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merakiui · 12 days

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[0] 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢.

yandere!twst x (female) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, non-consensual touching, power imbalance, abuse of power, descriptions of religious imagery, attempted non-con, hypocrisy, solitary confinement, rollo is immensely creepy, archaic mindsets and logic masterlist // prologue (you are here) // one

Without a shred of sympathy, discarded like dross, you are thrown before Father Flamme’s feet.

You have enough grace and dignity to resist the urge to grasp at his robes and beg for forgiveness. Instead, you condemn yourself to silence, allowing his piercing stare to stab through you with a judgment so precise it might just slice the skin from your skeleton. Your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips, and you can almost taste his disapproval, much like a snake might parse chemical witchery in the air.

“Lift your head, if you would,” he commands gently, and you do as you’re told. He folds his arms over his chest and looks on, cold as winter’s frost. You watch his finger tap out a soundless rhythm. “I must ask of you, Sister, to provide reason to your recent absences. As a child of God, you have taken oath to follow His wise teachings and devote yourself to serving this church. Am I wrong?”

“You speak wise and true.” You rise to your feet and, ignoring the brutes who so rudely cast you forward in the first place, bow your head in apology. Father Flamme waves them out without sparing so much as a second glance. “You are right that it is my duty to serve the church. I ought to be doing just that and yet I have failed to do so. Undeserving I may be, I ask that you pardon my negligence.”

Father Flamme hums. Standing in front of the altar, backdropped by a stained glass depiction of the crucifixion, he is bathed in a colorful, angelic array. He strides towards you, covering the short distance in just a few clicks, and places his hand upon your shoulder. You’re led from the steps and down the aisle. It feels more like you’re being brought away for slaughter, a lamb primed for punishment.

“There is no doubt you are genuine in all that you do,” he notes, sliding his hand down your arm. Those slender, spidery digits curl into your woolen sleeve. “You are impartial and well-bred, a woman of impressive patience and virtue. Qualities of which arouse an admiration most potent.”

You know the rest of your convent is much the same, which is why it puzzles you that Father Flamme should praise your humble name in such a sickeningly fond manner.

“You are too kind, Father,” you acquiesce. “As a modest servant of God, it’s my pleasure to devote myself to Him, the church, my fellow sisters, and the community.”

“Hmm. A laudable outlook.” His lips quirk up in a smile. Strangely, it looks sharp and predatory. It does not reach his eyes.

Father Flamme steers you in the direction of another stained glass window. This scene is of The Resurrection of Christ. You gaze at His face and wonder if there truly is something up there, watching over the world’s sheep as they live out cyclical days in their pastures.

Immediately, you realize you should commit yourself to writing lines to chase that doubtful notion away.

Father Flamme rests his hand on your other arm to hold you in place. “A quote paraphrased from the Gospel of Matthew, chapter twenty-two, verses thirty-six through thirty-eight, if you’ll listen: ‘When asked which is the great commandment of all in the law, Jesus would reply, ‘You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the first and great commandment.’”

You nod mechanically, only half-listening. After observing you closely, he frowns.

“What troubles you, Sister?”

“It is hardly a burden worth shouldering. I assure you I’m of sound health. My recent habit of absence is most unbecoming of a sister. I should sooner confront the great shame of my actions than let it fester within.”

“There is still time to atone. You must seek counsel and, having taken it in your arms just as God embraces all, you will know forgiveness.”

You rest your hand upon Father Flamme’s, which has somehow found its home at your hip. “And how do you suppose I do that?”

He smiles that empty smile again. “If He is to provide for you, you must first lay yourself bare before him. I am no fool, Sister. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I have been truthful, Father. I would never lie under this sacred roof, nor would I have the gall to do so in your presence. It would be an offense so beastly I could not bear to let it weigh heavy on my heart.”

“Yet, rather than scorch your tongue with a dissolution of the truth, you evade the simplest of queries.” His fingers toy with the knots of your cincture. “What manner of tale will you spin to mystify me next?”

Reacting on instinct, you rip yourself from his immoral grasp. The nave is as silent as the grave, so stuffy it’s suffocating. Father Flamme narrows his eyes at you. His gaze cuts through you like blood swirling through the cracks in ice—like a scalding brand pressed onto flesh.

A thick tension blankets the air. You merely stare at him, and he levels you with the same calculating intensity. Both of you are searching the other’s face, hoping to find an explanation for such polar opposite behavior.

You’re courageous enough to break the quiet first.

“If it would please you, Father, I will graciously offer myself up for confession. There is no reason or need to circumvent the Lord.”

“Sister (Name), if you may spare the time, I entreat you to take a short stroll with me.” Before you can object, he offers his arm. “All children are lost lambs who will soon find their way when following the path illuminated by God’s brilliant light. You are no different. It is my duty to see that you are no longer led astray by temptation and the litany of filth propagated by the fiend.”

Sensing no other option, you link arms with him and subject yourself to his whims. “I’ve a frightful feeling. Most frightful indeed.”

“By all means, confide in God and trust that He will provide shelter. Under His sacred roof, He will lend an ear just as I am doing now.”

You inhale a steadying breath. At this moment, Father Flamme is all you have. In the depths of your heart, you’re aware he’ll never understand. He will never know the morbid secrets that dwell in darkened corners, swept expertly away. And if he knew, you would never be welcome in the church again. Your fellow sisters would certainly turn their noses up at you, loathing the sin of your very existence.

Even as you walk alongside the righteous bishop, you feel an overwhelming itchiness.

“Recent events have led me to believe—though I pray it isn’t true—that my heart has been possessed with a ghastly malady. Umbras waltz in my peripheral—no trick of the light, I assure!”

“Perhaps it is merely a case of wicked dreams?” he posits, leading you through the aisle like a father might accompany a bride on her wedding day. You shake your head insistently, and so he holds his hand up to soothe your frazzled disposition. “Peace, Sister. The songs of night are naught but whimsical folly weaved from the silk of zealous minds. You would do well to shake yourself free of their deceitful shroud.”

“I shall do so most ardently.”

“To rectify this trouble, might you consider attending evening mass? It can only do you good.”

You step up towards the altar, keeping pace with Father Flamme’s casual gait. “Oh, I couldn’t. As of late, I’ve felt uneasy in my solitude. I fear my shadow is not my own…”

His verdant eyes are so stark against the pallor of his face that it reminds you of coins placed over those of the dead. His arm slips away from your waist and, gathering your hands in his, he assesses you more carefully. Under the watchful stare of both Father Flamme and a crucified deity, you feel as if someone has taken a spoon to your soul and scraped it out. And then, for extra, unnecessary measure, they’ve flattened it out on a table for dissection in hopes of picking apart each of your dirtiest secrets.

“Oh? Do elucidate.”

Hazarding a glance at the cross situated grandly in multicolored glass, you lower your voice so as to not be heard by any outside parties. Paranoia grips you in a clenched fist.

“Something—what it may be, I could not begin to form ample conjecture—is hunting me.”

He does not grace you with a reply, and this only incenses the unrest bubbling within you.

“How say you, Father? What is it that causes me such nocturnal torment?”

His features are set in perfect neutrality; it’s impossible to glean any sort of emotion from the way he acts. He coaxes you closer, pulling you along towards the altar.

“It is with great devastation that I must behold you as you are,” he says, breaking the suspense. “Tainted with the despicable sins of the world outside, young and promising as you are… I shall remedy that.”

You open your mouth to voice concern, but in one swift motion he shoves you against the altar. You land with a thud, your back colliding against sturdy mahogany. It happens in a flash, like the final expulsion of breath from your lungs in the wake of the end. He’s between your flailing legs, pushing you up and onto the cloth-covered surface. Brass candlesticks scatter in a haphazard clatter. Globs of wax bespatter stone floors.

In the quaint tranquility of the church, the struggle is louder than a newborn’s cry.

Your chest heaves in a panic.

Gracious God above, I implore you—save me from this wretched devil!

Your pupils flit wildly, assessing every area within your range. There must be a means to escape! Above the ornate display, his head hung, your god looks on silently. He does not offer a whit of protection.

“Father—”

Frigid fingers crawl upon your legs like a flurry of scurrying rats. You blink up at him, helplessly hopeful.

He inhales a long, steadying breath and shuts his eyes. “God, have mercy. Have pity on this wayward soul. May she be cleansed beneath my fingertips, pure as freshly fallen snow, and may you forgive her every transgression.”

You sputter an incoherent noise.

He opens his eyes and smiles serenely. “Amen.”

Squirming beneath him, you resist his touch like it’s flickering flame. “Father, I beg of you… Quell your frustrations and release me at once. I am innocent.”

He sighs, unconvinced. “You are exquisitely venust, Sister. As sweet as the first buds of spring. You must know it is impossible for beauty to exist freely when there are fiends who wish to tarnish it—who will trample upon the virtuous garden in which you bloom and pluck you by the root, rough as barbarians. Thus, it is my duty to see that you are scrubbed of their detestable influence. May God pardon my iniquity.”

His hands slide up your calves beneath your habit. You watch, prickled with horror, as he parts your legs.

“Belle chose, unfurl your petals so that we may make feet for children’s stockings.”

He leans over you, reaching to secure your wrists with one hand. The other climbs higher in its rapacious pursuit of a place most sacred. In the midst of your ferocious thrashing, you espy His divine eye once more.

I adjure you, Lord… Save me from this demon. You must. Please, Lord…

Silence. A haunting, engulfing silence.

There is no salvation to be found beneath the cross. None for you, as it appears so disturbingly clear.

“Unhand me! Unhand me at once!” you snap, tearing your arm free. “You would allow yourself to fall lower than the ground you trod upon—to so flagrantly commit sacrilege in His hallowed home?!”

“It is not I who is to be scorned so. I am guiltless,” he sneers. But then he smooths his scowl into that of pristine, practiced patience, and he speaks in a soft, pitying tone. “Oh, Sister, you have allowed them to tip poison into your precious ears… Your perception is clouded with the cobwebs of that uncouth crowd.”

“To stand at his feet and reveal your malice in such a grotesque manner… You are no better than swine!”

“You shall see there is no better solace to be found than with me.” Tenderly, he fits his hand, cold and skeletal, in yours. “I shall shelter you from all that is cruel and unjust. You need only take my hand.” His fingers flicker at your inner thigh, waltzing in circles. His incessant petting sends a shudder wracking through your body. Paralyzed as you are, you recognize the monster lurking just beneath human flesh. A demented desire flashes in his eyes. You’ve never felt more lost. “And your sins shall be forgiven.”

Father Flamme leans down, chancing to catch the scent at your neck. You reach between your bodies, searching for the garter secured around your thigh, and unsheath the dagger from beneath your habit. It’s thrust at his throat, the sharpened edge pressed close enough to pierce through the collar of his alb and draw the slightest pinprick of blood. Clasping the ivory handle in a trembling fist, you face him with a fire burning in your fear-filled visage.

Perhaps it is his own disbelief that prompts the rattle in his chest—an ominous chuckle.

“You are a bride of Christ, yet you dare turn a blade on me?”

“You’re a man of God, yet you besmear His holy name with the sin of your incorrigible lust?”

“You are mistaken, Sister.” He grabs hold of your fist with both hands and folds his fingers over yours in mock prayer. As if intending to stoke your ire, he tilts his head in taunt. “Let my blood run red on this altar and you shall know of my humanity.”

“Defile the Lamb of God and you are no shepherd but, rather, the wolf who adorns himself in woolen mendacity.”

Before he can utter a response, the doors burst open. Father Flamme releases your hand and climbs off of you, brushing the wrinkles from his robes. An icy gale claws at the interior, and with it two men arrive in a whirlwind rush.

“Your Excellency, forgive our intrusion!”

Your arm falls to your side and, with a mounting sense of defeat, you gaze at the ceiling. You don’t feel soothed, but you must compose yourself. And so, shoving your frenzied emotions to the side, you sheath your blade and scramble to make yourself presentable once your feet are back on the floor. Brightening at the sight of the two villagers, you cradle your rosary and pray silently.

Dear God, may you smite he who spreads abhorrent rot with his fingertips and, in witnessing a most magnificent death flail, gralloch him without mercy.

“Ah, gentlemen, what fortuitous timing,” Father Flamme greets them, smiling. “Do come in. I’ve a task for you, if you would be so inclined.”

You linger behind, cautious like a gare-fowl often is when at the receiving end of a hunter’s rifle.

“Your Excellency, you need only ask and we are at your service.”

“Before that, you must accompany us to the hogs,” the other interjects. “Death has soiled these grounds, Your Excellency. A sight so barbarous it forebodes only the worst! You must come—come and behold the infernal darkness which has cursed this village!”

Father Flamme glances between the both of them, assessing the urgency of the situation that has been so cryptically illustrated.

“As you have described, the present circumstances appear dire. Oh, but I do require your assistance before that, gentlemen. It shan’t be too arduous a task.” He turns on his heel and indicates you with an outstretched hand. “Sister (Name) totters at the precipice with her fickle faith. As it is my duty to ensure all are well in the arms of God, I must take…caution—you might say—in sorting such a sensitive matter.”

The men exchange bewildered looks.

“You imply…punishment, sir?”

“Nay, I think not!” you interrupt, striding forwards. You’re stopped by Father Flamme’s arm, held just in front of your chest to keep you in place. “Father, I am steadfast in my faith. I have—”

“If such were the truth, you would not speak nullifidian filth.”

Pushing past him, you plead with the men: “Sirs, he knots his tongue and utters dishonesty! You know of my virtue—my loyalty to Him. And of my father, who has provided comfort and care, the means by which I was raised into the woman you see before you, I am justly proud. As the daughter of (Last Name), I sicken with the thought of bringing dishonor to my father, my faith—all of which I hold true in my heart. Sirs, you must believe in—”

Father Flamme lifts his hand to silence you, but you’re aware of his cunning machinations. “I ask of you this, good sirs. When sailors set out at sea, do they allow themselves to fall prey to the song of the siren? Just as those wretched sea-beasts sing, so, too, does honey pour spoiled from the mouth of a sinner. Her words serve to chart a course for ill-founded temptation.”

“Sister, your virtue I do not question.” The villager addresses Father Flamme next, disregarding your presence entirely, as if you are naught but a worthless speck. “What shall we do, Your Excellency?”

A smile curls on his lips. “Take her to the tower just beyond the village. She shall remain in solitude for seven days. That shall provide her with ample time for contemplation.”

The men approach you without a hint of remorse on their lips. Cornered, you look to Father Flamme for guidance.

“Father, I beg of you—you mustn’t send me away! I shall repent! I shall do so before you now.”

“It serves me no satisfaction to subject you to solitary confinement.” He folds his hands in front of him and observes the spectacle of your resistance. “You have proven to me your doubt in the capabilities of the Lord. It is my right to correct your contumacious thoughts. I’m certain your father would share this sentiment. No daughter should empty her mind of His valuable teachings.”

“Do not speak as if you have dined with my father,” you hiss, wriggling in the firm hold of both men.

Father Flamme steps closer and smiles. “Let us away.”

You are dragged, struggling all the while, out of the church and down the steps. There is a ferocious bite to this year’s autumnal weather. Father Flamme is gracious enough to drape his cloak over your shoulders just before you’re lifted onto a horse. He mounts his stallion and, with the crack of a whip, the four of you are off towards the decrepit tower at the rugged foothills of the mountains. No words are exchanged. You’ve said more than enough and you still remain the accused, guilty due to distorted logic.

The tower, which had once appeared so distantly out of your mind, gains striking clarity as you approach. You gaze helplessly at the man transporting you. He offers nothing of substance, his gaze focused squarely on the dirt footpath ahead.

When you were but a babe, the tower served as a warning for all children in the village: Those whose souls are stained with the sins of their atrocities shall wither away in silence.

There was once a raving madman who was imprisoned there in your youth. A heretic, he was called. Driven to his end, his sanity thin as a hair, he scraped at the walls and pulled loose bricks free until his fingernails cracked and blood trickled down his hands in rivers. When he had created a sizable opening for himself, at the peak of his derangement, he climbed out to meet the sun’s soft rays, a singular blessing owed for years of captivity. And then he threw himself from the tower, landing in a broken spattering at the very bottom.

In the years following, the tower housed numerous prisoners. It is a cold, unforgiving place, existing solely for the ugly and the crooked. And, now, the misunderstood. The wrongfully accused.

As you’re helped down from the horse, you ponder how many have been sent here to live out time for unfair accusations.

You’re joined by the second villager shortly, and they flank you like soldiers as they shove you along.

“Have you no sympathy, sirs!” you snap, shaking yourself from their grip. “To treat me so callously when my devotion is fervent and true! I am no fabulist.”

The men say nothing and amble onwards, pushing you closer to the tower. One of them attempts to seize your wrist; you evade him gracefully. Father Flamme observes your outright stubborn refusal and hums his disapproval.

“Unhand me! I’ll go of my own accord. I’ve feet for a reason, and thus they shall work as God intended. I need not the assistance of fools. My legs shall be the ones to carry me.” Punctuating that with an indignant huff, you stride ahead.

What brutish handling… These doltish fiends sit under the tree of knowledge and yet not a single fruit falls into their laps. To think this is how they would treat someone sworn to the church—and a lady, no less!

The latch is weather-worn, and it creaks a discordant note when lifted. You peek into the shadowed entrance and frown. Before you are subjected to the impatience of the men at your side, you step into the dimness. It is alight with the red-orange slivers of a setting sun.

“You shall wait here. I will accompany this misguided Sister to the very top. After which, we shall return to the village and I shall accompany you to the hogs.”

The men nod and stand at attention.

If you’re so dedicated to foolish play, you would be wise to salute, you think with a sardonic tut.

Father Flamme offers his arm. “Shall we?”

Ignoring his attempt at chivalry, you lift your habit so as to not trip on it and begin the lengthy ascent up the spiraling staircase. He chuckles and follows your lead. Every wooden step creaks under your weight. Something brushes your face—dust, perhaps. You swat at your face, grimacing. The scent of mold and rot clings to the bowels of this tower like maggots on a corpse, impossibly redolent in ways you shall avoid giving thought to.

I must not breathe so deeply, lest I wish to savor the taste of decay and bitter rage.

You carry on, ignoring the creeping revulsion and the stench of death as it clouds the air, accompanying you on your journey. A door waits for you at the top. You note it is without a lock.

“A bird will not fly in captivity,” Father Flamme advises, pushing it open to reveal a sparsely furnished room. It’s equipped with the essentials a common prisoner would need. You can’t help feeling less than human the moment you pass through the threshold.

It is enough of a sight to wear on my eyes and render them woefully sore.

He meets you at the door and offers an embroidered reticule. “I shall retrieve you in seven days’ time.”

You eye him dubiously and, upon sensing no additional malevolence, swipe the reticule from him. “May you rest guilty on your bed of lies.”

He leans in close, his voice as faint as a phantasm. “May you reflect on what it is you hold dear, for I assure you it is well within my reach.” He pivots and begins his descent, his footsteps tapping out a resounding rhythm. “You will learn a glorious lesson here. Treasure it as you would a child.”

Minutes later, the door below shuts and the latch is dropped into place. The noise races up the stone spiral in echo, filling your ears with its haunting reverberation.

Now you’re truly alone.

“How boorish he must be to condemn me to this prison!” You slam the door in your anger and drop the reticule onto the bed. In an effort of appraisal, you feel the lumpy mattress. It’s packed full of straw. “I am not nameless, nor am I a harlot. Yet I am gifted the opulence of peasants. I can scarcely accept such generosity.”

Alas, this is your new misfortune.

To busy your idle hands, you open the reticule and peer inside at its contents. A thumb Bible rests beside a bulk of misshapen cloth. Gingerly, you unwrap it to find bread, cheese, and salt pork. Somehow—and you have every right to be fastidious—you doubt this modest portion will be enough for seven days.

“And not a drop of water!” you announce to the empty room. “He has an astounding amount of faith in me if he thinks I will surrender so simply. One day he shall get his gruel. I’ll make sure of it.”

Until then you will never know peace.

Bundling the rations, you place them within the reticule alongside the Bible. Perhaps you should have requested writing implements or a book—anything to preclude the impending accidie.

Beyond the window, which is sized perfectly for the smallest bird, the sun disappears below the horizon. Ink spills across the sky, darkening the surroundings outside the tower and leaving room for stars to speckle the vastness. You sit at the edge of the bed and wrap your fingers around your rosary.

“Dear God, you know I am faultless and so I ask that you guide me in understanding your ways. Father Flamme speaks of protection in your home and yet when danger is knocking you are not there to answer.” You tug anxiously at the beads. “If you are there, show me… Show me that you hear my prayers. Show me that I am not alone. That even I, imperfect as I may be, am deserving of your sanctuary and forgiveness. Amen.”

Shrugging the cloak off, you fold it into a neat square and set it at the end of the bed. Your veil and coif are next to go, and you take immense care in handling both. You slide your dagger out of its sheath and set it on the bed. The night is cool and so you resolve to remain dressed as you are, in your robes and chemise.

“I will endure these seven days. Each one, night and day, I will be strong. My faith will never falter. I will never waver,” you whisper, repeating this oath like a mantra. You settle into bed, sparing a final glance at the square cut into the brickwork, where a starry sky wraps the world in a celestial counterpane. “Perhaps then you might acknowledge me.”

Clutching the rosary close to your chest, comforted with the weapon at your side, you drift into dreamless slumber.

#yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere rollo flamme #yandere rollo flamme x reader #yandere rollo x reader #yandere rollo #the test of faith #the test of faith prologue

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painted-flag · 1 month

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OF FLOWERS AND DEATH - Aemond Targaryen

☾⋆⁺₊✧ dark elf!Aemond Targaryen x f!human!reader series.

☾⋆⁺₊✧ Summary: A taint twists through the kingdoms of man and elf, killing all life in its wake. Your father, a brilliant mind, had worked tirelessly for a solution to fight that evil. However, you are left shouldering the burden of his research after he mysteriously disappears.

A newfound companion lands you a position working under the watchful eye of elf healers. You struggle to hold yourself together in the dark woodland kingdom of elves ruled by their merciless king - Aemond Targaryen. Secrets breed more secrets, and figuring out who to trust is more difficult than ever - especially when you cannot even trust yourself.

It is a race to find a cure while unravelling the secret behind your father's disappearance, the origin of the taint, and the troubling stirrings in your heart caused by the elf king. The impending war between humans and elves drives tensions further, casting a dark veil over your endeavours.

Moreso, when death itself seems to come knocking upon your door.

☾⋆⁺₊✧ Chapters:

Chapter 1: The Laws of Humans and Elves Chapter 2: A Modest Proposition Chapter 3: A Study in Death Chapter 4: A Night of Song and Dance Chapter 5: The Young Elf ⁺˚⋆｡° September 20 Chapter 6: A Snake in the Garden °｡⋆˚⁺ September 27 Chapter 7: The Dark Woods Deep ⁺˚⋆｡° October 4 Chapter 8: Marked Flesh °｡⋆˚⁺ October 11 Chapter 9: Home and Hearth ⁺˚⋆｡° October 18 Chapter 10: The Art of Potion Making °｡⋆˚⁺ October 25 Chapter 11: A New Ally ⁺˚⋆｡° November 1 Chapter 12: Death's Sting °｡⋆˚⁺ November 8 Chapter 13: Of Taverns and Bathhouses ⁺˚⋆｡° November 15 Chapter 14: The Saphire °｡⋆˚⁺ November 22 Chapter 15: Know Your Enemies ⁺˚⋆｡° November 29 Chapter 16: Every Little Thing °｡⋆˚⁺ December 6 Chapter 17: The Winds of War ⁺˚⋆｡° December 13 Chapter 18: Past, Present, and Future °｡⋆˚⁺ December 20 Chapter 19: The Scars of Betrayal ⁺˚⋆｡° December 27 Chapter 20: An Elf's Rage °｡⋆˚⁺ January 3 Epilogue: An Elf's Devotion ⁺˚⋆｡° January 10

☾⋆⁺₊✧ Content warning: 18+ depictions of violence/gore, eventual smut, warfare, sickness/disease, some moments of misogyny, mentions of alcohol consumption, and Criston Cole (yikes).

☾⋆⁺₊✧ I am extremely excited to begin releasing this series! Ever since season one was released, the concept of writing an elf-based story on Aemond has been living rent-free in my head.

There will be weekly updates to this series. While I have extensive outlines for each chapter, I wish to take this at a slower pace when it comes to releasing. This way, I can balance other works on this page as well. (along with my uni coursework).

Thank you all for the support! <3

☾⋆⁺₊✧ If you want to be added to the taglist, click here!

#hotd imagine #hotd fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #dark elf #elf #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen series

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slutshamethesquirrels · 3 months

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All The Sweet Tea In Carolina

Pairing: cowboy!geto x reader

TW/CW: historical inaccuracies, smut, rough sex, choking, gagging, mentions of guns, mdni

Description: Restless and duty-bound, you are set to begin courting with one very handsome Nanami Kento come morning. However, your heart belongs to another, who may change your mind before sun rises.

This work is part of the "Slow It Down, Cowboy" AU, a collaborative effort with @vallification . Read it's sister work, "In My Heart You Pay No Rent" here.

How unfair life could be, truly.

You should've been ecstatic, over the moon even, to have received an invitation to court from one Nanami Kento. He was the son of a blacksmith and a well educated mother, polite, modest, and only four years your senior. Nanami Kento, certainly, would make a fine husband.

”Oh my, how handsome he is!”

Your mother had gushed in the dining room, occasionally dipping her head to peer around the entryway into your living quarters as he discussed his intentions with your father. Marriage, money, children were all topics that had been thrown around. All of which you knew because every time your mama would hear something she liked she’d floundered and flounced as if there were ants under her feet, squealing excitedly at what had to be your worst nightmare. You had to resist the urge to insinuate she was a church bell.

She wasn't wrong, though, the old church bell. Nanami Kento was handsome. The other young women of the town would simply stone you if it meant they could step into your shoes.

And so you’d accepted the proposition with a tight smile, hoping he may have thought your eyes were wide with excitement, not panic.

I am a wretched, ungrateful woman. I will be courted by the very handsome Nanami Kento. When he asks for my hand I will be his wife. I will learn to love him.

Your brain repeated the mantra over and over in your head, trying desperately to convince your heart of it’s truths. All the while, your body seemed to revolt against you as well, taking sides with your heart in this futile pursuit. Every shift in your bed was uncomfortable, the collar of your nightdress too high, the wrist cuffs of that same dress too tight. Your body thought this night would be much more comfortable with a particular pair of arms wrapped around you. Your heart screamed for the return of a certain set of catmint hued eyes. Your brain thought he was a backhanded fly-by-night, and argued with the other two to follow suit.

To the rest of the world, Suguru Geto was an outlaw, a cowhand turned desperado chasing some wild tale of claiming land out west by means of force. Under your bed in an old pine box were clippings from newspapers spinning wild fables of his desperate attempts at gunslinging his way into codfish aristocracy alongside one notorious “Six Eyes Satoru Gojo”, a figure whose name struck fear in the hearts of many.

To you, though, Suguru Geto was a humble farmboy, sent to the dogs by the untimely death of his parents not long after he’d turned 18.

You hadn’t known him well then, not honestly, but gossip needs no carriage. Rumor in the market paths was that the young man was a bit less of a pony, and more of a stallion. You remembered feeling a blend of emotions everytime it was mentioned. Disgust at the reckless deflowerment of so many young women of proud heritage. Visceral shock at the idea that Suguru Geto, a boy known to live by his charms, with a voice laden with honey and a tender smile, would commit such atrocities. Then, on top of the latter, was a feeling that spurred an immense shame within you, jealousy. The green eyed wretch.

It was no surprise to you why so many young women had fallen into the bear trap that was his porcelain grin; the one that he would flash at merchants as you passed him time and time again at the market with the furtiveness of a field mouse darting through the grass. Though, with the way you assumed of him, perhaps you were more like the corn snake. After all, who was to say any of it was true? Lies and gossip had long since been wed, after all.

Those girls in their bustled gowns would be floored to know how many times he’d bedded you in the years since then, especially after he’d run for the west and Chicagoed more men than you could count on both your hands and all your toes. Your family would simply be ruined if the coffee-sisters caught wind of all the ways he’d taken you. If it ever happened, you’d already decided you’d publish a pamphlet and then promptly drown yourself in the river to save them from the shame. Tell the emerging nation in its entirety how sure of a shot “Sure Shot Suguru Geto” really was. He’d forgive you for bubbling around, surely. Not like he’d have much of a choice.

After all, it was his own discourteousness that had left you here in your bed on this night, tossing and turning and wallowing in your own delusional sentimentality. What was there to miss, even? He was a landlouper, a vagabond that only stayed for a night, if one could even refer to it as such. He’d come to take you after dusk on the off chance it wouldn’t trouble him so much as he was passing through, and return to his misruled adventures before the sun had even risen. Of course, there were more reasons than his own transgressions that sent him packing so quickly. Once, he’d made the mistake of over sleeping, only to be awoken to your father beating on the door of your room, asking why a horse was posted up by the tree on the farside of the property, wanting to ensure your safety. Admittedly, it was a tad fun trying to distract your Pa while he attempted to back slang it by way of your bedroom window. You almost understood why he chose such a lifestyle.

God be with you, you needed to sleep. Now.

Either by night or by sleight, by fair means or foul, you stomped the images of his broad shoulders and calloused hands out of your mind and attempted to count sheep. But even the sheep, it seemed, were disgruntled. After a fair number they laid down in the field of your mind, refusing to run their courses and instead curling into briskets, having grown tired and lazy. It seems they needed a cattleboy to guide them. A tall, toned, miscreant cowhand with a flair for violence and princess-esque locks of inky silken hair that tumbled down his--

Your eyes fly open, and dammit you could absolutely kill that man for the way he’s ravaged your entire being. The thought crosses your mind that perhaps you should’ve counted Nanami Kento’s jumping hurdles instead, and you can’t help but giggle childishly at yourself, pawing at your weary eyes with balled fists.

“What’s s’funny?”

You jolt upright, catching the crown of your head against the pine headboard as you did so, causing you to yelp a little louder than you should’ve. Clutching one hand over the painsome spot where you’d practically bludgeoned yourself, you lift your eyes to find none other than “Sure Shot” himself, his jaw resting against a closed fist and his elbow against the wood paneling of your open window, his hair loose (just the way you liked it) and toppling into the open air of your room, the light of the moon catching on the locs like sun on water.

You search your soul for every reason to be cross with him, trying desperately to cling to the crumbling remnants of your anger that were slipping through your hands like sand at just the sight of him, but your body– dammit, your body. It betrays you, craving him like sunlight. You scramble out of your bed and to the window, leaning out to toss your arms around his neck, melting into him as he chuckles mischievously, his hands finding your sides to hoist you out of the window, spinning you around like children celebrating a hard won game of marbles.

“Now just how did you manage to snake your way up here without alerting the likes of Archie?” You question, leaning your hands against the broad stretch of his shoulders to look at him. Your father had found the ol’ hound in a burlap sack by the river the summer prior. He grew into a fierce protector, for better or for worse.

“Seems even dogs’r charmed by my delicate sensibilities.” He smirks, and you can't help the soft smile that creeps across your face, your fingers affectionately tracing over the embroidery of his shirt, carefully crafted delphiniums threaded in various lilac hues painted across his shoulders. He did always have a thing for fashion.

“Charmed only by the dog biscuits in your pocket, surely is what you intended.”

He snickers, setting you down in your still-open windowsill so your bare feet don’t touch the moist earth below, stuffing a hand in his pocket as he speaks,

“Cain’t blame a man, honestly-” he produces something from his pocket and expertly tosses it into his mouth, too smooth for you to catch sight of it before it was crunching and cracking between his teeth. “Better’n any human biscuit I’ve ever tasted--”.

You gasp, wide-eyed and astounded at such a disgusting act carried out by such a beautiful man right in front of your eyes.

“Suguru Geto, you truly forget yourself!” your scold carries out over his wheezing, a mixture of hushed complaints about how you were sure to get the two of you caught if you didn’t pipe down intermingled with chuckling. He tries to muffle it by leaning his arms on the window, caging you in by the hips and burying his face in the crook of your neck. The rumble of his chest lights a fire inside you as you attempt to playfully push him away to no avail.

“I mean it, Mr. Sure Shot if you even so much as attempt to toy with the idea of putting your poor misfortunate dog lips anywhere near me--!”

“Shhh!” He begs, cupping your head on either side and bringing your forehead down to rest against his own, still laughing lightly “It’s a mint, I swear! See? I’m only hackin’ on ya’.”. He blows a gentle cooling breath against your face and despite yourself you breathe in deeply, swallowing a lungful of his breath and something distinctly fresh, hoping he doesn’t notice the cheek-ache you’ve gained from the tingling sensation.

You mimic his giggles, though whether it was due to humor or the way he stole your breath so effortlessly was up for debate “You’ve gone mad.”.

“Yes’m, sure have.” He confirms, his smile fading from one of amusement to one of reverence, “T’love an’ be sane ain’t possible, after all”.

Your smile fades as you lean back slightly, shaking your head with a dry scoff, “You, Suguru Geto, do not love me.”.

His brow scrunches in confusion, eyes bouncing back and forth across your face as he chews his cheek. What you’d give to be able to see into his head.

“Now, ‘at dog jus’ ain’t gon’ hunt.” He huffs, displeased with your response to his confession. You roll your eyes and go to slide backwards into your bedroom only to be caught in his hands, one on your waist and one clutching your chin between his calloused fingers, rough from years of roping and riding “If I ain’t earnest, then ‘m dead, y/n. I lov-”.

“Stop it, and stop it now.” You spit, reaching up to grab him by the wrist and toss it back at him “You do not-”.

“Who ’re you to try’n tell me how I feel?” He cuts you off, nostrils flaring and lips cementing themselves into a tight line as he grows increasingly wrought-up over your dismissal. You’d never, not even once, rejected his advances or affections before. Typically you were malleable, pliant to his wills. It was obvious he didn’t know how to handle it.

You hold up a hand to signal him to settle, and he does a bit, finally backing away just a few feet and allowing you some much needed room to breathe.

“My apologies. It might be better to say you cannot love me-”

“I’ll do whatever‘n the hell I damn well please-”

“Suguru.”

He huffs and turns away from you, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “Sorry, I guess. Go ‘head.”. A frustrated sigh.

You set your gaze anywhere but at him, your mouth opening and closing several times as you struggle to say the words you know you need to, your heels kicking softly against the wooden framing of your family home.

“Well?” He prods, growing impatient, and you shoot him a glare, sending a clear signal; that he needs to relax. This is hard enough without him becoming chewed up.

“I am set to begin courting tomorrow.” You breathe, trying to remain steady, your head growing fuzzy as the confession seems to set the reality of it all into stone. You were going to start courting tomorrow. With a man that was the polar opposite in nearly every fashion of the one before you, the one you wanted.

He stills for a moment, hooded eyes widening in shock momentarily before he relaxes entirely, following that with a snort and a chuckle, “Very funny, but don’t yank my chain like ‘at. You got no idea what I almost-”.

“It is no laughing matter, I fear. He talked to my father this morning. They discussed funds and… and the dowry-- a-and, children.” You have to stop yourself and manually fill your lungs with much needed oxygen, hanging your head low and gripping to your makeshift seat until your knuckles turn white, caught off guard by how badly you ache more and more with each passing word.

When you lift your head to meet his form once again, he’s stock-still, entirely unreadable. The once cool and open night air now felt stiff, stale, and impossibly hot. Eventually, he breaks first, huffing and rolling his lips between his teeth, nodding as if to confirm his own thoughts.

“Well, y’just seem plum thrilled, babe. By all means, don’t go lettin’ my nonsense stop ya’.” You’re certain he wants this to come off unbothered, but his voice absolutely drips sarcasm and venom. The sound is almost foreign to your ears. “Who’s the lucky bastard, huh?”.

“Luck?!” You evade answering that question entirely, deciding it better to focus on the relationship he knew versus the one he didn’t. You weren’t callow enough to lose sight of Suguru’s tendencies. You needn't sweet Nanami Kento’s blood on your hands.

“It hasn’t anything to do with luck, Suguru. You could have done it just as easily as he, but the path you chose was different. You just as simply could’ve gone to my father and–!”

“And what?!” He steps closer, his voice barely a harsh whisper, pushing through clenched teeth, “Introduce m’self to the beer bottle? ‘Howdy, I’m Suguru Geto. I got nothin’ to m’ name, dead parents and a barrel’a women under my belt but please force your daughter into allowin’ me to court ‘er.’. You ‘n I both know-”

“I will have you know I am most certainly not being forced into anything-”

“Then why not say ‘no’?”

“Because I cannot!”

“Sounds awful forced t’me.” He deadpans. You hadn’t paid much attention to how close he was again until his breath was fanning your face.

“You’re impossible.” Unwilling to let him back you into a corner, you slide backwards into the room, fully intent on turning around and slamming your window right down on his ridiculously large hands.

He beat you to the punch, though. Hopping through the open space right behind you, giving you no time to shut him out before you’re chest to chest with him, standing on your tiptoes to try and cut down on the height advantage, much like one would go about handling a bear.

“This is your fault, you know? What’s forcing my hand here is that you’ve-” you jab a pointed finger into his chest “-devalued me! Without Nanami Kento’s consideration I would surely be left to the hands of some- some dizzy-aged cretin with a wad of gold and a lobcock that hasn’t worked since before I was born!”.

He smirks, and you immediately realize your mistake, your eyes widening as he cocks his head and dips down to your eye-level, his body language telling you that your attempts to dominate him were all but futile.

“Nanami Kento, huh?” He questions, smugness plastering his unthinkably handsome features. A tense few beats pass, and he relents, seemingly satisfied with the new information. The moonbeams that cascaded in through the window caught and glimmered on his holstered pistol strapped to his hip by way of his gun belt, reminding you of the weight of your mistake.

“Do not. Suguru, I’m gravely serious, do not do this-” You weren’t sure what you were begging for.

“Nanami Kento.” He repeats the name slowly, his voice coated with malice as he stops and turns to look at you. His eyes were narrowed and sharp, nostrils flaring and jaw clenched tight as he fought to keep his voice low and his breathing even.

“Let me tell ya ‘bout Nanami Kento. ‘At man ain’t ever worked’fr nary a damn thing ‘n his entire life, and when it comes to fightin’? I bet on ev’r dollar I got ‘at prick’s all hat, no cattle. He wants ta take ya from me? Fine. But he’s gon’ have to do a lil’ more for it than just givin’ yer ol’ man a lick n’ a promise.” He nods the affirmative at his own words and turns to leave, but you lunge forward and catch him by the shirtsleeve.

“Just of what exactly do you speak?” You demand, and the smile he gives you could shake the shit from the pants of Satan himself.

“Real simple, peach. He can duel me for it, like a gentleman. Better be grateful, too. ‘Cause the way ‘m feelin’ right now- I got half’a mind to sharpen’at silver spoon he’s graced with’n cut him with it.”

You scan his face with the providentness of a surgeon, blinking a few times before you finally just ask,

“…You can’t be serious?”

“Oh, simon pure, m’afriad-”

“You will ruin me!” You grit your teeth and slap a flat palm against his chest out of pure instinct. He flinches a bit, less in pain and more in pure shock at your outburst. You’d never had a legitimate reason to be cross with him before.

“Accordin’ to you, I’ve already gone on an’ beat that bull-”

“Oh, you rat! You know what my intention is! How am I to explain why Sure Shot Suguru Geto desires to duel for my- my-” You let go of him, your hands flailing as you search for your words. You’re so mad you can’t even articulate. “Well surely not my honor! If anything, for my-! My madge!”.

By the time you finish your outburst, you’re effectively tied up in knots, your fists clenched at your side and your jaw jutted like a bulldog as your chest heaves with fiery, angry breaths. He’s tense too, but for an entirely different reason. His lips are pressed in a tight line, eyebrows damn near flying off his face and cheeks turning crimson with effort.

“Don’t you dare.” Your warning is the thing that sends him over the edge. It starts with a snort, and then evolves into a fit of wheezing and whickering as he tries with conviction to keep his volume low, doubling over slightly and catching himself with one hard palm on the window frame, the other clutching at his jerking abdomen as he laughs.

You can’t hold yourself to the conviction of not laughing along with him, tears brimming in your eyes as you cover your mouth with both hands and give him a swift kick to the shin as if he were the one who said the offending comment in the first place. It earns a girlish yelp from him, and then you’re both laughing harder, cascading to the floor in a heap as you attempt to get the reins back on this metaphorical horse.

“See?” He coughs obnoxiously and draws a deep breath, flipping over onto his back on the hardwood flooring of your bedroom and swiping at some tears that had formed in his eyes “Now how’n the hell do ya expect me to let’cha walk away with a mouth like ‘at?”.

You sit up straight and shake your head at him incredulously, sighing as you feel your hostility leave with your breath. He looks just as mesmerizing as ever, with his hair fanning out across your floor like splattered paint and his face flush from laughter, stripped of his hat, vest, and overcoat. He must’ve left them with Cinnamon, his trusty palomino steed who was undeniably tied up somewhere on the corner of your parent’s property. He claimed that a horse was nothing more than a form of transportation, but you'd caught him draping his over layers across her back more than once before. It wasn't even that cold outside.

You reach forward and grab his hand in yours, running your thumb along his knuckles, noticing the scrapes and fading bruises but choosing not to bring it up. Who knows what kind of hogwash he’d gotten into since the last time you'd seen him.

“I'm serious. You cannot duel with him. The shame it would bring my family would be odious.” You whisper, avoiding his gaze and choosing instead to focus on his hand in yours, his warm skin working wonders to ground you.

He shifts until he's sitting, pulling your hand to his lips for a quick kiss before he's kicking off his boots, an action your body has an inherent reaction to, muscle memory causing your heart to pick up pace and your face to light fire in anticipation.

“What can I do, then? Tell me, y/n. Jus’ say the words an’ I’ll flatten the Appalachians for ya’.” He murmurs after setting his shoes aside, careful not to let the iron spurs clang against the floor. He reaches forward and tucks your hair behind your ear, letting his palm rest against your cheek, holding you in a gaze that could’ve pinned you down without the help of his warm hand.

You lean into him, bringing your hand up to hold him there, lips falling loose and open as you search for words, finding none. What could he do? The damage was irreparable, it seemed. You couldn’t be selfish over the matter. Your head shakes slightly and the hand that cups his own grips at his fingers and attempts to pry him away from you. You couldn’t. You couldn’t--

“Anythin’, doll. Ya want the sun? I’ll bottl’it. I’ll stop the clouds from rainin’ and ‘is ol’ earth from turnin’ if’n it jus’ means I can have ya.” His harsh whisper cuts through you like glass and he refuses to let you go, instead shifting to his knees and bringing his free hand to mirror the one in use. Leaning over you, desperately caging you in that fucking gaze; eyes a somber and honest amethyst. Your hands come up to grip his wrists as you attempt to blink away sentimental tears, silently begging for reprieve from his overwhelming attention.

“Please, y/n.” He breathes, beckoning you to give in, lips so close to your own that you can feel every syllable, “Please let me have ya.”.

You break, of course you do, capturing his bottom lip between your own, your breathing steadily growing heavy as he jerks your body flush against his, guiding your arms around his neck to free his hands. They roam every dip and valley of your frame over your bedtime linens, resisting the temptation to pause and play along the way before trailing their way down over the globes of your ass, stopping only once they’ve reached your thighs. He picks you up with a bruising grip, your legs locking around his abdomen. He stands, as if you weigh nothing at all, and carries you to the bed. All the while he’s swiping, pushing, curling his tongue against your own like he has something to prove; and maybe he does.

The minute he sets you down your fingers make way to his gun belt. Starting at the string around his thigh, you find yourself smirking cheekily as he tenses at the contact.

“Are these those ‘delicate sensibilities’ you spoke of?” You tease, smiling up at him as you undo the knotting, making sure to let your fingers make as much contact with his clothed inner thigh as possible.

“Don’t go stirrin’ up a hornets nest, now-” He teases right back, his smirk only lasting a fraction of a second. You run a flat palm up the inside of his thighs and across the half-formed tent in his pants, massaging over the area before continuing onto his waist buckle. He hisses, throwing his head back in gratification “Shit, baby, I mean, how long’s’it been now? Four months? Six?”. His fingers dance into your hair, clinging to the locks for some sort of purchase, and the way he seems so desperate for you has you clenching your thighs together.

“Now, do you expect me to clean-handedly believe you travel like you do and don’t bed women when you’re gone?” You ask, rolling your eyes as your fingers dance upward to tug at his waist buckle, the plum stained leather smooth against the pad of your fingers. He shoots a look down at you, tutting disapprovingly.

“ Wh’Kinda guff is ‘at?” He fusses, “Ain’t ever been no other woman. Not since the first day I had ya.”

The words cause your cheeks to flush deeper red than they ever had before, and you have to fight yourself not to loose sight of the task at hand. “No?” you ask cheekily, finally wrestling off his gunbelt and sitting it off gently to the side, iron still in the holster.

“Why would I?” He asks, clenching his teeth and hissing as your hands find his waist and your lips place hot, open mouthed kisses across the front of his pants, loving the way you can feel him twitch and grow harder beneath the confines of the fabric.

“You’re spinning yarn,” You accuse, running a flat tongue against him once, twice before continuing, “Not even have you stopped at a brothel?”.

“Ain't no need, when I got my own right hand ‘nd yer mem’ry.” He’s losing all reverence, the deft fingers on his leftmost hand gripping tighter against your scalp and hips rocking in time with your movements, his right hand coming up to undo the buttons of his shirt, seeking reprieve from the heat that had washed over your tiny little bedroom.

“You are the slyest of stray alley cats.” You can't allow yourself to believe his words, though the thought of him satisfying himself under a blanket of stars makes your pussy throb. Sweaty, dirty, one hand covering his mouth so that he doesn't accidentally call out for you and wake his associates. Jerking himself hard and fast, hips rutting into his fist--

“Dumplin’. On m’ iron n’ what tiny bit’s left o’ my honor; the fuckin’ Virgin Mary ‘erself could offer t’bed me an’ I’d turn ‘er down for you-- shit!” He cuts himself off with a gasp as you take the opportunity provided to you by his freshly unbuttoned shirt, not even allowing him a moment to shed the off-white fabric from his shoulders before you’re running your tongue along the thin trail of hair along his lower abdomen. You unbutton his tight-fitted trousers, whimpering against your own will as his toned muscles twitch and jerk beneath your lips. His body was confirming his convictions. He wanted you.

Hooking your fingers under his pants and underwear, you pull them down until they’re hugging his thighs, squeezing the toned flesh there just right. You're practically panting as his cock springs free, slapping against his abdomen with a wet thud.

For a moment, all you can do is stare with heavy lidded eyes and parted lips. This is why sex was a sin. There was no earthly explanation why something could make you feel such elation; it had to be unholy by nature. Shaky fingers reach up to stroke him, nimble pads running through the coarse tufts of hair at the base before tracing up, up, up the underside of his shaft. You try not to think about how this is the last time you’ll ever see this view, focusing instead on committing every fat vein to memory, hoping you can recall it on the off chance you ever get a bed to yourself again following your dreaded marriage. Your index reaches the very tip and you find yourself swiping away the bead of precum that's formed there, bringing your finger to your mouth and closing your eyes as you do the same with the taste.

“Angel-” A raspy voice from above you has your eyes snapping open, looking up to find Suguru panting, sweating, swallowing hard and desperate “M’an outlaw, not a priest. Ain’t got patience like ‘at-.”.

“My sincere apologies, handsome.” You wrap your hand around him and stroke him in earnest, drinking in the way his face falls open from satisfaction. “I assure you, I didn’t mean to tease you so.”. You hang your mouth open, tongue hanging out and swiping upward against him from base to tip, absolutely adoring the way he sucks air through his teeth. You’re ready to take him in earnest, just as soon as you explain yourself:

“Simply ensuring I can remember, for when I-!”

You’re cut off by his fist slamming your head down on his cock, and low growl leaving him as he bottoms out against the back of your throat, loosening slightly as you slap at his hip, wordlessly reprimanding him as you choke and gag on his girth. He mumbles out an apology, pulling you back halfway and allowing you to pull air back into your lungs through your nose.

“Y’ain’t gon’ half’ta remember anythin’, baby - shit, ah-!” He’s all but face-fucking you, but at least he’s being gentle, shallow little thrusts and much slower than he originally started with. “J-just, fuck, y/n, ya’ cain’t leave, ‘kay? I’ll figure it out, I-”.

It’s your turn to shut him up, taking him deeper and bobbing your head faster, ignoring the tears in your eyes as you watch him slowly lose his composure above you, shedding off his shirt and tossing it behind you as he pants and grunts, his pupils blown wide and a slick sheet of sweat beading on his forehead, causing little strands of hair to stick to his face.

You know you’ve won when his hands grip the side of your face and one leg gets thrown up on the bed bedside you, his mouth open in a silent moan as he takes back control of the pace, bobbing your head up and down on himself erratically as he gasps for air.

All that loose jaw he was spitting is now replaced by a whispered little mantra of “Yes! Yes, Yes- fuck, baby. S’good. Always s’good f’me-”. You hollow your cheeks and flatten your tongue as much as possible, trying desperately not to gag and ruin his pleasure as a mixture of spit and pre-cum drips form the corners of your mouth and down your chin.

A string of curses escape him as he pushes you all the way down until the tip of your nose is buried into the dark hair at his base, holding you still there as his cock jumps and writhes in your throat, your fingernails digging into his hips in protest. Surely they were cutting into his skin by this point.

Just when your vision starts to go dark around the edges, he pulls out of your mouth, cooing at you as you suck in air like you were hungry for it, looking up at him with vulnerable eyes as you swallow thickly, the tears that had been pooling in your eyes finally slipping down your face. He catches them with his thumbs, guiding you backwards on the bed and shuffling out of his pants in tandem. Once he's fully nude, he settles between your thighs on his knees.

“Y’okay?” He asks, and you nod, smiling weakly up at him as he cards his fingers through your hair, pushing it back away from your face with the gentleness of a sunday morning rain, like he hadn’t just bruised your esophagus. He smiles, honey sweet, and leans down to kiss your forehead first, and then your lips, groaning lowly as he tastes himself on your tongue, hips rutting as if he couldn't stop them.

Leaning back on his haunches, he taps on the outside of your knee twice.

“Strip f’me, doll.”

And so you do, trembling fingers trailing up your body to undo the buttons on your nightgown one by one, starting at the top and working your way down, your eyes studying his sharp features and wandering gaze as he gathers his hair and secures it back with the elastic band he forever kept on his wrist. You couldn’t remember a time before them, but your mother swore tying hair with silk ribbon was a pain when she was a girl. You pondered now if he'd look just as mesmerizing trying to wrangle all that hair up with a ribbon.

His cat-like eyes trail down your body as you work, and he sucks on his teeth when he realizes your barren underneath the white cotton of your bed clothes. Once your gown has been properly parted, his hands roam their way around the new expanse of your exposed skin, starting at your thighs and working their way up, pushing aside the fabric with his wrists as his rough hands tend to a garden he’s harvested time and time before.

It was by his own design, the way your body reacted to being tended by him. Goosebumps erupted along your skin and flames danced in your abdomen. Your core dripped with anticipation, every swipe of his rein-worn fingers reminding you that he'd yet to touch you where you desired him most. His hands meandered up your sides until he was cupping your breasts, rough thumbs languishing over the feeling of your stiffening nipples beneath him as they swiped and toyed with the flesh. Your back arches from the corn husk mattress and your hands try their best to quell the sparks he was lighting in your tummy; one of them gripping at your sheets above your head and the other covering your mouth to stifle the whimpers that escaped you.

“I ever tell ‘ya how pretty y’are?” He half-murmurs, half-whispers as one hand leaves your breast to traverse back down across your abdomen, never ceasing until he reaches your core, one thumb shallowly dipping into your entrance and stretching your folds apart so he can watch the way she winks at him with every movement, spitting clear arousal with every clench.

“Perhaps only every-- ah!” His fingers shift to pinch and roll your nipple, “-chance you’ve gotten. Still though I am-- nngh!” His thumb pushes deeper into you, “-certainly honored to receive such praises!”.

He smirks at your inherent tendency to keep your wording polite even in the most devilish of circumstances, and he must’ve decided he could take it no longer because before you can blink he’s hiking your legs up and across his sun-kissed shoulders, practically folding you in half and lapping away at your pussy like a man starved.

You would've complained about his so-called “delicate sensibilities” when it came to handling your body in such a manner, but your face was frozen in an open silent moan, your eyes blowing wide and struggling to keep contact with his in the way you knew he liked. If you so much as dared to let any sound escape you, you'd wake not only your parents, but the entire town!

He knew you too well, everything about his conduction of your body had been fine tuned. The way he toyed around with your clit in his mouth had your body temperature rising to concerning levels, your arousal absolutely coating his face in a matter of moments. Not that he didn't expect it, you knew. In fact, it was probably precisely why he'd pulled his hair back. He adored it too, this you could also tell. From this angle, you got a front row seat to how his eyes rolled back in his head as he flicked and swiped his tongue against your core, up and down and back and forth and something you couldn't care to ponder on- stars, maybe? Never the matter.

A familiar tightness was building in your stomach, your panting growing faster and more needy as you think to yourself,

My god, please help me! How am I to go the rest of my life without this wrong I do?

Suguru pushes a flat hand against your mouth before slipping two fingers inside of you, and praise heaven for the man as well as his forethought because you lose your battle with your own throat the second he begins pumping in and out of you in perfect harmony with his tongue, crying out into his hand as your hips begin to rut against him in a desperate plea for faster, harder, more.

He happily obliges, curling his fingers against that god-forsaken spot inside you you’d never been able to find on your own in all your nights waiting for him, leveraging into you with a pace and force that reminded you of his deviant side. This version of him wasn't Suguru, the man who brought you rocks and flowers and exotic wines from his travels. This was not Suguru, the boy breezing by you at the market with sharp features and tempting eyes. No, this was Sure Shot Suguru Geto, the man who robbed and killed and gambled. Save your soul, you loved him.

Your hands fly into his hair as your hips betray you, all but humping his face in time with his movements as the tension inside you rises to a boiling heat, your knuckles gripping his hair beneath his bun so cruelly but you know he doesn't mind, not only from experience but from the way he groans directly into you as his eyes flutter shut. He transitions from licking to suckling on your clit and it's the final nail in the coffin for you. Your orgasm fires off like a gun shot, sharp and unfathomably intense as you scream into his hand, your legs absolutely spasming around his head with the force of it alone, your whole body tensing and jerking so hard that you fear you may have torn something as he continues his ministrations to push you through your high, never ceasing until you bite at his hand and kick at his shoulder.

He makes his way back to your face, chuckling as he captures your plush lips with his own, not leaving even a breaths span of time before he's nudging his tip into your tight entrance, swallowing your gasps and whines as if he may never taste them again.

“More, baby, more- please?” You manage to choke out between swipes of his tongue. He stills momentarily, pausing to scan your face, something unreadable plaguing his sweat lined features. You attempt to rut your hips and give yourself some reprieve, but one rope-warn hand grips you at your bare hip, holding you against the mattress effortlessly.

“Suguru!” You scold, and his lips quirk in the slightest of ways.

“Call me that again.”

“...Your name?”

“By god ‘m so glad yer pretty.” He giggles and pushes into you a few more inches harshly, his smile growing wilder as you yelp, both of you immediately pausing to listen for noise from the other rooms.

Silence.

“Not m’name, peach. ‘At lil’ thing you said before-” His voice is quieter now.

“Baby?”

He pushes into your further, more gentle this time, the hand that was on your hip snaking up to grip your face and hold your gaze “Atta girl. You keep callin’ me that and I’m gon’ put a baby in ya’, swear solemn.”.

Your face contorts as his words hit you and he bottoms out, tip pressing against your womb and girth stretching you so wide. It burns, it hurts, it feels so good-- and his words? You knew they held no weight but the thought had you gushing around him. You needed him to move, and move now.

“Always naggin’ ‘bout my mouth, but look at ya’ now, darlin’- droolin’ on my cock all’f’r some nasty words.” He demeans as he begins to roll his hips into you, smirking as your hands grip at his biceps and your legs fall open wide for him, “Mmm y’like’at idea, huh? Stuff ya so full’a me that ol’ fuckin’ Nanami Kento has t’ raise my kid if’n he wants to take my wife?”.

You don't reply to that, you can’t because he’s steadily picking up pace, fucking you with determination that you knew was coming from somewhere other than his cock. No, of all the times he’d taken you prior, this one was different. Stubborn, vivace, and oh so frantic. You find yourself biting down on his shoulder as he slams against your soft walls, each time pulling almost entirely out before pounding back into you again, bruising your cervix like he wanted to mark you from the inside out. He’s spewing guttural rumbles and low moans from above you, and each one only makes you want him more. Not just here, not just now, but forever and then some.

“I love you, y’hear me?” His voice is deeper than usual, husky, somewhat of a moan in your ear, “Don't’cha ever tell me I cain’t ever again.”.

Each word is accentuated with a sharp thrust, desire and want and desperate prayer rearranging your very being. All you can do is whimper his name in response. He trails kisses along your neckline, they almost feel apologetic.

How absolutely inhumane time was, only the night left to claim every part of each other before it was ripped away, burnt to nothing but a memory of a flame that once shone so brightly in the darkness. Despite the way every stroke has your mind melting away, you find yourself realizing that perhaps this wasn’t Sure Shot at all, but instead just Suguru, a helplessly enamored man on the verge of losing his love on top of everything he’d already lost in the past few years. You choke out a sob, unsure if it’s the pleasure or the pain or the realization that has you blubbering, but it didn’t matter all the same. You were still adulterated, he was still taken with you, you were still duty-bound to marry another, and he was still hammering into you like his life depended on it.

You feel your body begin to contract, thighs starting to squeeze around him as he beats against your favorite spot so deep inside, the feeling almost tormenting you into another release.

“Aht, aht, now don’t go tensin’ up on me, babydoll.” He doesn’t stop his arietations, though, as he leans back to encase your tender throat with his fingers. The simple action is enough to have that coil inside you winding tighter at an exponential rate, “Ya’ know by now it’s better when ya relax f’me. Thought I had ya well trained, mm? Now be good f’me and loosen up- atta girl, atta girl-”.

You do your best to let your thighs fall slack and all you can feel is the way he’s piledriving into you, closing your eyes and zoning in on that place inside where his cock is shooting sparks across your body over and over and over. His fingers begin to tighten around your sensitive throat and your pussy follows suit around his shaft. You think you hear him breathe out a string of whispered curses, but you can't tell with the way your vision is beginning to go white and fuzzy. His free hand reaches around to flick across your clit in quick, frantic motions, and you’d be so appreciative of his hand on your throat if you could think anything at all. You gargle out a strangled noise as you come undone beneath him for the second time that night, your hands coming up to grip at his wrist, your head pounding backwards into your sheets and hair bouncing wildly as his thrusts become somehow stronger, but all the while more erratic. He was close behind you, this you knew.

A few more pumps and he’s pulling out of you, letting go of your neck to lean back on his haunches and fist his cock with ferocity, hissing as his seed splatters across your abdomen, hot and sticky. You gasp for air, feeling like you’d just run a few miles in the summer heat, gargling and sputtering as you attempt to re-ground yourself.

A tender hand finds your cheek, and your eyes flutter open to find his dark features gazing at you longingly, his bottom lip pushed out in a small pout.

“M’okay.” You assure, turning to press a kiss into his palm and smiling up at him lazily. He mirrors that and leans down to plant a gentle kiss against your lips, mumbling an apology for being so rough.

“Thank you most kindly for refraining from sowing your oats in me.” Your brain feels numb.

He lets his head fall into your shoulder to stifle his giggles “C’mon, ditz. Let's get ya’ cleaned up and light us a hand roll.”. A tender kiss against your shoulder.

A few minutes later you're curled up between his spread legs on the floor just by your window, him in nothing but his pants and you wrapped in his shirt. You watch over your shoulder as he produces a single cigarette from his pocket, striking the match he’d stolen from atop your armoire against the rough grain of your window, marveling at the way the light paints his skin orange as he puffs a few times to get the stick lit. When he’s done, he shakes away the flame and disposes of the match on your windowsill, draping one arm around you and pulling you backwards until your back is flush with his bare chest.

He is careful when he blows the smoke away from your face, but you’re not as you snatch the cigarette away from him as soon as he’s finished the first drag, bringing it to your lips and drawing in a breath of smoke just as big as his own.

“Woah, Nellie!” He teases, resting his cheek against the crown of your head, “Didn’t know y’was such’n avid smoker.”.

“I most certainly am not!” You tease right back. “I only do such unfavorable, unladylike things in the presence of scoundrels such as yourself.”.

He chuckles, leaning forward to puff on the cigarette as you hold it up for him. You scold yourself for craving the plush of his lips again so soon. Not only did you just finish bedding him, but you also could never do so again. Well, at least not after the night was through. For a while, the two of you stay like that, silently watching the stars and smoking your cares away to the best of your ability. The eastern crickets sang a song of farewell as you sat comfortable in the quiet serenity of your darkened room, a place that had been only for the two of you to share for so long, but would be no longer come dawn. Neither of you, it seems, wants to acknowledge it, savoring the calm before the raging storm of forever comes for you with the rise of the sun.

It’s just after he’s lit the third hand roll of the night that he suggests something so foolish, so childish and stupid, that you aren’t sure you heard him correctly the first time.

“Come away with me.”

You shift so that you’re setting sideways in his lap, looking up at him like he’d sprouted a third eyeball right in the center of his suntanned forehead. A beat, and then two passes, and you realize he’s serious.

“Surely you’ve gone mad. Out west?”

He nods “Yes’m.”.

“And just where shall we sleep? Eat? Make love?” If your eyes were to grow any wider they would certainly pop out of your head.

“Wherever the wind carries us, that’s’a best part-”

“Suguru!” A scoff and a laugh of disbelief escapes your gaping mouth, shaking your head at him in such unconvincibility.

“ ’M stone cold, baby. On my Ma-!” His tone sounds pleading, and he’s smiling hopefully, like a child who really hopes that Santa will leave a tommy gun under his tree.

“Good thing she's already under, bless her soul.” You snatch the cigarette from him and puff like your life depends on it. Truly, he would be the death of you.

“You hush’up.” He laughs, taking the hand roll back and clenching in between his teeth, using one hand to pull you by the bicep until the both of you are on your knees, elbows resting on the window as he speaks.

“Y’ain't ever gon’ know the things I’ve seen ‘less-n ya light a shuck with me. Baby there’s deserts, canyons, caves that shoot right down t’hell itself and fields a’ clovers ‘n wildflowers just as far’s yer pretty lil’ eyes could ever see-” As he talks, his hands make dramatic gestures in front of the two of you, as if he could physically paint the views into the open air before you.

“There are also snakes, and bears, and bandits-” You argue, but he cuts you off with a wink and a nudge.

“That's why yer com’n’ with me, cain’t no varmint catch ya’ if you're tucked under my arm!”

A defeated sigh escapes you, uninterested in playing these childish games of possibilities with him, “Pray tell, does your jaw ever ache from how much you jabber on?”.

His face falls slightly, but he’s still smiling. Softer now. Begging.

“Only for you, if’n ’m honest.”

You glare at him with knowing eyes, trying your best to simply look some sense into him, but of course your attempt is unsuccessful, the both of you erupting into giggles.

“Oh,” You take a long sigh as you calm yourself, “How am I to carry on without you?”.

“Y’ain’t. Because yer comin’ with me.”

“Suguru.” Now you sound like the one pleading, looking up at him with sad eyes as you steal the cigarette directly from his mouth and take another drag. And then, on the exhale; “My family, hopeful lover. Why is it can’t you understand I have a responsibility to-”

“I do.” He reaches forward and grabs your jaw, leaning inward, “I can acknowledge the corn. Ain’t claimin’ no ignorance here. But to see ya’ sell yerself for the good graces of society? I cain’t hang my hat on ‘at. I’m beggin’ ya, baby. ‘N Imma real proud man. Be selfish, just this once. Come away with me.”.

For a moment, all you can do is stare, your stomach sinking as you realized he was right. Your whole life you'd been a proper young lady. Honing your craft with your mother in the kitchen while the neighborhood boys played soccer in the fields. You learned to cook, to clean, to play piano forte in hopes to one day secure a rich husband, not for yourself, but for the hope that one day he could provide them more than this cottage on the outskirts of town. Sitting here now, though, you realized that was never what you wanted. It was what everyone else wanted of you.

“...Tonight?” You whisper, and immediately he’s lighting up from the inside out, his grin wild and wide as he surges forward and captures you between his arms, squeezing the life out of you as you giggle and do your best to hold the lit cigarette away from the two of you. He captures your lips in a kiss, and then another, and another, until you’re fussing at him to answer your question.

“Not tonight, tomorra. Gotta get some things’n order. Stock up on sum fixin’s. Shoot a letter to ‘ol Six Eyes out west and pray it arrives before we do-”

Oh, right. You scrunch your face up. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea after all.

“Ya have my blessin’ t’shoot him.”

Okay, you’re excited again “I get a gun?!”.

He snorts and steals the cigarette back from you, drawing in the last of it and nodding hesitantly “Affirmative, tho I gotta wonder if it’ll be the death a’ me.”.

You hum, your eyes wandering out into the night as you ponder aloud.

“If I am to be completely vulnerable, I do not wish to shoot anyone.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek “The gun ain't f’people, peach- it's for ‘em bears n’ snakes ya’ mentioned. I'll handle the people, don’t worry yer pretty lil’ head over’it.”

***

You couldn’t sleep after he left that night, a sure case of the morbs settling over you as you packed according to Suguru’s instruction. That is to say, lightly. A simple change of clothing and a leather bound journal for writing was basically all you would leave with.

This house, though not one of grandeur, had held you since you were but a babe. Your first steps were taken on this very hardwood, your height from every year notched into the frame of your bedroom door by your Pa’s pocketknife- up until you stopped growing at sixteen or so, that is. The crops from the garden had nourished you, the trees from the wood line knew your deepest secrets. You’d chased and caught frogs here, learned to read and write here, laughed and cried here, been bedded by a ill-fated outlaw here, and ultimately decided to make haste with him on westward winds. Here.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to think to hardly on your parents, reminding yourself of Suguru’s words:

“Be selfish, just this once.”

Right. He was right. From now on, you are living life for you. Not for your Mama and Pa. Not for what the pew regulars would think of you. Not for the coffee-sisters, nor the gossip in the marketplace.

…That was, until you snuck as silently as possible through the door of all you’d ever known, only to find your Mama leaning against the wooden railing of the porch, watching the sky ever-so-slightly lighten with each passing moment.

Your heart plummeted through the floor as you nearly dropped your bag from your shoulder in despair. Suguru would be arriving any moment. Surely if she were to see him she would simply fall dead.

“The coffee-sisters at tea last Saturday were just gushing about how there's quite a bit of wide open space out there in the unclaimed west.” is her version of a ‘goodmorning’. She doesn’t even turn around, keeping her stare set off into the distance.

You swallow thickly, trying to keep as normal as possible, “Mama? Why are you awake at such an hour?”.

She ignores you, staring, staring, staring still into the horizon, boring holes into the mountains in the distance. The same ones that hand held you, and her, and her mother, and the mother before.

“You know what's so grand about so much open air?”

You deflate, tears welling to your eyes as the realization dawns upon you that she must know. The one day you decide to run away with a vagabond outlaw is the one day she happens to be up before the sun, standing on the porch, waffling poetic about the unclaimed west? Nonsense. You could only hope this didn’t end in a shootout between Suguru and your father. Anxiety builds and pressurizes in your chest and you stay stone silent, trying to think of a way to de-escalate the aforementioned confrontation before it had even begun.

“There's so much space to grow. A gentleman at the market mentioned to me of his brother who ranches cattle out there. In his most recent letter, he spoke of cacti that grow to three times the height of your average man. Isn't that lovely, my girl?” Finally, she turns to look at you, smiling gently. Her face looks so much like your own but older, wiser.

Your brow dips in confusion. Was this or was it not the part where she was supposed to call you a harlot? Was she not to disown you? To tell you the very thing you’d been telling yourself since Suguru first bedded you; that you were a wretched, wretched, woman and surely when the roll is called on high you will be sent southward?

“Mama, of what do you speak?” The tears brimming your eyes are threatening to fall, but you tell yourself you must remain brave. You were a grown woman, making grown woman choices now.

“Add to that wonder, if the rumors are to be believed they grow flowers! Big, beautiful vibrant blooms from the toughest of plants this world has to offer. I thought unto myself; ‘My good Lord, how fitting. It must be by design.’. Do you understand me, daughter?” she cocks her head at you, and you come to lean beside her on the railing.

“No, Mama. I’m afraid I’m terribly lost.” You aren’t sure why it is you’re whispering, you’d already been caught, after all.

She takes your hand in her own, smiling at you, chuckling lightheartedly, as if she were watching a baby child dance about, “I'm saying to you, girl, that good things come from sharpened situations. There may come a time that you prick yourself to find something brighter than your eyes have seen… but you know of that already, no?”.

The tears begin to fall from the corners of your eyes and you mimic her smile back at her, elation washing over you like fresh spring rain. She was giving you permission. She knew, and still-

“Ma, how did you discover me?” you breathe, and she laughs genuinely, patting your hand.

“I take night strolls in the garden when your father's fog horn snoring keeps me awake. It was just this time last year that I turned to see a rather handsome young man leaned against your open window.”

Your cheeks go red and you hold a palm to your face, shaking your head lightly before you wipe at your tears.

“I must admit, I considered waking your father. You're the upmost of lucky he sleeps like a rock, by the way. A word of advice from an old maid? Tuck a pillow between your headboard and the wall to still the bed--”

“Mama, please! I never meant to bring you shame, of this I swear-!” You cut her off, taking both of her hands in your own, threatening to fall back into the treacherous place your mind had been just moments before.

“My love, everyone beds before they're married these days. They simply do not speak of it, and then there is nothing to say of the matter. I myself was two courses missed when I married your father. The world kept spinning, much contrary to the belief of your Nan.” She shrugs dismissively as you let go of her hands, and all you can do is stare at her; awestruck. Who was this woman standing in front of you now?

“Anyway, If I may continue. I stood out there for quite some time, weighing upon my options. The two of you never even noticed me, so lost in each other that I think I could've marched right up to him and pinched his tight little ass cheeks before either of you took note--”

“Mama!! My word!!!” You gasp, and bark out an incredulous laugh at her words. Your mother, never once in all your live days, had been so crass in front of you.

She laughs too, slapping at your arm and hushing you, “Hush, child! You’ll wake your Pa!”.

Your laughter settles into tender smiles. You were going to miss her most furiously.

She grips both of your shoulders as she speaks.

“I knew that the clock had been set in motion by the way he looked at you. What I saw that wonderful night was the sweet smile of a man that had made up his mind standing by the window in the moonlight. And what of you? Oh glory in the highest, I hadn't seen that look on your face since you were a babe! Not since before this world had taught you it isn't polite for ladies to laugh with no regard for looking proper.”

“I love him, Mama.” You admit, chuckling lightly with watery eyes, “And he loves me, too. Of this I am most certain.”.

“I know.” She pats your shoulder, and then continues, “I had never seen you look so miserable until Nanami Kento showed up on our doorstep, either. A shame, but your heart is already tucked deep in someone else's pocket, I fear.”.

You nod, slow and grave. “If there’s one thing of which I must apologize, it is that. I am terribly sorry for poor Nanami.”.

“Do not be so. Perhaps I will strike lucky and your father will keel over when he wakes to find you gone. More for me.”

“Oh, do not curse him so!” You both snicker again.

She pulls you into a tight hug, squeezing you for all you’re worth, which is maybe more than you knew. It’s around that time that you hear a familiar sound, both of your heads turning to watch as Suguru slowly fades into view, the steady thump of Cinnamon’s hooves against the soft earth growing rhythmically louder as they approach in a slow trot.

You turn back to your mother, your eyes apprehensive. She grabs your head and presses her lips to the center of your forehead, “Go now, child, before your father wakes. Do not forget to write, we will be here should you return. We will be here until the roll is called on high. As for you, though, adventure awaits.”.

With her graces, you step away from the porch, and it feels like you’ve stepped off a ledge into something beautiful. You run to meet him, your shoes padding against the grass and your dress billowing against the motion, never ceasing until he’s bringing Cinnamon to a halt so he can dismount and catch you as you fly into his arms, wrapping you in a hug as if he hadn’t just seen you a few hours prior. He looks good, he always looks good, but it’s a rarity for you to see him in his full get up. You wonder if you, too, will require such gear, and even more so if your bandana and gun belt will be stained purple to match.

He eyes your mother from the considerable distance and she waves. He returns the greeting by way of removing his stetson from his head, pressing it to his chest and bowing lightly in her direction, revealing his hair had been wrangled back into two tight plaits on either side of his head. While he’s distracted, you snatch his hat from his hands, plopping it on your own head, an action that has him laughing, his eyes crinkling up and twinkling with lovesomeness.

“Ya’ wear it much better’n I ever could, dumplin’. Now lets brush th’ breeze ‘for someone decides ‘ta kill me for this.”

***

“Y’know what ‘at ol’ Six Eyed bastard tells pretty young things like you?” Suguru asks through a mouthful of apple, and you’d chastise him for his manners if he wasn't graced with such beauty and you weren't cursed to be so sleepy.

You’d made it about twenty miles before Cinnamon needed to rest. You're all shaded by a tall oak tree, you and Suguru leaning against its base, your hands holding onto his bicep and your cheek rested against his shoulder, his hat still on your head.

“Mm?” You question, barely lucid, and he chuckles, holding the core up for Cinnamon which she's more than happy to accept, crunching almost as obnoxiously as her dear handler had been just moments before.

“He tells’em, ‘You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy--’.”

You lift your head to ensure he sees you roll your eyes, and he laughs, dipping beneath the brim of his own hat to steal a kiss from you, soft and slow.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #geto suguru #jjk suguru #ao3 fanfic #jjk x reader #geto x reader #getou suguru x reader #cowboy!au #cowboy!geto #cowboy!jjk #slow it down cowboy au #jjk smut #jjk au #geto smut #historical!au

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vavoom-sorted-art · 9 months

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Of Kings And Kids - Chapter 1

Welcome to @gaiaseyes451 and my Christmas collab! We'll be publishing a chapter every day, whith the fifth and final chapter going up on the 26th of December!

Head to AO3 to read the entire chapter.

*~*~*

Aziraphale stood at the town’s well, clay cup in hand, and drank, grateful for the cool water. While the journey from Nazareth hadn’t been particularly arduous, the angel was happy for an opportunity to rest after traversing the loamy, rolling hills; especially after guiding a flock of sheep and goats for the last five days. Michael had assured him, when she was briefing him on the Mission Messiah assignment, that Heaven had an alias prepared this time. Somehow, Silas the shepherd who was leading his flock of bovids to Bethlehem for the autumn livestock auction was not precisely the backstory Aziraphale had expected. Nevermind that Bethlehem had never held a livestock auction before, best not to question these things.

Bethlehem was built around the town’s well which stood in the center of a courtyard. Most inns and lodging houses surrounded the well while private residences were scattered among the slopes. The city was surrounded by a modest wall with roads granting access from the North and South. The land itself was lovely rolling hills with lush grasslands and natural grottos, perfect for grazing livestock. It would have been conspicuous if a shepherd had moved at the same pace as a woman who was about to give birth, so Aziraphale had arrived ahead of the holy family. He was glad for the chance to get acquainted with the town and for the brief respite before the real work started.

Preparing for the arrival of the Messiah really was quite stressful.

Having filled his waterskin, Aziraphale was about to head off to one of the rest houses to sample the local cuisine when a familiar voice called out.

“Hello, angel!”

Aziraphale stopped short. While he was always happy to see this particular demon on his assignments, having him this close to the savior’s birth was a tad disconcerting. He turned and greeted him warmly, even if his smile was a bit cautious. “Crawly! Hello.”

“Ah, actually, call me Crowley.” He said, casually.

“Oh, have you changed your name?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nah, not officially. Just tryin’ it out for a bit. ‘Sides, little odd to have a nobleman called ‘Crawly’.” He said, gesturing to himself.

Aziraphale took a moment to take in Crowley’s garb.The demon was wearing his hair a bit longer, russet waves held out of his eyes by a beaded headband. He was clothed in his preferred hues in a deep charcoal robe and cloak made from fine linen with patterns embroidered in red at the neckline and hem. The cloak was fastened at the shoulder with an onyx snake broach and synched at the waist with a burgundy leather belt with a serpentine fastener. The robe drew his eyes down to strappy sandals that accentuated Crowley’s calves. His wrists were adorned with wide, silver cuffs that emphasized his svelte arms and long fingers.

Aziraphale dragged his eyes back to Crowley’s face and attempted to make eye contact through the dark lenses. “Well, hello, Crowley. What brings you to Bethlehem?”

*~*~*

Keep reading on Ao3 to see additional illustrations! We'd love to hear your thoughts! Find all chapters and additional content for this story here.

big thanks to @goodomensafterdark for the support!

Happy Holidays and Happy Reading!

#Of Kings And Kids #good omens #good omens fanart #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #good omens 2 #art #goodomens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanwork #ineffable christmas #christmas #christmas story

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phoward89 · 3 months

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Based on this ask

Senator!Coriolanus Snow x Baker!Reader

Senator Coriolanus Snow is a very wealthy man. Being the Plinth heir, due to some unfortunate circumstances during the summer of his 18th year, he had more money then the gods and could afford anything his black, dead, withered up, too small heart desires. Most of his desires were luxury sedans, luxury penthouses, high end fashion, and a permanent place in the governing politics of Panem.

And talk about politics, Senator Snow’s currently running for President of Panem- on the Old Guard Party ticket. His opponent’s some up and comer that's new money and has ties to district blood. Snow cringes at the thought of a district blooded fool from the Liberty & Labor Party beating him and ruling the country; corrupting Capitol City with extreme and revolutionary views.

Views that infringe on those traditions that Panem was founded on; everything that the Old Guard stands for. Being from ‘Old Money' and one of Panem's most esteemed, respected, and founding families, Coriolanus views himself as a Capitolite that's above those of District birth. Especially after spending the summer of his 18th year in the Peacekeepers amongst the savages of 12.

Coriolanus has the means to buy anything he wants that's high quality, but he finds himself visiting your modest bakery every morning for some pain au chocolat and sweet coffee. Your morning customers usually look all wide-eyed or feel a bit nervous when the regal senator walks in and right up to your counter only for you to smile and give him a friendly wave.

The door chime going off signals his arrival every morning. You can't help, but smile at the man who your father, Colonel Javani Halvir, is endorsing for president. And after your father brought Senator Snow, who you remember attending the Academy with a few years back, to your bakery for a quick morning business meeting, well, Coriolanus was hooked on both the goodies you make and you.

Yes, the imposing platinum blonde senator that's got a demeanor as cold as his name: Snow, has quite a crush on you.

“Senator Snow, your usual?” You ask, greeting the man who had just walked up to your counter with a smile, before turning to grab a small paper pastry bag.

“Yes, darling, I'll take my usual.” Coriolanus nods, watching you go over to the display case that the chocolate filled croissants are in. “But, please, call me Coriolanus or Coryo even.” He orders, although it seems like a request with how his baritone seems lighter then it's usual octave, as you bag up his croissant.

“Coryo?” You question before quickly realizing that it's a shortened form of his name- Coriolanus. Placing his pastry bag down on the counter, you wonder, “Do a lot of people call you that?”

“Nobody that did is left in my life.” The regal platinum blonde man confessed. Honestly, his confession took him aback since he would've lied to anyone else if they asked him that. But there was just something about your doe-eyes that had the lie dying on his tongue; had him being truthful with you.

And that's a rarity considering Coriolanus is a snake that charms and lies to everyone.

Everyone, but you it seems.

“Y/N, I only let my closest friends and family call me Coryo; perhaps we could further explore a friendship starting tonight during a business dinner your father invited me to?” You hear him tell you as your back:s to him while you're fiddling with the coffee press; filling him up a to go cup of coffee. Black with sugar- the only way he'll drink it.

Did you want to explore a friendship with Senator Snow, the presidential hopeful and frontrunner that your father, Colonel Javani Halvir's endorsing? It would surely make your dad happy, having you befriend the son of his late best friend- General Crassus Snow. But you're not sure if you want a friendship with a man who's life is in a political microscope.

It's no secret that the press stalks Coriolanus. Since he seems like a choir boy, you highly doubt that he is, the press is trying to find something on him to expose. And you don't need that kind of bullshit in your life.

Not after your bakery is finally seeing some success. The last thing you need is a friendship with Senator Snow wrecking the hard work; all the blood, sweat, and tears you put into making the Sunrise Bakery into a success. Into more than a hobby that's sucking up your father's money- those were your mother's exact words for how she feels about you being a baker.

“I won't be home for that dinner, Coriolanus. I'll be here prepping some things for tomorrow morning.” You tell the platinum blonde, who is low key scaring away your customers cause of how imposing of an aura he has, while turning around and placing his coffee on the counter.

The senator masks his disappointment with a tight pull of his lips. Pulling out his wallet and handing you his card, as he does every morning, he tells you, “You should go home for dinner, Y/N. You do need to eat and I'm sure you can always come back here and do your prep work once dinner's over.”

You don't even know why, maybe it's the slight sparkle on Coriolanus' icy eyes, but as you take his card you slightly smile and say, “Well, I guess I might be able to make it home for dinner.”

“I'll see you then, and if not then I'll surely see you here tomorrow morning for my breakfast.” He smiles, showing off his pearly white manically, while taking his card from you and putting it back into his wallet. Grabbing his pastry bag and coffee, he simply smiles and wishes you a good day before walking away from you.

Before he can reach the door, you call out to him. “Coryo, I hope you enjoy your pain au chocolat and sweet coffee.”

A triumphant smile crosses his was as he looks over his shoulder, giving you a nod and wave goodbye before exiting your bakery. Coriolanus knows deep in his soul that you calling him Coryo was a step in the right direction. That, before long, he'd be making you as obsessed with him as he is with you.

And he as all the time in the world to make his feelings for you turn into a mutual attraction since, after all, the senator frequents your bakery everyday.

Patience is a virtue that Senator Snow possesses and he's determined to wear down your senses with it by visiting you every day until you see that his obsessive love is exactly what you need in your life. Just like the pain au chocolat you bake is one of the things he needs in his life, the other being you.

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theonceandfuturequeenoftarts · 5 months

Text

It happens by chance, and while Harry wishes it hadn’t, this will at least clear up any lingering uncertainty for him.

There’s a skirmish between Harry and some friends from the Order and Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and a couple stray curses happen to catch him – one slices shallowly into his upper arm, the other sends him rolling across the ground. The upshot of this is that the left shoulder of Harry’s shirt is now in ribbons and hanging down around his waist, leaving his chest – and soul mark – bare to the world. Including Voldemort.

Who looks like he’s having one doozy of an emotion.

And that basically confirms the dark wizard hadn’t known, but right now Harry’s bleeding sluggishly and wants to go home and have a drink and pass out for at least a few hours, so Voldemort can rage on his own time. Everyone else from his side has already buggered off, so he’s not abandoning anyone if he does the same.

Unfortunately, the blood loss – while not severe – is enough to slow his reaction time, which leads to him apparating himself and the Dark Lord latched onto him to his flat. Not ideal.

There are a tense few moments of staring at the snake man, waiting to see if he’ll attack or start destroying Harry’s home, but when he doesn’t take advantage – when he just stares and frowns and stares some more – Harry decides he’s too tired for this shit.

“You are just impossible to ward out, aren’t you?” he sighs. The curse of being so physically and magically intertwined with the other man. (Well. And at the soul level, too, but he tries not to think of that.)

Voldemort yanks him by his uninjured arm towards the kitchen light that comes on automatically and stares at Harry’s chest, and the elegantly written Tom Marvolo Riddle thereupon.

Harry scowls when the staring drags on. “Oi, could you quit perving on me and piss off already?”

“You were never going to tell me?” Voldemort demands, ignoring Harry’s half-arsed attempt at distraction.

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “Why the Hel would I? Either you already knew and it didn’t matter to you, or you didn’t – and I wasn’t about to risk baring my soul to someone who has a history of wanting me dead.” He shrugs. “I’m reckless, not suicidal.”

Voldemort opens his mouth with an angrily indignant look, and Harry looks to the ceiling for patience before pulling out of the other man’s grip and opening his emergency bottle of firewhiskey, hidden in the pantry, because this conversation needs alcohol. He pours two glasses (his to the brim) because he tries to be a good host, even to the bane of his existence. And if Voldemort doesn’t want it, well, it’ll save Harry getting the bottle out again.

All throughout this, Voldemort is ranting at him. Harry tunes most of it out – he’s had to hear enough of the man’s monologues to know he doesn’t need to listen to the preamble; the meat of his diatribe won’t come until a couple minutes in, at least.

After he casts a quick episkey on the cut on his arm, Harry leans against the counter, watching Voldemort pace around his modest kitchen. He takes a long, slow drink, welcoming the fire flowing down his throat and warming his belly. And either the other man is taking even longer than usual to get to the point or Harry’s more exhausted and irritable than he’d thought, because he’s suddenly completely out of patience with this situation.

He cuts in boredly, “It’s not like it changes anything. It doesn’t matter.”

Voldemort is immediately before him, looming and enraged. “It matters to me!”

“Why?”

“I’ve waited decades for you,” he says vehemently, leaning closer in an attempt to physically intimidate or pin Harry in place.

Harry barks a harsh laugh. “You waited for a fantasy. You’ve spent my whole life killing and hurting the people most important to me. Some silly mark doesn’t change that – it doesn’t make it better, it won’t make me love you.” He takes a sip and rasps through the burn. “It won’t change who you are.”

“I never received a mark–”

“And that’s unfortunate. Clearly it affected you. But plenty of people don’t get soul marks and they don’t commit mass murder and incite civil wars.” He gives Voldemort a dismissive look, standing up straight and slipping out from between the dark wizard and the counter. He can almost hear the other man grinding his teeth.

“You have no idea what it’s like, not having a mark,” Voldemort hisses caustically, face contorted in a furious snarl. “The contempt, the ridicule I had to endure. I was denied one of Magic's basic gifts and they took it as proof they were better than me, those worthless fools.”

It’s difficult to know how he would’ve reacted to not having a mark. His burden has been to have the mark of the worst possible person, and he thinks he’s handled it far better than anyone could’ve expected of him. Having no mark would’ve confirmed that he’s meant to be alone, that there’s no one out there meant just for him, but having Voldemort’s mark as Harry Potter essentially means the same thing.

“Maybe you mutilated your soul too much to deserve a mark,” Harry says in a fit of cruelty. Behind the wrath crackling in the other man’s eyes, he can see the misery bloom. As good as it feels to score a hit against Voldemort, he regrets it even more. And isn’t that the exact reason why this damn war has dragged on for so long?

(Harry pushes that thought away wearily.)

“You had choices, Voldemort, and you made yours,” he says quietly but firmly. “I’m making mine, and it’s that I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“This is not a unilateral decision,” Voldemort says, the frustration in his tone edging close to desperation. “Do my wants mean nothing?”

"Your wants." Harry slams his almost empty glass down on the table; his voice comes out dangerously even. “Alright then. Can you bring my parents back to life? No? How about Cedric, or Sirius, or any of the dozens of others whose lives you’ve cut short?”

Voldemort’s mouth is pinched shut, a thunderous frown on his face.

“Hel, let’s start small. Stop this war, swear to never harm another person and get your followers to do the same. You want me to care about what you want? Start by addressing all of that.”

“You ask this of me and promise nothing in return?” Voldemort says bitterly.

“That’s the bare minimum it would take for me to see you as anything more than a murderous, blood-supremacist monster. And I honestly don’t think you can do it, but feel free to prove me wrong.”

That puts an unsettling gleam in the other man’s eyes. Harry thinks back on what he might’ve said to cause that reaction and feels his stomach drop. Oh bother. He’d challenged Voldemort. Harry knows exactly how he'd react to someone saying that; apparently Voldemort is equally competitive (and motivated by spite – he should’ve guessed that).

“...If I am able to–”

“You won’t–”

“When I fulfill your requirements,” Voldemort arrogantly says, face intense. “You and I will explore our connection, and you will meet with me frequently to do so.”

And now Harry is in a quandary. If Voldemort does what he’s been asked, Harry will have achieved what he’s been fighting for all six years of his adult life; if Voldemort doesn’t, Harry’s no worse off than he was before. And he knows the dark wizard won’t give up his cause simply because his soulmate asked, but if Voldemort does…

“You do realise that your soulmate is me, yeah?” Harry clarifies, unnerved by the shift in the other man's demeanour. “You don’t like me. At all.”

“Nonsense,” Voldemort says, waving off Harry’s really very logical point. “We simply haven’t had a chance to become properly acquainted.”

“...Because you’re always trying to kill me.”

“Details, details.”

Harry would very much like to strangle the megalomaniac who is still in his apartment. “...Uh-huh. Sure, you become a completely different person and we’ll talk.”

He sometimes forgets that magic occasionally disregards sarcasm. This appears to be one of those times, as the heaviness in the air snaps tight around them, signifying Harry’s flippant “sure” just turned this discussion into a magically binding agreement. Merlin’s pierced nipples. So much for intent over phrasing.

Catching sight of Voldemort’s smug smirk, Harry suddenly feels genuinely homicidal for the first time in his life. Sensing his non-existent welcome is well and truly worn out, Voldemort says, “I look forward to it,” and apparates away. Harry pitches a cushion through the space the dark wizard just occupied. It helps settle his irritation a little.

He drops onto his couch with a deep, bone-tired sigh and tosses back Voldemort’s untouched glass of firewhiskey.

He wonders if he’ll feel disappointed or relieved when Voldemort realises he’d rather keep trying to subjugate Magical Britain than have Harry as his soulmate.

Three days later, the war ends.

#harry potter #voldemort #tomarrymort #soulmate au #soulmate marks #manipulative voldemort #harry is 1000% done #drinking #alcohol

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sleepyhutcherson · 7 months

Note

Can you do a post about how each character reacts to you getting cussed out by your parents for no reason? Please pookie 🙏🙏

a/n: i made this super quick so im sorry if it’s rough.

mike schmidt would glare at them from across the table. in this scenario, you would be at dinner over at your parents’ place. mid dinner they would find a reason to scold you in a harsh manner, you become tense and embarrassed not even wanting to glance over at mike. he would notice this, he would hate the tone your parents used with you, he would drop his silverware down onto his plate not caring about the annoyingly loud sound that comes from his utensils and the porcelain plate. he wouldn’t say anything to them, he would glare at them, his brows furrowed and his eyes piercing black and then stand up, the chair screeching horribly against the tile. “we’re leaving,” he’d announce, grabbing your hand. he knew you didn’t want to be in the situation, he knew you didn’t deal well with being scolded but especially being insulted by your own parents. he would apologise, telling you how you don’t have to go back there if you don’t want to, how he’ll make sure to take care for you.

derek danforth is usually a dickhead let’s be real. but. the moment he catches your parents telling you off from afar he’s quick to approach you. “what the fuck is going on?” he asks, clearly upset. you look over at derek ready to apologise on behalf of you and your parents, then: “get the fuck out before i fucking call security.” he grabs you, snaking his arm around your waist and pulling you away from the scenery, he could tell how overwhelmed you were by the situation with the mere look on your face. “you alright, sweetheart?”

peeta mellark will hate hearing them tell you off. like mike, he’ll say nothing but definitely excuse the two of you. when your parents call after you, he’ll turn around to them, shielding you with his body, his hand intertwined with yours. “don’t,” he’ll warn, glaring at them. he’ll take you home, he’ll bake you your favourite pastry, and apologise to you. you tell him he has nothing to apologise for, that you’re used to it but he’ll insist it’s not fair you’re so used to being treated like that by them.

josh futterman is definitely surprised. his parents have never told him off once so when he hears the tone your parents use with you…and the words they use…he goes still. his brows furrow, eyes flickering towards you and your parents. “hey, don’t talk to her like that,” he scoffs at them. then he’ll look over at you, eyes going soft for you: “do you wanna go?” he’ll be so gentle with you, he can see how horribly you’re feeling. he’ll make sure to pepper kisses all over your face when your home, reminding you how much he loves you.

billy (burn 2019) will not hesitate to tell your parents off lmao. he has a temper, remember? he doesn’t care about being polite or “modest” anymore, the moment he heard the way they spoke to you all respect he had for your parents is gone. you don’t think you’ve ever seen him so angry. he’ll drag you away from them handling you gently, of course. on the drive back home, he’ll hold your hand, and though his gaze his focused on the road he’ll go off telling you how he can’t believe your parents, how you didn’t deserve to be treated like that, how unfair they were, and so on. he’ll apologise later for losing his temper, kissing you softly.

clapton davis won’t say anything at all. i mean, he can’t really interfere here. but, he’ll try his absolute best to make you feel better. he’ll take you to his place, he assumes you probably want to be away from home, and once you agree he knows he was right. he lays with you in his bed, your head on his chest while he comfortingly pets your head while you tell him about your parents and how awful you feel about their words. he comforts you the entire time, telling you sweet nothings along with making a couple horrible jokes that end up making you laugh.

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joelswritingmistress · 9 months

Text

You Scare Me, Professor: Chapter 9

Summary: The reader is taking graduate classes at a local university in the wooded upstate New York. She is drawn to her professor, Dr. Joel Miller, though she is also inherently aware that he has something dark about him that she can't quite put her finger on. As the reader's attraction grows deeper, she has to decide whether to endure the danger or run away as fast as possible.

Pairing: Professor Joel Miller x f!reader

Dr. Miller’s voice snapped my eyes open. The setting was perfect. It felt like a movie. What could possibly be better than this?

The fire, the dim light, the luxurious living room, the champagne. It all felt too perfect to take it someplace else.

Before I could even protest, Dr. Miller was taking my hand and towing me away from the enchanting scene he had set. Certainly there was more to this amazing residence and I did want to see it - really, I did. But right then I could only focus on one desire.

He glanced over his shoulder once with the tiniest smirk and we soon climbed up a stairwell that was enclosed on both sides by the same stone structure that the house was made of.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

I stopped mentally counting after five steps when the staircase winded, rounding upward to the next level. Te swirling stairwell added to the dreamy atmosphere. I half expected to awake in my own bed the following morning not knowing if I had been in a dream or reality.

Okay, I was more curious now. What did the second floor entail? There was a charming and, contradicting, dark mystique to Dr. Miller's home. It was almost as enticing as his persona; a perfect fit.

A faint glow illuminated a room straight away as we reached the top of the stairs. On our whisk by, I got a quick flash of a modest-sized room and could tell it was his home office.

Trailing off to the left we passed by two closed doors until reaching the master bedroom at the far end of the hallway.

Dr. Miller reached for the dimmer on the wall a step inside the door and a dim glow gradually took on the oversized space.

“Wow.” I couldn't keep the word from my mouth as I crossed through the threshold. Now I knew why he wanted to relocate.

The bedroom was lavish with a fireplace of its own and a flatscreen that sat atop a stone mantle. A king-sized bed was positioned directly across it. Odds and ends filled the spaces, and ceiling-to-floor curtains hung over what I assumed were a pair of windows against a far wall.

Dr. Miller casually strolled in and loosened up the buttons on his collar. I continued to marvel in the enchanting nature of the room that was only comparable to those I had seen in fancy catalogs, or lavish movie settings.

But that wasn't what had me awestruck. It was my professor. It was my enticing, sexy, older professor who was staring right at me as he slowly began to undress himself in the near-darkness.

“Come here.” Dr. Miller’s strict demand forced a shallow gasp from my lips. Once my eyes were locked on his again I felt like a wolf honed in on its prey.. only that prey was a bigger, badder wolf. What a paradox.

The walk to him was only comparable to what I could describe as dice dancing on a tabletop at a casino. What would happen once they rolled to a stop? That was the type of thrill we all secretly chased. The anticipation of what was to come in the most intense situations; your heart pounding, hands unsteady, face hot and a tingle running throughout every facet of your body.

Our lips met and I tasted the champagne on his tongue. Naturally, Dr. Miller's hand rested gently on the front of my neck. It made me pursuit him harder, kissing him with a heat that forced him to take a breath.

His hands snaked up under my sweater and he ran his warm palms the length of my torso from the bottom up until the shirt was thrown up over my head.

I was expecting him to pull me into his arms, for our lips to connect in the same fiery way as before. When I reached for him, his hand gripped my wrist so tight that an ache immediately spread in both directions up and down my arm. Without warning he shoved me down onto the oversized bed and I let out a deep breath as I stared up at him in his fully aroused state.

The clank of his belt buckle as he began to undo it was enough to make my bottom lip separate from my bottom one. My tongue danced across my lips. I couldn't wait to devour him - or let him devour me. Either way, I didn't care.

With his pants off his hips just enough to get a glimpse at the tented bulge in the front of his boxer-briefs, Dr. Miller leaned down, placing his hands on either side of me as he spoke against my lips.

“I'm going to fuck you now.” His voice was stern. His dark eyes locked on mine. He wasn't asking for permission, though he knew by now that I wouldn't deny him; I couldn't.

My eyes closed when I felt his fingers against the skin by my waist, swiftly undoing the button of my jeans in a craftily, effortless manner.

I didn't know if I sighed or moaned when he began to glide my pants down before fingering my panties and taking them along for the ride.

When I failed to respond to his racy demand he let his nose brush against mine and kissed me so firmly on the lips that it hurt.

“Say, okay Dr. Miller,” he demanded now.

I swallowed hard. “Okay, Dr. Miller.”

“Good girl.”

The world might as well have stood still when our bodies were entwined. Never, not once in my life, had an intimate encounter left me feeling so out of touch with the rest of the world.

Explosions of passion transpired in every kiss, every touch, every careless whisper only to be shared between the two of us. I felt it. I knew Dr. Miller felt it, too.

At times he was patient, numbing me with his fingers as he slowly and carefully turned my thighs to Jello. Other times he was forceful and hard, leaving me unable to even choke out a moan because my body was tense and tight and I was on the verge of exploding. He stopped each time he could tell I was close to my climax, controlling the pace of the foreplay, the lovemaking and everything in between.

Fuck, the stamina on this man!

Details of the night would be forever ingrained in my mind. The squeezes of his hands against mine. The firm hold on my throat that I encouraged through a chorus of moans each time he did it. The look in his eyes that alternated between dominant and desperate as he thrusted hard on top of me.

I had no idea how much time had passed when we finally laid quietly together with nothing but the sounds of our own breathing to fill the air. For several minutes I laid there with my eyes closed holding him close. Dr. Miller was a hot, sweaty mess on top of me. I was certain I felt and sounded and looked the same way.

If there was one thing I worried about it was the aftermath of a sexual encounter. Would the man want to cuddle? Would he ask you nicely to leave? Was it just about the sex? Did men worry about any of that stuff?

Dr. Miller’s arm was locked around my naked waist. It was possessive, and from him, alone, I craved that. I wanted to be his. I wanted him to be mine. That may have been wrong, or too intense for the length of time we had been in each other's lives; but that's how I felt. I realized, now, that I couldn't do this once. I couldn't do it twice or three times. I wasn't going to be the girl he called on occasion for a random hookup. None of that was possible - not for me. There would be no getting enough of this. The chemistry that existed between us was on a level I had no prior experience with.

My chest heaved up and down with a deep sigh. It prompted him to finally loosen his grip on me as his head lifted from the pillow we were sharing.

Moment of truth, I thought. I could usually read what a man's intentions were; at least I thought I could. Was Dr. Miller as into me as I thought he was? I couldn't be reading this all wrong, could I?

I wasn't about to let misplaced doubt kill the moment. I bit down on my bottom lip and slowly smiled, prompting him to do the same. When a low chuckle escaped him I echoed it with a giggle of my own.

He propped himself up on his forearm now and hovered above me with pillow-tossed hair. Such a beautiful, rugged mess he was. For a moment neither of us said anything; though did we really need to?

I let out another flustered breath as he leaned down and touched his lips to mine, staying there as if it would be the last time. Simultaneously, my hand found his bearded cheek, the other gently roamed through his messy hair.

We sighed together as the kiss broke off and I knew something had to be said.

“Dr. Miller-”

“Call me Joel,” he cut me off, referring to himself in such a different way than he had in the verbal foreplay that had kicked off our encounter.

I knew it would be difficult referring to him by his first name. In my quiet thoughts, fears and fantasies he would always be Dr. Miller; but I certainly couldn't continue to refer to him in that way.

“Joel..” I smiled again and sighed. That was it. That was all I had. I couldn't think of a coherent sentence. Not when my body still ached for all we had just done and more.

“(Y/N).” His gravelly voice ignited something inside of me - even more so when the weight of his body still blanketed mine.

For a moment I just held him. With our current, uncertain circumstances I had no idea if I would ever truly get this chance again. My hand rested on his cheek and then I leaned my head forward and kissed him again.

His next question made me feel safe and secure - a contrast to the hot-and-bothered, reckless way I had been feeling all night. “What side of the bed do you want?”

I was sure the diameter of my smile stretched my face to the limits. He officially asked me to stay.

“Either side.” I didn't care. I would have slept in the stiff, decorative chair in the corner of the room if he asked me to.

With a chuckle, he pushed himself away and slunk out of bed, slipping just his boxer-briefs back on. “Well decide. I have to go put the fire out downstairs.”

I let out a light flutter of laughter and agreed to his terms, watching him as he exited the room. I was alone with my thoughts, now, smiling at the ceiling. The sheets felt cool against my hot skin.

I could still feel a sting on the right side of my buttocks where Dr. Miller had indulged in perhaps the most pleasurable spanking of my life. My hand fell over the area and I smiled again, covering his hand print with my palm to feel the warmth he left there.

“Fuck..” I whispered the word to myself in the tastefully, exhausted state he had left my body in. If I died right then, I would die happy.

When he returned, my eyes drank in his physique. Chest hair trailed down the center of his rugged form down below his belly button. A lone scar decorated the top of his left arm and his typically perfectly-styled hair had been tugged in all different directions, leaving him with the most adorable fashion faux-pas.

Dr. Miller pressed the dimmer all the way down and closed the door, replacing the picture-perfect image in front of me with just a silhouette. When he slid back in behind me, my body naturally melted into his.

“Hope you don't mind the right side of the bed,” he said quietly in my ear, slipping one of his feet between mine as he pulled me against him even tighter.

“Mmm..” My eyes closed, “I don't mind.” I was exhausted, but I didn't want the moment to end. Despite the heaviness of my eyes I fought it. It wasn't until I heard Dr. Miller's quiet snores in my ear that I finally gave in. In the warmth of his bed with his body wrapped securely around mine, I got the best sleep of my life.

CLICK HERE FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER

@untamedheart81 @suttonspuds @cesspitoflove @michilandcof @amyispxnk @grogusmum @morallyinept @akah565 @brittmb115 @magpiepills @poodlebae @gobaaby-blog-blog

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batwritings · 11 months

Text

Kinktober Day 15 - Mirror Sex

Some more Obey Me to balance out the military men! Enjoy!~

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Asmodeus asking you to try on clothes he’d picked out for you after a heavy day of retail therapy was absolutely nothing new. It actually became a bit of a bonding experience for the two of you. “You’ve got to add more color to your wardrobe Y/N!” He’d cheer, absolutely giddy when you tried on something outside of your normal attire.

So when he texted you to swing by his room for a bit of a fashion show, you weren’t exactly surprised. What did surprise you however, was the choice of clothes sitting against his bed sheets. “Uh Asmo?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “This is uh…an interesting choice for a fashion show.”

“Oh don’t be modest,” the demon purrs. It was getting harder and harder to tell by the day when Asmodeus was trying to charm you and when he wasn’t. “You’d look stunning in it darling! Just try it on, please? For me?” You look over and see those pretty sunset eyes looking at you so expectantly and sigh heavily.

“Fine, fine,” you groan. Slowly but surely you undo your uniform until you’re completely undressed. You can see Asmodeus lick his lips, but that’s also nothing new, not to you at least. You blush regardless, quickly starting to pull the ensemble on. It’s a lovely lace bodice with matching garter and sheer underwear. “Well? How does it look?”

“Hmm,” the avatar of lust muses softly, looking you over. In the dim light of his room, you manage to miss the darkening of his eyes and how his pupils dilate like a beat eyeing it’s prey. “Come stand in front of my mirror, let me see better.”

A little embarrassed, you do as he asks. Asmo’s floor length mirror doesn’t miss a thing on your body. How the fabric hugs all of your curves, how the sheer fabric does little to actually cover your body where it lays. It actually feels kind of nice against your skin, even the most intimate parts, but you push that thought down quickly.

The demon snakes his arms around your torso with a thoughtful hum, his head resting on your shoulder. He makes eye contact with you in your reflection, a knowing smile on his lips. “You look absolutely divine in that you know?” He tells you, voice practically dripping with desire. “Almost as good as myself.

You’re so caught up in his honeyed words, you don’t even notice his hands sliding down your legs. You see how Asmo relishes your gasp as perfectly manicured fingers caress your sex beneath the sheer fabric. You immediately bite your lip; between the touches and the energy radiating off the demon behind you, it’s hard not to make noises from the pleasure.

“Now now darling, don’t hid those pretty noises from me,” he coos. “You know you sound just as pretty as you look.” His warm tongue licks behind the shell of your ear before nipping at your earlobe.

“A-Asmo…!” you whine, hips bucking forward. You knew this little song and dance all too well by now. Foreplay was nice, but the fallen angel was sooner to work you up to your peak and keep you there for as long as he saw fit.

Lithe fingers worked your sex in a slow but steady pace. Sinful words dripped from perfect pink lips, every so often leaving a sweet kiss or a nip against your neck and shoulder. Asmo’s free hand slid up underneath the light fabric of the bodice to thumb over your nipple. He giggles sweetly at your reaction, your head falling back against his shoulder.

“My my, how easily you fall apart for me sweetheart,” he teases. The hand on your nipple leaves, causing you to groan at the lack of attention. He comes to lightly hold your jaw, adjusting it so you can see yourself in his mirror. “See? See how lovely you look?”

Your eyes were glazed over in arousal, brow knitted together as your body craved more and more. Your knees were wobbling, trying to hold yourself up as pleasure coursed through your veins. You distantly wondered how much of this was actually feeling good and how much as due to Asmodeus’ influence as the avatar of lust. That thought was immediately wiped away as that telltale coil in the pit of your stomach tightened to it’s breaking point.

“Asmo…!” You moaned, trying to tear your eyes away from your reflection. “So close, so c-close..!” Your hips were bucking up erratically into the demon’s hand.

Asmo kisses your cheek sweetly. “Go ahead sweetie,” he tells you, voice low in your ear. The hand holding your jaw goes back to toying with your chest. “Let me feel that raw energy from you~”

You’re not in any position to deny him. Your knees buckle as pleasure overtakes you, a long moan that mixes with a cry leaving your throat. The narcissistic fourth born supports you easily, letting your weight rest against him. You can hear him chuckle softly behind your panting.

“Looks like we’ll have to have fashion shows in the mirror more often hmm?~”

#bat writes #obey me smut #obey me x reader #obey me asmodeus #asmodeus x reader #asmodeus smut #om! asmodeus

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ultrainfinitepit · 1 year

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Town of Puddle: Vampires

Last updated 08/14/2023

In the world of Puddle, vampire is a catch-all term for any humanoid creature that needs to consume something from a human to survive - usually human flesh or blood, but some subsist on other things such as emotions, dreams, etc. The most common vampire is the classic undead vampire. Vampires are usually immortal or very long-lived.

While vampires are thought to have any number of origins, there is in fact one singular origin from which they descend. The first vampires were nephilim, the children of the demon Asherah and the angel Rapha. Asherah was the queen of a kingdom named Hell. Tales of this kingdom and her rule would pass through the ages and become distorted into mythology. Rapha was an angel of blood with a terrible hunger his children would inherit. Both are long dead and gone, but their influence on their descendants lingers. Common vampiric powers, such as glamours and shapeshifting, come from these ancient ancestors.

Asherah and Rapha’s children were destined to rule, for a time anyway, over all corners of the earth. Some were more suited to the forests or mountains or cities, others to the sea or even the skies. These first vampires would eventually give rise to all the different types of vampires we see today.

The kingdoms of vampires were matriarchal, modeled after Asherah’s own kingdom. Matriarchs are a special type of vampire suited to rule, and childbirth. Mundane vampires have difficulty bearing children, most being completely infertile. Natural-born vampires are thus rare but not unheard of. Most vampires nowadays are turned, from human to vampire as other creatures are immune or will simply die to vampirism.

A childe (plural, childer) is a vampire that has been turned by another, who is their sire. One of the few remaining widespread cultural norms for vampires, is that a sire has some degree of responsibility for their childer shortly after they are turned, and it is good practice to teach them local vampire rules, history, and etiquette.

While most vampires prefer solitary existences, many vampires form groups for mutual support. These groups often vie for power in shadowy undergrounds that exist away from human eyes. A vampire group might be called a gang, a pack, or a coven.

Below are my named vampires so far. If you’re curious about even more, @wyrmzier also has their own Puddle vampire characters you can ask about.

Vivian Moon used to be human, but she was turned into a vampire. She is like a siphonophore, a colony inhabiting a human form. Because she is a colony of organisms she can survive grave injuries or even dismemberment, for short periods of time. When her limbs are separated from her body they have their own intelligence, like an octopus’s. Vivian works as a forensic consultant for a special precinct dedicated to investigating monster-related crimes.

Ethel Stone is Vivian’s friend in City Hall, who keeps her informed of political goings-on and secretly helps out her fellow vampires. Ethel is a lamprey vampire.

Teutho Melua is a vampiric pirate captain with a love of theatrics and parties. He is Vivian and Mordecai’s sire. Teutho is initially very narcissistic and bloodthirsty, but after some character development he becomes slightly less narcissistic. He is still bloodthirsty.

Mordecai Esadze is Teutho’s first mate. He is dark, serious, and grumpy, to balance Teutho’s more flashy personality. Mordecai is responsible and secretly more of a softie than he lets on.

Adelaide is Mordecai’s childe, his only one. As a human she sought the change, vampires call these sorts of humans “bite-chasers.” Now she manages a modest network of underground clubs and casinos, and in her spare time enjoys breeding snakes.

Lilian Heather is the adopted daughter of Samuel, and an up-and-coming actress.

Melanthios is an ancient vampire, thousands of years old and now more monstrous than humanoid. He is Menodora’s mate.

Malakos was the youngest of Menodora’s children, a cruel and egotistical vampire who controlled a small criminal empire on the Black Sea. He was Teutho’s sire, and was killed by Teutho and Mordecai.

Hyacinth is another of Malakos's childer, who pursues Teutho for a time.

Chise is Vivian’s mother, a bakeneko vampire. She abandoned Vivian at a young age, leaving her with no knowledge of her heritage.

Lycan was an ancient vampire, a child of Rapha and Asherah. His pursuit of a cure for vampirism led to the creation of werewolves.

Felisity is an ancient cat vampire, and a Matriarch. She was a queen of a small kingdom and was worshipped as an aspect of the goddess Bastet for many years, but eventually was dethroned and went into hiding.

#town of puddle #worldbuilding #vampires #ocs #lore post #master post #refsheet

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two-white-butterflies · 1 year

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you're losing me (two) | am. targaryen and j. velaryon

Description: The 'fake-relationship' begins. Social media is taken by storm. Rating: General Audiences part one

Aemond was a gentleman - he always made sure that he was paying you his full attention. "Do you want to go shopping?" he asked, pointing at the shop in front of him. It was a small boutique - popular only to those that could afford the pieces inside. "Yes," you smiled, pulling him closer inside the building.

He didn't need to tell you twice.

"What are your parents like? Are they uptight or cool?" you inquired, dismissing the sales associate that wanted to help you. He took a deep breath - trying to find words that could explain his parents. "My dad is old, he's traditional in a sense - but my mom is trendy. She'll warm up to you." he smiled, watching as your eyebrows bumped into each other. Traditional and modest attire it is then.

There was a vintage white dress on the rack, you've seen it in one of the vogue covers from a few decades ago. It was an iconic piece, but not famous enough that it would seem tacky. His hands snake around your waist, "What?" you ask and he nudges your body slowly, pointing at the paparazzi that were standing outside of the door.

"Kiss me," he demanded, pulling your body closer - until you could smell his perfume. "You're demanding, you know that?" you tease, reaching to cup his cheeks. The paparazzi's outside of the window were having a seizure - making sure to take a picture of every moment. "- but you like that." he paused, pressing your lips together.

He tasted like black coffee and cherries. It was intoxicating - a taste that was new to your tongue. You couldn't help but let a moan seep through - he smirks through the kiss before letting you go. He pretends to be shocked that the paparazzi were outside. "Let's go," he mouthed, pulling you into a deeper part of the store where the 'media' couldn't see.

ynkittenworld: Y/N spotted with mystery man (two separate occasions), new album soon? world tour soon? WHO IS THIS MAN!!! side note: happy for you mommy 😺

100 comments 23,909 likes

reinaynworld: MOM EXPLAIN?

thegreatwar: I'm going to auntie bella's house ☹️

boogeyman: acc. to some ppl that saw them the man is aemond targaryen and he owns this tech startup that's worth billions. UR WELCOME AND THANK YOU FELLOW Y/N'S KITTENS

Aemond sits on your blue sofa, sipping his tea while browsing through social media. "Your fans are crazy, dude." he hummed - watching as people shared his face all around various platforms. He wasn't aware that he was famous enough to be discovered. "They even found my instagram account." he complained, seeing follow requests from people that he didn't know.

"If you can't handle the fire, don't go to the kitchen." you shrug, placing a piece of pastry on the round table. He was a gracious guest, always helping you around with household chores - after the whole scenario with the paparazzi, he was spending all his time inside your little hotel room. "Helaena's blasting my phone, she a big fan of you." he smiled, replying to his sister with a GIF of you laughing. "Helaena?" you ask while lying on his lap.

His fingers comb through your hair, untangling the knots that your hairbrush couldn't fix. "My older sister." he answered - staring deep into your features. He couldn't deny that you were beautiful, and that your personality stirred something inside of him - but you were just a summer thing, right? Something that would allow him to inherit all of his father's fortune.

"I know nothing about your family to be honest. Google didn't have anything other than your dating history and zodiac sign." you state, wanting him to talk about his family more. It was interesting to see a stoic and conniving man smile when he spoke about family. "- what's my zodiac sign?" he questioned, not knowing the answer.

"Gemini," you answer immediately. "- and you used to date Lindsay Lohan." you add with a smile. He was older than he looked. He places a strand of your hair away from your face. "Stalker," he mumbled - and you sat up straight, glaring at him playfully. You were about to tickle him, but your phone rings. 'Jacaerys' it read out, and you placed your phone in your pocket.

"We should hard-launch each other," you suggest and he raised his eyebrows. "What's that?" he inquired - unfamiliar with the word. "Posting each other on social media." you replied and he nods.

It would work perfectly with his plan.

(your first name) : our secret moments, in a crowded room...they got no idea about me and you. @officialaemondtargaryen

8,920 comments 1,238,098 likes

maybemaybemaybe: Rue, when was this?

officialaemondtargaryen: there is an indentation, in the shape of you😉 - (your first name) : 100% not typed by me using his phone

You couldn't stop giggling as his phone was bombarded with messages and calls from your fans. He could hardly use the thing properly. "They have got to stop." he sighed, while his phone buzzed and vibrated on the coffee table. "You need a new phone," you chuckle - watching while he tried to get rid of the messages.

"I have a private account, how are they doing this?" he sighs, all the while Aegon and Helaena keep calling his phone. Another laugh escapes your mouth - he defeatedly settles the phone on the table.

"You poor thing," you giggle, a small pout graces his lips. "You are going to be the poor thing after what I do to you." he chuckles, placing his hands on your waist. For a second you believe that the feelings between you were genuine - not because of the need for money. "What are you going to do?" you ask, and he smirks.

Hands trailing down to your sides and tickling you.

(your first name)

Very bored today, #AskMeAnything

wendychoi: what is your hairstyle called? - (your first name): doggy style

pinturilla23: Where did u meet dad? - (your first name): we met at a hotel garden 😁

yournamefan: Are you going to make an album about Aemond? - (your first name): yes he's gonna make a handsome muse 😉🥰

Lucerys stuffed a large piece of vanilla ice cream on his mouth. "(Your Name) is dating our uncle, how do you feel about that?" he teased, moving his body away so that Jace couldn't do anything to him. "I don't care," Jace huffed, reaching for a spoon to take a piece off his brother's ice cream. "He doesn't care but he's turning red." Joffrey piped, giggling loudly while eating his strawberry ice cream.

"I wonder if he'll take her to the reunion." Joffrey adds, and a sigh escapes from Jace's mouth. 'Give you my wild, give you a child.' turned to dust - and never to return. He knew that it was not his fault - your personalities just managed to clash with each other.

You were the kind to fight for something - to beg for him to fight for the relationship. He was the opposite of that.

If it was meant to be - then you wouldn't need to fight for it.

part three

@minaxcarter @glame @xcinnamonmalfoyx @winxchesters @yentroucnagol @hotchnerswife @itsabby15 @mxxny-lupin @joliettes @kemillyfreitas @mxtantrights

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gaiaseyes451 · 9 months

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Of Kings and Kids - A Good Omens Christmas Story

I'm super excited to announce that Chapter 1 of Of Kings and Kids is officially live on AO3! This is a collaboration with the incredibly talented @vavoom-sorted-art. We will release one chapter a day until all five chapters are available - the last release will be on 26-Dec.

Head to AO3 for the full Chapter AND additional, gorgeous illustrations!

An Excerpt:

----

Aziraphale stood at the town’s well, clay cup in hand, and drank, grateful for the cool water. While the journey from Nazareth hadn��t been particularly arduous, the angel was happy for an opportunity to rest after traversing the loamy, rolling hills; especially after guiding a flock of sheep and goats for the last five days. Michael had assured him, when she was briefing him on the Mission Messiah assignment, that Heaven had an alias prepared this time. Somehow, Silas the shepherd who was leading his flock of bovids to Bethlehem for the autumn livestock auction was not precisely the backstory Aziraphale had expected. Nevermind that Bethlehem had never held a livestock auction before, best not to question these things.

Preparing for the arrival of the Messiah really was quite stressful.

Having filled his waterskin, Aziraphale was about to head off to one of the rest houses to sample the local cuisine when a familiar voice called out.

“Hello, angel!”

“Ah, actually, call me Crowley.” He said, casually.

“Oh, have you changed your name?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nah, not officially. Just tryin’ it out for a bit. ‘Sides, little odd to have a nobleman called ‘Crawly’.” He said, gesturing to himself.

Aziraphale dragged his eyes back to Crowley’s face and attempted to make eye contact through the dark lenses. “Well, hello, Crowley. What brings you to Bethlehem?”

----

A warm thanks to @goodomensafterdark for the support on this project with thanks also to @sohoscribblers

#good omens fic #good omens #good omens christmas #crowley #aziraphale #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction

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kckt88 · 10 months

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Wedding & Consummation.

Summary:

The day of Aemond and Vaera's wedding has arrived.

Warning(s): Nerves, Threats of Violence, Witnessed Bedding Ceremony, Kissing, Swearing, Fingering, First Time, P in V sex.

Word Count: 2830.

Author Note: A companion piece to Arrival(s)/A Time for Grief/The Gullet & Harrenhal and the Rivers, but can be read as a one-shot.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Kings Landing was a buzz with activity. The guests were arriving, the preparations had been made and it was finally here. The day Vaera and Aemond would stand together in the great sept and get married.

Vaera was so nervous that she decided to skip breakfast, as she wasn’t sure that she could actually stomach food.

After bathing, Vaera’s maids began to help her get ready. Her hair was brushed and twisted into elegant braids and the necklace that Aemond had gifted her just the day before was fastened around her neck. The silver chain was decorated with a single sapphire, much like the one that Aemond wore.

It had been his last courtship gift to her. Aemond had designed the necklace as a symbol of their love and devotion to one another.

In turn Vaera had two identical silver wedding rings designed.

It was not customary for a man to wear a wedding ring, but Aemond had accepted her request with a smile and vowed that once she placed it on his finger, he was never taking it off.

Now it was time for the dress. The gown had been designed by Vaera, Helaena and Alicent.

It had a fitted sleeveless bodice with a modest neckline. At Vaera’s request some of the stitching around the waist had been made to look like small butterflies, which of course was in honour of her soon to be good sister Helaena.

There was even a small emblem of the seven stitched into the dress to symbolise Queen Alicent. Never did Vaera think she would become close to Aemond’s mother. But since her arrival in the Red Keep, Alicent had been a great source of comfort and support, which pleased Aemond greatly.

As soon as the gown had been buttoned and her maiden cloak tied, there was a soft knock at the door.

It was her mother.

“You look beautiful” gasped Rhaenyra as she looked her daughter up and down.

“Thank you” muttered Vaera avoiding her mothers gaze.

“I’ve come to escort you to the sept and Daemon will walk you down the aisle”.

“What happened to Lord Corlys?” asked Vaera.

“Daemon is your father sweet girl. It’s only fair that he’s the one who gives you away”.

“So, why then do I wear a Velaryon cloak. Should it not be Targaryen?” retorted Vaera.

“Your husband will give you his” snarked Rhaenyra.

The subject of Vaera’s father was a source of contention between mother and daughter as despite her many attempts Vaera would not acknowledge Daemon as her true father or even grant him the title. Which is why she had originally asked for Corlys to walk her down the aisle, he wasn’t Laenor, but he was the closest thing to him.

“I want Corlys to give me away” said Vaera sternly.

“Vaera please-“ begged Rhaenyra.

“Fine. Daemon can walk me halfway and then Corlys will walk me the rest of the way”.

Rhaenyra nodded; she knew this was the only compromise that her daughter would offer.

“Right, shall we get going. It’s almost time” said Rhaenyra brightly.

The sept was decorated beautifully, but it all paled in comparison to Aemond who was stood beside the High Septon.

He was elegantly dressed, his black tunic decorated with silver dragons and his Targaryen cloak tied loosely around his shoulders. His long hair tied back in it’s usual half up, half down style.

The horns signalled the beginning of the ceremony and begrudgingly Vaera took Daemon’s arm.

“You look beautiful my daughter” muttered Daemon.

Vaera ignored Daemon’s half-hearted compliment and shifted her focus to Lord Corlys who was waiting patiently. The sea snake smiled as she approached.

Vaera snatched her arm away from Daemon and took her grandsire’s outstretched hand.

Ignoring Daemon’s pointed glare, Corlys led Vaera towards Aemond who smiled widely as he waited for her.

“Thank you for escorting the bride my Lord. If you would be so kind as to wait for the Princess to remove her maiden cloak” said the Septon.

Vaera undid the ties of her Velaryon cloak and handed it to Lord Corlys who bowed respectfully to the Septon and resumed his seat next to Rhaenys.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection” said the Septon loudly.

Aemond removed the cloak bearing the colours of house Targaryen and draped it around Vaera’s shoulders.

Aemond then took Vaera’s hand and smiled as the Septon tied their hands together by a ribbon.

“In the sight of the seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity. Now you may look upon one another and say these vows together” exclaimed the Septon.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine from this day until the end of my days” said Vaera smiling, her eyes never leaving Aemond.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers and she is mine from this day until the end of my days” declared Aemond loudly.

“Now you may exchange your rings” said the Septon as he removed the ribbon from their entwined hands.

“Thank you for agreeing to this” whispered Vaera as she slid the silver band onto Aemond’s finger.

“Anything for you Issa dōna ābrazȳrys” muttered Aemond as he slid a matching silver band onto Vaera’s finger (My sweet wife).

“The vows have been spoken and the rings exchanged. You may kiss your bride”.

Aemond leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Vaera’s lips. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and deepen the kiss, but he had to restrain himself.

At least for now.

The celebration after their wedding was in full swing.

King Viserys was sat at the head of the table, with a smiling Alicent and Otto by his side. Rhaenyra and Daemon were sat slightly off to the side, their heads together, the pair were deep in conversation as they kept casting furtive glances at Vaera and Aemond.

Jace and Luke, were huddled together next to Baela and Rhaena. Aegon was enjoying the great selection of wine and Helaena was sat smiling as she spoke to Daeron.

Vaera sat next to Aemond near the head of the table, smiling as many Lords and ladies came up to offer their congratulations and bestow gifts upon them, while also enjoying the food of their feast. Borros Baratheon, Jeyne Arryn, and one that seemed to linger, Dalton Greyjoy.

The young lord was similar in age to both Vaera and Aemond.

"Many good wishes too you, Princess Vaera. I must admit Princess, the tales of your other worldly beauty have not been exaggerated. Your skin is as beautiful and pale as the snows of The North and your eyes are more pretty than any purple flower that I have ever laid eyes on".

Vaera shifted uncomfortably in her seat and Aemond scowled.

"Thank you," nodded Vaera politely.

A sudden loud roar spooked everyone as Cannibal flew over the Red Keep.

“Ahh yes, your Cannibal. I’ve heard he’s an impressive beast”.

“My Cannibal is not a beast” huffed Vaera.

“His ferocious nature is well known. How is it that you managed to claim such a creature?”

“I wouldn’t expect a Greyjoy to understand even the basic fundamentals of how a Targaryen claims a dragon” retorted Aemond.

“If you ever find yourself bored of Kings Landing, you can always visit the Iron Islands. I’m sure I can find something else for you to ride” replied Dalton smirking.

Aemond slammed his fist into the table as he rose sharply from his seat.

“You dare speak like that to my wife” snarled Aemond.

“Valzȳrys” whispered Vaera (Husband).

“Remove this foul-mouthed cur from my sight” ordered Aemond.

“I would have thought the one eyed Prince could-“

SMACK!

Suddenly Dalton Greyjoy crumpled to the ground, clutching his bleeding nose.

“Never disrespect my husband again” snarled Vaera.

“Y-You broke my nose” exclaimed Dalton.

“Insult my husband like that again and a broken nose will be the least of your worries”.

“Vaera” gasped Aemond, his single amethyst eye wide in surprise.

“A kraken is no match for a dragon” exclaimed Vaera suddenly becoming aware of everyone staring at her.

“Quite right good sister. More wine I think” declared Aegon loudly as he handed Vaera a full goblet of wine and staggered away to get more.

“That was impressive” muttered Aemond as he took the goblet of wine from Vaera’s hand and then led her towards the dancefloor.

“I thought you hated dancing?” asked Vaera.

“I loathe it, but for you sweet wife I will partake just this once” replied Aemond.

Vaera let out a soft giggle as Aemond placed his hand on her waist and led her in a dance, pausing every so often at the sounds of applause that followed the newly married couple.

Soon the music died down as the King slowly rose to his feet.

“I wish to toast my son Prince Aemond and my granddaughter Princess Vaera on their marriage. May it be long and fruitful” said Viserys loudly as he shakily raised his cup.

“Thank you, Your Grace” said Vaera as she bowed respectfully.

“I think it’s time that we retired our chambers” muttered Aemond.

“-Yes brother. Time for the bedding” exclaimed Aegon eagerly.

“Touch my wife and I’ll chop off your hands” snarled Aemond.

This was the part of the wedding that made Vaera the most nervous, it wasn’t the act of consummation that bothered her, it was the fact that they had to perform their duty in front of a witness.

As Aemond had refused a traditional bedding ceremony, this was considered a fair compromise. Proof of their consummation and Vaera’s purity was needed.

So, it was decided that maester Orwyle would act as a witness, and there would also be witnesses outside of the bed chamber in the form of Alicent, Rhaenyra, Otto, and Daemon.

Aegon had dropped various hints at wanting to be a witness to the consummation, but he was promptly told to ‘fuck off’ by Aemond. Who was in no mood to entertain his drunken brother’s jokes and depraved leering.

As there was no traditional bedding ceremony. Vaera and Aemond were able to walk to their shared chambers without a fuss. Their witnesses followed silently, obviously not wanting to talk to one another.

“Right, we shall remain outside but maester Orwyle will be in the room with you to ensure that the marriage has been properly consummated” said Alicent firmly.

Aemond took Vaera by the hand and led her into their chambers. He figured it was for the best that he ignored Orwyle and try to pretend that he wasn’t even there.

Even as the maester took a seat in the corner of the room, Aemond had a sudden flare of anger at his lack of instance that the consummation should have been entirely private with the sheets being presented as proof.

But of course, he has his half sister to thank for that, her past behaviours were unbecoming for a Princess of the realm and the heir to the Iron Throne.

Birthing bastards had cast a cloud of suspicion over Vaera and Aemond hated Rhaenyra for that.

“Would you help me with the gown, husband?” asked Vaera as she turned from him and swept her hair away from her back to reveal a great number of fiddly buttons and laces.

“Of course,” replied Aemond as he reached forward and began undoing his wife’s wedding gown.

Soon she was stood in nothing but a thin shift and Aemond felt his heart quicken in his chest at the sight of her nipples through the sheer fabric.

This was the moment he’d been waiting for, and he moved with all the grace of a green boy getting his wick wet for the first time.

He was no maid, Aegon had seen to that when he’d dragged him to the street of silk on his thirteenth name day. But Vaera was no paid whore, that would whisper sweet lies into his ear and make him feel dirty.

She was his wife, and he was determined to love and cherish her until the end of his days.

Aemond began pulling off his own clothes as Vaera climbed into the bed. Her cheeks tinged pink as she glanced nervously at Orwyle who had remained silent.

“Focus on me. Not him” said Aemond as he finished undressing himself and climbed into the bed.

“I-I’m ready husband. Make me yours” whispered Vaera as she pulled off her shift and discarded it on the floor.

Vaera laid down and smiled shyly as Aemond gazed at her naked body.

“Issa gevie ābrazȳrys” whispered Aemond as he slowly reached out and ran his fingers over Vaera’s breasts (My beautiful wife).

Goosebumps erupted over Vaera’s skin as Aemonds hand began to move lower.

“I-I need to prepare you” whispered Aemond.

“P-prepare me?” whispered Vaera.

“I don’t want to hurt you” replied Aemond as he leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on Vaera’s lips.

Vaera gasped when she felt Aemond’s fingers rubbing her folds.

“O-Oh Aemond” exclaimed Vaera as her husband slipped a finger inside her.

Aemond buried his face in Vaera’s neck and began peppering kisses along her smooth skin as he added another finger to prepare her as best he could.

But in the back of his mind, he was still aware of the maester sitting in the corner of the room and the other witnesses waiting outside the door.

Aemond removed his fingers and then laid between his wife’s open legs, supporting his weight on his left arm as he reached down and took his hard cock in his hand and placed the tip of it against his wife’s slick entrance.

Vaera shut her eyes tight and took a deep breath as Aemond sheathed himself within her.

"A-Aemond" exclaimed Vaera wincing in pain.

Vaera’s cunny choked his cock so tight that he needed a few seconds to adjust, making him terribly aware that he was not going to last for too long.

Aemond’s cock twitched and throbbed with need, and he released a shuddered breath while Vaera sighed in relief.

“The pain will ease,” rasped Aemond, waiting for his wife to adjust.

After a few moments, Vaera nodded slowly.

Aemond began to move with a slow, deep grinding that soon enough turned the stinging pain into pleasure.

“Gods be good,” panted Vaera, gripping Aemond’s shoulders.

“Fuck. You were made for me, my wife. You were made to fit my cock in this sweet cunt of yours.” breathed Aemond as he increased the pace of this thrusts.

“A-Aemond. Please.” exclaimed Vaera her nails digging into his shoulders.

“I-I’m going to spill my seed in you” moaned Aemond his hips slapping against hers.

“P-Please I want it. I want you” gasped Vaera.

“I can’t wait to see you swell with my babe” exclaimed Aemond as his thrusts staggered. He was close. So close.

“Yes. Give it to me” moaned Vaera.

Aemond pushed into the hilt for one last time and groaned loudly as his cock throbbed and he spilled his seed.

“Y-You didn’t peak” muttered Aemond.

“There’s always next time” replied Vaera as she ran her fingers through Aemond’s knotted silver hair.

“Hm” said Aemond as he gently pulled his softened cock from his wife.

Aemond pulled the sheet over Vaera and then moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his eye drawn to the red ring of Vaera’s maidens blood that now stained his cock.

“Are you well Princess. Do you need me to examine you?” asked maester Orwyle.

“No I’m-“ muttered Vaera.

“-The marriage has been consummated. Get out” snapped Aemond.

“My prince” exclaimed maester Orwyle.

“Are you deaf? I said out” retorted Aemond as he sprang from the bed and snatched up his robe.

Maester Orwyle bowed respectfully before he hastily left the room.

“The marriage has been consummated. Prince Aemond has done his duty. The sheets will be presented-” said maester Orwyle as the door swiftly opened and Aemond appeared wearing a loosely tied robe.

“-If you don’t mind, I would like to have some privacy with my wife” said Aemond firmly.

“Of course,” said Alicent quietly.

“Does Vaera need-“ muttered Rhaenyra.

“-My wife is fine. As I said we would like some privacy” retorted Aemond as he firmly shut the door.

After taking a deep breath, Aemond walked over to his desk and poured himself a generous cup of wine.

After downing the wine in one gulp, Aemond poured another cup and offered it too Vaera who shook her head.

“I-Is everything ok?” asked Vaera.

“I should be asking you that” muttered Aemond as he yanked off his eyepatch and threw it on the desk.

It was their duty, but Aemond couldn’t help but feel a tinge of embarrassment that he’d selfishly sought to his own needs and spilled his seed, yet his sweet wife hadn’t reached her peak during their coupling.

Having a maester watching you as you consummated your marriage wasn’t exactly ideal but there was no one watching now.

Aemond quickly discarded his robe and climbed back onto the bed.

“-A-Aemond. What?” asked Vaera.

“That was for duty. Now this is for us. I wish to have you again my sweet wife” replied Aemond as he surged forward and pressed a kiss to his wife’s lips.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #aemond fic #aemond x original female character

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