Your back hits the cabinet. A low gasp escapes you.

His hand settles against the wood beside your head. The other curls around your waist, pulling you in tight—flush to his chest.

You can feel it.

His heat. His tension. His arousal.

“You really didn’t know what you were doing, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked.

“W-What do you mean—?”

He chuckles darkly. Nudges your nose with his.

“Four nights, baby.”

“Marco—”

“Four nights of you on top of me. In my head. Moaning my name like I was the only thing keeping you alive.”

You blink. Breathless.

“I—I didn’t know I—”

His lips crash into yours.

It’s deep. Wet. Desperate.

His fingers slide under your shirt, ghosting over bare skin. His knee slips between your legs, pinning you harder to the cabinet.

Your body arches into his without thinking.

“I woke up aching for you every damn morning, yoi.”

Another kiss. This one filthier. Your gasp draws his tongue in deeper.

“I thought it would stop when I saw you again…”

He growls against your mouth.

“But now I want you worse.”

You whimper.

His hand tangles in your hair.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

Your lips meet his again with fire.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he whispers.

And this time, when he kisses you—

He kisses you like he’s never letting you leave again.

ACE

You come back from your assignment around sunset.

Your boots echo down the corridor as you head to the deck of the Moby Dick.

He’s sitting on the railing just outside the kitchen, watching the waves, posture relaxed.

But when he hears you?

He turns his head— And his whole body stills.

You smile.

“Hey, straaanger. Missed me?”

His lips twitch.

“You have no idea.”

You walk closer, thinking nothing of it. He stands as you pass.

“Phew, long trip! I brought snacks, though. Figured you'd be—”

He grabs your wrist.

You blink up at him.

“Ace?”

His expression is unreadable. A soft frown. Something burning low behind his eyes.

“You were in my dreams.”

Your breath catches.

“I was? Awwww, how cute—”

He glares. Steps closer. You're almost touching.

“Not just once.”

You shift, your back brushing the wall behind you. You don’t realize it until it’s too late.

“For three nights.”

He places a hand against the wall beside your head.

“Kept thinking it’d stop.”

He chuckles. Dry. Not amused.

“But it didn’t.”

His eyes lower to your mouth.

“You had your hands all over me. Said my name like it actually meant something for once.”

You try to respond, but your breath betrays you.

He leans in.

“It felt real. Too real.”

His voice drops, low and steady.

“Woke up sweating. Frustrated. Missing you.”

Your back hits the wall completely as his hand slides to your waist.

“And now you’re here…”

“—Right here in front of me.”

He kisses you.

Slow. Deep. Hot.

A kiss that knows exactly what it wants.

You gasp into it. His hand on your waist tightens. His body presses into yours just enough to make your knees shake.

When he pulls back, his voice is husky and the air is scorched.

“Did you mean it?”

You swallow.

“...What?”

He brushes your hair behind your ear.

“The way you touched me. The way you said my name.”

You stare into his eyes.

Then nod.

“Y-Yeah.”

He leans in again.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He smiles.

“I'm glad.”

He’s so glad. Because this time?

He’s not letting you wake up without him.

SHANKS

You board the Red Force just before sunset, waves golden and glittering behind you.

You stretch your arms and laugh.

“Mmm, it feels so good to be back!”

He hears you before he sees you.

Leaning against the railing near his quarters, half-shadowed. A bottle in one hand, his coat slung over his shoulder.

But his eyes? Dead on you.

“Well, well… look who finally came home.”

You grin.

“Miss me?”

“Every night.”

You laugh—but don’t notice how still he’s gone.

“Bet the crew missed me more.”

“I didn’t say the crew.”

Your smile falters.

He steps forward.

You step back on instinct.

“Shanks—?”

Your back hits the cabin door. He cages you in—one arm next to your head, his chest pressed against yours.

“Three nights.”

His voice is low. Rough. Not joking.

“You. Me. Right here.”

You blink, breath catching.

“I don’t—I didn’t know I—”

“You didn’t have to.”

He leans in, brushing his nose against yours.

“You rode me like you owned me.”

“Shanks—”

“Said I was aaall yours.”

And then?

He kisses you.

It’s filthy.

His tongue parts your lips without warning. His hand grips your thigh, pulling it up against his hip as he pins you harder to the door.

Your gasp disappears into him.

His breath is fire. His mouth is all heat and hunger.

When he finally pulls back, you’re dazed—barely holding yourself up.

He chuckles, low and dangerous.

“Still think I didn’t miss you?”

You shake your head.

“Good girl.”

His lips graze down your neck.

“Now let’s see if you meant everything you whispered when you were possessing me in those dreams.”

Your knees give out.

He catches you.

And smiles like he’s won the grand line.

LAW

You walk into the Polar Tang’s medbay with a skip in your step, tossing a file onto the counter.

“Mission complete. I didn’t die. I deserve snacks.”

He doesn’t answer.

You glance over.

He’s sitting on his stool, coat off, gloves gone, eyes on you.

But there’s something off in them.

Sharp.

Tense.

You blink.

“...You okay?”

He stands.

Silent.

You open your mouth to speak again, but he’s already crossed the room—grabbing your wrist.

“Law—?”

You’re turned, spun, and pinned to the steel wall.

His body cages yours. His hand slams the wall beside your head.

“Three. Nights.”

His voice is dangerously low.

“Three nights you’ve been crawling on top of me in my sleep.”

You blink. Red.

“What? What do you—”

“Shut up.”

His fingers slide along your jaw.

“You said you wanted to be ruined. By me. Only me.”

“I-It was just a dream—!”

“No. It wasn’t.”

He leans in. Breath hot. Voice sharp.

“Because I’ve thought about it every minute since.”

His lips brush yours.

“And now you’re back. And I just don’t give a fuck anymore.”

He kisses you.

Rough. Desperate. Unforgiving.

You gasp—he swallows it. His hand grabs your waist, the other threading into your hair. His body presses close, hips locking you into place.

He kisses you like he’s claiming you.

And maybe he is.

“Law—” you whisper, dazed.

He breathes against your lips.

“You want me to stop? Say it now.”

You shake your head.

“Good.”

His mouth is on yours again before the word even leaves.

Because whatever happened in those dreams—

He’s making it real.

CORAZON

You slip into his room like always, balancing a warm drink and a little smile.

“Rosi, I brought you chamomile! Thought you could use a quiet night in.”

He turns.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, coat off, shirt wrinkled, hair ruffled like he’s barely slept.

And the moment he sees you?

His whole body goes still.

You don’t notice at first.

Until you take a step closer—and he suddenly stands.

Tall. Towering. Staring.

You blink.

“Rosi—?”

He crosses the room in three slow, heavy steps.

Takes the cup from your hand.

Sets it aside without a word.

Then leans in.

You try to speak—

“I dreamed of you.”

His voice is quiet.

But deep. Raw. Wrecked.

“Every single night you were gone.”

Your blink, then smile. Hesitantly.

“U-Um, was it at least a nice drea—”

“—You were on top of me. Whining. Begging. Touching me like you’d die if I stopped.”

You freeze.

His fingers brush your jaw. Tuck your hair behind your ear.

“I’m sorry. I thought I could handle it.”

He leans closer.

His nose grazes yours. His lips hover.

“But now you’re here, and I...”

“I can’t.”

And he kisses you.

Not soft. Not shy.

Hungry.

His hand cups the back of your head. His body presses into yours, guiding you gently but firmly against the nearest wall.

The kiss deepens—wet, open, breathless. You whimper. His hand tightens at your hip.

He pulls back, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he pants. “I just can’t pretend you don’t undo me.”

“Rosi—”

You kiss him back.

And he melts.

But only for a moment—before pressing his forehead to yours.

“You said you loved me. Tell me you meant it.”

“I did.”

He exhales—shaky.

Then smiles.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

He huffs a laugh, blinking back tears.

And kisses you like he’s never letting go.

#one piece reacts #sir crocodile #crocodile x reader #mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk #shanks x reader #shanks #marco the phoenix #marco x reader #trafalgar law #law x reader #corazon x reader #corazon #ace x reader #portgas d ace #portgas ace x reader #donquixote rosinante #rosinante x reader

2K notes · View notes

cillivnz · 1 year ago

Text

RING-POP

PAIRING. sam monroe x f!reader

SYNOPSIS. sam makes you try a different version of your favorite candy; bigger and bitter.

WARNINGS. NSFW themes (18+), pet-names, cursing, dirty-talk & too many puns (i swear this punk cannot shut up), name-calling (brat, dumb girl), brat-taming, degradation, slight dacryphilia, perv!sam, clueless!reader, oral sex (m! receiving), face-fucking, bondage, slight slapping (with a belt, with his cock), hair-pulling, sexualising food?

SMACK, SLURP, POP. the sounds filled sam’s humid room. his brow furrowed further, a look of disdain washing over his pale features at the noise. the videogame in front of him needed all his heed, but it seemed like his brat, bambi, demanded some of that attention, too.

“stop that,” he groaned, frustrated. the sound of his thumbs assaulting the buttons on his controller should’ve been all that was heard, had you not been deep-throating the candy sam made the mistake of getting you. “what— i’m just having my candy,” you whined before continuing, “—and besides, if you have a problem, why don’t you let me sit away from you—” he was quick to shut down that idea, gripping the flesh of your thighs. maybe sam was in the wrong for getting you the cherry ring-pop, your favourite, and maybe it wasn’t the best idea to have you perched on his lap, sitting comfortably (cluelessly) on his aching boner, but in his defence, he just wanted to feast his eyes on the sight of your plump lips wrapped around the toy candy, sucking and slurping, just as you are now like the good girl you are, but once he switched his playstation on, the competitive side came out.

you shift to your comfort in his lap, feeling the tent in his pants poke directly into your mound. you had an arm crossed over sam’s neck, bringing the ring-clad finger to your mouth and sucking. at the taste of the sweet cherry juices dripping into your mouth, you groan in sam’s ear.

the sounds traveled straight to his cock, his mind tuning out his reality— the game at hand— just to focus at your skilful tongue, stained red by the candy. “if you don’t quit it—” he sighed, his voice strained. the next thing you know, his character is being obliterated by the enemy. you stifled a giggle, your plan worked.

sam had left you so, so worked up. choosing to take out his frustration with his family on some stupid toy, rather than your willing pussy. ever since that day at the playground, you couldn’t go a day without sam pounding into your drooling cunt. even if it was always him starting it, he got you to finish, and you were forever grateful for it. but today? when you dolled up in all black— tank top and skirt— with red lingerie, he decided to pick up that gaming console and not let go.

“alright, bambi, i’ve had it with you,” he gets up abruptly, causing you to hit the ground and land on your knees. you gasped, offended.

his hands, full of real, crude metal were quick to move, undoing his belt, unlike your delicate hand that was motionless with the toy ring perched on it. the leather of his studded belt flicked across your cheek, causing you to look up at sam through wet lashes. he only smirked at the sight. your eyes flicked to the bulge revealed in his boxers, and now your mouth watered for a taste that wasn’t cherry ring-pop.

“‘like to suck your candy, huh, brat?” he squeezed your cheeks together. “since you’ve been practising in my goddamn ears all day,” he continued, pulling out his cock, “let’s see how good you’ve gotten.” his cock was slapped against the same spot at the belt. you only stared at him through your long lashes, unwilling to satiate when you’re unsatisfied yourself. “come on, bambi, open up,” he squeezed your cheeks again, causing your mouth to gape open. “i can’t guarantee it tastes like cherries, but you’re open to trying sweet-n-salty, aren’tcha?” he giggled, amused at his own snarky comments.

the fat tip of his cock pressed into your plump, gape lips, and instinctively, your tongue stuck out to lick it. “there we go,” sam sighed, ready to return to cloud 9.

you sheepishly swirled your tongue around the bulbous tip of his cock, relishing in the taste of his precum oozing into your tastebuds. oh, yeah, you’ve found yourself a new favourite flavour.

“hands up for me, bambi,” he sighed, breathless already. you oblige, eyes widening when his belt snaked over your wrists, tying them in an unholy matrimony. your hands rested in your lap, preventing you from pleasuring yourself like you intended to. “now, open wide f’me.” you’re obedient, eager to please, for you know if sam’s satisfied he would overlook the ‘punishment’ and stick his cock into you. your pussy flutters at the thought of being full again.

as your throat relaxed around him, you started taking more and more of his length, looking up at him through your lashes to seek his validation, and the mere sight was rewarding. his brows furrowed, a pink flush crept into his pale skin, while his lips were plump and agape, marks of his teeth etched into the skin. “your mouth was made to suck cock, y’know that— my cock. you’re only gonna squeeze my cock with that fuckin’ throat, y’hear?” he nods, authoritative yet cooing, “is my girl understanding me?” so you bobble your head along with length. “fuck yeah, brat. going dumb on my cock,” he moans, and you were eager to illicit more of those sounds.

you relax your jaw, inhale deeply, and let him take charge. when sam realises this, the little devil smirks, running his fingers through your scalp to tug at your hair.

his cock pistons in and out of your throat, your eyes watering and your breath haggard. your pussy clenched around nothing but the flooded dampness of your cotton panties.

“oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu—” incoherent grunts and groans filled the room along with the delirious smell of your arousals. “fuuuuck, bambi,” sam’s thrusts got sloppier.

“you know,” he spoke, breathless yet mischievously, “this candy comes with a creamy centre,” he chuckled, grunting as he came undone in your mouth. “sweet n’ salty, yeah?” he stroked his cock, relishing in the sight of his heavy load dripping down your plump lips. you were quick to swallow every drop, selfishly devouring your favourite candy. you wondered if this was gluttony or lust?

when satiated, sam pulled away, tucking his cock away. you, too, get up from the floor, wincing at the pain of kneeling down for too long.

you shimmy out of your clothes, making your way towards his bed. sam sees you in the corner of his eye, an eyebrow irking at your actions, “what do you think you’re doing,” he asked plainly, leaving you confused. “i- you’re fucking me, right?” you had a pitiful look on your face, so eager to chase your own release with his assistance. “like hell i will, dumb girl,” sam scoffed, “brats don’t get pleasure after punishment,” he shrugged coldly, grabbing his gaming console.

he pointed towards his thighs, “sit your ass back down,” you whine, “but i’ll be so boooored,” yet perch on his lap, still.

“—and i finished my ring-pop,” you sigh in frustration. sam chuckles, “don’t worry, i’ll have your new favourite out in a minute,”

“this flavour never finishes, just keeps on coming.”

THIS PUNK—

SEE ALSO. playground [PRELIMINARY FIC]. more of Sam Monroe [MEAN!SAM, BIMBO!READER AND OTHER TROPES].

3K notes · View notes

hederasgarden · 5 months ago

Text

Eternal Devotion (3/3)

Summary: Months after your husband's untimely death, his presence lingers, haunting you in ways you never expected. Pairing: Vampire!Friedrich Harding x Wife!Reader Word Count: 6.6K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Angst, period typical sexism, creepy things, vampirism, blood, and sexual content. Not all themes are tagged. A/N: The reader has always been Friedrich’s wife, Anna does not exist in this AU. Big thanks to @ryebecca, @otaku-girl-ao3, @whatblogisthis216 , @eremeldanin and @bellrose for their help with this fic. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ♡ Aaron Taylor Johnson Character Masterlist

"When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it." - Caitlyn Siehl

In the quiet of your bedroom, you find yourself suddenly shy as you watch Friedrich move through the space you once shared as if he never left at all. He shrugs off his coat, untying his cravat and tosses it carelessly across the chair along with his gloves. When he sees you lingering in the doorway, a sweet, amused smile plays at the corners of his lips.

"Come here, my love," he calls softly, his hand reaching out, waiting for yours.

You step into his embrace, and he inhales deeply.

“You are a vision in red,” he whispers, trailing the back of his hand down your bare arm, the cool touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “And your smell,” he groans, “I have missed it.”

You turn your head, lips gliding over his cheek before finding his mouth. His hands slide to your waist, but he stays still, letting you guide the kiss. You moan and the sound seems to awaken something within him, the pressure on your sides increasing until it forces the air from your lungs painfully. In response, you curl your fingers into the rich fabric of his shirt, pushing against his chest. He doesn’t respond to your distress, his mouth moving hungrily over yours, his tongue ravenous for a taste of you.

Blood roars in your ears, and you sway on your feet, dizzy and desperate for air. When his mouth finally leaves yours, you gasp, your body sagging in his arms. Yet even then Friedrich does not seem to notice. He grasps the back of your neck tightly, his lips trailing down the curve of your jaw to brush the soft underside of your throat.

You whimper his name, and the sound seems to shake him from his fervor. He pulls back, his blue eyes shadowed in the flickering candlelight. You expect to find him breathless, undone, but his chest hardly rises with effort.

“You afflict me so,” he murmurs, staring back at you.

You’ve known Friedrich for more than half your life, every look, every gesture of his as familiar as your own, yet the expression on his face now is one you cannot place. Tentatively you touch the center of his chest and he shudders, passing a shaky hand over his mouth. He looks so pale and drained, and in that moment you feel foolish for forgetting all he’s done to return to you.

“You must be exhausted,” you say, withdrawing from him. “You should rest.”

Haltingly, as though it pains him, he nods in agreement.

Together you help each other get ready for bed, slipping into the easy, comforting routine like no time has passed. Friedrich unlaces your corset and the feel of his cool fingers tracing the length of your spine sends a shiver through you. Once you are both undressed you slip under the covers together, and for the first time in nearly ten months, you fall into a deep, quiet slumber, wrapped in your husband’s arms.

–

You wake in the morning to find the bed cool and empty beside you. Terror seizes your chest and for one awful moment, you fear that last night was nothing but a dream, your mind's desperate attempt to fill the unbearable emptiness inside you. You scramble from the bed, hands trembling as you search the room for any sign of him.

It’s then that you hear it, the low rumble of masculine laughter, followed by a giggle and a sharp squeal of delight from down the hall. Hastily, you slip into your morning robe, tightening it around your waist. The floor creaks beneath your feet as you make your way to your daughters’ bedroom. There, Friedrich sits on the floor, surrounded by their scattered toys, your youngest in his lap, her laughter rising and falling with each flurry of kisses he presses to her face. Your oldest clings to his back, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her giggles mixing with her sister’s joy.

"I fear we have woken your mother," Friedrich mock-whispers to them playfully.

"It was a pleasing way to wake," you assure him, crossing the room to open the curtains and let in the bright morning light.

"No, Mama!" your youngest cries, her shriek of alarm halting you in your tracks. She tugs at your hand with both of hers.

"You mustn't let the light in," your oldest adds, breathless with urgency.

Perplexed, you glance at Friedrich, but he simply raises his brow. Seeing the serious look in your children's eyes, you realize whatever game they’re playing must be more important to them than you’d first thought.

“Alright, alright,” you relent, allowing your daughter to pull you away from the windows and towards Friedrich.

He’s quick to pull you down to sit in his lap. One of his hands rests on your thigh, while the other rubs soothing circles on your hip. Together, you watch your children, their sweet faces so unburden and happy as they dart from one end of the room to the other. They are breathless with energy.

“Mama, I am hungry,” your youngest announces.

“Must we go downstairs to eat? I want Papa to stay here with us!” your eldest whines.

"Perhaps we should take our breakfast here then," you suggest with a mischievous smile, glancing behind you at Friedrich. "They seem quite intent on their game."

“My love,” he protests. “You would have us eat on the floor, like some…bohemians?” he asks, scandalized by the very thought.

You bite your bottom lip, struggling to hold back the smile that threatens to break through. For a man so concerned with propriety and restraint, your husband showed remarkably little of either when it came to his desire for you. It’s almost amusing that breakfast in your rooms seems to be where he draws the line.

"Oh yes, please, Papa, can we?" your daughters beg, their eyes wide with excitement.

Friedrich looks between you and the children before letting out a short, incredulous laugh. "We are civilized people, not some…wandering artists!”

“It is just for today,” you promise him, hoping to sway him with the softness of your voice.

The tension in his face eases and before he speaks you know you’ve won. With a resigned sigh he says, “You know I cannot deny you anything.”

The children cheer, moving to arrange cushions and blankets around them, boundless in their joy. The rest of the day is spent lounging in their rooms and enjoying the assortment of food brought by the servants. You feel a deep sense of contentment and safety, your head resting on Friedrich’s shoulder as you watch your daughters spring across the room, performing a dizzying, convoluted play just for the two of you.

When dusk settles you withdraw from him reluctantly, all too aware the real world awaits you.

“We should prepare for dinner,” you say. “My parents will arrive soon.”

“I sent word to them this morning to cancel.” He glances at you before returning his attention back to your children.

You look up at him, surprised. “I know you are…unhappy with my father,” you begin, but he cuts you off with a sharp look.

“That is a matter I will address with him myself,” he says, the abrupt shift in his tone making it clear the discussion is closed. When you draw away from him, surprised, his features soften into something more familiar and kind. He squeezes your waist reassuringly. “For now,” he continues, “I simply want to spend time with my wife and children, without distraction. They can come in a week's time. Perhaps two.”

"Of course," you agree, your heart lifting.

You want nothing more than to hide away with your family, away from the prying eyes of the outside world. Friedrich sighs, tracing the line of your jaw with his thumb before urging you to share a sweet, lingering kiss with him.

–

The weeks that follow are some of the happiest of your life.

Despite the very real demands of Friedrich’s work and the countless matters that require his attention to set right everything left undone during his absence, he gives you and the girls his full attention during the day. Every one of their whims is indulged with patience and tenderness. He is rarely far from you, his presence a steady comfort, except in the evenings when he retreats to his office to bury himself in his work. It feels like the best kind of dream, one you never want to wake from.

Yet, as the days pass, you can’t help but notice how your time apart has changed him. Most of them are small, almost unnoticeable oddities that you assume must be from all he’s endured to return to you. But then there are the other changes, the ones that loom larger and give you pause. The servants whisper about them in hushed tones, their concern barely concealed. Your parents notice it too when they come for dinner, nearly two weeks after their original visit was postponed. Their eyes linger on Friedrich, an unspoken disquiet in their gaze that they don’t quite manage to hide.

“It is rather...dim in here,” your mother remarks politely, her gaze shifting past you to the drawn curtains of the dining room.

The heavy fabrics keep out the last remnants of daylight and candlelight illuminates the room, casting shadows on the walls. The servants keep them burning constantly, there’s no other choice with the sun so often shut out at your husband’s request.

"The sunlight hurts my eyes," Friedrich replies as he pushes a fork idly around his plate, the food barely touched.

You glance at your father, whose attention is fixed on your husband, a quiet scrutiny in his gaze.

“He spent so long below deck in the ship's hold," you explain. “The doctors said it would take time to adjust.”

“Oh, yes. Of course,” your mother says, though there’s something in the way she says it that suggests she’s not quite as convinced. “And the children do not mind?”

Friedrich tenses, the hand resting on the table curling into a fist. You’re quick to cover it with your own. He exhales, the tension leaving his body in a slow release. Beneath your touch, his fist gradually unfurls, and he turns his hand palm up, interlacing his fingers with yours.

“No,” you tell your mother.

Truthfully you had worried how the children would react to the near-perpetual dimness at first, but they seemed to adjust to it with surprising ease. Now, the shadowed corners of your home no longer faze them though you make a special effort to take them outside, letting them soak up the sunlight.

“That is good,” your mother replies earnestly before falling silent.

You’re thankful for your daughters, whose sweet voices fill the silence with excited chatter. It should be comforting to speak with your mother and children, but you’re all too aware of the quiet tension between your husband and father. Neither man seems at ease. In the past, your father and Friedrich were always polite to each other — respectful, but never truly friendly.

It’s almost a relief when the meal finally comes to an end and the servants begin clearing the dishes. You don’t comment on how little Friedrich has eaten. Each time you’ve brought it up in the past, he’s dismissed your concerns with a firm response that leaves no room for further discussion.

As you begin gathering the children and preparing them for bed, Friedrich invites your father to join him for a nightcap and a smoke in his office. You exchange a quick look with your mother, her concern clearly reflected in your own.

“We will not be long,” Friedrich promises, bringing your knuckles to his cool lips. “Go, take your mother.”

Getting the children settled turns out to be more difficult than you anticipate, and you find yourself half distracted through most of it, your mind lingering on what might be happening downstairs. By the time you finally make your way back to the foyer, Friedrich’s office door is still firmly shut. You pause, straining to hear any sounds coming from inside, but all you’re met with is silence.

Your mother shifts beside you, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve before clearing her throat.

“How are things since Friedrich’s return?” she inquires. “He seems…much changed.”

The question catches you off guard and for a moment, you're silent. You sense the weight behind her words, the quiet invitation to reveal your own fears, and you hesitate — afraid your worries will spill over into something you’re not ready to share. She already seems heavy with concern, and the last thing you want is to add to that.

"He is still our Friedrich," you reply. "He is merely adjusting after his illness.”

“Of course,” she concedes. She steps closer, her hands covering yours as her worried gaze meets your. “And how are you, my darling girl?”

"I am so happy he returned to us," you tell her with an honest smile. "I was lost without him...so scared, so alone. His absence —" You falter, the grief you thought had faded surging up again. Tears prick your eyes at the thought and you touch your chest, as if to stem the tide of emotions. "I-I could not survive losing him again.”

“You will not,” your mother assures you quickly. She squeezes your hands with a strength that grounds you. You nod, the truth of her words sinking in — Friedrich is here, and he will not leave you again.

She opens her mouth to say more, but the sound of a door creaking open has you both turning. Friedrich emerges first, a cigarette dangling loosely between the fingers that holds a glass of brandy. Smoke curls around him as he steps into the dim hallway, his expression unreadable in the low light. Your father slips past, giving him a wide berth. There’s something deeply off about his demeanor and you can see it in his eyes, a flicker of something uneasy, something wrong that he’s trying to hide.

“I believe we understand one another now,” Friedrich remarks.

“Yes,” your father says, his voice clipped and curt. He doesn't even look at you, his focus firmly on the door as he urges your mother to follow him. “We will bid you both a good night now.”

You take a step forward, but hesitate, confused by the abruptness of their departure. You turn to Friedrich and ask, "Did something happen?"

"It is nothing for you to worry over," he assures you, drawing you into his side. When his lips find yours the kiss is deeper than usual, the bitter edge of the smoke mixing with the warmth of the liquor.

“Are the children asleep?” he asks once you part.

“Yes.”

“That is good,” he replies, brushing his knuckle over your cheek. His thumb lingers, stroking your skin as he watches you. You stare back at him in return, sensing a subtle shift in his mood. His gaze moves behind you, toward the door.

“Shall I fetch your coat?” you ask, wondering if he needs to take one of his solitary walks.

“You know me so well, my love,” he praises, his expression filled with affection as you gather his coat for him.

You’ve grown accustomed to these late-night walks, the way he slips out after dusk when the pale glow of the gas lamps casts long shadows on the street. He’s never gone long, and when he comes back to you, he seems more settled. The color and life return to his face, though it fades again almost as quickly as it came. You wonder if it’s the quiet of the night that soothes him, that elusive solitude that's absent with the presence of you and the children. After so long spent in the depths of that ship, returning to a life so full of people and sound must be a struggle.

You’re not sure how long you stand in the foyer after he departs, lost in thought, the steady ticking of the grandfather clock the only sound breaking the silence. Eventually Kerstin appears. She pulls you back to reality with a tentative hand on your shoulder.

“Do you wish to retire for the evening?” she asks.

“Yes. I suppose I should go,” you remark.

Kerstin helps you undress in Friedrich’s absence, her quiet presence a small comfort as she tends to the fire in the hearth, stoking it until the flames crackle and cast a soft, yellow glow across the room. While she works your mind drifts to the unsettling events of dinner and your father’s odd behavior. It’s hard to feel settled without Friedrich beside you so you wait, lost in the silence of the room, for his return.

The floor creaks outside the door and you turn instinctively. Friedrich enters, offering you a brief, fleeting smile. The tension in your chest abates, comforted by his presence. He sheds his clothes, layer by layer, until only his pants and a white shirt remain before climbing into bed beside you.

“Good night, my love,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your brow.

Disappointment settles like a stone in your heart when he turns on his side, curling his body protectively around yours and falls still. It has been the same every night since his return. A kiss and nothing more. Even on the evenings that turn passionate, he stops before his touch can dip into what you truly desire. You find yourself wondering what it is you've done wrong, what has changed. During the day, he seems happy, content even, and yet there’s a quiet weight that steals the joy you should feel. Friedrich has returned to you, and that should be enough, shouldn’t it?

You try to remind yourself of that each time the insecurity surfaces. Tonight it’s harder to remember that, especially when your thoughts return to one of the last conversations you had with Friedrich before he left. You were lying in this very bed, your bodies intertwined, sweat cooling on your skin as you traded lazy kisses. Even now you can recall the warmth of his hands on your skin, the way your bodies had fit together so perfectly.

“Perhaps when I return, you will be with child,” he had murmured softly against your lips.

The thought made your heart swell in your chest. “A son,” you had breathed, watching as the thought spread across his face, his eyes lighting up with something deeper than desire.

But that dream slipped away before you even knew you lost him.

You let loose a pained sigh, your hand falling to your stomach to brush the soft fabric of your nightgown. Behind you the bed shifts and you feel Friedrich’s hand on your shoulder, firm but gentle, guiding you onto your back as he stares down at you.

“What ails you?” He questions, his face filled with concern.

“It is nothing,” you assure him, watching his expressive brows draw together and then smooth.

“I—” you begin, faltering before forcing yourself to continue. “You have been so different lately. You do not touch me as you used to and I thought, perhaps, after you returned that you would want to try again for a child. A son.”

Friedrich pulls back as if you’ve struck him, his lips parting in a sharp, quiet breath. The look of raw pain that crosses his face has you reaching for him, confused and alarmed, but he’s already on his feet, moving away from you with a speed that shocks you. He claws at the front of his shirt, twisting the fabric between bone white fingers.

“No,” he whispers, shaking his head, as though your words have wounded him somehow, piercing something fragile within him.

“My love, please. What is it?” you ask, reaching for him again.

He opens his mouth as though to speak, but the words seem to catch in his throat. Without another sound, he turns sharply, his movements jerky as he crosses the room.

Your voice is a broken plea as you call his name, but he doesn’t turn back, doesn’t acknowledge you. His posture is rigid, his back tense, but there's a tremor in the hand that settles on the door. For a brief moment you think he might return to you until he steps through the door, closing it behind him. You remain frozen, your mind reeling in confusion at the fast turn of events.

The urge to follow him is so strong that you nearly rise from the bed, your body already halfway to the floor before you force yourself to stay. Fights were a rare occurrence in your marriage but if you’ve upset Friedrich it would be wise to give him space. So you stay, lost in your thoughts until your eyelids grow heavy and the constant buzzing of your mind slows to a dull hum. The night slips away unnoticed, the world around you fading as you drift into a fitful slumber.

When you wake again, anxious and adrift, you find Friedrich has returned. You almost don’t see him at first. His figure is barely visible, sitting in the shadowed chair before the fireplace where only embers remain, their warmth lost long ago.

"I shall never have a son," he says hoarsely, a quiet, unsettling stillness about him. “Nor a daughter."

Your legs slip from the bed, your bare feet barely touching the cold floor when he speaks again.

“Come no closer,” he growls. The strength behind his words rattles your chest, echoing in your mind, pinning you in place.

“You are frightening me, Friedrich,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

"I have not even begun to frighten you, my love," he says softly, the sorrow in his tone settling like a shadow over you. “I thought if I kept pretending,” he begins as if speaking to himself, “things could be like they were before. That you could have me back as I was.”

Even though you don’t understand his words, they stir a quiet unease in you. You want to reach out to him, but the way he holds himself keeps you still.

“But you’re here now. With us,” you remind him softly. “Just as it should be.”

Friedrich doesn't respond, and the silence stretches out, your heart beating painfully in your chest. You wait, watching him, wondering if he’s even heard you.

Then, finally, he speaks.

"I died. Though not in the way you imagined,” he begins, his words low and strained. “When Ellen and I found Thomas...it was too late. For all of us.” His eyes flutter, and for the first time since he began speaking, he looks away from you. “When I woke, I was not the same.”

You wait for him to continue, to explain but he only stares at the floor with an empty expression. “You are still my Friedrich,” you assure him, taking a tentative step forward.

His eyes snap back to you, dark and unblinking and you see a rawness to him, a hunger in his gaze, as if something inside him is clawing to get free. Something that would consume him if he let it. He rises from the chair and the shadows cast by the faint light remaining in the room stretch behind him, making him seem almost monstrous. Slowly, hypnotically, he moves towards the bed, his steps soundless.

“Ellen was not mad. What haunted her was real,” he says. “And now, he has made me like him.”

The memory of Ellen’s terror surges to the forefront of your mind. Her frantic muttering, the words tumbling out in a panic about the demon that pursued her. You think of Professor von Franz’s wild claims she was haunted by a vampyre. Those ridiculous accusations had been the catalyst that finally pushed Friedrich to agree to what Ellen had desperately begged him to do — return her to Thomas.

You shake your head to deny the absurdity of your husband’s confession. But deep down, a part of you already knows the truth. It’s been there all along, quietly accumulating like a slow, inevitable tide with each subtle shift and unspoken change you noticed and ignored since his return. There is a fundamental, irrevocable rupture in the essence of your husband, a hunger that has transformed him into something unrecognizable.

A vampyre.

The word lingers in your mind, its weight sinking deeper with each passing moment. You think of your children, your eyes instinctively drifting to the wall that separates your room from theirs, a barrier that suddenly feels so thin and fragile. Your pulse quickens, and the air grows heavier.

Friedrich seems to sense your thoughts before you can voice them.

"I could never harm them," he says so steadily and sincerely that it leaves no room for doubt.

You stiffen when his fingertips brush over your jaw, the coldness so stark that you don’t understand how you never noticed it before. You want to retreat from his touch but you feel rooted to the floor, some force beyond your control anchoring you in place.

"It was always you I could not resist," he admits, his words thick with desire.

As his fingers trail down the side of your neck, the sensation sharpens a memory deep within you. Fragments of your dreams begin to slip into focus, flooding back with startling clarity, almost overwhelming in their intensity. The flash of sharp teeth beneath his mustache, the scent of blood in the air. The mix of pain and pleasure.

"They were not dreams," you whisper.

“No,” he replies, his hand resting against the side of your throat, seeking out the ache that has never quite faded.

His confession frightens you, your mind struggling to reconcile the man you love with the creature standing before you. Yet even as you turn from him, overwhelmed with terror, there’s another part of you — one that loves him so completely, so unconditionally — that pulls you back toward him. The longer his fingers linger at your throat, the harder it becomes to tell where love ends and fear begins.

"You must know, I never intended to remain," he admits. "I only wanted to see you...and the children, just once more. To smell their hair and kiss their sweet faces." His gaze falters, a deep sorrow flickering in the depths of his eyes. "They looked so innocent, so pure...but I knew they would be well. They had you."

He moves closer, his chest hovering just inches from yours, a space that would have been filled with breath if he were still capable of it. But instead, he remains unnervingly still.

"Then I found you here," he continues, his words soft and haunting, "in this bed, so lost in grief. You were dreaming, and you whispered my name. You called for me, and in that moment...I could not leave you. I could not bring myself to walk away."

Tears shimmer in his eyes, his emotions raw and vulnerable. You never expected to see your own grief mirrored in his face. The sight twists like a knife through your chest, an unbearable ache.

“That is my greatest sin, my love,” he whispers, his voice breaking with the weight of his confession. "That I could not let you go.”

The desire to comfort him and ease his grief compels you to act, but you find yourself frozen — locked inside your body, unable to move, to speak, to do anything more than listen as he continues.

“I thought I would be content to simply watch, but then your father…” His words twist, and that monstrous intent you had glimpsed before surges between you, fierce and ravenous, filling the space between you. “He intended to barter you off to those vile men. I could not — would not — let that happen.”

Your stomach heaves at the implications of his words. You want him to stop speaking, to unburden you of this awful knowledge but he presses forward, relentlessly even as the first of your tears begin to fall.

“Do not weep for those loathsome creatures, my love,” he says, his gaze hardening. “They would have hurt you. Hurt our children.”

You shake your head as if that very motion might change the truth of his words. “You killed them,” you whisper, horrified.

“Yes.”

There is no shame in his voice, no regret in the familiar blue eyes that meet yours — only the overwhelming weight of his devotion, so thick it feels like it could crush you. You take a half step back, the solid wood of the bedpost halting your retreat. Friedrich moves forward, closing the distance between you with unsettling ease, trapping you with his body. Fear tightens in your stomach, squeezing the breath from your lungs.

“It was but a simple thing to take their lives,” he whispers, his hands framing your hips.

A shiver runs through him as he presses his cheek to yours. His touch is so familiar that your body reacts before your mind, instinctively leaning into him even as fear urges you to pull away. His lips trail from your cheek to somewhere lower and you flinch, gasping in short, panicked breaths. You can feel the wild flutter of your pulse that he seeks out.

“Will you take my life too?” The question escapes before you can stop it, fear clinging to every syllable.

Friedrich recoils from you, the weight of his presence receding, and you inhale shakily, as if the space between you can finally fill with air again. His posture shifts, and the sharpness in his expression softens. You stare at him, and for a fleeting moment, he feels familiar again — your Friedrich once more.

“No,” he replies anguished, the mere idea of what you’ve asked unfathomable to him. “You are my wife,” he says, as if that alone is all the answer you need.

In the silence that follows he studies your face, searching for something — some sign that you know not how to give him.

"I never meant for it to be like this,” he whispers. He takes a small step back, his gaze lowering, filled with a deep, agonizing regret. "I should have let you go.” His hands clench and unclench at his sides, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hesitates, and then, almost too quietly, as if the admission is one he can hardly bear, he murmurs, “I must leave.”

When he looks up again his expression is devoid of any emotion. “I shall ensure your well-being, and see to it the children are provided for.” He speaks as though he is very far away, his tone is calm, distant. “You will not need to remarry for the sake of security."

The thought of losing him again wrenches something from deep inside you. For all the darkness in him, for the monstrous thing that lives beneath his skin, you realize that the idea of life without him is a void you could not survive again. You can’t breathe, can’t think beyond the sudden, crushing terror.

“No,” you sob, the mix of fear, desire, and love so tightly wound together that you can no longer distinguish one from the other. You move towards him, your steps unsteady, as though the very ground beneath you is crumbling. “You cannot leave me. Not again.”

“Do not," he pleads, stepping back just out of reach, his voice thick with desperation. "I have not the resolve to deny you."

"You are my husband," you remind him, tearfully. "You made a vow to me."

"Till death," he answers, his grip tightening around your hands, halting your frantic reach for him. "But I no longer live."

“I care not,” you tell him, the weight of your love for him, your need to have him here with you the only thing that matters. The thought of losing him again is unbearable. It twists you with desperation, a wild, consuming need, and in this moment of painful clarity, you finally understand why he stayed, why he endured the torment of his own nature – all for you and your daughters.

“We can make a new vow,” you urge desperately, pushing aside the turmoil within. You should be repulsed by what he's become. But something deeper pulls at you, a love so fierce and unyielding it overrides every ounce of logic. You love him too much to let go.

Friedrich watches you then, his gaze full of hunger and pain, and you know that he’s fighting himself, fighting his love for you. The very same battle raging within you.

“You do not know me any longer,” he replies. "I know you,” you insist. “You are the man who has tended to our daughters with such devotion since his return. His love for them is as steadfast as the love he bears for me. A man who has always upheld his marriage vow, to protect and cherish me.”

He shakes his head but it is a halfhearted denial.

“I love you, Friedrich,” you whisper. “Please.”

The words have hardly left you when his lips are on yours, his hands grasping desperately for you. He pushes you towards the bed, his body enveloping yours when he presses you into the mattress. You wrap your arms around him, holding him close. The relief you feel is a heavy, wondrous thing and you part your lips, allowing his tongue to sweep into your mouth.

A whimper slips from you when he pulls away, but he’s quick to quiet you. He grips your nightgown with both hands and wrenches it apart to bare your body to his heated gaze. He kisses each breast, taking a nipple in his mouth, his tongue circling it until it grows hard and achy before paying the same attention to the other.

His mouth trails lower, down your soft stomach, tenderly kissing each line and mark left from carrying his children. When he reaches the soft tufts of hair that hide one of his favorite parts of you he inhales deeply. He uses two fingers to spread you open, his tongue seeking out the delicate bundle of nerves. Your eyes close and you clutch a fistful of his curly hair, pulling it urgently, needing him even closer.

Friedrich knows your body intimately and as he worships between your thighs your voice grows louder, a hunger stirring low in your belly. Your hips rise and fall, meeting his mouth, crying in delight when he gently works a finger inside.

“I shall never grow tired of the taste of you…your warmth,” he praises, slipping a second finger beside the first.

He curls them, moving like a relentless wave upon the shore, steady and rhythmic. When his thumb circles your bud with tender attention you grasp the bedsheets and groan. You feel so close, every muscle in your body pulled tight in anticipation of release. The bed shifts and you feel Friedrich’s lips brush down your inner thigh as his fingers continue their steady work.

“Come for me,” he commands, an unsettling current under his words that your body can’t help but obey.

You peak with his name on your lips, louder and more wanton than you’ve ever been. As your orgasm washes through you, a faint pulse of pain threads beneath the euphoria, blending with the sensation in a tangled, confusing mix. You realize then Friedrich’s feeding from you, his teeth sinking into the tender skin of your inner thigh to draw more than pleasure from you. His fingers still work within you and you watch through half-lidded eyes as he drinks until your vision grows hazy and unfocused.

When you open your eyes again he’s shed his clothes, the coolness of his naked flesh sending a shiver through you. The two of you share a sweet, lingering kiss and he pulls back, staring down at you. Your eyes are drawn to the wound on his chest, a jagged mark left by the creature. Tentatively, you raise your hand, watching his face as you reach for it. He doesn’t stop you, but his chest rises and falls sharply, a long-forgotten reflex in anticipation of your touch.

You brush your fingers over his torn skin and he shudders when your lips follow, offering him acceptance and benediction the only way you know how. He whispers your name and your thighs part in welcome. There’s no pain as he slips inside, just that familiar ache you’ve been craving. You gaze up at him in the dim light, watching his blue eyes shimmer with a flash of silver that fades and returns with each roll of his hips.

His eyes close when you wrap a leg around his hip, urging him to reach deeper inside you. After all this time, you need more from him, all the passion and desire he’s trembling with the effort to hold back. Your heart has made its choice, binding itself to him in a way that transcends fear, desire, and everything else and you want him to know that.

“It is okay, my love,” you urge, baring your throat to him.

Your words cause his pace to falter and he stares at you with a deep crease in his brow. “No,” he says with a shake of his head.

“I want you. All of you,” you assure him.

Friedrich’s lips part, curling up to reveal teeth sharper than you remember. In a blink he lunges forward, his chest pressing into yours as his mouth seals over the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. Your skin gives way under his teeth, and a deep growl resonates in his throat. His hips drive into you hard enough for the bed to creak dangerously and you wrap your arms around him, holding on until your limbs become too heavy.

There’s no fear in this moment, only immense, indescribable pleasure. You smile at him as he pulls away, the coolness of his breath still lingering on your skin. His tongue flicks over a stray drop of your blood at the corner of his mouth, the motion slow and deliberate, almost reverent, as though savoring every bit of you. The sight sends an unexpected jolt of desire through you, as intoxicating as it is unsettling.

You moan beneath him, digging your nails into his biceps when he pulls your knees to your chest. It hurts in the best way possible and you share a messy, coppery kiss as he groans into your mouth, the sounds of his desperate desire enough to herald your own end. Every part of your body hums with pleasure, except for the sharp sting in your neck.

You touch the torn skin gingerly, the sluggish flow of your blood surely staining the sheets beneath you. Friedrich brings your fingers to his lips, cleaning them with his tongue. Then he brings his thumb to his mouth, puncturing the skin. Dark red blood wells up from the wound, and you watch breathlessly as he traces the bite mark on your throat. Your skin tingles and you look questioningly at him.

“There will be no mark,” he assures you.

Cautiously you touch your throat, finding only smooth, unblemished skin. You look up at him in amazement.

“I do not deserve such a look,” he says. “I am a monster.”

“You are my Friedrich,” you reply, echoing the words you spoke earlier, your hands gently cradling his face.

Your thumbs stroke his skin, taking in the familiar way his eyes crinkle as he smiles down at you, his gaze filled with adoration. He rests his forehead against yours, and you smile wider than before, the joy you feel almost too much to bear.

Even now, with everything that has come to light, your love for him remains unshaken. He is woven into the very fabric of your soul, as much a part of you as the blood that courses through your veins. No matter what comes next, your love for Friedrich will endure. The bond between you is eternal, transcending time and even the boundaries of life itself.

♡

Thank you all so much for reading this series! I had a bit of a tough time with the ending, so I really hope you enjoyed it. Your thoughts and feedback mean everything to me, so feel free to leave a comment, reblog, or send an ask if you’d like!

#friedrich harding x reader #friedrich harding x you #friedrich harding #aaron taylor johnson #nosferatu #nosferatu 2024

498 notes · View notes

buckets-and-trees · 26 days ago

Text

He's Gonna Miss Me [Exiled Nomad Series]

Characters/Pairings: rough Nomad!Steve Rogers x Female!Reader Word Count 1.5k Summary: June 8, 2018. Half the universe is gone.

Content/Warnings: "fluffy" angst; established relationship

Previous Part | Series

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

He didn't know you were gone.

It wasn't his fault—at least, not by any normal metric of responsibility.

There had been immediate matters to deal with first. And then so many lines and satellites and grids had been down for days; cell towers were jammed or in some cases damaged. Power flickered on and off at odd intervals, the world a patchwork of bewildered darkness and nervous, overlit blocks. When Steve called your phone (for the very first time), he got nothing. Not even the familiar tone of your voice on a voicemail message, just a hollow, looping boop-boop that made his skin crawl.

Even then, he didn’t panic.

He’d gotten used to the rhythm of uncertainty for the last two years, being in exile, on the run. So once they’d stabilized enough at Avengers Campus, he took a quinjet and came looking for you.

For the first time since the world fell apart, Steve found himself afraid to open a door.

He stood on the landing outside your apartment, his fists balled tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Steve stared at it for a few moments, then exhaled and tried the doorknob.

Locked.

Though he’d picked many locks - including yours - for the last two years, he forced the lock, urgency overriding more elegant efficiency, forcing it open with a loud thud.

And then he was inside.

He called out your name - tentatively, but loud enough that you should hear regardless of where you might be.

No immediate answer. But you could simply be out.

Steve stood in the foyer of your apartment, the door still gaping open behind him, and tried to make sense of the absence that pressed in from every direction.

The air still smelled like you, mingled with a top note of burnt toast. He walked through the apartment like it was a crime scene, which in a way it was, though the only violence committed here seemed to be against routine. A book lay facedown on the arm of the couch, abandoned mid-sentence.

Your shoes were lined up by the door, and the keys hung on a hook. There was a potted basil plant on the window ledge, leaves drooping but not yet dead, and a mug half-full of tea on the kitchen counter. Completely cold.

He walked the rooms—the bedroom, the compact office with the thrifted desk, the bathroom with the overspill of hair products—and with each step felt the floor drop further out from beneath him. The only things missing were you, and, he finally realized, your cat.

Still, he wouldn’t call it. Couldn’t. Not until there was no shred of hope left. So he made another sweep of every square foot of your apartment.

And once he’d done it all again, Steve just stood in the center of your bedroom, unable to decide where else to look, what to touch, how many more times to look. What he was even looking for to determine whether or not you’d been snapped from existence. There was your jacket, slung over the back of the desk chair. There were two more mugs, one with lipstick traces, one with a chip on the handle, side by side on the windowsill. There was your cat, Juniper, emerging from under the bed like a cautious shade, tail low but eyes bright and unblinking.

"Juniper," he said, voice catching on the second syllable.

She meowed in response. Then, paw by paw, she inched forward and halted a foot from him, tilting her head in appraisal.

Steve stooped and held out a hand. She sniffed it, tentatively, once, twice, and then butted her chin into the crook of his thumb. He scooped her up and set her against his chest, cradling the cat with care, and she began to purr.

He sank to the bed, Juniper curled in his lap. The weight of her—not much, really, but substantial in the way of living things—was grounding in the tides of uncertainty that had been his reality since he stepped out of your door only days ago. He stroked the fur along her spine, the soft gray like a storm cloud on a spring morning, and was glad at least she still existed, a testament to the fact that you had.

Even if you no longer did.

Steve looked around your bedroom. Then he saw your phone, plugged into the charger, the screen a dead black. He pressed the button anyway. Nothing. He knew from the reports—god, the hundreds of thousands of reports—that personal effects were left behind, abandoned mid-motion or mid-thought or mid-sentence, all over the world. It didn’t mean, objectively, what he suspected it to mean.

But how much longer could he deny that it did?

He spent the rest of the night there, not because it was logical or even safe but because he couldn't leave. He curled up on your side of the bed, Juniper tucked against his ribs, and watched the city stutter through the window as grids flickered and failed and sometimes came back with cold blue certainty.

He wondered if you’d been here the moment it happened. If you’d been standing by the window or curled in this same bed or leaned over the sink brushing your teeth, barefoot, humming through toothpaste like you always did. Were you frightened or calm? Did you have time to realize what was coming? Did you think of him at all in that instant?

The cat woke him before dawn, walking the length of his torso and kneading her paws into his chest with the insistent drive of hunger or habit or both. He scratched her behind the ears for a few minutes, then rose and started moving through the apartment, more deliberate this time.

He made sure Juniper was fed and checked on her water. Then, after a quick refresh in the bathroom - using the small collection of things he’d only just decided to leave there with you, he packed Junie’s things. Bowls, the small bag of food, the litter box from under the bathroom sink, the worn mouse toy, her vaccination and shelter paperwork clipped together in a folder. Then he walked the rooms one last time, slow and deliberate. The book you’d left on the couch kept drawing his eye, and he picked that up, too.

The light was just beginning to bleed through the blinds when he finally dialed Natasha, who picked up on the first ring.

"She's not here," Steve said, voice flat. "But the cat's still here. I’m bringing her with me."

A pause, static and the distant scrape of a chair, then Natasha said, "Of course. Don't linger there, Steve. We need you back."

"I know," he said. He pressed the phone to his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'll be there by noon."

He ended the call but didn't move right away. Sunlight gathered in a ragged band across the carpet, illuminating the motes of dust suspended in the air. It was the kind of morning you loved: the city half-awake, shadows crawling slow across the buildings, the day not yet decided. Steve watched the light for a while, then went to the desk in your office and pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer.

Steve considered what to write, what message could possibly be sufficient, should you ever come back. The pencil hovered over the paper for a long minute. Then, in his blocky, almost antique handwriting, he wrote two words:

Call me.

You had a number to reach him now. He'd given you one the weekend he took you to dinner. The weekend you'd admitted this was end game to each other.

Underneath, he left his initials.

Back in the living room, he scooped up Juniper and set her in her carrier. He scanned the apartment once more, this time for things he might have missed, things you would have wanted to be rescued. A favorite cardigan he’d seen you wear a few times, sunfaded and soft, still draped over the arm of your reading chair. A battered water bottle with stickers along the side—each one a memento from bits of your life he didn’t know enough about. The book, already in his pocket. He gathered them together, and zipped them into his bag, placing the sweater carefully on top.

He hesitated at the threshold, looking back at the hollow apartment.

He knew without a doubt you were gone with half the universe.

On the walk out, Juniper mrowled, a soft crescendo beneath the city’s sickly hush. He imagined her calling to you across the empty blocks, a semaphore of hope. The thought was almost too much, but he shouldered it, along with the bag and your absence, and made his way back to the quinjet.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

mraow. 🥺

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x you #nomad steve rogers #steve rogers x yn #female reader #curvy reader #aspen wrote something #exiled nomad series

268 notes · View notes

jinxyjinxer · 6 months ago

Text

˗ˏˋ FILLED ˎˊ˗ turning stress into fucking you pregnant

⟢ characters : Vander

⟢ warnings : fem!reader, impregnation kink, hickeys, rough sex, p in v, breast and nipple play, dumbification, belly bulge, mating press, creampie

You knew by the look your husband gave you when he entered the bedroom after a long and tedious shift at The Last Drop that he was no less than in a bad mood. He did not need to speak any words for his demeanour gave away everything you needed to know.

"Long day?", you tested the waters, voice more silent than you intended it to be, hoping he wouldn't notice your hesitation. But all Vander gave you was a grunt as he plopped down onto the bed next to you, laying on his stomach to hide the raging boner he had right now.

Truthfully, he was in a bad mood but even more he just wanted to fuck you and take all his pent-up stress and anger out on your little, tight pussy. He wanted nothing more than to get pussydrunk and lose himself in the feeling of your walls spasming around him as he shoots rope after rope of his seed into you, hopefully finally knocking you up with his child after all these years.

"Want me to help you relax?", you cooed into his ear, leaning down. Vander takes a sharp breath in, wondering if you were a psychic who was able to read his mind or if the tent in his pants was too obvious when he walked into the room, either way he would be a dead man if he ever said no to such an offer, especially coming from his wonderful wife.

"Mhm, I could need some help", he replied in a hum, turning to fave you, his large hand immediately coming to cup your cheek - or rather almost of the left side of your face - before he leans in and plants a chaste kiss onto your soft lips. He groans at the taste and wastes no time, deepening the kiss until his tongue finally found it's way into your wet cavern, tongues fighting for dominance although both of you knew it was always Vander that won those battles.

You whine and moan into the kiss which sends his mind and body into overdrive, the last bit of sanity he still had in himself snapping. Immediately he changes positions, caving you underneath his much larger frame, towering over you like a beast that had just caught it's prey, the gaze in his eyes lustful.

Taking your chin in his hand and tilting your head to the side he began peppering kisses onto the side of your neck before turning those soft touches into an inferno of biting and sucking, making sure to leave no spot unmarked.

Hearing you moan his name because of that, both of his hands instinctively travel down your body, undressing you as they did so until you were completely bare before him. Gods, you were a sight to see. One of his large palms cupped your sex, fingers teasing themselves in between your lips, spreading around the slick that had built up from arousal, making you mewl and wreath under his touch.

"Vander, please", you whined, not wanting to get teased at all, just wanting him to fuck you finally.

It's been so long since he last got to actually fuck you properly without being interrupted that Vander forgot every good manners he had, just slamming his dick into your tight cunt, not even undressing, only having freed his member from its confines.

"Sorry love", he groans at the feeling of your tight and unprepared pussy around his thick and heavy cock. It took everything in him to not just start slamming his dick into you over and over again but he knew in how much pain you were right now, so he gave you all the time you needed.

He had always been long and thick and no matter how often you took his dick nor however much prepping he did, it hurt every single time feeling him splitting you open like it's your first time ever taking a dick. In the meanwhile sucking and nibbling on your breasts and nipples, drenching them in his spit and finger prints from gripping them tightly.

Every now and then his hips would buck, drilling his cock against your cervix which made you cry out in pain and pleasure at the same time.

"Can... Move...", you moan in between words and in the same breath Vander pulled back his hips before slamming them back into yours, burying his dick deep in your cunt over and over again until you were reduced to a babbling mess, eyes rolled back into your head and tongue lulling out, making drool run down your chin and drip onto the sheets beneath your head.

"Mh, gods, fuck. Needed your tight cunt so bad. Fuck, you always feel so good. Best way to - nngh - to forget the shit day I had at work", Vander groaned or even almost growled as he pistoned his cock into you, watching his shaft disappear into the depths of your body only to find it's outline appearing on your stomach, belly bulging from his sheer size and thickness. Instinctively he puts his hands onto your abdomen, pressing down on it as he lifts your legs onto his shoulders, folding you in half until you were caged in a mating press.

The movement became even harder and faster, almost animalistic, as he fucked the air out of your lungs, your mind completely blank, the pleasure he made you feel the only thing that occupied your thoughts.

Like a wild beast he grunted and groaned and growled, angling his hips so that with every thrust he would hit your g spot and cervix all the while continuing to press down on your abdomen to add extra pleasure to your already fucked out state.

As much as Vander enjoyed fucking you, the way you made him feel had him soon near the edge, the noises he made becoming louder and louder, his thrust becoming harder and harder and faster and faster.

"Gonna fill that tight little pussy and knock you up. Gonna breed you nicely and make you a mother", he groaned, feeling your walls flutter around his shaft, accentuating every other word with a deep and harsh thrust.

"Yeah you like that? Want me to breed that bad, huh?", he let out a low chuckle before finally crossing the finish line, spilling his seed into your warm cunt while having you spasms around his shaft violently, your fluids gushing out of you and staining his pelvis from how hard he made you cum, riding out both of your orgasm with a few more shallow thrusts.

Exhausted he moved the two of you so you'd lay on his chest, his dick still deeply buried within you to ensure his cum will not go to waste, the two of you soon drifting off into sleep.

#ᯓ★ jinxed requests #ᯓ★ jinxed writing #arcane smut #arcane x reader #vander smut #vander x reader #arcane #vander #arcane vander #vander arcane

597 notes · View notes

fallenprophets · 7 months ago

Text

Home.

Jinx x reader

Summary: set between Act 1 and 2 of Arcane season 2. You find a moment of calm at home with Jinx, Isha, and a stray dog you've found along the way.

Warnings: spoilers for Arcane season 1, tooth-rotting fluff (I hope) not proofread

No use of Y/N, no pronouns used for reader, no gender specific terms etc...

A/N: WHOO first piece of writing by Lev on this blog yippee!! I sincerely hope you all enjoy this lolsies. Please interact! I'm taking requests teehee

You don’t remember the last time you felt this at peace.

It is like a buzzing, filling your chest, lifting you practically off your feet as you make my way home.

This feeling is manufactured- it is not coming from the outside. It comes from deep inside your chest, thrumming happily, snuggled between your lungs, right below your heart. There are reasons for this warmth, this light- well, one reason. Her name is Jinx.

When you say you’re going home, all you really think of is her. Yes, her lair is home- it is warm, and cozy, and as safe as a hot air balloon suspended above what seems to be an infinite void can be- but without her, it would be nothing.

She is the light that fills your chest, with her bright smile and ridiculously long blue hair and perfect pink eyes. She is the weight on your lungs, making it hard to breathe when you think of her. She’s all the cheesy, corny shit the romance authors you hated so as a child wrote. Only instead of being a character, only words on a worn out page, she’s real, and she’s only a two minute walk away from where you are now.

You have a satchel slung over your shoulder, the Dog (you don’t know when it became your dog; it just appeared by your side one day, and hasn’t left since) trotting along beside you. Its fur is matted. You reach down and scratch between its ears as you near the Last Drop, smiling to yourself. Never had you thought you would be living this life- on your way home, supplies for Jinx in your bag, the Dog padding alongside you- it is so domestic, so soft, so clean (despite the grime of the Fissures, the thickness of the air, the moaning of the people crowding the sides of the streets). This life is so unlike anything you remember your parents having.

You take the quick route into Jinx’s lair, the dog following happily, its pink tongue lolling. You should name it, you think as you step onto one of the propellers.

After Silco had died, you had expected the place to fall into disrepair; you had thought the lights would stop twinkling, and the tinny music would stop playing, and the workstations would gather dust until finally the propellers snapped and fell, taking Jinx with them. And yes, that had started to happen. But then, Jinx had met the kid. Isha, you had called her. All of you, huddled around an old, matted baby names book one of you had found at a scrapyard, pointing out names to each other. Isha, the kid had pointed at, a huge, toothy grin splitting her round face. One who protects. You had closed the book then, knowing that it was perfect. Jinx had smiled at you over the newly baptized Isha’s head, and you had smiled right back, squeezing her hand in yours. You had tossed the book down, into the void below.

Now, your home was transformed. Jinx’s creepy dolls were gone, replaced with different colourful toys and gadgets picked out or made by Isha. The walls were covered in crayon drawings of all kinds of things- dragons, flowers, the three of you in fields of green and blue and pink and orange. There was a tent set up in the corner, full of Isha’s belongings. It was where you all slept, huddled together like a litter of cats. You love the place.

At first, you think they’re both out. You call out, and when no answer comes, you venture further in, dropping your bag by Jinx’s workbench. The Dog sniffs around, its tail wagging as it comes closer and closer to an odd lump covered in blankets. You grin to yourself, putting a hand on your hip, tapping your chin with the knuckles of the other. “Hmm,” you muse to yourself, purposefully ignoring the giggle coming from the blankets, “wowie, I wonder where Isha and Jinx could possibly be.” You go in the opposite direction, checking under the workbench, scratching your head. The Dog watches, its eyes saying Can’t you see them? They’re right here! You wink at it, and it sits, tilting its head. “They must have gone out,” you declare loudly as the giggles intensify. “Guess I have this whole place to myself! Finally, I am rid of those stinky-“

As you are talking, you approach the mess of blankets. Before you are able to finish that last sentence, a small orange and blue bundle barrels into your legs, almost knocking you flat on your back. Isha launches herself into your arms, grinning her toothy grin as you spin her around.

“Oh my goodness!” You cry, “where were you hiding? You really are a master sleuth!” Jinx, still have tangled in the blankets, barks a laugh. You hug Isha to your chest and raise an eyebrow at her, mouthing you couldn’t hide anywhere better? She flips you off, but she is smiling.

She stands and joins you and Isha, her hand finding the small of your back, the other going to Isha’s shoulder.

“I have a surprise,” you whisper to the child, “but don’t tell Jinx, mmkay?”

Jinx tilts her head, still smiling. Isha nods solemnly.

“I found waffles,” you breathe, looking at Jinx out of the corner of your eye. Isha gasps and puts her hands over her mouth. Through trial and error, you and Jinx had discovered that the little one seemed to live for waffles. You now went out of your way, as the only one with your face not plastered all over the place, to find the sweet treat.

“Gee, I wonder what the surprise could be,” Jinx says, playing along. She follows as you carry Isha to your bag. You set the kid down, the Dog nuzzling into her hand. You rifle around for a moment, and finally pull out the waffles. Jinx lets out a loud gasp, and Isha turns to her, delighted, pleased with herself that she was able to keep this secret.

“Waffles?” Jinx cries. Isha claps her hands together, startling the Dog.

You all sit together in the tent, sharing the waffles off the same plate. Isha (who thinks she’s being slick) keeps sneaking pieces of her food to the Dog, who delightedly licks it off her hand. She giggles every time, earning an affectionate look from you and Jinx.

Once you have finished the waffles, you push the plate away and lie down. Soon, Isha curls into a ball in the space between your knees and your stomach, settling her head on your legs. Jinx dims the lights, then joins you; the two of you become a protective cocoon around the now snoring Isha. The Dog squishes itself in between you and Isha, resting its head on the kid’s side and looking up at you adoringly. You brush a strand of hair from Jinx’s face and smile. She smiles right back. She’s been smiling so much recently.

“This is perfect,” you whisper to her once you’re sure Isha is fast asleep.

She smiles, but doesn’t answer. One of her hands rests on your waist, and her fingers trace soothing patterns there.

“I thought,” she begins, then stops, frowning. Her other fingers tighten around your hand. “I thought that, with Silco gone, there was nothing left for me.” Her words hurt you; it stings somewhere deep in your stomach to hear that she is in any kind of pain.

“But then… I met the kid,” she continues. “And then I found you.”

You feel an overwhelming wave of affection for the girl lying in front of you then. A girl you had once known what feels like a very long time ago; a girl who had once had blue eyes and the same wide, toothy smile as Isha. A girl who had been part of your distant past, who was now back in your life. She was right; despite having known each other your whole lives, you have really only just found each other.

“And- and I realised that maybe, maybe Silco wasn’t all I needed. Maybe…” she trails off, but she has said enough. You shuffle forwards (careful not to disturb Isha or the dog) so that your forehead is only centimetres from hers. She meets you halfway, pressing her forehead to yours; your noses brush, and you smile, reaching up to cup her face.

“I love you, Blue,” you whisper. A name, who she has always been to you. Blue. Blue like the sky, like the sea. Blue like the warm, the fluttering bird nestled in your chest.

For a moment, you think she is going to cry. But she only pulls you closer, and whispers the same words back to you, your name uttered like a prayer.

You close your eyes and smile, and her breathing slows.

As you fall asleep, you think:

You have never felt this at peace before.

#jinx #jinx arcane #isha arcane #jinx x reader #jinx x y/n #arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane league of legends #am i adding too many tags #probably #no use of y/n #sfw #fluff #jinx fluff #powder x reader #i listened to wolf alice while writing this dhmu #bloodhoundsandplagues writes

528 notes · View notes

mattsundaes · 11 months ago

Text

— YOUR EX SHOWS UP AT A PARTY

choose your fighter ; sakura haruka, kaji ren, hayato suo, umemiya hajime, togame jo

c: fluff, slightly suggestive content, all characters 18+ implied

SAKURA HARUKA —

sakura straightens up considerably as you squeeze yourself into the last remaining bit of space left on the couch—which happens to be directly beside him. he looks between your flush thighs and innocent face several times, brows knit together as he stares at you in confusion.

you roll your eyes at the slight dusting of pink caressing his cheekbones before nodding toward where your ex is currently standing across the room. an annoyed sound makes its way up sakura’s throat as his eyes narrow, and he mutters something under his breath before unceremoniously grabbing your hand and lacing your fingers together.

a visible shudder wracks through him as you lean your head on his shoulder, and you briefly consider letting your lips draw near his jaw—but the cups and cans sitting dangerously close to where one of his feet rests propped up on the coffee table beg otherwise.

“can I just punch him?” he exhales lowly through gritted teeth.

your nose feathers against the side of his neck, and he sputters and chokes.

“i think this will be far more effective,” you laugh.

KAJI REN —

“i’ll trade you for a mint.”

kaji levels you with an unimpressed look as he continues to peel off the wrapper to the lollipop clutched between his fingers, making a show of popping the small red ball into his mouth while you continue to wiggle the green and white striped candy in his direction.

“no thanks,” he replies, teeth clinking against the lollipop.

peeling yourself up off of the couch with a huff, you nudge his foot before getting up to go and find something to drink. in turn, he hooks his ankle on yours and nearly trips you, but he’s already turned away and talking to hiragi when you whip back around to glare at him.

shortly after, you find yourself clutching a plastic cup in the kitchen trying to avoid the newly-arrived presence of your ex in the living room. you nearly jump at the feeling of a hand grasping your shoulder and spinning you around, a warm body gently easing you back against the counter.

out of the corner of your eye, you can see your ex striding toward the fridge. but kaji’s hand cups the side of your face as he turns your head back to meet his gaze.

he doesn’t say anything as his thumb feathers over your bottom lip, stopping in the middle and applying just enough pressure to beckon them to part. you swear you hear someone call out your name, but you’re too distracted by the way kaji pulls the lollipop out of his mouth and slides it into yours.

SUO HAYATO —

“truth or dare?”

the crowd gathered around the fire pit in the backyard laughs as nirei nervously downs half of his drink in one gulp while kiryu mulls over what scandalous truth he’s going to make him spill. ten minutes ago, you were rolling your eyes and laughing, too, when tsugeura drunkenly suggested the game in the first place. but now all you can focus on is the last face you want to see sitting across from you in the glow of the flames.

a shoulder knocks into yours eventually, and suo’s mouth hovers hear the shell of your ear as he leans in close from where he’s sitting beside you in the grass and murmurs, “i dare you to stop looking over at him every two seconds.”

you let out a quiet, undignified noise and try to ignore the shiver that runs down your spine at the feeling of his warm breath against the side of your neck. and then his voice is a little louder for everyone to hear as you belatedly realize it’s now his turn when he looks at you and asks, “truth or dare?”

there’s a challenge in his eyes, a spark that has nothing to do with the dancing flames reflecting in his pupils.

“dare,” you breathe out, well aware of the weight of your ex’s stare.

suo smiles, tilting his head to the side slightly. “kiss me.”

it’s tentative at first, the way you press a soft, careful kiss against your friend’s lips, lingering for a beat before slowing beginning to pull away. he lets out an amused sound as his hand slides up to cup the back of your head, and he murmurs, “look at me,” before bringing his mouth back to yours.

UMEMIYA HAJIME —

leave it to your ex to ruin one of your favorite songs, you think bitterly to yourself as couples and groups of people dance in the grass illuminated under the glow of string lights. there’s a girl laughing and giggling as he tugs her into his arms, moving to the steady beat pouring out of the bluetooth speaker propped up nearby.

“may i have this dance?”

glancing up, you meet a familiar pair of eyes—ones that shouldn’t set your heart racing the way they always do, not when they belong to your brother’s best friend. umemiya’s hair is loose and messy, his expression soft as he holds a hand out to you.

“i can’t dance,” you mutter as he tugs you out into the grass.

“me either,” he shrugs, eyes glittering with amusement while he puts his arms around you. “but i’m pretty sure you love this song.”

your heart does a somersault.

it’s embarrassing, the way your legs threaten to give out beneath you at the feeling of his warm palms against your hips through the light fabric of your sundress. (it’s embarrassing, how long you’ve been in love with him.)

“did you see who’s here?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“there’s only one thing i’m looking at right now,” umemiya smiles, not missing a beat when you stumble and he steadies you by pulling you closer.

TOGAME JO —

water drips down your chin as you repeatedly glance up and down between your soaked front and togame, who’s currently standing in front of you with his arms crossed and a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. the yellow scrap of rubber lying in the grass is the only evidence that remains of the water balloon that came careening in your direction moments ago.

“i’m wearing a white shirt,” you deadpan, slowly pulling at the dripping, nearly translucent material now clinging to your front.

“shame,” he nods, though he doesn’t look even the least bit sorry as he shrugs off his shishitoren jacket and holds it out to you.

you bite your lip to control your urge to inhale the warm, spicy scent that clings to the material. there’s something you can’t quite read in togame’s expression as he watches you, going still as you slide your arms into the sleeves.

“you look good in yellow,” he murmurs, shoulder brushing yours as he goes to walk past you, heading toward where someone is calling his name. “and by the way, your ex is here.”

#sakura haruka x reader #kaji ren x reader #suo hayato x reader #umemiya hajime x reader #togame jo x reader #umemiya hajime #togame jo #hayato suo #sakura hakura #kaji ren #wind breaker #wind breaker x reader #dee writes

1K notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 1 month ago

Note

face masks - send me a character + an au for a drabble

I'd LOVE to see your take on a college AU - maybe a meet cute? - with Lily?? no pressure at all, I just love your style and scenery so it feels like a cozy prompt! congratulations on 10k - I'm NOT surprised at all!

Thank you so much angel <3

cw: non magical uni au, written with the 70s in mind except there's no homophobia

Lily Evans x fem!reader ♡ 526 words

The pretty redhead who sits in front of you is wilting over her desk. Her cheek lays atop her notebook, uncapped pen still in hand and eyes closed. It’s the day of your exam review, but you don’t blame her for falling asleep when she did. Conjugating in the pluperfect is dreadfully boring.

She doesn’t wake until class is dismissed and the students around her stand, all in a hurry to get to their next class or to the library to study or outside to enjoy the sunny day. She sits up with smudged ink on her cheek (adorable) and a dazed look that quickly turns to alarm as she realizes what’s happened.

“Bollocks,” you hear her whisper. You have to bite down on a smile as you lean forward to tap her shoulder.

“Hi,” you say, your voice softening with apology. Her eyes landing on yours feels like pop rocks fizzling in your middle. You rip a page from your notebook and hold it out to her. “Here. I made a copy.”

Those eyes, still bleary but sharpening by the second, fall to your notebook. “You…took two sets of notes?” she asks.

“He speaks so slowly.” You give an awkward little laugh. “Leaves lots of time for writing, and I know you’d usually take your own, but…”

“Thank you.” The girl finally grasps your outheld page. Her gaze lifts to yours again, brilliant green eyes framed by lashes tinted auburn. Her lips tilt in a tentative smile. “That’s really kind. I don’t know what happened, honestly, I’ve never napped in class before. I knew I should have stopped for coffee.”

“I still have some left,” you say, before realizing how ridiculous this is. Why on earth would your pretty classmate want the watered-down dregs of your half finished iced latte? But you offered it to her without thinking, because you really don’t think there’s anything you wouldn’t gift her to keep her looking at you like that.

And maybe it’s charity in the face of your heart-shuddering awkwardness, but she takes the cup you hold out, sipping from the same straw your lips had touched.

She sighs in blissful relief. “I have to be going through withdrawal or something. This is so good. Thank you, really.”

The smile she sends you now is bigger than the last, more awake and more sure and all the lovelier for it. Your cheeks tingle warmly. “It’s no problem,” you say.

“No, you’ve given me your notes and now I’ve just stolen your coffee,” she laughs. “You have to let me pay you back. Can I buy you another?”

You blink. “Oh, you really don’t have to—”

“No, I want to, please. Unless you have another class?”

You press your lips together, shaking your head. She smiles.

“Perfect. I know a place just around the corner.”

While you start to gather your things, she turns your cup in her hand, reading the scrawl of black sharpie on the side. “Y/n?” She says your name like she’s testing the feel of it in her mouth, giving it a taste. Her eyes flit up to yours again. “I’m Lily.”

171 notes · View notes

aemondsbabe · 1 year ago

Text

From Ashes, Fire | Claimant Pt 3

summary: dragons take what they want, you and your brother are no different. but what will be left to burn in the name of happiness?

pairing: dark!aemond x sister!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark aemond, angst, angst but happy ending, very cersei/jaime coded moment that's all i'll say, major character death, noncanonical death, very brief descriptions of injury, blood, i promise it's nothing graphic, reader turns to the dark side lol, piv sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), minor breeding kink, possessive aemond, possessive reader, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 8.3k oops

a/n: this is it, the grand finale! i had so much fun with this series and i hope y'all enjoy the last bit!

gif creds to @aemondtargaryensource

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🔪read part 1 and part 2 here!

❤️my masterlist

🦋find me on ao3!

🌟add yourself to my taglist!

"Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty."

“Jaehaera, please,” Helaena’s voice is gentle and melodic even as she scolds her daughter, pointing at one of the straw-stuffed dolls in her tiny hands, “You must share with your brother; how about you let him play with the knight, hm?”

One of Maelor’s little fists wraps tightly around your pointer finger as you chuckle at the displeased frown on the toddler’s face when she shoves the doll in Jaehaerys’s direction, though her lips quickly lift into a smile at her mother’s praise.

“Good, that’s very sweet of you,” your sister smiles, watching her eldest two children play, sitting cross-legged beside them on the plush blanket she’d had spread out on the grass.

A cool breeze blows through the grassy field while you idly look around at the many red tents and campfires, observing the groups of people gathered around – knights sat at one of the many wooden tables, a few servants peel vegetables brought from the Keep, and various nobles, lady’s maids, and other court patrons shuffle about.

Taking a deep breath, you turn your face toward the sun, cooler now as day turns to evening, and savor the first moment of peace you’ve had in nearly a week. The days since your marriage to Jace have been… eventful, to say the least, with each new duty feeling like another stab to your already fragile heart. Respite hadn’t even found you in the night, each one spent fending off your new husband’s advances with excuses of your menstrual flux having come early, headaches, and various other ailments. He was getting anxious, you could tell – each night he pushed back a little more, arguing the importance of consummating the marriage, reminding you of the vows you had both uttered in the Sept.

But how can a vow mean much if the Gods know it was only ever a lie?

You had felt your mother’s eyes on you at every turn, watching you and your brother like a hawk. Though as the days progressed her fiery stare cooled to one of guilt – a penance for subjecting you to the same fate that had befallen her. You suspected that was why she and Rhaenyra had organized this little trip; a celebratory hunt they’d called it, to commemorate the rift between your two families finally being healed.

“Dear, dear wife,” your oldest brother slurs, goblet clutched in one hand as he staggers toward you and Helaena, groaning when he flops down on the bench next to you. “Oh, you look… ravishing,” your lips quirk up into a smirk as he drapes an arm around your shoulders, giggling and making faces at Maelor.

“What did I tell you,” your sister says through a huff of laughter, violet eyes finding yours, “They ignore you until they’re drunk.”

If only that were the case, you think as you force yourself to laugh in time with her.

“That is quite rude,” Aegon chastises, brows furrowed in offense while he takes a messy swig of wine, a few red drops run down his chin. “Do you see how she treats me?” He pouts, leaning closer to you with a wry grin, “The deed is done though, yes? Bastard knew where to put it?”

“Aegon!” Helaena hisses, swatting at his knee.

The two fall into a playful round of bickering, thankfully leaving you out of it. With a sigh, you let your gaze wander again, tumbling thoughts muffling your siblings voices.

“It’s not as hard as it looks, here,” Daemon’s voice catches your attention and you watch as he points a knife at the belly of a deer he and Lucerys had hunted earlier in the day, showing the boy where to cut, “Get your knife in there – good, like that, and now just cut downwards, one clean movement…” You glance away as blood spills from the beast’s abdomen, staining the grass below it.

Looking over the treeline, you try to ignore the sick feeling building in the pit of your stomach, though you know it won’t be settled until Aemond’s back at camp. Biting at your lip, you let out an irritated huff when you can’t make out any movement in the distance, no sign of your brother or Ser Criston, even your husband.

You’d only spoken to Aemond once since your marriage – a hushed conversation hidden away in an alcove when the two of you had a spare moment alone after supper. He’d held you while you’d cried against the crook of his neck, shushing you and running a soothing hand up and down your back. You remember the way his jaw felt, teeth clenched as he rested it atop your head, letting you tuck yourself into him while he vibrated with barely contained rage.

“I can’t do this, I can’t,” you lamented, peering up at him with a mournful sob as your fingers clung to the dark jacket he wore, “They’re planning on going back to Dragonstone! Dragonstone, Aem!”

“Shh, little one,” his hands had cupped your cheeks, wiped away your tears with calloused thumbs, “I’m not letting them take you.”

His words had held such conviction, you’d wanted nothing more than to believe him, yet you’d shaken your head anyway. “I don’t think there’s any stopping them, this time,” your breath had hitched with each word, “You heard Rhaenyra, they’re leaving as soon as we’re back from the hunt and she would never agree to leave Jacaerys here, never.”

You had known you were spiraling, head spinning as you’d looked up at him, and yet the words tumbled out anyway. “I hate him, I wish he’d just… just disappear!” It was a childish little jab and yet, your heart had leapt into your throat the moment you’d said it. You were expecting to feel the clawing ache of guilt gnaw at your stomach, however, a weightlessness followed. You’d never felt lighter than in that moment – tucked away in the shadows, a secret you’d harbored since childhood finally set free.

Aemond had stayed quiet, but you saw the way his violet eye sparkled, the gears turning in his head.

Your words had echoed in his head, calling out to him like a siren’s song – the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

Finally convinced that the three men are truly not just going to materialize at the edge of camp, your gaze shifts to where your mother and Rhaenyra sit, huddled together beside one of the many firepits. Bouncing little Maelor on your lap, you’re vaguely aware of Aegon and Helaena idly chatting beside you, something to do with how your brother believes some such thing about the Small Council is a waste of time – a frequent complaint of his since taking the throne.

You’re hardly listening though, head cocked to the side while you watch the two women laughing and animatedly conversing; they remind you of the young girls at court – youthful and carefree, too wrapped up in one another to notice much around them.

That’s why she let them go together, that shadowy voice in the back of your head hisses, Too distracted to know better. You clench your jaw, only halfway aware of the stinging pain at your cuticle as you dig a nail into it.

“What say you to accompanying me on a hunt, nephew?” Aemond had asked earlier in the afternoon, voice low as he slunk over to where you, Jace, and your mothers had been sitting at one of the wooden tables, picking through a light lunch the cooks at the Keep had prepared.

“Aemond,” Alicent had sighed wearily, leaning heavily on her elbows while Rhaenyra regarded your brother with a cool indifference – evidently unaware of your family’s tensions.

“What? I merely wish to bond with my dearest sister’s new husband.”

“Uncle,” Jace had finally spoken up, pointedly grasping one of your hands that had sat on the table, “As much as I would love to accompany you, don’t you think it a bit unwise for only the two of us to go? If I remember correctly from my youth, your father used to take a whole host of men into the woods with him…”

“Do you not think yourself man enough to take on a measly buck, nephew?”

“Aemond!”

“Don’t fret, mother. ‘Twas only a joke, a tasteless one, I admit,” your hackles had raised at that, at how quickly he had stood down, so wholly unlike your brother, “Besides, I’ve taken the liberty of asking Ser Criston to accompany us as well.”

It was then, at the mention of the knight, that Rhaenyra had leaned closer to Alicent, the two of them laughing softly and sharing knowing glances while your half-sister whispered into her ear.

“Surely the three of us are more than capable of subduing a deer or two, don’t you think?”

Jace had balked at that, sighing heavily as his grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly.

“I think it sounds like a wonderful idea,” you had coached your lips into a tight smile when you interjected, “Doesn’t that sound like a lovely idea, mother?”

“Hm?” She had blinked, finally parting from Rhaenyra, the ghost of a smile still on her lips.

“For Ser Criston to accompany Jace and Aemond, to go hunting with them.”

“Well, I –”

“Surely that would be safest, yes?” You pushed, glancing at Jace before locking eyes with Aemond, “A knight with them, a Kingsguard no less.”

“I think it sounds like a fine idea,” Rhaenyra had smiled, squeezing one of your mother’s hands, “They should take the time to bond, no? Savor it while we’re together these last few days.”

“Yes… yes, a fine idea,” she had immediately agreed, always swaying to your half-sister.

“Wonderful,” your brother murmured, a slow smile spreading across his lips as he clasped his arms behind his back, “I’ll have Ser Criston ready the horses.” With that, he had stalked away, giving you one final glance.

“You truly think this a good idea?” Your husband had questioned, turning to you while your mothers got lost in yet another hushed conversation.

“Of course!” You had nodded, clasping one of his hands in both of yours, “Aemond is… odd with his affections. This is just his way of attempting to rectify things, I’m sure of it.”

“I suppose…,” he had sighed, running a hand through his dark hair.

“It’ll be fine,” you had urged, going so far as to lean over and press a kiss against his cheek, one of the scant few times you had initiated any affections.

Those words had echoed in your head while you watched the three men sheath their swords and load various bows and arrows onto their horses, the midday sun suddenly feeling much too warm against your skin.

It’ll be fine, you had reminded yourself for the millionth time when they set off, horses galloping along a narrow path that led into the Kingswood, He’s not letting them take me, it’ll be fine.

“Oh, shit,” Aegon whispers beside you, nearly dropping his goblet.

You quickly follow his eyeline, looking to where he stares at one of the small paths that lead into the camp – the sight wrenching a hitched gasp from your throat.

A hush seems to fall over the entirety of the camp, only for the quickest of seconds, before chaos erupts. Aemond stands before one of the horses, a grey one you recognize as Jace’s, steadying it while Criston pulls your husband from the saddle, smearing the side of the animal with thick streaks of red.

Daemon quickly runs over to assist while you hastily hand Maelor back to Helaena, hardly looking in her direction as you do.

“Jace? Jacaerys?!” Rhaenyra calls, picking up her skirts as she sprints over, violet eyes wide with terror, “What is it? What’s happened?”

Every noise sounds muffled when you make your way over to the huddle of commotion, Alicent following closely behind. A strange detached sensation fills you while you watch Criston and Daemon lay Jace down on a nearby bench, blood immediately soaking into the silk fabric of the pillows.

It feels as if everything is happening both too quickly and too slowly all at once – a few of the other knights rush forward, hastily pulling his tunic out of the way before pressing stark white medical linens to the gaping cut on his side. They bark orders over his body, yelling for the servants to bring water and more linens.

You feel your mother and Helaena grabbing at your arms and it’s only then you realize you’re shaking, swaying in place like a leaf on a branch; you know they’re talking to you but their words are dulled by the rushing of blood in your ears.

Somewhere in your periphery, you register the sound of Daemon’s voice, thick with desperation as he shouts question after question at Criston, “What happened? When? How? How long ago? How could you, you were supposed to protect him?!” They blend together, echoing through the haze in a roaring hum.

Distantly, you register the feel of another warm body pressing into the small pack you find yourself a part of. Helaena shushes someone next to you and your gaze tears itself away from the pools of crimson gathering on the grass just long enough to realize that it’s Luke. Your heart breaks at that, a sharp pang in your chest at the fact that the poor boy is distressed enough to seek comfort from your family, of all places.

“No! No, no, no!” Rhaenyra’s wails slice through the fog clouding your mind in such an exacting manner that your knees buckle, “Jace, Jace, look at me, please? Sweetling, please look at me!” She sobs, leaning over her son, one hand cradling his cheek.

Unseeing brown eyes stare, unblinking, up at the hazy orange sky while yours focus solely on a single, paralyzing flash of violet.

He’s not letting them take me, it’ll be fine.

The Sept is eerily quiet, normal for this time of night but unsettling all the same; the occasional fizzling noises of the dozens of flickering candles is the only way you’re able to discern that time hasn’t simply halted. Pale moonlight shines in through the windows, bathing the floor in a star-shaped pool of light and making the whites of the painted eyes resting atop Jace’s face glow like beacons.

You had picked out the stones and painted the eyes on them yourself, taking them from a spot in the gardens you knew he had favored when you were children and spent hours sourcing the pigments to make just the right shade of brown – one that reminded you of the rich chocolates that had been imported from Essos for your betrothal feast.

“A wife’s duty,” your mother had said.

Rhaenyra had glared at you the whole time; silently, you wondered if she somehow knew it wasn’t duty that drove you – only atonement.

Atonement, your mind echoes as you sit upon the cool stone steps beneath the Seven-Pointed Star, leaning your head against the bannister as you force yourself to look at his body, still atop black silks.

Must one feel guilt to atone? Must I atone for not feeling it? When will it end?

Those questions had plagued you in the days since Jace died, bled out like a hunter’s boon in the field by the Kingswood. They’d settled over you like a fever, an ever-present haunting ache, made only worse by the soft, sinful voice in the back of your head that whispered the truth – that you didn’t care, that you don’t even now.

You hadn’t cared, even as blood seeped from the gash at his side, even as you forced yourself to kneel by his still warm body and press gentle kisses to his forehead – the performance of a good wife.

You hadn’t cared in the carriage ride back to the Keep, letting your mother and your sister hold you while you cried – I’m sad, I’m sad, I’m crying because I’m sad, I’m crying because I should be sad.

And you hadn’t cared when Aemond had come to you in the dead of night, had slipped into your chambers – your chambers – through one of the many hidden passageways in the old castle.

“How?” You had asked, tracing patterns onto the pale skin of his bare chest while the two of you laid tangled in your silk sheets.

“A boar,” he answered plainly, speaking through a sigh while running his fingers over the thigh you had draped across his hips, “Just as I’ve told you the last four times you’ve asked.”

“Aemond,” you sighed in that same tired tone your mother so often used; your eyes had narrowed when you saw the corner of his lips just barely twitch up into a smile; were it any other time, he would’ve made a cheeky comment about the similarity.

“I’ve told you,” his grip tightened ever so slightly on your thigh and his other hand had grasped at your chin, guiding your eyes to his, “We had been tracking a buck, had gotten close and dismounted our horses, and had, I assume, stumbled into the beast’s territory and it charged at us.”

“Brother,” you had whispered, shaking your head and cupping his cheek, “Have you forgotten that I can tell when you lie?”

He had stayed silent for a long while at that, jaw clenched while he stared at some point off in the distance, lips drawn into a tight line. Eventually, you had laid your head down, resting your cheek on his shoulder while you tried to accept that you wouldn’t be getting the truth that night, if ever.

It was only then that he had spoken.

“Please, let me protect you.”

“Protect me?” You had looked up, brows furrowed as you studied his face, “From what?”

“From the law –”

“Our brother is king, if he says it was not murder, if he says it was an accident, which he already has done, then no one will question his –”

“Fine, then,” he had snapped, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, “From the damn Gods! I…” He trailed off, sighing heavily while he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“... the Gods?”

He’d finally looked at you again and your heart had pinched meanly in your chest when you saw tears gathering in his violet eye, “They will judge me harshly for what I’ve done, whenever the time comes, but… I will not subject you to the same fate.”

You had scoffed at that, had rolled your eyes when he looked away shamefully and had climbed atop him then, straddled his hips and turned his face toward yours, “I don’t give a shit about the Gods.”

“What?”

“I don’t,” you repeated, leaning down until your forehead touched his, “If they were good Gods, if they cared, they would not have subjected me to that sham of a marriage in the first place. They would’ve guided our mother rightly, but they didn’t.”

“Sister, I –”

“And I hate that our nephew paid for that, Aemond, I truly do, but I am the one who told you to do it.”

He had shaken his head while a mournful peal of laughter clawed its way out of his throat, “You didn’t tell me to do any–”

“Perhaps not directly,” you interjected, smiling sadly while you cupped both of his cheeks in your hands, running a thumb over the scar beneath his eye, “But I did. I could’ve told you not to, could’ve said I didn’t mean it, could’ve cautioned our mother against letting him go with you, but… I didn’t.”

“No… no, I suppose you didn’t,” he sighed, swallowing thickly as he tried in vain to blink away tears.

“I didn’t,” you echoed, your words hushed and cooed, like a mother soothing an infant, “I know what you’re capable of, I knew it then, and I didn’t.”

He nodded, his breath stuttered in his throat as a single tear rolled down his cheek.

“Because I knew you’d protect me… and you did.”

“I did,” he mumbled, nodding up at you as his face twisted and a small sob bubbled from his lips, “I did, I did it. I did it, I did. For you, for us.”

“I know,” you murmured sweetly, stroking a hand over his long hair while you pressed sweet kisses against his forehead. You held him as he cried, huddled together in the dark of your chambers

And you hadn’t cared when you realized you were smiling.

“The hour is quite late, little one,” the suddenness of his voice makes you jump, though you settle quickly.

“So it is,” you smile and look over your shoulder, tilting your head up while he walks down the steps to join you, “The hour of ghosts, yes? Fitting.”

He huffs as he sits beside you before regarding you with a slight smirk, “I suppose it is,” he murmurs, only sparing the red and black draped body on the altar a passing glance.

“Why are you here?”

“I was looking for you… Hel said you would probably be here.”

“Mm,” you nod, idly running a finger over the pattern on your skirts, finding a morbid sort of beauty in the way the rich black silks glimmered in the candlelight.

“Why are you here?” Aemond asks, eye following the line of your profile.

“Praying.”

Without looking, you can practically feel him rolling his eye beside you, huffing a little breathy laugh again, “Have you forgotten that I can tell when you lie, sweet sister?”

Hearing your own words from the night before parroted back to you pulls a laugh from you as well, though you wince as your giggle echoes throughout the Sept. “It’s funny,” you sigh, glancing about the cavernous space before finally looking at him, “This is the only place where no one wants to be.”

He hums next to you and nods his head, lets the two of you sit in silence for a moment before you continue.

“I don’t have to pretend when I’m here.”

“Pretend?”

Biting at your bottom lip, you nod and lean into his touch when he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “That I’m sad… that I feel anything, really,” you sigh, breathing the words more so than saying them, “All Rhaenyra does is cry, Daemon is ready to strangle anything that moves, Lucerys is despondent to the point of being mute. Even our own mother cries for him and I cannot muster a single tear that isn’t a farce.”

Your eyes trail back over to Jace and you regard him with a mournful stare, staying silent for a long moment as you try to will yourself to feel sad, to feel angry, to feel guilty… yet nothing comes.

“Everyone grieves differently,” Aemond mumbles beside you, though his words only serve to make you more bitter, “Perhaps, in time –”

“In time nothing will happen,” you snap, grimacing at the harshness in your voice, “I’m not sad and I am… I’m tired of pretending I am.” You murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder.

Aemond is quiet for a long while, though you can feel the energy radiating off of him in waves – you’ve always been able to tell when he has a lot on his mind. You’re content to simply let him think, taking his silence as a cue that it’s your turn to let him sort through things.

“You… are happy, though? Yes?” He finally asks after several long minutes, going strangely rigid next to you as if he’s afraid of your answer, “I know you say you aren’t sad but…”

“Aemond,” you sigh, sitting up and staring at him as a slow, creeping smile spreads across your face, “I have never been happier.”

“Truly?”

“Yes!” You quickly shift yourself on the stairs, turning yourself more toward him and placing a gentle hand on top of his thigh, “Big brother, you saved me.”

He opens his mouth to speak but you don’t let him get a word in edgewise before the emotions you’ve been bottling up over the last few days finally spill over and you practically throw yourself into his lap, straddling his hips.

“Brother, I've been tethered to him since I was eight and you have freed me from that,” you say softly, voice hardly carrying in the air. Slowly, carefully you pull his eyepatch off, the only one ever allowed to do so; there is a sadness in your smile when you gently trail your fingers over the crease of his scar, “We both lost something that night and have suffered for it ever since.”

Without another word, you press your lips to his and savor the groan your kiss pulls from him. His hands grab at your hips in the same instance yours card through his hair while your lips move together in a practiced rhythm.

Impatient, one of your hands travels down his chest and stomach, though you hardly have time to pull at the hem of his dark tunic before he grabs your wrist, stopping you.

“Aemond,” you huff, fighting against his grip.

“Surely you don’t mean to defile this place in such a way,” he murmurs, violet eye sparkling as if he were challenging you, even as he glances over your shoulder, “What would your dear husband think?

You grin at the lecherous smirk on his lips, heart pounding in your chest as a familiar ache settles at the apex of your thighs. You give one final glance over your shoulder before turning back to him with a dismissive shrug. “Husband in name only,” you remind him, yanking your hand out of his grasp and trailing your fingers over the growing bulge beneath his trousers, “I have only ever been devoted to you.”

A rough growl leaves his lips and he clenches his jaw, narrowing his eye. “We will burn for this, sweet sister,” he huffs, pale cheeks flushing while he stares up at you, one hand still settled on your hip as the other comes up to cup your jaw.

“The Seven can have their say,” your cunt clenches at the way he looks at you – surprise, lust, even reverence giving such an intensity to his gaze that it nearly knocks the wind from your lungs, “The Old Valyrian Gods can as well, I don’t care. Aemond, I don’t.”

Your hand finally, blessedly, pulls free the ties at the top of his trousers and you quickly find his length. The sharp grunt that’s wrenched from his throat when your hand wraps around it echoes through the Sept, each iteration of it making the fire in your belly burn brighter and brighter.

He doesn’t attempt to stop you when you plunge a hand beneath the fabric of your black skirts and hastily tug your smallclothes out of the way, he merely studies you in awe, as if watching a newly hatched dragon spread its wings for the first time. His gaze makes you shiver, though you dare not look away.

“What do you care about, little one?” He murmurs suddenly, unable to help himself from glancing between your bodies, licking his lips while he watches you use your fingers to prepare yourself as you rub your own slick through your folds.

“You,” you whisper, shuddering at the way you both gasp at the same time when you rut against his already throbbing length, “You are the only god I’ve ever worshiped, big brother.”

A loud groan bursts free of his lips at that and the hunger in his eye nearly catches you alight, and yet he still grabs at your hips tightly, preventing you from sinking onto his length – so out of his element, wholly unused to being taken in such a way. “Come, let us go to my chambers,” he tries, breathing your name against your neck as he leans up, “Where I can take you properly, hm? No risk of anyone interrupting…”

Undeterred, you simply shake your head and lean forward, pressing your lips against his in an eager, near feral kiss. It’s mostly teeth and tongues and thankfully, it’s enough to shock him into loosening his grip, just enough for you to take what you want. You bite at his bottom lip when you sink down onto his length, hard enough to taste iron, making him growl into the kiss, the sound of it deepening to a low groan at the feel of your tight cunt around him.

The feel of his cock stretching you open somehow only gets better each time and leaves you gasping in his lap, your hands grabbing at his shoulders for leverage while you begin grinding yourself against him, impatient and ravenous. “Ohh, f-fuck,” you curse, squeezing your eyes shut while your walls flutter around him.

Aemond’s chest heaves under your hands while he stares up at you, lips parted ever so slightly as breathy groans spill, unbidden, from them. Opening your eyes, your gaze is immediately drawn to a little smear of red beside his mouth and you lean forward – licking his pale skin clean without a second thought.

“Little minx,” he smirks, meanly grabbing at your hips again and bucking up into you. He huffs a soft laugh at the sharp moan that bursts from you, sounding louder still in the large open space of the Sept; there’s a dangerous, challenging gleam in his eye that makes you shiver. “Go on, then,” he rasps, trailing a hand up from your hip to cup the underside of your breast, his touch warm even through the bodice of your gown, “Worship your god.”

A soft, stuttered moan wrenches itself from your lips at that and you quickly obey, staking your claim over him. As you find your rhythm, rutting wildly in his lap, the only sounds echoing off the walls are that of panted breaths and the slick, wet noises from where the two of you connect. “You’re mine,” you breathe, leaning forward to bite at his throat, determined to mark him in as many ways as possible, “Y-You’ve always been mine, Aemond.”

He nods his head, hands scrambling at the ties on your bodice, determined to free your breasts. “I’m yours?” He taunts, sighing victoriously when he finally manages to practically rip the top of your gown open; his tongue darts out, wetting his lips at the sight of them and he allows himself a few seconds to appreciate the way they bounce so enticingly with each of your determined movements, “Show me, then… show me who I belong to, sweet sister.”

Something snaps inside you then, breaking and clicking perfectly into place all in the same breath; the feeble thing that was holding the dam inside of you shut disappears. Whatever greedy darkness Aemond has always harbored within himself has been slowly seeping into you since the night of your betrothal feast and now, it seems, it has finally settled into your bones as well. It’s as if he can sense it in the same instance you do and gives a subtle nod of his head, commanding you to give in.

With renewed vigor, you grind against him harshly, pressing your hips as far down onto him as you can manage until you can feel his cock pressing against the entrance to your womb. The thought of him there, of the possibility of his seed catching, of the possibility that it may already have, spurs you on further.

“I would kill for you, too,” you say lowly through clenched teeth, licking up the side of his neck until you can whisper into his ear, “I’ll do anything to have you, my love, I don’t care what it is.”

A low groan reverberates from within his chest, both of you all but snarling as you move together; his hips rut up against yours, unable to hold still any longer, and he bites a path down your neck until he reaches the softness of your breasts. You gasp as he teases at one nipple, flicking at it with the tip of his tongue while his fingers toy with the other one, only to cut yourself off with a loud moan when his lips seal around it.

“I would burn this city to the fucking ground if that’s what… what it took, brother,” the words tumble from your lips when you card your fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head and holding him against your chest. Your head tilts down, heart pounding in your chest while you watch him savor the feel of your warm flesh in his mouth; his violet eye snaps up and his gaze bores into yours, making your cunt clutch greedily at his length.

Feeling the knot building quickly in your belly, aided by the way your sensitive pearl brushes against the small patch of hair at the base of Aemond’s cock, you only grow more needy – craving confirmation that he is yours, that no one will be able to take him from you again. Your breath catches in your throat when you recall a conversation the two of you had had a few nights ago, the night of Jace’s death.

The two of you had been cuddled in your bed together, panting in sweat-damp sheets, when he had cupped your cheek and turned your face to his.

“What is it?” You asked, familiar with the faraway look in his eye – God’s knew where he could’ve been in that moment.

“Marry me.”

His whispered demand had knocked the air from your lungs then, the whole world may as well have come to a grinding halt on its axis. “Aemond, we must wait, you know this. I hate it as much as you do but –”

“We need to wait for a Westerosi wedding, yes,” he murmured, leaning over you and shushing you with a soft kiss, “Too soon and it looks suspicious.”

“But –”

“But… a wedding in the tradition of our house need not wait, little one,” the determination in his eye had shocked you then, had warmed you from the inside out, “Our sister and her cunt of a husband hardly waited until Laena and Laenor were cold before they married… we could do the same.”

You had stayed quiet after that, too much death and change and uncertainty clouding your mind to give him an answer, and yet you knew he was right. Rhaenyra and Daemon had married in secret, so soon after Laenor’s sudden passing that it had always seemed a bit odd to you. Yet, no one ever questioned it; your own father had accepted it without so much as a blink, writing the marriage into law with no fuss. Aegon would do the same for you, you felt certain.

Nothing was stopping you, nothing that mattered, anyway.

That thought fuels you now as you rock on Aemond’s lap, both of you barreling toward your eventual ends. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging him away from your breast despite his growl of displeasure. Just as he had with you, you cup his cheeks, focusing his attention on you.

“Marry me.”

The rhythm of his hips hitches at your words and he fucks up into you harshly, moving you more desperately against him as another loud, guttural moan echoes through the chamber.

“Tonight,” you continue, brows furrowing as you stare at him, greedily drinking him in, “I cannot wait any longer, brother, tonight, please…”

A vicious, conquering smirk grows on his lips, white teeth gleaming in the low candlelight like a snarling dog. “You wish to be mine, is that it?” He teases, reaching between your two writhing bodies to rub hungrily at your pearl, savoring the pretty breathy moans he earns.

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish speaking as an unrelenting, all consuming possessive ache starts spreading out from your heart, flowing through your blood vessels like fire. “I don’t wish it,” you pant, forehead resting against his while the wildfire burning in your belly threatens to burn you whole, “I told you, I would kill for you and… and, fuck, I swear it. A-Aemond, no one will have you ever again, never, none except me…”

Your words descend into a barely intelligible murmur as you finally let go, pushed suddenly over the edge at the thought of being so tightly bound together that no one would be able to tear the two of you apart again. Your brother growls again at the feel of your cunt pulsing around him, the movements spurring him toward his own end.

He grabs at you when he follows you into oblivion, holding you against him as if you’d disappear otherwise. The feel of his spend spilling into you, filling you, nearly sends you over the edge again and you cling to him just as harshly, holding him while he trembles beneath you.

“You are a vicious little thing,” he says softly after some minutes, holding you against his chest while the two of you catch your breaths.

“I learned from the best.”

He only sighs at that but you don’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling. “I would do it again for you,” he mumbles, eye fixed on Jace, “I would do it a thousand times over.”

He speaks in a reverent whisper, promises of death and destruction as sweet as a prayer on his lips.

Aemond’s hand is warm in yours as he leads you through the winding corridors below the Red Keep, the flickering light from the torches lining the walls making the various statues and reliefs dance in your periphery.

“I’ve always hated that he’s down here, stowed away,” he murmurs, yet his voice still carries some among the stone hallways.

“Mm,” you hum in agreement, glancing into each shadowy alcove you come across while you try to ignore the wild beating in your chest – the way your heart clenches at the thought of finally being so close to what you’ve always wanted. “Yes, he should be out in the sun, somewhere he can be celebrated.”

The old cellars under the Keep have always seemed so haunting to you, so cold and empty. The thought of the walls down here being lined with the ashen remains of generations upon generations of your ancestors had never failed to send a shiver down your spine. Yet, they unfold before you now like paradise; even the still, musty air begins to smell as sweet as honeyed wine.

For the briefest of seconds, guilt joins you – walks alongside you, invisible like the Stranger. A stuttered heartbeat, that’s all and then it’s gone, at the thought that Jace would join them tomorrow, still warm from Vermax’s fire.

How ironic, you think, glancing up at your brother and admiring the way the light gleams on his sapphire eye, That a place that holds so much death would be where our lives finally begin.

“I don’t want to wait any longer,” you’d said again, retying your bodice while Aemond tucked himself back into his trousers and searched for his eyepatch.

“Nor do I,” he agreed, stuffing the small scrap of fabric into a pocket – the streets of King’s Landing would be deserted enough at this time of night that he could get away without wearing it. “Tensions are bound to rise after tomorrow, after everything is said and done; I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

You had nodded and followed him out of the Sept, through one of the many old, forgotten tunnels that only a scant few knew existed, the list of which definitely didn’t include the guards stationed at the front of the building who had escorted your carriage earlier that evening.

While he had helped you onto the back of his horse, the two of you shared a knowing look, each of you already thinking the same thing.

Turning down one final corridor, your heart thuds in your chest as you’re finally met with Balerion’s petrifying gaze and, just like every other time you’d been in his presence, a little huff of reverence leaves you. Your eyes dance over the rows of his razor sharp teeth, gleaming in the glow of dozens of candles, and you can’t help but imagine the horrors those jaws have inflicted, the pain they wrought while subduing the continent – all in your family’s name.

“Targaryens have always taken what we’ve wanted,” Aemond murmurs beside you, staring up at the gargantuan skull with just as much respect as you are, “Tamed our desires in fields of fire.”

“And rivers of blood,” you turn your heads at the same time, soft smiles on your lips when your eyes meet, like you’re sharing sweet words of love rather than painting pictures of horrors.

Perhaps that is what wrath is for us, you wonder, your eyes flicking between violet and sapphire when you turn toward your brother, What is death if not the sweetest of devotions?

He takes your hands in his, glancing down when your fingers intertwine before looking back up at you; you can feel yourself blushing under his intense gaze, heart squeezing in your chest as he looks at you like that in and of itself is an honor. There’s such softness in his eye, you would think him incapable of violence if you didn’t know better.

“You truly wish for this?” He questions one last time, needing to be sure.

“I’ve told you, I do not wish,” your hands squeeze his, “I need this, Aemond… I would kill for you, for this – for us. Anything, just as you did.”

Your voice trembles when you speak, the intensity of your hushed promises making your head spin because you would. The want you feel, that you have always felt, is not some soft yearning thing. It’s not so simple as some mere whisper uttered in the dead of night at a holy altar while your skin is awash with the glow of candlelight, no.

No, your want is something far more insidious – something deep-seated. An oppressive, clinging thing that has always coaxed you further and further down into that shadowy part of yourself; the part that has always reminded you too much of him.

The demon, lurking in your periphery, that has always begged you to look, has tempted you since childhood with the sweetest of promises, finally rejoices.

Aemond nods, a satisfied smile pulling at the corner of his lips, and you watch as he lets go of one of your hands to unsheath his dagger. The sight of the worn leather handle makes you smile bashfully, though your core clenches all the same, and you gasp when you feel another drop of his seed soak into your smallclothes.

“You know the words?”

Again, he nods and your head cocks to the side curiously when a wash of pink grows on his pale cheeks; he smiles again and fixes you with that same intense stare. “I used to spend hours reading them, over and over, when we were children,” he whispers, leaning closer to you like he’s revealing some deep, dark secret, “I always wanted to get them perfect for you.”

A little peal of laughter echoes through the cellars before you swallow thickly, trying to tamper the tightness at the back of your throat as the backs of your eyes sting, tears pooling in your waterline. He cups your cheek and you smile when he brushes one away, a pleased hum leaves his lips when you nod.

Aemond raises the dagger, glancing between its shining blade and your lips while you ready yourself, one hand clenching at the black silk of your skirts. “I’ll be gentle,” he promises.

You hold stock-still, gasping when he presses the cool edge of it against your lower lip, yet your eyes don’t leave his when he finally cuts – nicking your delicate flesh just enough to draw blood before offering you the dagger. Grasping it, you mirror his steps exactly, just as careful with him.

Setting the dagger to the side, you both reach up at the same time, swiping a thumb over your own lip before reaching out. Your arms intertwine when you brush each other’s foreheads, leaving behind two crimson lines.

His gaze never breaks from yours as he takes the blade again and carefully cuts his palm, holding it out to you again and waiting while you do the same, gasping at the sharp sting. Finally, the two of you join hands, blood mingling together as a few drops of it splatter on the stone floor as Balerion bears witness to your union.

“Hen lantoti ānogar, va syndroti vāedroma, mēro perzot gīhoti, elēdroma iārza sīr,” he recites, murmuring the words with care, making sure to enunciate each syllable, to make the vows unmistakeable to whichever ghosts may be listening, “Izulī ampā perzī, prūmī lanti sēteksi, hen jeny māzīlarion,” (Blood of two, joined as one, ghostly flame, and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires, a future promised in glass.)

Aemond pauses, taking a breath as he squeezes your hand with his, echoing your smile.

“Qēlossa ozūndesi, syndroro ōñō jēdo, ry kīvia mazvestraksi,” he finishes, all but breathing the last few words as his eye grows misty. (The stars stand witness, the vow spoken through time, of darkness and light.)

The two of you stand still for a moment like you’re waiting for the world to crash down around you and you can feel his heart beating in time with yours as your palms press together, both of you seemingly in shock at finally, finally having everything you’ve ever wanted.

You can’t tell who moves first but suddenly you’re crashing against him, dagger clanging as it hits the floor, while the two of you clutch at one another desperately, uncaring of the blood smearing on your clothes.

Your lips press against his like they’re a lifeline and you moan at the touch, swiping your tongue over his while you grab at the lapels of his jacket. His hands cup your cheeks, staining one with red, before carding through your hair.

“Gods,” he groans, resting his forehead against yours while the two of you pant, breathing out soft laughs. “My little wife…” He says the word slowly, lets it drag over his tongue.

“Husband,” you reply between soft kisses to his cheek, head spinning at how a word that once had to be dragged from you, that had scraped against your skin like thorns, now felt like silk slipping cooly over you.

Your brother growls deep in his chest and his eye flutters shut for a second before his hands are at your waist again and he’s walking you backwards, only a few paces, until you’re pressed against one of the stone columns surrounding the great dragon’s skull. Though your landing is soft, it wrenches a gasp from you all the same but you don’t have time to question his intent before his lips are on yours again.

You moan into the kiss, matching each of his deep groans with one of your own as your tongues tangle together. “Aemond,” you pant when he begins trailing kisses down across your jaw and neck, “What –”

He nips at your cleavage then and you can feel him smirking at the loud whine he pulls from you, soothing the skin after with a sweet kiss before sinking to his knees before you. The sight is enough to make you weak – the man that loves you more than eternity itself, who loves you enough to do terrible, monstrous things, kneeling at your feet and staring up at you like you are his salvation.

Your hands tangle in his soft hair while he pulls at your skirts, pushing them up and out of the way, kissing your thighs as he goes. “You had the chance to worship at your altar, sweetest little wife,” he pants, groaning when he pushes your smallclothes to the side and licking his lips at the sight of your cunt, still wet with your combined spend, “Now let me worship at mine.”

That’s the only warning you get before he dives in, lapping at your center with a loud, satiated growl. Your head thuds back against the column while your eyes are fixed, half-lidded, on Balerion, on the fire that surrounds him.

You understand, then – the curtains of fire that blanketed the continent were necessary to conquer it, just as blood was necessary to bind the two of you. Perhaps one day you’ll be called to answer for that, but even then you would do it a thousand times over; even if the dark, shadowy parts of yourself, of him, lead to the deepest pits of the Seven Hells. You would do it, again and again, for him.

You were always meant to burn together.

thank you for taking the time to read! hope you enjoyed! :)

consider adding yourself to my tag list or check out my works on ao3!

427 notes · View notes

jobean12-blog · 1 year ago

Text

Promise Me

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader

Word Count: 1,080

Summary: Joel is not happy when he finds out you left to go search for something and didn't tell him...

Author's Note: Just a little angry (but soft always) Joel because he's overly protective and needs you to be ok. Thank you so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the sweet @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: some angsty bits here and there but only bc Joel is protective and you're his, softness, spicyness and some fluff

Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist

Joel shoots to his feet with a string of grumbled expletives, intending to go out and start his second search of the day when he hears the sound of soft footfalls on the stairs.

His heart starts to beat wildly as he waits to see who’s at the door. It opens to reveal you, looking as beautiful as ever, and with that his anger reaches its boiling point.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Your entire body startles with a strangled scream and you drop something to the floor. You back up against the wall and search for some light, finally noticing him seconds later.

“Oh my god Joel! Are you crazy?”

Some of his anger deflates at your panicked tone, but not all.

“I’m not the crazy one! Crazy would be leaving for half the damn day and not tellin’ me where you’re off to!”

With a scoff you reach down to pick up what fell from your hands. “I didn’t know I had to report all my comings and goings to you!”

His chest heaves with his labored breathing and he steps closer.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” he warns.

You stay silent as you stuff the contents of your hand into your jacket pocket, trying to skirt past him and into the small space you call home.

He’s had enough, stopping your progress with a firm hand on your waist.

He spins you around until you’re caged against the counter, his arms resting on either side of you, and leans in close.

“Where. The. Hell. Have. You. Been? I’m not goin’ to ask again darlin’.”

You get right in his face.

“I went looking for something ok! And I found it. And I’m fine.”

His eyes sweep over you, assessing you so closely you feel stripped bare.

He doesn’t move away but heaves a yielding sigh of your name.

Your expression softens with a frown and when his head drops toward his chest you tentatively reach for his jaw, pressing your fingers to the patchy scruff to lift his eyes to yours again.

“Joel?”

“I...,” he starts quietly. “I thought somethin’ happened to you!,” he says, much louder now.

His agonized eyes meet yours and after a moment’s hesitation, he speaks again.

“Believe it or not, I care about you. More than you know. The last few hours have been pure hell, darlin.’ You think it’s funny to scare the shit out of me?”

“No,” you answer quietly. “I don’t think it’s funny and I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Then why were you gone all day angel?” he demands.

“Well…I,” you begin hesitantly, then blow out a breath. “I wanted to find some crayons! I found a coloring book the other day but I have no crayons! It took longer than I expected. I thought I would be back before you even missed me.”

When he just stares at you blankly you continue talking, your voice barely above a whisper when you ask, “do you want to color with me?”

He remains quiet and you add, “I’m sorry.”

He nods and slides his hand into your pocket, carefully pulling out the worn box of crayons.

“All that for some crayons?” he muses softly.

“I love to color,” you say with a small shrug. “Don’t be mad.”

Resolute in his anger he doesn’t reply but keeps you caged in, his eyes dropping to your lips.

With tentative movements you brush the fallen hair from his forehead and trace the line of his jaw before pressing a kiss just under his ear.

“I promise I won’t do it again.”

Another kiss, this time lingering on his neck.

He can feel his defenses slipping and against his better judgement he leans into your touch, the feel of you threatening to completely topple his anger.

Your hands start to trail down his chest toward his stomach but he grasps them, dragging you into his embrace.

“Say it again,” he growls. “Promise me you’ll never leave me like that. Never again.”

“I promise Joel.”

He brings your hand to his mouth, kissing the inside of your wrist then letting the other hand slide down your back, satisfied when your breath hitches in your throat.

“Good,” he murmurs, pressing you against his body, lining you up with every inch of him.

A roll of his hips lets you feel his need and your eyes close, parting on a moan.

“Are you still mad?” you ask. “We could color? It might help you relax.”

His head dips slowly, his warm breath fanning your lips before he closes the distance and cuts off your surprised gasp with his mouth. He grabs the back of your neck and commands the kiss, only deepening it when you bite his bottom lip.

His possessive growl is followed by a question spoken directly against your parted, swollen lips.

“Do you see what you do to me?”

His breath shudders in and out, sounding loud in the quietness surrounding you. He works open the button of your jeans, then slips his big hand down the inside of your panties.

“Next time you need somethin’ you come to me,” he says. “I’ll give you everything you need.”

Your head rolls back and your eyelashes flutter against your cheek, your breathy affirmation driving his fingers right where you want them.

He leans down and brushes his lips to the shell of your ear.

“I protect what’s mine.”

The next morning, by the soft glow of the rising sun, you sit on the makeshift bed, your back to Joel’s chest and your knees pulled up with the coloring book resting on them.

“I forgot how small these things are.”

You study his hand. Long, thick fingers dwarfing the green crayon held between them.

“Nah. Your hands are just really big,” you purr. “And I lo…”

“Yeah, yeah. I know angel. You love ‘em.”

“I love, love, love them!” you exclaim, feeling his light chuckle.

You snuggle closer to his warmth and rest your head back along his chest.

“You have to stay inside the lines,” you playfully chide.

“Well, it’s not that easy from this position!” he shoots back.

“I can move over here…”

He tightens his grip, not allowing you to move an inch out of his arms.

“Don’t. I need to keep you close.”

“Forever?” you ask with a giggle.

He gently grasps your chin and tilts your head back to meet his eyes, his expression fierce.

“Forever angel.”

@hiddles-rose @lizette50 @kmc1989 @lorilane33 @blackwidownat2814 @littleseasiren

#joel miller x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #pedro pascal x reader #tlou

790 notes · View notes

kwanisms · 9 months ago

Text

Kinktober 「10:16」 — s.changbin

» stray kids menu | changbin menu | kinktober masterlist «

➮ werebear!Changbin × fem!Reader wc: 4.1k summary: Changbin just wanted to have a nice camping trip with his girlfriend but she has other ideas. genres/themes/au: fluff, smut; supernatural, horror, thriller; non idol au, monster idol au warnings: adult dialogue, female reader, supernatural and horror themes, mentions of: fishing, cleaning said fish, camping, storms, food & alcohol consumption; sexual content (18+ mdni), see smut warnings under the cut! taglist has been moved to reblogs join my taglists! kinktober taglist is CLOSED! Strikethrough means I cannot tag you. MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. AGELESS BLOGS WILL ALSO BE BLOCKED.

a/n: so this one is a follow up to last years (which I just posted and I’m sorry about that lol) but werebear!Changbin lives rent free in my head. I love the concept but tbh any werecreature concept for Changbin is so good and I will die on this hill. Thank you for reading! The next one is a Seventeen one with a certain maknae. So please look forward to that! Thank you for reading and as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only.

smut warnings: teratophilia (aka monsterfucking), outdoor sex (it's fucking in tents lol i'll see myself out), strength kink, oral (m receiving, f receiving), deepthroating, fingering (f receiving), protected sex (do this. Use protection like them), use of pet names (hers: baby, babe, etc.; his: babe, Binnie, bear, etc.), soft dom!Changbin, switch!Reader, that should be all but let me know if I missed something! kinks: Outdoor sex + strength kink dialogue prompt: ❛❛ I cannot possibly focus with your damn hand in my- ❜❜

═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════

This wasn’t exactly how he envisioned his camping trip with his girlfriend going but Changbin wasn’t complaining, not when you looked so pretty on top of him, taking his cock like it was made for you and you alone.

The trip had started out innocent enough, driving to the national park where Changbin often went camping on his own. This was the first time he was taking you with him and he had been beyond ecstatic to show you around his stomping ground.

Your initial worry of running into something dangerous dissipated quickly when Changbin reminded you that it wasn’t the wolves, or the bears, or the big cats that were the scariest thing in the forest. It was him.

Not long after the fateful night you gave yourselves to each other, Changbin told you the truth. He was plagued with a curse that often left him irritable, standoffish, and withdrawn once a month: he was a werebear. It came as a shock and at first, you tried to play it off but the more he explained, the more everything started to make sense.

His terrible mood swings that always seemed to happen once a month, and always around the full moon. His unexplainable illness that also accompanied his irritability. The inexplicable display of strength he showed that night and ever since. It wasn’t until your first full moon with him that you truly understood.

He’d taken you with him, ensuring you would be safe as he locked himself in a shed, hidden deep within the woods, deeper than you thought anyone would normally venture and well off the beaten path. He’d shown you the truth and while the thought of it terrified you, there was an undeniable attraction to the raw show of strength he exhibited when he nearly tore the bars from the windows of his makeshift cell.

Since then, you’d been by his side, thankful he chose to share that side of him with you so that you would not only know what you were getting yourself into but also because it meant he trusted you with his secret. Your relationship with Changbin blossomed naturally, albeit not in the order most relationships did but you wouldn’t change anything about it.

After being together for nearly two years, he finally decided he was sick of having his own space and wanted to find a place you could share together. You offered to let him move into your apartment and as much as he liked your place and the memories it held, he wanted to find a new place for you to make yours, together.

It had taken nearly 6 months to find a place that met your criteria but once you were both on the same page, you found a cute two bedroom top floor apartment not far from your current building. It was another historic building in the quiet part of town, away from the hustle and bustle of downtown. The move was easy when you had a boyfriend who despite his smaller stature could very easily lift boxes that would make any ordinary man buckle under the weight.

The furniture was easy as well. Your couch was moved in the middle of the night so no one would see Changbin singlehandedly carrying it up the stairs of the new building. Your bed, being bigger than Changbin’s and much more comfortable, was carried in the same way: under the cover of night.

Whatever didn’t fit in the new apartment was put in a storage unit until you could sell it, which Changbin graciously offered to pay for. The new apartment was bigger than both of your old ones but still cozy and comfortable.

The dark hardwood floors contrasted well with the lighter tone walls. The kitchen faced the small balcony with floor to ceiling windows that separated the two. Vaulted ceilings made the space feel much bigger and Changbin enjoyed living on the top floor with no one above him.

The other nice thing about this building was the walls were thick which meant you didn’t have to be quiet during your more vigorous activities, a quirk Changbin took full advantage of as he made sure to break in every new surface of the kitchen by either bending you over it or laying you back on top of it.

Only after being settled into the new apartment, did Changbin ask you to go camping with him. Fall was settling in, a distinct chill in the air as the leaves of the few trees in the city started to turn. Browns, oranges, yellows, and even reds decorated the branches before the leaves inevitably fell to the ground to be swept away by some street cleaner if the wind didn’t get to them first.

You were beyond excited to go camping with Changbin. You hadn’t been since you were quite young and the prospect of being alone in the woods with your boyfriend posed many new experiences for the both of you. The thought of sharing a tent in the middle of the forest with a campfire, so far from anyone, sounded equal parts spooky and romantic.

Changbin had most of the essential camping gear packed away in the storage unit and once retrieved and all things accounted for, there were only a few items you still needed to get. A trip to the closest outdoor good store fulfilled the rest of the items needed and after requesting time off from work, you were on your way out of the city to spend a week in the woods with your werebear boyfriend.

What could possibly go wrong?

Despite how smooth things went from leaving to arriving at the forest, your trip seemed to be plagued by some dark cloud as not even ten minutes into your hike, you tripped over a downed log and fell, scraping your hands and knees. Changbin was ready with the first aid kit, cleaning and disinfecting the wounds before patching you up.

He kept a much more watchful eye on you from then on, making sure to help you over anything he deemed remotely dangerous. He jokingly offered to carry you, pack and all, if you kept tripping over things. You briefly thought about taking him up on his offer when you slipped over a moss covered rock but ultimately decided to just be more careful and cautious.

The first stop of your trip ended with you camping several yards from a river that wound through the entire forest. Changbin initially was going to set up right beside it but after noticing the sky, he decided higher ground was a smarter move. When you asked him about it, he said it was his intuition.

That night, you were eternally grateful for the extra blankets and even portable heater he brought, not that his body wasn’t a portable heater in of itself. The temperatures plummeted down near freezing as a massive thunderstorm blew in. Changbin’s intuition was right on the money. The torrential downpour made the river swell to twice the size it had been the day before and due to his smart decision making, you were safe from the roaring river that raged just a few yards from your tent.

Changbin made sure you were kept snug and warm, using the portable heater while he was awake before using his body warmth to keep you from freezing. It did the trick and once you got warm initially, you never got cold again throughout the night.

The next morning looked like the scene out of a disaster movie. Branches littered the shore of the river which had reduced in size almost back down to what it had been before. There were even some litter like old tires and even a torn up tent that had washed downriver. The last one had Changbin concerned and after leaving for a brief hike, he discovered an old abandoned camping site which he surmised the tent had come from.

Though you were ready to pack up and move on, Changbin assured you that the second night wouldn’t be as rough. You instead kept camp by the river, going for a hike with Changbin, following the river as it got faster and faster until the forest opened up and the river gave way to a fantastic cascade that plummeted down the side of a massive cliff at least thirty feet.

At the bottom was a deep pool where the water collected before continuing on into the river and snaking through the trees before disappearing out of sight. You wanted to climb down and check it out but Changbin promised next time, he would plan a course that included this spot.

After your hike, you returned to camp and Changbin surprised you by pulling out a couple of fishing rods. You’d never been fishing as you always thought it was kind of boring and the idea of skewering a worm on the end of a hook had your skin crawling.

Thankfully your boyfriend took over, hooking the bait before showing you how to cast. It wasn’t exciting by any means, waiting for the fish to bite but once you did hook a fish, you were so ecstatic, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Changbin had to take over, reeling it in for you until the fish finally flopped out of the water and danced for a moment on the end of your line.

It was a trout, he told you. The first one of the day and you caught it. After the initial shock and excitement wore off, you were ready to go again but you still refused to bait your own hook, something Changbin didn’t mind doing at all.

After several hours, you managed to catch quite a few fish. Changbin showed you how to gut and clean the fish, tossing the insides back into the water where he told you it’s actually beneficial to the ecosystem. Other creatures feed on the entrails like crawdads and other fish. It’s better to toss them in the water than leave them on the banks.

Dinner that night was the fish Changbin cleaned and fileted with some veggies and a few mushrooms he found on your hike. After dinner, you relaxed by the fire, enjoying the warmth it provided while drinking a beer from the pack brought on the trip.

The next morning, you helped pack up and continued on past the river and further into the forest. The next stop was right at the edge of a clearing down the mountain from where you had stayed. Changbin was certain this was a good place to camp, taking note of the tall grass that looked wholly untouched by the rains from the other night.

He found a nice flat spot in the shade of the trees to set up the tent as well as an old fire pit ringed in rocks. While he tried to set up the tent, you kept distracting him. You weren’t sure what it was about how he looked that morning when you woke up but you couldn’t seem to keep your hands to yourself. The extra attention you gave him made him blush but he couldn’t complain with all the additional kisses and lingering touches. He liked it.

After he finally got the tent set up, he entered to unfurl the mats to place under the sleeping bags. You followed him, helping him with the pillows until you couldn’t take it anymore and needed to have your hands on him. Changbin couldn’t help but chuckle as your hands wandered, feeling up his bicep as he flexed, pulling the sleeping bags from their stuff sacks one by one.

“I’m trying to set up our tent,” he said softly, grabbing one of your hands and kissing the back of it. “You’re distracting me,” he added, chuckling as your hands moved, sliding over his chest as you moved behind him, wrapping your arms around him and nuzzling into his neck. “What's gotten into you?” he asked as he laid out the sleeping bags over the mats.

Instead of answering him, you placed light kisses along his neck, enjoying the way he paused, tilting his head to give you more access. “Seriously,” he sighed as one of your hands slid down his stomach to palm over his semi-hard cock. “What's going on?” he asked.

You nipped at the skin below the shell of his ear, hand massaging against him harder and making him groan as he paused, eyes fluttering shut. “Can’t even wait for me to finish?” he murmured, moving his hand over yours as he lightly bucked into your touch.

“Let me finish this and then I’m all yours,” he murmured, pulling your hand back as much as he didn’t want to. He wanted nothing more than for you to have your hands all over him but he also wanted to make sure the tent was set up fully.

You whined, pouting at him as you moved your hand back, making him chuckle. His breath caught as your hand slipped into his pants, darting under the waistband of his underwear to firmly grasp his hot cock in your warm hand. “Fuck,” he groaned as you started to stroke him. “Baby, what has gotten into you?” he asked again as you started to stroke him faster.

“Am I distracting you?” you whispered in his ear as his hips chased your movements, bucking against your hand. “Why don’t you keep going?” you added, nipping at his earlobe. “I cannot possibly focus with your damn hand in my – hng!” he groaned as your hand squeezed him a little harder.

He grabbed your wrist, holding it steady as he rutted into your touch. “F-fuck, baby. Gonna cum if you keep doing that.” At his words, you pulled your hand from his pants, ignoring the glare he gave you until you pushed him back against the sleeping bags and grabbed the waistband of his sweats, pulling them down past his hips and quickly taking hold of his cock again.

Changbin let out a gasp, head falling back as your hand moved up and down his shaft before taking the tip into your mouth, your tongue warm and went against his skin. He let out a guttural moan as your head sank down, taking as much of his thick cock onto your mouth as you could, teeth lightly scraping against the skin.

His hands moved to the back of your head, pushing you down more. “Holy shit, babe,” he gasped as you took more and more of him in, relaxing your jaw and pushing until his cockhead was nestled against the back of your throat.

Letting out a shaky breath, Changbin raised his head slightly, taking in the sight of his cock disappearing into your mouth. He groaned as he felt your swallow against the tip of his cock, aching for it to be buried in your throat. As if you read his mind, you forced your head down, the head of his cock pushing into your throat and he choked out a moan, hips bucking slightly as he held your head down.

Your lungs begged for air but you waited, saliva starting to spill from your mouth and drip down the small part of his cock that didn’t fit into your mouth. “Oh fuck, baby,” he moaned as you swallowed around him, feeling his cock throb and twitch against your tongue. “M’gonna cum,” he breathed out, fingers tightening their grip on your hair as he thrusted once more, thick ropes of cum shooting out of him and painting your throat.

You wait until the last of it finished spurting from him before you pulled back, his cock slipping from your throat and mouth and air finally invading your lungs as you inhaled deeply. You look at your boyfriend, watching as his chest rose and fell, head lying back against the sleeping bag. His eyes fluttered open taking in your triumphant expression. “Fuck that was so hot,” he groaned as you pulled his pants up over his now flaccid cock.

“I don’t know what’s going on with you right now,” he said as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. “But I like it,” he said with a crooked grin. You wiped your lips on your sleeve, giving him another smile. You started to pull away but he grabbed your wrist. “Let me return the favor,” he croaked. You shook your head. “It’s okay,” you replied, voice slightly hoarse. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he replied, gently pulling you to take his place, lying down where he’d just been laying moments before. He quickly peered outside the tent, grabbing your packs and bringing them inside to set against the side of the wall. He zipped up the tent entrance and turned to you, moving to grab your leggings and pull them down, slipping your boots off at the same time.

He made quick work of your panties, pulling them off before settling down on his stomach, face level with your pussy. He licked his lips, spreading your folds before giving you a slow lick from your entrance to your clit, his tongue flat against you. He let out a groan as his tongue swirled around your clit, the vibrations making you gasp as your back lightly arched off the ground.

“Binnie,” you breathed out, fingers combing through his curls as he lapped greedily at your cunt, savoring the taste as he moved his hands, holding your hips in place. He groaned against your skin as he teased your clit with the tip of his tongue. Your thighs squeezed his head slightly as he suckled on the sensitive nub. “B-Binnie,” you moaned, your free hand moving over his on your hip.

You pulled his hand up, guiding it under your sweatshirt to your chest. Taking the silent plea, Changbin pushed your sweatshirt up, groping your breast as he continued to suck and tease your clit with his tongue. His hand slipped under your bra, palm hot against your skin as he kneaded.

Without breaking contact with your pussy, he moved his hand, squeezing under your back to undo your bra clasp with expert precision before pushing the cups up to expose your tits. Both of his hands cupped your chest as he kept his mouth trained on your pussy. You placed a hand over his as he kneaded your tits, lightly raking your nails against his scalp with your other hand.

You felt his teeth graze your clit and your hips rolled up into his face, grinding against him. He let you, holding his tongue flat against your clit as you continued to buck your hips, riding his face as your orgasm drew closer and closer. Changbin moved his hands down, sliding them under your ass as he focused all his attention on your clit, letting you grind against his tongue.

You moaned loudly, a firm grip on his hair while your other hand fondled your chest, pinching one of your nipples as you came, moaning a chant of your boyfriend’s name and a slew of curses as he helped you ride out your high. Changbin lapped up every drop of your release, his cock painfully hard against the sleeping bag.

You gasped as you came down from your climax, Changbin wiping his mouth with his shirt as he crawled over you, kissing up your stomach and chest, stopping to run his tongue over your nipple before he enveloped it with his mouth, suckling softly. He pulled back, letting it fall from his mouth before he took you in a sear kiss, tongue invading your mouth quickly.

You felt his cloth covered cock, hard again, against your crotch. “Binnie, baby,” you whined, rolling your hips up to meet his. “I need you.” He chuckled against your skin, littering kisses along your neck. “Is my baby impatient?” he asked softly, his hands pulling your sweatshirt up over your head and pulling your loose bra off, leaving you completely nude under him.

“Yes,” you breathed as his hands cupped your chest, squeezing the supple flesh and moving to roll your nipples between his fingers. “Needs me to fuck her immediately?” he whispered, kissing along your collarbone to your shoulder. You clawed at his shirt, pulling it up his back as you begged him with soft pleas. Changbin obliged, sitting up to pull his shirt off.

“Binnie,” you whined, hands moving to his waistband and tugging to pull him closer. “Please, bear,” you moaned as he grinded his hard cock against your soaking cunt, wetting his sweats. “Please baby, please.” His cock twitched in his pants and he moved to grab his pack, unzipping one of the inner pockets where he kept the condoms.

He pulled one out, setting the bag back against the wall of the tent. You watched him with wide eyes as he pushed his pants and underwear down in one go, shimmying out of them with the tip of the condom wrapper in his teeth. You licked your lips, eyes drinking in his naked body hungrily as he tore open the packet and carefully rolled the latex down his length.

He didn’t need to ask if you were ready, his fingers moving to your entrance and pushing two into you with ease. He still wanted to make sure you were properly stretched before he even attempted to fill you with his thick cock. Your hips moved against his hand as he fit a third into you, pumping steadily in and out of your walls. Your back arched, moaning wantonly as he curled his fingers against your inner walls. “Binnie,” you whimpered, grabbing at his arms and tugging him.

“Please fuck me,” you breathed. “I need you, baby.”

Changbin withdrew his fingers, replacing them with the tip of his cock and pushing the head into you with a sigh. You let out a content moan as he slowly slid into you, stretching your cunt as you accommodated his girth. Once he was full inside you, he started a slow, steady pace, holding your hips in place as he rutted into you.

“Feels so good,” you gasped. “Feels so f-full.”

A groan escaped Changbin as he fucked into you more roughly, hands spreading your thighs as he held you down. Your hands grabbed at him, pulling him closer as your walls sucked him in over and over. Taking the silent plea, he repositioned, putting your legs over his shoulders as he leaned over, folding your body in half as he thrust down into you roughly.

He learned quickly that this was your favorite position. You had called it the mating press and told him you loved how it made you feel like you were at his mercy. You always complimented his strength in and out of the bedroom and it always made him feel a surge of pride.

“How’s that?” he grunted, pinning you down as he rocked into you, cock filling your cunt with each harsh thrust. “S’good. Fuck, baby!” you cursed, brows knitted together in pleasure. “So strong, Binnie. Love it when you pin me down.” A deep growl emanated from Changbin’s chest as his pace increased, slamming into you roughly, the sound of skin against skin filling the tent.

You cried out as his cock hit the spot deep in you that had your toes curling. “Fuck, right there, baby,” you gasped as Changbin continued to hit the same spot. “Right there?” he asked in a low tone, holding back a moan as you clenched around him. “Right there!” you moaned. “Fuck, yes, keep doing that!”

Changbin slammed into you harsher as your walls clamped down on his cock, an orgasm ripping through you unexpectedly as you came, coating his cock in your release as you writhed in pleasure, screaming his name repeatedly.

Changbin fucked you through your orgasm before he carefully let your legs fall back down. He stilled, kissing your face as you came down slowly. “Think you can ride me for a bit, baby?” he whispered in between kisses. You nodded eagerly, sitting up as he slipped out of you, taking your spot on his back as you hurriedly climbed over him.

He let out a chuckle at your eagerness, groaning as you lined the tip of his cock with your pussy and sank down on him, a moan escaping both of you as your walls welcomed him back in. You gave him only a second to adjust before you started moving, bouncing on his cock and making him groan, hands grabbing your hips as he helped you move.

“Fuck baby,” he groaned. “Slow down or I’m gonna cum.” You placed your hands on his chest as you rode him harder, faster with a smirk on your lips.

“That’s the idea.”

©️ kwanisms 2024 | all works on this blog are protected under copyright. Do not repost, continue, or translate my works. All graphics made by me.

#cultofdionysusnet #ksmutsociety #kvanity #mfu-net #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids fanfic #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #changbin scenarios #changbin imagines #changbin fanfiction #changbin fanfic #changbin smut #seungmin x reader #kwanisms kinktober 2024 #kinktober 2024

173 notes · View notes

readychilledwine · 10 months ago

Text

Peace in the Violence

Eris Week - Day 5 - War and Adventure

Summary - When the battle for Autumn doesn't end by your one year anniversary, Eris has no choice but to share one more night with you during the heat of war

Warnings - war, mentions of death, smut, using sex as a coping mechanism

A/N - I will be completely honest, I was most excited for this prompt for @erisweekofficial, and I almost was not going to partake this day until this happened. She is only a little thing, but I do love her and her potential.

So many people bash on the sex scenes on ACOWAR, but I don't think they see the bigger picture with them. Those scenes are meant to remind you of what the characters are fighting for. The sex is meant to be symbolic of so much more than sex. SJM, in my opinion, can not properly execute a smut scene during war. Hopefully, I conveyed what I feel those scenes are supposed to represent with this.

🍂Eris Week Masterlist🍂Eris Masterlist🍂Master Masterlist🍂

Dividers by @tsunami-of-tears

A rough roll of his hips had you gasping as Eris began to lose his gentleness. He was desperate to feel anything besides the looming fear of the battle that was coming. Eris was a skilled warrior, a natural fighter, and had been preparing his whole life for this, but the efforts to dethrone his father were making him question everything.

The war in Autumn had left far too many wounded and more dead. What was supposed to be a simple siege of the Forest House was now more. It was Beron with a legion protecting him. Eris with 6 High Lords in a tent waiting to call their armies. It was Beron refusing the blood duel while Eris put all of his magic into containing battle to just the area they were in to protect the fae of this court. His fae. His court.

You gasped below him before a strangled cry of pleasure tried to leave your throat. It was as if Eris couldn't hear you below him, like he was using all of his tricks to drive more noises from swollen lips. “Eris,” it was a broken call of his name, trying to pull him back to you. To remind him you were the one below him.

His wife. His mate. His love. The one he had set this very fire for.

His eyes met yours and he slowed before forcing you both to roll over, silent admission he could not be in control tonight. He wanted to laugh. One year. One year of marriage spent in bliss, and it was bliss he hoped to seek in this moment of peace you two shared.

Hands. Hands touching your thighs, your hips, your back. Hands roaming every inch of you. Desperate. Aching. Yearning. This wasn't the trip he had planned for your anniversary, but war waits for no male.

When you began to move slowly, he couldn't stop the whimper that fell through his throat.

He was seeking sex.

You had been seeking to make love.

Every bounce was at the pace he was hungry for, his hands settling on your hips to help guide you. You leaned down to kiss him, hands on his chest as he began to meet your movements, pace slowed to savor this instead of rushing.

There were no promises of this happening again, no guarantee that after battle tomorrow your husband would be in bed.

But you had tonight.

You had now.

“I love you,” the words left his mouth in a hushed tone. He needed to say them, to whisper them until his voice and words were etched in your bones.

Eris knew as he was making love to you, as he cherished you on his night, that tomorrow he may die. He knew he was the target in these battles. Not his brothers who so bravely came to his side. Not the soldiers he had been recruiting in secret. Him.

And tomorrow, before you woke up, Rhysand will have taken you to Velaris, hiding you from Beron if Eris will to fail. His mother was already there. His hounds. His wife belonged there too, safe, beautiful untouched.

He memorized every inch of you as you leaned back, pace increasing to give him what he was desperate for. He memorized every freckle, curve, the exact shade of your lips and eyes.

He memorized the noise you made as his thumb brushed your clit, the way your body seemed to shake before you could continue.

He memorized your face as you fell apart for him, forcing his own body to hold back to listen to every note in the song you began to sing.

And when he finally tumbled over the edge, you memorized his soft cry.

This wasn't how Eris planned to spent your anniversary, handing Rhysand your things as you slept clueless to what was happen. This wasn't what he wanted as he kissed you for what could have been the last time. It wasn't all he needed to say as he whispered he loved you again.

His world shifted as Rhysand winnowed your sleeping form to Velaris and he began to pull on the dark illyrian leathers he had borrowed, Azriel waiting in tow, watching Eris prepare to assassinate his father in his sleep.

Risky, unhanded, and cheap.

But war waits for no man.

Not even in his sleep.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects @sleepybesson @tayswhp @itsswritten @milswrites @littlest-w01f

215 notes · View notes

buckets-and-trees · 19 days ago

Text

Point of No Return [Fine Line Collection]

Characters/Pairings: mean Alpha!Bucky x curvy Female!Omega!Reader Word Count: 4.5k Summary: Bucky has continued to honor your tentative new arrangement, allowing your presence while he conduct business, this time with the men he's selected to be part of his inner circle. (not a stand-alone read)

Content/Warnings: omegaverse: scenting, alpha-omega bond, attention to bond mark; power dynamics; some manipulation; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), vaginal fingering, vaginal penetration, male ejaculation/insemination; beefy and voracious Bucky (is a warning)

Author Notes: I thought I'd be writing something else for this week of HBS, but here we are! Tried two other ideas, but this was what the muse wanted to work on! So this is my offering for WEEK THREE of @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "Now now!" and exhibitionism.

Previous: Under Siege | Series List

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The first thing General Levinson does, upon entering Bucky’s office, is drop an unsealed manila envelope on the desk and say, “You’ll want to see page five.”

Bucky only briefly glances up. He flips the envelope on one corner and extracts the neatly typed dossier, his thumb running briskly through the pages until the one marked “5.” He scans it in silence, eyes flicking left to right so fast you’d swear he wasn’t reading at all, but you know better.

You watch Bucky’s face for the telltale sign of news—amusement, irritation, the faintest raise of an eyebrow. But he betrays no reaction until the very end, where his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, and he hums, “Interesting.”

Levinson sits—slouches, almost—legs crossed at the knee, hands steepled. He seems as comfortable behind enemy lines as he does in a penthouse drawing room. You remember, from your father’s own muttered warnings, that this was always the most dangerous sort of man: one who didn’t believe in sides at all, only outcomes.

“Page six will interest you as well, but I’ll save you the suspense: your favorite little mayor has someone feeding her intel, and it’s not any one of the council rats who pissed themselves at last week’s performance.” Levinson flicks his gaze to you, but not in the way an alpha looks at an omega, or even a man looks at a woman. It’s a look of evaluation, the kind you’d give a high-value asset in an unreliable package. His gaze slides off you as quickly as it landed, but not before you register the calculation there: a curiosity about what you might know, or be, that no one else does.

“Apparently, there’s enough chatter on the localized bands that she pulled at least three standing council members out of the territory before your men locked down the southern highways,” Levinson continues, voice bone-dry. “They’re regrouping in the Crescent District. Not an organized counter-offensive yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

Bucky closes the folder and drums his vibranium fingers against the lacquered desk. The sound is sharp, metronomic. “Who’s on the bankroll?” he asks.

Levinson smirks, the barest twitch of his mouth. “If this were the old territory, I’d say probably Gowan, but the new seat of operations is running leaner than you’d think.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting the silence expand—punctuated only by the measured taps of blue steel. Then he turns the folder so it faces you. “Tertiary sources?” he asks you, almost bored.

You take the folder, or rather accept it as he slides it closer with one finger. The spine of the document is still warm from his touch, and as you begin to read, you’re aware of both alphas regarding you with identical, flat attention.

The information is better than you’d expected: Cross-referenced wiretaps, heatmap overlays of encrypted comms, some social engineering so careful it could only be Levinson’s hand. You can feel your pulse quicken as you recognize names of old allies, family friends, people you thought had been cowed into irrelevance. But it’s the pattern of communication that draws you in—the subtle signals, the breadcrumbs of a resistance effort so careful it would have gone unnoticed had someone not been looking for precisely the right thing. There’s a kind of taut, ugly hope that blooms behind your ribs when you realize some of your father’s most trusted advisors are not dead, nor in exile, but embedded, alive, already building something.

You bite back your reaction, keep your posture slack and your expression politely inquisitive. “If these contact points are accurate,” you say, tracing a column of numbers with your finger, “they’re not just regrouping. They’re triangulating.”

Levinson raises his eyebrows, faintly impressed. “Exactly my thought. Most of the signals are low-velocity, until about two days ago. Then it’s all careful relays, little jumps from node to node, but always returning to one locus.”

“The Ridge Market,” you say without thinking.

“Bring in the others,” Bucky says. “We clearly have some priorities to discuss.”

General Levinson stands and moves to the wide double doors, opens them with a casual, proprietary ease.

Nick Fowler, head of intelligence, is first through the door. He wears a perfect three-day stubble and a suit that, for all its perfection, appears to have never known a tailor. His eyes, pale as melting ice and twice as quick, land immediately on the folder in your hands, then flick to Bucky, who gives him a single, shallow nod.

Andy Barber, the new attorney general, lingers just behind him, hands deep in his pockets.

Press secretary Ransom Drysdale rounds out the pack, today in a powder-blue blazer and gold watch, mouth already twisted into the preemptive smirk of a man who plans to lose no argument.

The chairs scrape, the men settle, and Bucky—who does not stand for ceremony—simply waits them with a lazy crook of his finger. Levinson remains at his shoulder, half a shadow, half an extension of will.

"First order," Bucky says, his voice a weaponized monotone, "is this." He lays his palm over the folder. "Fowler, you’re lead on the Ridge Market situation. Devote as many assets as you need. Don’t burn them. I want to see what it grows into."

Fowler nods, already two moves ahead in his head. "Soft touch, then. You want the inside of it, not just the edges?"

Bucky glances at you. "She’ll consult on this. Knows the players and enough of their communication patterns." It is not a request.

Fowler’s eyes slide to you, and there is a visible recalibration, the shift from considering you a liability to seeing you as an asset.

“So, Governor,” Drysdale says, “what’s our position, and has anyone told you lately you really need a chief of staff?”

Barber grunts, “If you ask me, that’s the real fire under your ass. Not the mayors or the market or even the threat of a counterforce. It’s the day-to-day. Things are running fine, but you will be able to do more with a chief of staff who can carry out your campaigns and keep things moving.”

Bucky gives Drysdale and Barber a look so flat and cold it would stop the hearts of lesser men, but these are the alphas Bucky has hand-picked to surround himself with particularly to have an inner-circle of strength. They wait for him to speak.

“I already know who it’s going to be,” Bucky says, voice low, “I simply need him to agree to it.”

He doesn’t say the name, but you see the flare of amusement in Drysdale’s eye, the slight tic at the corner of Barber’s mouth. Whatever this private joke is, you are not yet party to it.

“There’s a bigger issue, though,” Levinson says, already on to the next battle. “With the territory stabilized, you need to address how people see you. The people expect the typical paradigm—Alpha as strongman, Omega as well-bred ornament. Half the territory saw their Omega heir offer herself up to you to save the people, and some of them liked the idea of her defeat. Some of them are angry as hell. Some of them don’t know how to read the new developments over the past few days with her by your side. If you want to keep the next wave quiet, you have to set the expectation of what an Omega is, and what a bonded pair looks like.”

Fowler, who has been intermittently sketching something on his notepad, looks up and says, “He’s right. You can rule by fear, but you won’t get loyalty unless you give them something aspirational. The last three takeovers we’ve seen overseas, the territories that survived were the ones that adapted the fastest.” He glances at you, then at Bucky. “If you’re not going to put her in a box, you have to sell her as a new kind of asset. Otherwise, you’ll get the worst of both worlds. Everybody’s anxious.”

“We need to reshape what they aspire to, we need to make being an omega in this territory - this administration - look like a privilege. We need people to hunger for it, even as they fear it.”

Bucky’s metal hand opens, closes. The sound is like a slow gun cocking. "You want to sell her," he says, voice so mild you almost miss the threat. "As what?"

Fowler shrugs, a minimalist gesture. "The First Omega becomes an asset to the sitting governor. The only one with a real voice. You give her just enough leash that she’s not a hostage, but everyone is always watching for when, or if, she’ll snap it. This is how you recruit the next generation of loyalists."

Drysdale jumps in, "We can script it. It’s the oldest playbook in the world: dynasty, virtue, the taming of a prize. Public appearance with the both of you, minimum three minutes of live footage, no scripts. Let them see the bond. Touch her.”

“We do know,” Barber adds, “that the public display of her bonding initially and then the double bonding ceremony sent powerful ripples of perception through those who saw and additionally those who heard of it. The whispers about your recent council meeting are equally as alluring.”

The muscles in your chest are tight as you sit just off to the side of the circle, but you try to project as much impassivity as possible as Fowler, Barber and Drysdale discuss your fate like it’s any other marketing campaign.

Bucky leans back, the sound of his chair creaking the only sign of his tension. "We'll do it. Schedule the public engagement for tomorrow at noon." He turns to you, a question in his eyes so brief only you catch it: Are you ready to play this part, or will you try to defy him with the world watching?

Bucky doesn’t wait for an answer. He crooks two fingers, summoning you to his side. The men around the desk barely pause. If anything, their attention sharpens, as if this, too, is part of the brief.

You stand, approach, and he pulls you onto his lap without ceremony. You land astride his thigh, skirt riding up, the bare skin of your legs pressed against the wool of his suit. Bucky’s flesh hand settles on your waist, his vibranium palm spanning your entire upper thigh. The heat of his touch is a warning and a promise.

“This is what they’re talking about,” he says, not to you, but to the room. “The public doesn’t care about my policies or security protocols. They want to see us. To see her.” He runs his hand up, up, until his thumb is nearly under the hem of your skirt. “They want to see the bond. They want to see an omega who can take what’s coming, and stay hungry for it.”

You sense the performance in his touch. His hand trails even higher, the blunt edge of his thumb now grazing so close to the apex of your thighs that you hold your breath, waiting.

Bucky’s voice is slow, deliberate, as he continues. “We learned something in that first week,” he says, his hand moving with lazy certainty ever closer, but not touching your clothed cunt yet. “She likes an audience. I like her like this. Everyone gets what they want, but, gentlemen, if we are smart, we figure out how to use it beyond the two of us. We need something for the masses, but we cannot be on display so freely, we have to be the rarity.”

His hand slides under the edge of your underwear, the pads of his fingers merciless as they slip under the waistband of your underwear and find your cunt, already slick and growing wetter by the second. The cool vibranium of his thumb settles on your hipbone, pinning you in place, while his two flesh fingers part your folds and begin to stroke, slow and unhurried, both a violation and a benediction. You gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the hush, and your other hand grips his shoulder, clinging to composure.

The scent of your arousal blooms in the room’s warm air, and the men around the desk catch it. You register it in the minute adjustments of posture, the softening of conversation, the way Fowler’s lips part and Barber looks away and then back, unable not to.

You can feel how Bucky registers their reactions to. He noses at your throat, his breath hot against the mark at the base of your neck. You feel the wet drag of his tongue as he licks it, sending a pulse of heat through your body. There’s a deliberate showmanship in the gesture; he holds your eyes for a fraction of a second, then flashes his gaze around the table, daring anyone to flinch.

He finds your clit and presses, circles, until your hips twitch against his hand in a silent plea. His lips graze your ear, intimate and low for you alone: "Good omega."

He doesn't slow, doesn't shield it from view. The men around the table do not look away. The pull of what's happening is gravitational, inescapable. You become the locus of the room, the axis of power and desire, as he works you with an exquisite, infuriating patience.

"The new order," Bucky says conversationally, as though he is discussing the weather, "is not about fear or brute force. That's old thinking. It's about making something so compelling no one wants to tear it down." His fingers move more insistently, and you bite your lower lip to keep from whimpering. "You put a real omega in the public square, bonded to the Governor, not just a trophy but a weapon. You show them a pair as volatile and as bound as any mythology. They watch for the cracks, for the moment she breaks, and it never comes. The absence of failure is its own propaganda."

"You want her to be a martyr," says Barber, his tone flat.

"Not a martyr. A miracle," Bucky corrects. "She survives everything. Every humiliation, every pleasure, every blow. That's how you teach a territory to crave order. You become their darkest appetite."

Levinson studies the tableau, his head tilted. "No other region has ever pulled that off, not for a generation. Old world, maybe. Here? It's a dangerous bet."

Bucky's hand never leaves your cunt. By the way he holds you, you think he could make you come right here, right now, with the whole room watching, and all you'd be able to do is arch against his hand, because your omega instincts purr with satisfaction at being so thoroughly possessed, at being the focus of such raw, possessive desire. There's power in this submission, you realize - in knowing that the most dangerous alpha in the territory wants you so badly he won’t wait for privacy.

“We are the bright opening, but we manufacture this,” he explains, ”rarity. A singularity. You make it clear the only way to aspire to what we have is through total loyalty to order. To me. To us.”

He slips his fingers out, and you whine at him leaving you empty. Then he brings his wet digits to your lips as though offering communion. “Open,” he rasps, and you do, parting your mouth so he can swipe your essence across your tongue in full view of the assembled men. Your taste is sharp, salt and want, and for a queasy instant you wonder how it must feel to be the living center of a cult, adored, sacrificed, remade again and again.

His hand rests heavily at your throat. “This is how we win forever, not just for a year or a decade,” Bucky says. “We reprogram the appetite of the territory until even our enemies cannot imagine another way of wanting.”

Drysdale leans back in his chair, and for the first time since he entered, he looks you straight in the eye. “You’re going to make her the center of envy.”

“Not just envy. Obsession,” Fowler says, untwisting his pen and rethreading it in slow, thoughtful turns.

Bucky locks eyes with you, and you feel the raw current of his need, not just to possess you but to make your bond an epoch. “This is about the animal in everyone. Give them something to fixate on, and their unrest will stay all teeth and no bite.”

You feel a spike along your bond, some mixture of anticipation and heat, and you realize Bucky is as close to the edge as you are. He wants to push you, to make you shatter, but to do it in a way that will become legend, a story retold in every district until even the most resistant omega dreams of being you.

He stands with abrupt, predatory grace, lifting you with him. Your skirt is bunched at your hips. He slips out of his suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing the gleam of vibranium and the roped muscle of his right arm. His flesh hand presses your chest down onto the lacquered wood, pinning you with the effortless strength of a war god. The cool air hits the exposed backs of your thighs.

You sense every eye in the room: the generalized hunger, the predatory curiosity, the inescapable knowledge that you are about to be shown, again, exactly whose you are.

He doesn’t bother with your underwear; he simply rips it, the elastic popping against your skin. His hand spans your lower back, pinning you down, and without warning his cock—already hard from the spectacle—pushes between your legs, breaching you in a single, blinding thrust. A cry wrenches from your throat, sharper than anything you’ve made for him before, and the men around the table shudder in answer, an audible ripple of breath and muscle contracting.

He fucks you at a brutal, unhesitating pace, each drive of his hips jarring your body forward, forcing your abdomen against the unforgiving edge of the desk. There is no gentleness, no pretense; he is using you, claiming you in an act of pure theater, and you sense the precise calculation in every movement. You are a weapon and a message. You are his.

Your eyes blur with the force of it, pleasure already cresting inside you, and somewhere in your mind you feel the atmosphere in the room change: a tightening, a collective focus that neatly telescopes down to the hinge of his hands at your hips and the point of his cock spearing you open.

There’s a howl somewhere—it takes a moment to realize it’s your own voice, torn raw as he pounds into you. There’s nothing left of the careful, self-possessed woman who started this meeting. You are shaking on the edge, bent to the shape of his will and the angle of the desk. Every thrust drums the breath from your lungs, every wet slap of skin is punctuated by the guttural rumble of his satisfaction.

He doesn’t break rhythm as he twists your head to the side—his vibranium fingers gentle for only this, maneuvering your face so you look out, directly at the audience of men with their masklike faces, their barely leashed hunger. Some of them have their hands fisted in their laps, cocks swelling obvious behind the thin wool of their trousers. All of them are breathing too fast, eyes wide.

You come, and it’s not quiet, not contained, not modulated for the benefit of civilized company. It’s a noise from the animal core of you, a breaking of all protocol, a shudder that garlands the room with the velocity of your need. You think you might black out for a second, so total is the pleasure, so shocking the shockwave as your inner muscles seize and clamp around Bucky’s cock.

He does not stop. If anything, he intensifies, using the leverage of his hands to wrench you against him, an exultant violence that makes your soul shiver. You are aware, distantly, of the men at the table, how their rigid silence has given way to a kind of seizure—rubbing, shifting, the rasp of wool and the pop of a button as someone’s restraint shreds under the force of what they’re seeing.

You’re still spasming when Bucky slams in, his cock driving so deep it feels like he’s fucking the soul out of your body. You are nothing but light and wetness and his name scraped raw from your lungs.

Bucky spends himself in a handful of punishing thrusts, hips bucking against your aftershocks. He empties inside you, the heat of it flooding you so suddenly you groan, and the sound is so feral, so lost to dignity, the men in the room instinctively look away.

He stays inside you for a moment, cock still twitching, his hand never leaving your nape, as if anchoring you to the desk is now a metaphysical rather than mechanical need. Then he draws your back against his chest. You’re reeling, legs unsteady, vision swimming. His mouth finds your ear. “Remember this,” he says, low and soft so only you can hear.

Then, to the men, he says in a cool voice, "You saw what I wanted you to see. Go figure out how to manufacture it for the public."

There is a scrape of chair legs, hands smoothing down pant legs, a flurry of wordless compliance. Levinson is the last to linger, studying you where you sprawl, debauched and splayed, equal parts ruined and remade. His eyes flick to Bucky’s; there is a nod, the simplest of compacts between predators, and then the office empties.

You can’t move for a long minute. Bucky does not speak, does not offer you comfort or reproach. Instead, he gathers the slack of your body up in his arms and sits you on the edge of the desk, your skirt bunched at your hips, your thighs still trembling from the aftershocks.

You study each other for nearly a full minute of silence. Then, finally, you say, “I don’t know what to think.”

Bucky, eyes still glazed with the aftermath of violence and pleasure, says, “For now, that’s the point.”

Then Bucky pushes your knees apart and drops to his haunches, mouth level with where you leak his come onto the polished wood. His hands are on your thighs, pinning you in place, but it's not necessary—there is no possibility of you moving, of protesting, of wanting anything else.

He licks you as though nothing and everything is at stake. Slow, deliberate, the broad plane of his tongue scraping up every trace of his last act of dominance, tonguing his own saltiness from your folds and then deeper, insistent, flattening you against the desk with the weight of his hand on your sternum and the brutal pressure of his lips at your core. The office, the world, the entire narrative curve of history, narrows to this: the cool afterglow inside you, the hot abrasion of his mouth as he eats you out with the same focus he brings to violence or governance. You are nothing but pleasure, raw nerve and wetness.

He doesn’t just tongue you to another orgasm—he makes it a series, each one more fractal and helpless than the last. By the fourth, you are wrecked and the wood under your back is slick with sweat and your own slick and tears you didn’t know you’d shed. Bucky is merciless in this too, his hands mapping every inch of your thighs, your sides, your breasts still clothed in the blouse you’d chosen for this day and now ruined, buttons pulled askew, your bra wrenched above the bruised arch of your nipples so you spill heavy and trembling for him.

He feasts on you. There is no other word for it. He unravels you, makes of your body a single, quivering animal moment, repeatedly tasting himself in you, letting you hear it—the wet, obscene melody of his wanting—until you can’t contain the noise in your throat.

And when you come yet again, you muffle the scream in the crook of your arm, sobbing out the last of your composure to the empty office. You have no desire to stop him, and you can feel through the bond how insatiable he is for you, in return. It feels at the same time more feral yet more concentrated than it did before, and you wonder if it’s possible that he’s becoming as lost in you as you are in him.

There’s a short knock at the door, and Bucky barks, “Not now!”

But the door hisses open anyway. Nick Fowler enters, phone jammed to his ear, voice urgent but composed.

“Sorry, Governor, but it’s Curtis is on the line, says they’ve gotten a positive. He found our man.”

For a moment, Bucky does not move, does not even look up from where he still holds you pinned to the desk by one trembling thigh. You see the flicker of calculation in his eyes, the split-second assessment of whether to finish what he started—whether to drag you through one more climax, to show Fowler that there is no force in the universe that can interrupt the Governor’s pleasure—or to pivot, to let the moment stand as a promise of what you will return to, and answer the call of power instead.

He chooses the latter, or maybe only delays the former. With a last, bruising kiss to your cunt he stands and quickly, adjusts his tie, then efficiently rearranges your skirt and blouse so you’re somewhat decent. Bucky hoists you off the desk and onto your feet. He moves you with so little warning that your knees try to buckle, but his hands are sure and unyielding. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then runs his vibranium palm up your thigh one last time, a silent claim.

"Give me the phone," he says, his voice clean, crisp, as if the past ten minutes never happened.

Fowler hands over the cell, glancing at you only once, then looking studiously at the floor.

"This is Barnes," Bucky says, and his eyes flick to you as if daring you to turn away before he's ready.

The voice on the other end is tinny but urgent. "I've got him, sir. Overnight, he cut through the northwest perimeter, he didn't know about the new surveillance we installed at the borders. He’s holed up at the freight depot, just over the border. Visual confirmation says he’s armed. Likely has a support crew of two, maybe three. Window’s closing before he moves again."

Bucky’s eyes flash in satisfaction, the momentary glaze of pleasure replaced by diamond-edged focus. He says, "That’s why I sent you, Everett. Bring him in. Discreetly.”

Who has been the target of the manhunt Curtis has been on?

And what will the inner circle propose to manipulate and seduce a society to bring them fully to submission?

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #marvel omegaverse #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x yn #bucky barnes x y/n #aspen wrote something #alpha bucky barnes #fine line collection #female reader #alpha bucky #hotbuckysummer2025

218 notes · View notes