#I roll the nettle between my fingers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eldrith · 1 month ago

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ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴅᴇɴ ; ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ.

ᴄʜɪᴠᴀʟʀʏ ғᴇʟʟ ᴏɴ ʜɪs sᴡᴏʀᴅ ;

words: 8.4k synopsis: jacaerys falls for a woman in aegon's garden. notes: happy halfway! we're only a few weeks from halloween & im getting excited that this story is at its midway point. i hope those who read this enjoy it. it's as always for my muses @useralba and @dipperscavern ... my co authors frong!! chapter warnings: active and willing denial on jace's part tbh. themes of corruption, spooky visions, smut; masturbation, dry humping, heavy petting, finger sucking, hint (?) of choking [v brief], sort-of under the influence activities so - dubious morals in this one [youll see]. eating as sexual imagery, sin/shameful thoughts, religious themes & symbolism, temperature play-ish?, blood & injury depictions, brief mentions of…consuming blood…lightttt manipulation[:D], angst, grief, discussion of death. & some fluff. this is so unedited series masterlist. main masterlist.

THE CHAMBERS OF MAESTER GERARDYS ARE TINGED WITH DRIED HERBS AND DAMP PARCHMENT.

It is a smell which rather permeates the air through the corridors of the castle on the more inclementing days – even when he was younger, Jacaerys found himself passing by the smell of feverfew and steamed stinging nettle on his way to lessons in the bowels of the stone drum.

Thick tears of rain slide down a weathered pane. Jacaerys reclines in a small chair; In front of him, a poultice is mixed by steady hands.

His head pulses with a familiar ache; the one which has plagued him for days, rendered him rather restless and jumpy on the best of days, irascible and brusque on the others. There is a slow roll of thunder outside; it rattles the weakened pane beside him – faintly, he can nearly hear the call of some childish laughter warbled in the storm outside.

There are no children left on the island now that his brothers are gone with Rhaena; with them, it seems, has gone the sun. The days have been plunged into dreary rolls of high clouds and low sheets barreling down with coughs of spitting sleet; The nights remain the only time the air is relatively clear of that wetting dark, and yet still clouds slink under silvery slivers of waxing moon.

Agitated, Jace watches Maester Gerardys pour some oiled ointment, warming it between his palms; straightening his spine to a more respectable position, Jacaerys tilts his jaw for the man to begin to massage the ointment into his temples.

A sigh of relief. “It’s only getting worse,” He murmurs, eyes fluttering shut at the sharp scent of peppermint. “-The head aches, the knots in my stomach.”

Maester gerardys hums as he pulls away, returning to the poultice as he glances attentively at the prince – though he says nothing, and Jacaerys is prompted to fill the silence once more.

“I suppose getting air has helped… Aegon’s Garden is not nearly as taxing to the senses as flying on dragonback these days.” He observes absently, watching another onslaught of rain slam against the window, “… and your oils, of course - though, they’re quite strong in the bath. I find the blooms to be rather pleasant now. I don’t know if you recall, Maester, but I was quite sensitive to plants when I was a babe.”

Below on the grounds, a flicker of blue through hedges of green; Jacaerys jumps only slightly, blinking – and the figure is gone. He must be going mad.

Though in a moment of odd silence, the grind of the mortar has stopped.

Gerardys’ eyes flick up to his own, leaking with a flicker of wariness. “Yes, the…garden.” He repeats slowly, straightening his back. “My Prince, I’ve… noticed you’ve been spending quite some time there recently.”

Jacaerys, not used to such suspicion from the man, bristles immediately. Some desire, perhaps, to protect the sanctity of the garden - to protect you.

“And?” He wonders stiffly.

Maester Gerardys sets the mortar to the table, voice cautious. “It is not my place to pry, but… we must be wary not to… become distracted in such times. The dragonseeds arrive late on the morrow, and the efforts of war demand the entire island’s attention.”

Offense bristles through Jacaerys’ chest as he levels a sharp gaze at the man before him. Without hesitation, he rises from his previous seat, patience more than frayed. “Do you think me not focused?”

At the following silence, his voice tightens. “I am not a boy, Gerardys. I know what is at stake - better even than you. And it will do you well to remember who it will be to lead the charge when the time comes.”

Gerardys does not flinch at the sharpness of Jacaerys’ tone, but nods briefly. “Of course, my Prince. My apologies.” Jacaerys moves to make his exit, though Maester Gerardys’ voice stops him once more., “Though… It is my duty to keep you in good health. You’ve mentioned before a girl, in the garden - pardon me, but there has not-”

“Enough!” Jacaers snaps, pushing off the table. His temper has flared - though tipped over the cliff by his words, it is not Maester Gerardys who aggravates him so; rather, a heavy impending doom has settled upon his stomach at the damning reminder of the dragonseeds which crawl their way from whatever villages or flea’s bottom they come from now to chance a life of riding a dragon. Of some inkling that, in some way, Gerardys’ words are right; and Jacaerys lashes, a cornered hound.

“You forget yourself, Maester.” He exhales sharply through his nose, “You are here to help aid my ailments. That is all you need to do."

Gerardys bows his head, “Of course.”

He is nearly to the threshold when Maester Gerardys’ voice carries - soft and unsettling as an owl’s stare in the pitch of night. “Just remember, my Prince. Sometimes, the things which ease the mind… might mislead the heart.”

Jacaerys stops before the chamber door, hand clenching into a fist at his side; a nerve has been plucked, struck, ripped - some small growing doubt in the back of his own mind, one that festers and yearns to bloom with kindling of another’s words. Worry eases through him, though there is no time for that; more pressing matters loom.

The dragonseeds arrive on the eve, it seems.

He is gone from the chambers without another word, ignoring the fading needle sting of Maester Gerardys’ odd words as they dissolve into the large bow of day.

IT IS OF LITTLE IMPORTANCE WHEN JACAERYS HAS HIS BATH DRUM MOVED.

Though it is a simple request, an innocent one - brought up while breaking fast one morning, watching with concealed fluster as three servants drag his bath drum towards the windowsill. Though it is indeed blameless and simple, he feels rather horrid for it.

It is a twist of disgust that blossoms into some equally thrilling bloom in his chest. A transfixion, to keep gaze upon the expanse of a sea beyond his scope, of all that will one day be all his own to rule. To prove, perhaps in some twisted way, that it is he who will sit on the throne when his mother has finished her long reign; that those mules with silver hair and names of sand or snow do not come to delude themselves into making a claim of their own.

To watch over the baileys below, to see the fishing villages, mere specks in the distant shoreline; to see ships smaller than fleas sail to and from, to see the rustle of wildgrass upon the pathway to the garden below.

To watch Aegon’s Garden.

It is not, he tells himself, in any off-chance that he might catch sight of those silky tresses, of that smooth and wintry skin, of your curling smile. Jacaerys simply enjoys the views of sky, sea, mountain - and if he were to catch a glimpse of your beautiful visage, whispering to the flowers and laughing as if the blooms could whisper back? Perhaps that would simply be a welcomed favor.

The water in his bath steams; oils of rosemary and peppermint mix in a rather sharp smell upon his skin, though the tendrils of steam curl into his head and ease the sharpness of his mind’s ache.

Reclining back, eyes half-lidded, Jacaerys sighs into the heat of the water.

Lithe, tense muscles ache with the tension of the day - though it is morning, he knows he must rouse soon; but in the hour ahead that he has to bathe and break fast, he will allow himself to slip away from life, into the recesses of his mind - to where only you exist.

You.

Jacaerys allows for his fingertips to brush absently along the water’s surface - so similarly to how they’d traced the curve of your neck, tangled into your hair. It’s been far too long since he visited you last - two nights past since he was tugged through the hedges once more, hiding a grin, ducking under low-hanging vines, gasping into kisses stolen by your wanting lips.

There is no such flame that perhaps has ever burned hotter than the memory of your touch; an icy one, a chilling touch that sends the cold aches of the North to shame; though it burns so hot in his mind’s eye.

You, a world apart from the suffocating smoke of war - an endearing, true girl; the way your smile tugs at the corner of your lips, some glint in your gaze that beckons him closer - deeper.

Eyelashes kiss his cheeks when he shuts his lids, and mercifully he sees it - you, head tilted in the sunlight, shadows of the garden dancing along the stretch of your soft skin, the icy breath of shade a cool respite from the despotic sun.

And that heady, rich scent that clings to your skin - the figs, the juicy skin, the pinking bud of flesh inside, your lips so divine, wrapped around them, tasting, licking, biting-

His breath hitches; without thinking - or perhaps, telling himself instead not to think - his palm slips beneath the water.

Jacaerys’ groan is quiet into the empty chamber; but his calloused palm is softened by the warmth of the water, and his mind is hazy in the visions of you, staring at him, lips wrapped around that fruit.

Its scent, the lingering taste of it upon your lips, so sweet - you, so sweet.

And he did not try a taste then, but gods how he had wanted to; how he still wants to. A taste - of that flesh, dripping with sweet juice and marbled skin of ripe fruit - and of every inch of you, each breathless hitch of a moan, every whisper of his name from your lips. Pleasure curls down the base of his spine as he allows his fist to move; broad strokes, as languid as the slithering shift of your skirts around corners, as sharp as your gasped giggle when he makes you laugh.

And it’s you; he nearly believes it is you, wrapped around his cock so snug - pleasure lapping at core, water kissing his chest as he stirs in the bath, stuttering breaths that leak a few spare whimpers into the quiet morning air.

There is a breeze through the open window that sends Jacaerys’ bare chest to shiver against the steam of hot bath; A familiar chill, wrapping and curling around him like the winds of winter - settling at the nape of his neck, but dripping lower to pool at the very base of him, where his fist moves, desperate and seeking.

And though he pretends it does not happen, he knows his fist curls and moves to the rhythm of your sighs in his memory, how you’re always so eager to press into him, to kiss him, to taste him; desperate and hungry.

Hunger – that glint, dangerous and unknown in your eyes; a flicker of a grin too wide-pulled, the sliding of a gaze that feels ancient. It’s not proper, he knows; but the pleasure mounts anyways – because of it, perhaps – and that sickly smile sends himself further to the edge, grip shaking as his hips buck against nothing.

Water splashes from the basin. A bite on the plush of his lip as he suppresses a shuddering moan; his abdomen has tensed in such curling pleasure - an ice against the fire in his veins, intoxicating, arresting.

The pressure always builds - not just this pleasurable kind, though his body insists to his mind he should be focusing on such things - and in the last few desperate days that he’s spent far from you, you who truly understands him - it is in these times when he seeks such salacious relief.

It is your name whispered from his lips, breathless - too many times to admit in the past weeks of knowing your company. It is some distraction from the clawing talons of fate; when his palms are warm against his cock though he finds himself wishing to feel your own - that chilling touch which lures him so.

His desperate, soiled lips - groaning your name, falling from his tongue as the whisper of a phantom, some half-formed prayer to gods long-forgotten, squeezed with the very last of air which lived in his lungs. Licking at his skin, curling into his blood like the shade under which you’d kissed him.

The phantom feeling grasps at him, pressing against the thrash of his heartbeat in his chest, bringing the sting of overwhelm to his lashline, coaxing gasps through his lips and tickling a flush to his cheeks.

He can almost feel you when that same shivering peak leaves him panting, gasping as his ecstasy rolls through his entire body, his head lolling back against the tub basin as he whines your name into the empty chamber.

And in those moments, just like now - as his chest heaves and knuckles turn white, as he spends himself - he can think of nothing else.

It is only you.

Though when he steps from the bath and stretches his bare muscles into the bright of day, eyeing the line of constellated freckles which sprinkle over his pectorals and gather in pools upon his shoulders and bridge of nose, he feels the slow recovery of what had slipped so easily from his conscious - pain.

And just as it disappeared, so it appears once more; with a sharp wince, Jacaerys jolts from his haze, gasping at the heavy ache which throbs in the back of his head.

With flushed cheeks, he watches the garden below for any sign of life; It swirls with tantalizing greens, the scent of dahlias and gardenias blowing in even this high into the tower through the open casement. A sigh falls secret and unbidden from his lips as curls are raked back upon his head with a shaky palm.

As always, the pull is there.

The lull, some sweet melody that spins the strings of his heart, warming the blood pulsing in his chest and gathering below his abdomen; which soothes the ache of his mind and whispers his name in the soft breeze.

It is melancholy, in the way life has been without Lucerys. Shadows swirl darker under the attention of morning sun – petals curl beneath the breath of frost, melting back into themselves in the first whispers of day. The blooms smile up at him, and he longs for the embrace of something he can never have.

The garden breathes below.

Across the bailey, the dragonseeds take up arms - measly children playing at a game they know nothing about; Jacaerys’ jaw clicks when he glimpses the regal posture of his own mother across the way, speaking with Maester Gerardys and Addam of Hull. The pierce of his mind’s ache is sharper - the garden’s breeze sends a breath of loneliness through him.

He shuts the window without a second thought.

IT IS ONLY SO MANY HOURS UNTIL HE FINDS HIMSELF IN THE GARDEN ONCE MORE.

Misery flutters in Jacaerys’ mind with every ragged gasp he takes; a creeping nightmare, rousing him from sweaty sheets - clammy and with half a scream lodged in his throat, he’d stirred.

Visions of white, some restless churning that’d grown from dirt of dreams and sprouted a blossoming nightmare - at the top of that ancient, towering wall of ice, the words falling from Cregan Stark’s lips. A fate worse than death.

The loss of his brother; the face which echoed in so many ways his own. The end of a life - of a lifetime - and he still wakes up from restless slumber every night, gasping dry air, yearning for the days of sparring, of fixing wrinkled folds of rich doublets, of teaching lessons, of laughs concealed painfully at supper.

Though tonight, after being roused from sleep by a scream that did not sound like his own, Jacaerys had stood from his mattress, slamming the empty chalice of water upon his table as he calmed his breaths, watching the hedges swirl and blow in the night’s breeze. He’s grown used to the figments of his sleep-hungry mind – young men running past statues, laughter bubbling far away. But tonight, he saw you in a flash of white dress and a rumble of ancient hunger, some need to be in arms which trust and do not quite question.

And so, he ran.

Still clad in his tunic and sleep-trousers, he stumbled past the iron gates, gripped in a chilling bout of tedious familiarity; how many times must he find himself here, searching for comfort - to be haunted by life, by loss?

Why had he not, instead, sought out his mother? Baela? Lord Corlys is often awake at such ghastly hours these days, staring at the sea from upon his balcony…

It is admittedly not the first time he has sought you out in such turmoil; indeed, in the weeks of knowing you, scarcely has past two days where he has not ventured into the gardens; where he has not sought your eerie quiet, your soft words, your gentle palms upon his glistening cheeks.

There is in you perhaps that innocence so lost in people like him - people tainted by the burden of duty; and in your smiles, your whispers, your laughs, your tears - he has come to know you and to love you separately, to be transfixed by you and to crave you.

He supposes it is indeed some rebellion of his own - any breath of you is swept behind by those he has known his whole life; his mother, with no bat of her eye over your name in passing, though if she had scarcely an idea of what he did with you when there was nothing but the swirling trees and falling petals… lips on soft lips, hands on plush curves...

And Jacaerys knows, quite deep in his mind, why he could not speak with them. So often he finds words falling on deafened ears; those who do not understand, or who simply do not wish to. Unlike you – wise beyond your years.

In the pitch dark of night, the statues grow warped - blackened by the hatred of weather and neglect of island; it is darker than he’s ever seen the Garden, with a nearly full moon concealed by thick clouds of dread.

Blindly he stumbles into a statue - grasping once more unto the familiar young maiden’s thigh for balance; though the serpent which encircles her is coiled higher over her hips than he recalls.

Fingertips trace over the scales of the snake, and with a distinct desire in his throat, he presses his forehead to the cool stone of the stone woman’s dress skirts; a momentary comfort upon the stone lap.

It is only moments before his breathing calms; lips, pressing to the stone he rests upon - and that visage that watches down at him - stone and lifeless in the dark, eternally you.

IT TAKES HIM NO TIME TO FIND YOU DEEPER IN THE GARDEN.

It is odd, perhaps, that his feet find their way to you each time he seeks you out, as though they have a memory of their own - though he still feels lost in the ever distending garden itself.

Under the olive tree, as you lurk in the shadows, some ancient beastly predator awaits the hare; but you are no foe.

He stands numbly, the loneliness that grips his chest and fosters growing insecurities and fears within his mind dissolving under your beaming smile.

You’re against him in only a moment, pulling him by the wrists into your embrace; he feels odd, as though he floats when you tug him nearer.

“Jacaerys,” You whisper, eyes wide - startled, perhaps, at his visit in such an unseemly hour; though you, too, are here in the garden. It is beyond him to wonder why you so choose to spend your nights here, when he lies so sleeplessly in his own chambers each night wishing for the embrace of the garden.

The knot in his chest unfurls just under your touch - and you seize him in a shy kiss, leaning on tip-toes to seek his warmth.

He gasps into it, overwhelmed by the cold of your lips against his own; but he melts into the intoxicating simplicity of being wanted - and wanted by you, gods - and kisses you back deeply. Soft tresses tickle his forearm as he slides his arms around your back, tugging you into him - as if he could perhaps drown himself in you; as if he could forget the weight of the night, of the troubles that always come when morning breaks.

His hands find your waist as you pull away, though not too far - he keeps you close, to see the breath that falls from your lips and raises the goosepimples upon his neck, each flutter of every single eyelash.

“You’ve returned,” And you speak the words breathlessly each time he visits, without fail; as if you truly fear that each time he leaves, it will be the last time.

But your smile falls at the state of him, leaning closer to tuck your palm under his jaw.

“What troubles you, my love?” You wonder softly, a cold breeze of your palm brushing away his curled tresses - and he tries not to keen into the touch, swallowing thickly at the concern, at the empathy that drips from your words. He does not recall when you began to levy him with such sweet words �� gone is my prince, taken up with far more intimate, kind titles; And, in return, when he whispers such devoted titles into your ear, into the breath of the garden – you bloom, a small smile growing evergreen upon your visage.

Your name is whispered from his lips with a shake of his head, the emotions crawling back to the forefront of his mind, dragging his weary bones down towards the earth.

And, devoted as always, you go with him; sinking into the thick soil, running your fingers through his hair as he breathes heavily, using his best effort to resist the tears which brim in his vision. He feels a fool; though you would not ever hold him in such contempt.

His voice is tight. “I wished to see you,” He admits, “I… saw you, from my chambers.”

Your lips curl into a soft grin; your eyes are dark - knowing - in the concealed moonlight, and it stirs that same odd crazed feeling within his bones. And no matter how tight his grasp on your arm becomes, you do not wince; you instead pull him with a soft caress and practiced words, curled under the statue of the dying lovers.

It is there he lies, head cushioned on the soft chill of your lap, blinking back syrupy eyelids as he spills his mind to you.

His mother, the dragonseeds; heirs, bastards, the colour of the very locks your fingers card through so gently.

His words whisper, curling up through your own hair and floating into the limbs of the tree behind you; your eyes are large as he confesses to you each and every thing that has infected him, has let fester within his mind for so long that now it rots and oozes from his lips with a bitter hatred.

Your words whisper in return, dripping from honeyed lips and soothing the sore and bruised bones that lie so weary beneath skin so thick.

It is in no effort to convince him of one thing nor another; Your words are for him, and that is it - your words are simple, kind, understanding. A balm over festering wounds of family, of fate.

“Jace?” You ask into the quiet of the night - and the tug on his heartstring of your delicate use of his sobriquet fosters a gentle, dreamy smile to his lips. He hums into the quiet garden, his fingers slipping through the tresses of your free hair, billowing around his head like a thick curtain; he leans up and steals a soft kiss from your parted lips, laughing gently at the blush that creeps over your countenance.

Not a breath later, a pressure slides soft against Jacaerys’ face and he jumps slightly. Though you laugh at his misfortune, you straighten; the curtain is pulled, and Jace blinks in the moonlight to find the creature that’d slinked its way into your privacy.

Jacaerys’ gut twists – the cat.

A gasp of excitement from you. “Shadow, darling.” You purr affectionately - Jacaerys, wary and uneased, sits himself upright from his pillow in your lap, spine uncurling into regal posture once more.

It bunts its small head against your palm and Jacaerys is claimed by a faint memory – Baela feeding Sȳndor a foraged fish; You sigh in disappointment, shaking your head down at the cat. “I have none with me this evening, I’m afraid.”

The cat hisses; he feels his spine straighten even more, hair on end.

“Jacaerys,” You hum; your hand is outstretched, and with a disoriented blink, he wonders when you’d risen to stand. He rises, hand in yours as you smile against the pitch-black of night. “I’ve something I would like to show you.”

The deeper into the garden you lead Jacaerys, the longer the silvery shadows of statues cast; wrath, visages weathered and greened by spoiled coils of vines - they leap at him when he passes. Earth and dying leaves hang in the air; but in the rotting turns and bends in the far end of the garden, where he’s never been, they give way to something sweeter, richer.

It’s a slow crawl - in a breeze, in a short laugh from you, in the sway of your loose tresses when you turn a corner too quickly for the prince to keep up. A cat-and-mouse game.

Though it grows - a smell so intoxicating that when you finally arrive, Jacaerys is stopped dead in his tracks.

Bewilderment, some serious dip in his gut in alarm at the monstrous silhouette that just barely looms in the shadows of night. His neck has to crane to see them: Figs – plump, ripe, hanging heavy and dripping from gnarled branches easily the size of himself.

It is a tree twice the size of the olive tree - a feat of its own - and possibly more; the fruits drip with nectar that shimmers as if caught in the light that does not find the rest of the Garden.

Massive.

The tree backs up and towers over the stone wall at the end of the garden, fog swirling in a small blanket that conceals the thick, rising roots emerging from the earth.

And at first, Jacaerys believes the heat rising within him to be hunger; his stomach growls quietly, churning at the alluring scent of fruit - but with a glance at you, hand still in his - a different hunger claws at him.

The heat spreads through his veins.

It tightens his chest, mouth watering at the thought of a bite of that sweet fruit, its gentle juices as they slide over trembling, pure skin; his hunger grows, some famished beast clawing at his chest. And a taste of you - that intoxicating you, ever-present and sweet in his mind.

Gods, this is ill done. He does not ask before tugging you gently with him towards the tree, the overwhelming scent pulling him deeper under its yawning canopy.

His hand only slips from yours when he reaches the base of the tree; staring up at the sprawling web of branches above, he lets out an incredulous laugh that is deafened immediately in the sedated air around you.

“It’s enormous,” Fingers brush against bark, ancient and rough, “Why haven't I seen it before? It feels…” He trails off, searching for the words; but he’s gone rather hot in sudden desire. You’re behind him - he feels your freezing breath trickle down his nape, your hand ghosting over his spine; though the shiver that follows is not just from your lips. “...Hidden.” He finishes absently.

Jacaerys turns into your touch, but you are not behind him - you remain a few paces away, bending to feed the cat a fig you’ve plucked from a lower branch.

The presence he’d felt behind him is gone; With a blink, unease churns in his gut.

His question lingers - but too does the heat. That overwhelming scent, as the cat leaps to rip voraciously into the flesh of the fruit. He watches, torn between horror and captivation as the little beast tears at it, releasing some faint growl that sounds nearly like a purr.

His own fingers reach up shakily to pluck a fruit laced in shadows – and in the moonlight, the flesh is nearly purple.

“Perhaps the garden hides what it wishes to keep.”

He startles only slightly – you’re in his ear now, voice laced in that way that stirs heat within him. His fingers clutch the fruit desperately, breathing heavy to regain whatever strength he has lost in the battle against desire. Your whisper sends curling arousal over the ridges of his spine, “The soil is rich here, you know. Fertile, in ways men think it shouldn’t be. The Dragonmont’s deposits do little to stop such delicious fruit from blossoming – it is foolish to think this land cursed.”

Cursed, his mind whispers – and his brows furrow, your words stirring unease in the back of his mind; It is so difficult to think clearly at such a late hour, with the hunger stirring so deep, with the fruit and your hand so soft in his own.

Cursed – but you eat them; and as he gazes into your glinting eyes in the dark, your bare toes dug into the very soil upon which you stand – hunger gnaws at him, blinding his sight from whatever shadows curl in the dark. He doesn’t mind, he decides.

Cursed, or blessed – it is often quite hard to tell the difference.

And his hunger crescendos; with a small press of your lips to the sensitive patch of his neck, the grazing of teeth sharper than the blade forgotten in his chambers, his hand twitches; his thumb splits the seam of the fruit open.

At the movement, the pad of his finger slides into the flesh, its juices dripping into his palm; you let out a small whimper at this, your hands curling in a grasp around his arms – the noise sends heat through him, coiling at the base of him.

Your eyes are alight with hunger – eyes wide, some shrouded smile growing upon hungry lips as he stares down between you and the fruit.

He yearns for something; all his life, for something. To feel alive, a voice whispers - the Garden is alive, you are alive. You are.

His hand drops the fruit.

For just a moment, your face flickers – but he brings his thumb to hover over your cheek, the air thick with the smell of its juices. He is hungry; insatiable. Your breath stutters as you stare up at him, and he down at you, breaths puffing between parted lips, shaking with unspoked craving.

“Gods,” he murmurs; and then, your tongue darts out – his throat tightens, goosepimples roving through him as you gently lick the pulp of the fig from his thumb, leaning further towards him.

He leans; Gods, he can’t help himself – and then his lips are on yours, rapacious, greedy.

You press with cold hands into him, and he stumbles back into the bark of the tree, thicker than himself three times round the trunk; your tongue prods his own, and he can’t help the groan that tears from the back of his throat – the taste, ambrosial.

Some remnants of the fruit linger upon your lips, and he’s unable to quench himself of the desire that spins his head; that sinks him low once more into the soil, that tugs you daringly atop him.

Jacaerys blinks back a bout of dizziness when his eyes adjust – reposed below the fig tree, temptations swirling around his mind as you slide into his lap coyly.

How he got here, he cannot recall; but you’re real and touching him – an icy palm upon the juncture of his neck, your slender thumb slipping to curl over the base of his throat as he keens towards you, plush lips seeking the thrill of your skin against his mouth.

Dress shifts; his tunic rustles, the leaves fall and the fruit lies in the earth, split open. Perhaps it is the hour - or it is the stare you give him; he is overwhelmed with the sense that you know every part of him; every fear, every weakness – and still you lie in his lap, eager and blushing as the day you first met. His mind flashes – in that numb way, as if he is on the precipice of some crucial understanding.

Your own lips sink into his, pressing away any melancholia, replacing it with a boiling hunger - an icy groan from him as you shift in his lap, his stirring arousal quick and heated with your sweet proximity.

Your hips stir upon his own – it lights arousal through him, tensing each muscle in his body as he coaxes you to do it again, again, again; until he is numb but for the sensation of you, willing and hungry and his.

His fingers clench; one palm, grounding himself with a grasp on the junction of your hip - the other, tracing the outline of a nearby root, feeling the thrumming heartbeat which seems to come tandem from both your flesh and its own.

The kiss he pulls you into is careful, hungry, exploring – overwhelming, as your fingers slide into his curls and tug gently; a hiss of desire from him that arches his spine into your cool skin.

He takes your sighs, your curves, the tremble of your hands as you palm at his own pliant body as if it’s a proof to himself – he is a man, he is alive – he, more than a playpiece in his mother’s endless efforts, more than a name which will be written leatherbound parchments of history to come.

He is more than it all; because he is yours.

“Jace–” Your voice is breathless, and it nearly kills him.

In a short whimper, you shift your hips upon his own, driving yourself over the line of his hardened cock – and he hisses, biting hard into the plush of his lower lip.

Near immediately, your tongue soothes over him; and a small noise of pleasure – nearly missed, though your eyes flash as you lean away from his mouth, a smattering of his own metallic blood upon your lip.

Your eyes are blown wide; a chilling sight, reveling in the taste of his ichor – and your hand, cupping his jaw with that frosty command as you hum, eyes taking him apart, putting him back together. Staring through his soul. Gods, you’re divine.

“Is this okay?” You whisper - your lips brush against his in a chilling shiver of pleasure; in which he nods enthusiastically, eyes wide and begging and willing. “Yes, please–”

And he cannot finish, because he is soon letting a soft whimper fall desperately against your own lips; you stir with wandering fingers, undulating against him with a sweet pressure that nearly sends a choked moan past his lips.

Fingers tangle in the strings of your loose hair, tugging you closer; your chest presses to his – a muddled awe when he feels your heartbeat switch and begin beating to the very same gallop as his own.

His breath falls ragged as your lips press a blizzard of sultry kisses across his jaw; your gown’s hem curls and ruffles below him as trembling fingers trace it shyly, staving his insatiable hunger.

Haziness leaks into his mind like the winds creep upon winter; perhaps from the cool, delicate skin so inviting underneath his palm, or perhaps the thick, heady scent of figs in the air. Completely at your mercy, craving everything you’re willing to give him – and as though you know it, there is an odd feeling, some shift under the thick limbs of tree above; it is a jarring realization that you’re smiling against his neck, teeth small needles upon his skin.

His brow furrows - a groan slips from his lips as his fingers gently tug at your hair, coaxing your head up from his wanting skin.

Your eyes, blown wide and hungry as his own; and in a hazy swallow, his voice thick with desire and disbelief breaks the quiet of the garden. “You’re divine,” He admits, shaking his head. You laugh at this; that very sharp thing that always seems too loud for your lungs – his mind blares for a moment, but it disappears with a kiss to his jaw.

“You are, my Prince.” You insist. And in your words strikes him a jolt; Gods, this is ill done. He should have stopped when you led him to the tree – he should have turned back when your eyes lingered too long on his lips, when his hunger grew insatiable and unable to contain – when you slithered into his lap, when he tugged you closer and whispered such flowery words into your sweet ear; when he kissed your lips with blistering fervor and locked his arms so you could not slither away, even if you wished to.

He is a prince, after all—honor bound, held to standards that now seem so absurdly distant; and indeed, as you move atop him, as your hands snake beneath his tunic and brush icicles over his burning bare skin, something snaps inside him.

Your hips, and your sensual smile – torturous things, as you draw a slow rhythm that sends his mind spiraling deeper into the fog of lust; frantically, his hips cant upwards in chase of your own.

Embarrassment is merely a wash of afterthought – because you whimper just as he does, shivering in his grasp at the ecstasy that builds between your frigid skin and his own, furnaced by the ancient blood coursing through his body.

Ice and fire, his mind whispers – and he is struck with some deep-seeded pride, a knowledge that, more than carnally, he was meant to find you, to be with you; And that, perhaps, yours is the heart he will forever keep, as you keep his in your own eternally frigid grasp.

He whimpers your name softly and you drink it up with devotion; a septa to a pointed-star; and with a scrambled grasp in your pleasure, your hand finds the fig, split and discarded in the earth-heavy soil beside him.

It is with lidded eyes and puffing, parted lips that Jacaerys watches you, ravenous and ethereal.

Your hair cascades, a curtain once more – keeping out any prying eyes from the middle of night, keeping in huffs of innocent desire as his fingers tighten their grasp upon you, dragging you once more over the straining length of him.

Your fingers press into the wound of the fig and he is doused in a blaring hot ecstasy.

He bucks at the angelic vision of you, pressing into his heated arousal – as if he might sheathe himself in you now and bring his warmth into your very soul - and you, swirling in a misty breeze of desire, pressing so hungrily against him, bucking your hips with a stuttering pleasure that shoots rapturous satisfaction up his spine.

And then your fingers rise to those very lips he chases.

Your eyes roll back in the moonlight – of which he scarcely notes there is enough to douse the tree and you in a silvery breath – and you moan his name when you taste the juice of the fruit. It is a groan, a low drawl that stirs a beast low in his gut.

The scent is too enticing; abdomen clenching in restraint, his hips buck into yours and you hiss in pleasure, eyes returning to his own, pupils blown wide enough to swallow him. He wishes you would.

And it is nearly too much for Jacaerys to bear; the sight of you, wrapped around him and breath puffing in shallow gasps, the fig’s juice staining your lips and glistening over your fingers as they swirl in the broken flesh once more.

He lets out a shaky whimper, the pleasure mounting – his hands roam over your curves, frantic and trembling with the tension of wanting to hold you so close and wishing to ruin you completely.

In a hazy gasp, he wonders what in the realms he is doing now, out in the open so salaciously; but the thought blanks when he feels your hand, freezing as it curls over his clenched jaw.

His lips part for you easily, and your smile is hauntingly beautiful in silvered moonlight.

Your fingers brush over his lips; in a shivered groan, Jacaerys’ eyes flutter shut and his tongue darts out, unable to resist.

The thick, heady flavor sends heat through him, and he’s nearing that edge, that something - he groans, body arching underneath your epicurean touch as he lets your fingers slide past his lips, closing around them with hunger.

The sensation hits him; heat, coursing through his veins so hot it turns icy, burns under his skin. And he bucks desperately, tugging you closer, a shudder running through him as he sucks the juice from your skin, overwhelmed with need.

His body trembles underneath you; your touch, divine – otherworldly – and you hum, letting out a moan as your body stutters above him. Faintly, he is aware of your own peak rolling through you, of your moans, of the sickening smile that flashes above him – though the taste, the smell, the feeling of you slithering atop him – it’s too much.

Jacaerys groans and your fingers slide from his lips, instead cupping his jaw, coaxing his mouth open for your own lips to find him.

His groan becomes a gasp as he comes undone beneath you.

His head falls back against the bark of the tree, feeling its breaths stutter with your own as you follow him, curled into his chest, stuttering your movements as he grasps you in pleasure. His trousers, spent – yet he notices not, whispering your name weakly as his body pulses in an unknown pleasure. Your lips trail ridges of ice over the sliver of exposed collarbone under his tunic.

The juice of the fruit lingers in his mouth, pulsing oddly through his veins. And in a moment, the world shifts; his vision blurs, and as he blinks, the garden is different – bathed in golden sunlight, blooms wild and in full blood; and laughter, a girl and a boy’s, warbled and happy. His heart strikes; a calming unease, some familiar edge. Another boy’s laughter joins in, and his stomach douses in ice.

He blinks, and the garden is dark again, the ancient branches of the fig tree curling overhead like gnarled, sinister fingers.

He looks up at you, still dazed, his body spent but his mind whirling with the remnants of the pleasure and the strangeness that had gripped him so – and registers your stare, suddenly rigid and intent upon him.

He watches as you lean forward, body pressing against his. A lazy kiss, one that spurs him to chase as you lean back, tasting of those sweet figs; slick with saliva and desire as you suddenly lift a palm between you, brushing his heaving chest.

The sweetness hovers over his lips; he can nearly taste it, taste you – the scent is overwhelming, the presence of your body so close, so inviting; that hunger remains, even as his spend sticks to his trousers beneath you.

His eyes trace the macerated fig in your palm, its flesh bleeding and willing, sweet and hungering. The fig.

“Eat.”

Your voice, a soft command – and your eyes, dark, intense as they bore into his own. The fig presses lightly against his mouth, and his tongue darts to lap at the juice which gathers upon his bottom lip hungrily.

Pleasure blossoms at the taste, and in his heart swirls a yearning.

Though something stops him; a sudden wave of dizziness, a strange sensation pulling him from some darkened haze. He hesitates, blinking at the fruit in your hand.

“No.” He murmurs.

He sees it in a flash of moonlight – your smile, faltering.

It’s not disappointment, but something dark and fleeting – a deepened stare, a flash of malicious hunger; the sweetness of the garden suddenly gathers too thick, too heavy.

You’ve stilled in his lap and he vaguely registers the rigidity of your expression, some familiarly shadowed stare.

He’s not sure what he’s done wrong, but your lip trembles, and with a racing heart, he reaches for you. The look upon your visage stops him; a calculating flash in your gaze, the thin press of your lips.

And for the first time the whole night, fear creeps into his chest.

Something isn’t right.

His hand slips away from your cold touch, trembling now for a new reason; and that fig which hovers in your palm suddenly smells sickening, filled with dread and longing all at once. The soil is rotten, he thinks hazily, it’s rotten…You’re–

“Come, why won't you try? Just a bite?” Your words curl in a taunt – and he nearly responds, but you’re leaning forward, lips brushing over his ear and sending shivers down his spine. His fist curls savagely against the bark of the tree as his heart begins to pound.

“It’s only a fig, Jace.” You whisper, pressing your lips to the soft spot under his ear.

You move to lean back, the curl of your smirk against his neck melting as you shift, only a sweet smile remaining when you turn to look at him. But the fear and the desire have mixed into some beastly conviction within him.

And, in a moment of sharp courage, he catches your wrist in a firm, iron grip.

You freeze under his grasp, your eyes glinting almost ominously in the silver moonlight.

“Is it?” He snaps back, heart pounding in his chest as his jaw clicks. Somewhere in his heart, there is an unsettling air that chokes, stilling around you when you blink slowly at his question.

Your stare is sharp, but there is a flash of something there he’s not yet seen before; something, he thinks, must be mirrored in his own gaze.

Fear.

A part of him expects for your jaw to unhinge – for a beast to emerge, to swallow him whole, to rip him open and feast upon his innards; but instead your gaze shifts, and your face is small, youthfully beautiful and dripping in purity – a girl no more than his age.

And then, bone-chillingly, as though a petulant child would when denying a crime, you shake your head just lightly.

No.

A confirmation, one which sends a chill rather sharply down his spine.

And from his lips a stuttered breath – he should run, should scream; but what does such a thing do in dreams?

Yet as quickly as it came, the shadow over you vanishes.

As if he blinks and wakes from the hazy dream – your face, returned to that familiar sweetness he so adores, the chilling smile you save only for him. You cup his cheek gently, and it is enough to pull him back from the edge of terror.

Lilting and light once more, a touch of concern crossing your features as you tilt your head – “You look so troubled, my love. Where did you go?”

He blinks, confused, alarmed.

You press a kiss upon his lips, and he chases your touch. “Come back to me,” you whisper.

He blinks once more, heart still hammering - but the fear dissolves with each ancient breath of the soil beneath him; and he gazes into your eyes through the dark of night – those same eyes that have always seen him.

You understand him; and whatever that moment of dread had been— wherever he’d gone just now, into some visions conjured up by an exhausted mind – it is gone now, lost in the softness of the fig tree’s leaves, in the tenderness of your touch.

“I’m sorry, I...” You shift as you murmur and it presses against his spent arousal, his breath hitching as his eyes fall upon your sweet lips, mind fogging. “I sometimes forget myself. You’re just…”

His eyes hook upon your own, waiting; with bated breath, he waits for you.

Your lips press together bashfully, fingers toying with curls of his hair, “Special. I’m quite fond of you.” You admit, nearly shy – and an affection blossoms within Jacaerys, a grin trickling upon his lips. “I’m quite fond of you too,” He breathes, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek.

Your eyes lose their sharp glint as the moon falls in the sky and his shoulders lose such tension that’d built in the moments past, replaced by the soothing touch of your palm; quiet whispers and gentle laughs that lull his mind into ease.

And it is there, in the very edge of Aegon’s Garden, that you and he repose for the better hours of the ghost and wolf, whispering of lifetimes and fears and sneaking kisses between mumbled sentences. He forgets the fear he’d felt, that he’d seen in your eyes; soon, fog of morning creeps into the garden and tickles tendrils round his boots.

He is lulled into your lap again - his head rested upon the plush of a cool thigh, your dress gentle against his heated cheeks.

And though he is unsure if the words that are murmured when his eyes become heavy are real or a part of his tricking mind, they fill him with that warm affection, that love that festers in his heart.

“I wish I could stay here,” He whispers when he is half asleep from exhaustion. “With you.”

There is a pause in your fingers for a moment.

“And you can,” Your voice is laced with something he cannot see - for a moment, his mind conjures a flash of something rather wicked, the memory of your face when he’d denied the fig; though he throws away such absurdity.

You’re so very soothing, trailing your nails along his temple.

He drifts away.

HE WAKES SOME TIME LATER.

He no longer lies upon your lap; instead he is pressed against your very body, his chest shivering in the cold line of you, in the breath of icy air that threatens from the sky above.

You stir beside him; the garden is impossibly darker now - and as you sit up, he unwinds the hand he’d placed upon your waist. Uncomely, he reminds himself - though, what does it matter? What does any of it matter?

“You dreamt,” You murmur.

Disoriented, Jacaerys blinks, trying to find your face in the dark; he’s merely met with the glinting of your wide eyes against the moonlight blinking owllishly.

“I…” He frowns, uneased by your observation. “I did. It was…” He shakes his head as he tries to recall, watching your frame materialize under the dark blanket of night. “Odd. A battle - over the sea, I think. Statues – dying, crumbling into the water.” He shakes away the creeping frustration of slipping memories, however distant or unreal. “It didn’t make sense.”

You hum, and there is some specific glint in your darkened face he nearly misses; the shining of pearls outstretched against plush lips - the flash of a dark grin, sinister in the moonlight, snuffed quick by the effort of a gentle nod.

He grows even more uncomfortable in the quiet - it must be nearing the early wake of sun; his muscles yield surprisingly little soreness for sleeping upon the earth.

“Did you dream?” He wonders, relaxing as his eyes adjust to find your visage calm and sweet, watching him with a soft interest. What odd tricks his mind plays in the dark.

Your voice, ever distant: “I don’t dream.”

He’s imbued with the slow tendrils of sleep, though he frowns. “Everyone dreams,” He murmurs.

You huff smally, tilting your head in that doelike way, “I suppose I can never recall them.”

He laughs, then – a hollow thing, though recovering some of the warmth gone after the loneliness settled in those moons ago. A strained sound, though it makes you mimic his laughter in that odd way you sometimes do – and with a smile, you watch him intently.

“I enjoy hearing your laugh, Jacaerys. It’s comfortable… familiar.”

And for some odd reason, perhaps in seek of his own comforting memory, Jacaerys pictures Luke – laughter bubbling over at the drawing table of his mother’s quarters, breaking fast as a family; and a deep melancholy settles over him, pulling him deep into the pit of grief that finds him in the night.

His smile falls. “My brother used to laugh until he turned red.” He recalls, settled into that haze that begins to reclaim him, as if he’s drifting to sleep once more. “He’d lose breath sometimes – like he had to suck air out of every lung in the keep, just to keep himself from passing out. It would make him laugh harder.”

You smile in his peripheral.

His brows furrow. “He was just always so full of…light.”

He’s not sure why he offers such information – it is near impossible these days for Jacaerys to utter Luke’s name aloud, let alone think such fond memories.

Though something about the blanket of night and the gentle brush of your thigh against his own, brings a lull to his mind; as though he’s sipped too many cups of wine, or still rests in some odd state of slumber. The remainder of the fig’s juices slip past his tongue when he wettens his lip, and he’s coaxed into that state of hungry bliss – not fully satisfied, yet pleasant to repose.

Your fingers pull at the many frays of your odd dressskirts; in the faint moonlight, the fabric looks as though it has stains. Deep, dark streaks that blossom just near your breast and stomach; they seem to spread with the breaths you take, your hands beginning to shake. He blinks rapidly to rid himself of such an uneasy sight.

A statue of a man and woman across the way has caught a streak of moonlight; He’d not noticed any statue in the fig tree’s courtyard hours ago, but now it sits, gruesomely pale in the scarce silver - and their faces are rather distraught.

A familiar statue, one so alike the marbled lovers near the olive tree. A man, wind-and-water-torn, with that same arrow protruding through his flesh; and the woman in his arms watching with a transfixed expression, grasping at his arms with lonely eyes.

He tears his eyes away uneasily.

“I know a boy like that, too.” You whisper quietly, though Jacaerys is hooked upon the odd bend of the arrow which sticks through the statue’s shoulder across the way. He’s not quite sure what you mean, and his brows furrow.

“-Though,” You shrug with only one shoulder, as though mimicking the woman from the statue, “His laugh is more full of water.”

Jacaerys freezes.

His heart stops at your words, breath catching in his throat - the mention of such a thing sends a chill through him. “What—” He whispers, mind flashing back to the glimpse of curls, of that bouncing gait, of the blue that had flickered through these very hedges days ago.

“What do you mean?” He chokes.

You smile that soft smile – the one that haunts his mind, that leaves him uneasy in the flickering of moonlight. “I see him in the garden sometimes,” Your eyes flicker, gleam, “He comes here – to the fig tree – during rainstorms. He told me he used to enjoy the sound, but now he detests them.”

Jacaerys is rooted to the ground, staring wide-eyed into the yawning chasm of night; its jaw spread wide, your face the shining beacon of fire at the base of its throat.

The pain of a lost limb; of a lost soul entwined with his own, cut from the same womb, carved from the same stone. But your voice echoes drearily through the quiet silence.

“And the boy…His laugh,” Your brows knit faintly, “It’s like yours, but…drowned.”

Every hair on the nape of his neck is on end as he lets out a shaky breath. No. Lucerys is dead, he reminds himself.

Your fingers brush his hand against the soil; cold as ice.

The sensation jolts him, and he leaps to his feet, sleepclothes uncomfortable, his skin sticky from the sins of earlier. His cheeks flood with heat.

It is wrong. Dread fills him, the leak of a moat into a basin of fear; there’s something wrong about this - because Lucerys is dead, his father is dead, Rhaenys is dead - all of them, dead.

Life moves on, but the dead do not; and it is a burden he carries, and he carries alone - because the crown is too heavy to be marred by the blood of the ones you’ve loved, so Jacaerys must bear the weight for him and his mother.

How could you have seen him?

“-You know how.”

Your voice comes sharp from the tree below, and it strikes him through the stomach - and before he can consider the unnerving murmur from your lips, how you’re always seeing into the words in his mind, the thread has snapped.

It’s only a fig, Jace.

He staggers back a few steps, feet caught on the twisting gnarl of treeroot. “I’ve… I apologize, I must go.” He murmurs, swallowing thickly; and with a shaky breath, he resists the urge for his mind to spiral into that dark place, where grief and madness lie in wait.

He turns away from the lulling ease of the tree above, nearly as large a shadow as the castle itself – and takes one, two, many steps towards the hedges, chest thundering.

Perhaps you call after him.

He thinks he hears your dress snagging on thorns and branches behind him as he tears through the bowels of the rotting garden; rounding a corner, he hears a feline’s hiss, a dark rumble of thunder. The garden is wrong – a putrid thing, in the dead light of nightingale’s earliest breaths.

It is rotten soil, a voice mimics – though his heart still pounds your name into his ribs; he still misses the chilling press of your lips to his own, the sweet saccharin taste of the fruit upon your tongue.

The soil is sick, it is too rich in his nostrils; and when he staggers past the maiden statue, he is terrified to see there is no snake upon her thigh – instead her visage stares down at him with a wicked, serpentlike grin.

A shiver of fear as he blinks back terror.

Morning glories are trampled underfoot, poppies beaten until their bloody leaves smash into the soles of his boots.

Jacaerys’ eyes clench shut and he pretends not to hear the faint mix of joint laughter – warbled in the distance, a girl’s and a boy’s, bubbling over before dissolving, echoing into the crash of the icy ocean below.

An agonizing gasp of unease from him as he finally bursts to the entryyard, the wilting flowers decaying in a sickly sweet scent. He nearly retches.

When Jacaerys pushes past the gate and into the bailey’s courtyard, the breaking dawn is cloudless.

Early morningbirds chirp in the sky; waves crash down upon the shore, lit bloody with the waking sun. He is very alone.

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greenbadger · 4 months ago

Text

Hello everyone!🖤

*I'm new to Tumblr and writing is my passion. I love to write fanfics, especially about Severus Snape or older men. This is my first smut story here and I hope you like it. Let's hope I do everything right. I'd love to get feedback.

⚠️ WARNING: NSFW, smut, begging, reference to edging, teasing, degradation, oral sex

What it's about:

❗️Reader is a adult woman❗️

You and Severus have an argument that turn into a sexual adventure. It’s a quit long text. Have fun ;-)

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"Honestly, Severus, you can't possibly believe that nettle root is more effective in this potion than powdered asphodel," I exclaimed, rolling my eyes as I flipped through the worn pages of an old potion book.

Severus crossed his arms, a familiar smirk playing on his lips. "And yet, it is. Nettle root stabilizes the mixture in a way asphodel never could."

I huffed, leaning closer to the book as if it held the answer to our perpetual disagreement. "You just can't admit you're wrong, can you?"

He stepped closer, his breath warm on my neck as he looked over my shoulder. "It's not about admitting anything. It's about knowing the facts, something you clearly struggle with."

I turned to face him, our noses almost touching. "Well, maybe if you weren't so insufferable, I'd actually listen to you."

His eyes softened, a rare moment of vulnerability slipping through. "And maybe if you weren't so stubborn, you'd realize I actually enjoy these arguments."

I blinked, caught off guard by his honesty. "You... enjoy arguing with me?"

Severus's hand brushed against mine, a fleeting but deliberate touch. "It's not the arguing I enjoy. It's... you."

My heart skipped a beat as the tension between us shifted, no longer fueled by disagreement but by something much deeper. "Severus, I..."

He silenced me with a gentle finger on my lips. "Let's save the potions debate for another time, shall we?"

I nodded, unable to tear my gaze away from his. "Agreed."

He reached out, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb gently brushing my skin.

"Severus," i said, my voice firm despite the shiver of excitement that ran through me. „I want you."

Severus's eyes darkened with a mix of emotions-desire, love, and a hint of possessiveness. He leaned in, capturing my lips in a searing kiss, his hands tangling in my hair as he pulled me closer. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, as months of pent-up longing poured into that single moment.

His hands roamed over my body, explo-ring, caressing, igniting a fire within me. I responded eagerly, my fingers trailing along the lines of his chest, feeling the heat of his skin beneath his robes. The intensity between us grew, our kisses becoming more desperate, more insistent.

Severus broke the kiss, his breath ragged as he looked at me with a fierce intensity. "Take off your clothes," he commanded, his voice low and authoritative.

A shiver of anticipation ran through me at his words. I complied, my hands trembling slightly as I began to undress. Severus watched, his gaze never leaving me, his eyes dark with desire.

When I was finally bare before him, he stepped closer, his hands sliding over my skin, his touch electrifying.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his lips trailing along my neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. "I can't wait any longer."

With a swift motion, he shed his own robes, his body pressing against mine, the heat of his skin searing into me.

I could feel his erection through his trousers. He rubbed it slightly against my hip, and the sensation made me wet quickly. He guided me to the desk, his hands never leaving my body, his touch driving me wild with need. He lifted me on top of the desk, spreading my legs as he positioned himself between them. Our bodies entwined in a frenzy of passion.

Severus was dominant, his touch firm and demanding, yet filled with an underlying tenderness. He moved with a confidence that sent waves of pleasure through me, his hands and lips exploring every inch of my body.

He softly twitched my nipple between his fingers and kissed my neck as passionately as ever. His hand went down to my inner thigh and caressed it softly. I felt a flutter in my core as he neared my most sensitive spot.

He let out an excited moan. "You are so wet for me." He put one finger slowly deep inside of me, pushes it in and out once, twice. Never take his eyes off my eyes while he’s doing it. Suddenly he brings his finger to his mouth and suck this one gently. You can see pure lust in his eyes.

Before I could respond, he started kissing down my breasts, my belly, and my thighs. I watched him with wide eyes as he looked at me and started kissing my sweet spot. The view was intoxicating. He slowly stuck his tongue out and licked my clit with a soft touch.

I moaned as I felt his warm tongue circle around. He started sucking and licking as if he were craving my wetness. "You taste so good," he murmured, making my core twitch again. He did it so passionately that I knew I wasn't far from climax.

He went a little further and stuck his tongue deep inside me while his nose involuntarily stimulated my clit. His slurps from my juices made my head fall back as I moaned his name out loud.

"I'm coming, Severus," I cried.

He kept going, and it didn't take long before my body felt like it was struck by lightning. I climaxed on his face, and I could feel how much he enjoyed it.

When he came up to me again, his mouth and nose were soaking wet from me. He quickly wiped his face with his hand before giving me a passionate kiss. I could still taste my climax from his lips and tongue.

"I want to feel you inside me," I said through the kiss.

A big erection left a bulge in his pants, clearly more as I said those words out loud.

He looked me deep in the eyes with his dark ones as I freed his dick from his trousers. I wrapped my hand around it, feeling its warmth and readiness. He let his pants fall so he was completely naked too. I started to stroke him and felt a bit of pre-cum on his tip.

"Is your little cunt ready for me?" he asked hotly through his teeth.

I nodded, and he positioned his dick between my pussy lips as he slowly entered with a groan. It felt all so wet, so easy for him to enter. The sensation sent a jolt of ecstasy through my entire being. I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders as he began to move, each thrust bringing me closer.

Our movements became more frantic, the intensity of our desire driving us both to the brink. He fucked me harder as he watched my breasts move with each thrust. We breathed heavy as we neared climax. He stopped right before, grabbing my hips and putting me down from the desk.

"Bend over," he whispered harshly in my ear.

Did as he asked, feeling the cold wood against my upper body. I felt his hand grip my butt cheek, and suddenly a sharp spank sent a slight pain through me. I groaned with a smile and glanced over my shoulder. He ran his thumb over my cheek and pushed a sweaty strand of hair out of my face.

"That's all mine. And I want to fuck you until you can't stand anymore. Do you want that?" he said heatedly through his breath.

I nodded hastily.

"Say it," he demanded.

"I want you to fuck me, please," I whimpered.

"Good girl." That made him so hard, ready to do exactly that.

Without any more words, he pushed his dick deeply and fully inside me.

Surprised by his fast action, I sobbed and fell completely onto the desk. I felt his dick grow harder with each thrust.

The sounds of hot breath, moans, and skin slapping filled the room. The desk moved under our hard movements.

With a final, powerful thrust, we reached our climax together. I felt his semen fill me as I collapsed on the desk and he above me. He pulled out and took a moment to watch our combined fluids flow out of me, a sharp breath escaping through his nose.

"Let's clean you up," he whispered mischievously in my ear as he helped me up. He took his wand and cleaned everything up, leaving no trace of our passion behind.

„I'm looking forward to the next arguments with you“ I said amused.

„Me too.“ he smirked.

#severus snape x reader smut #severus snape x reader #severus snape #fanfic #smut #harry potter #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #lemon #lime #alan rickman #so hot 🔥🔥🔥#draco lucius malfoy #slytherin

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ravenyenn19 · 1 year ago

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Six of Crows future head cannon:

Alby Rollins joins the Dregs.

Picture it: 1920’s-esque Ketterdam, 10 years post Sweet Reef/ Ice Court. Slick Rolls Royce cars line the cobbled streets, a city spiraling toward a new age. Rain drenches the obscure signs & hidden arrows pointing to the Speak-Easy halls. In a time of prohibition… down, down, down must one go in the Barrel to find the most notorious of them all. A slice of sin, six feet under. A crowd drunk off vice served in black tea cups.

The young man walks into Kaz Brekker’s office (after fighting his way there), sits himself in a chair opposite a great obsidian desk. Winded & lip still bleeding from his tousle with the men at the doors, Alby wheezes: “Teach me.”

In turn, A near 30 year old Kaz smirks. “I thought lions preferred their pride.”

Alby, barely pushing 17, gives a smile of a golden boy, nervous but strong enough to hold the gaze of a devil. (He’s practiced.) “I thought Crows scavengers. Here I am, a shine for the taking.”

“Still have that crow, little lion?” A feminine shadow whispers from the corner. Unnoticed by the young man previously, he clicks his teeth but still refuses to show fear. A serpent-like bead of sweat slides down his spine, a shiver chasing after. He holds firm, biting his cheek to hide the startle.

He knows this shadow, this phantom. She haunted him, once.

“I buried it with my father,” the Kaelish prince whispers, “or rather, in place of him. Never did find a body. Pity.” He shrugs.

Kaz’s eyes glint like a cat’s, his smile a loaded gun. A gloved hand stretches halfway across the table in offering. “All right, cub. What do you want?”

Alby reaches forward, feeling the cold black leather of Dirtyhands’ grip between his fingers. The moment is a stormy crossroads, a whip between his shoulders reminiscent of his father’s favorite belt. He smiles, for this is a pain Alby has been walking toward since the day he woke up clutching stuffed black feathers.

(His blood never did bleed emerald.)

More than one answer to Kaz’s stinging question come to mind, nettles along the path of his thoughts. Yet, only one pricks Alby into speaking, the rage in his voice real rather than bravado. “Revenge.”

The Wraith giggles roughly, slipping herself to the arm of Kaz’s chair on silent feet. Alby swallows.

“On me?” The leader of the Dregs rasps, a brow peaked with amusement. His wife smiles with closed lips, knives glinting along her body like hungry specters. For here, her teeth are shown. Alby knows she Captain’s a fleet of the deadliest ships in the True Sea. He drags his gaze from her quickly.

“No.” Alby stutters, but he does not lie. Kaz Brekker bested his abusive father, and he does not care about Pekka’s death. In fact, sitting with the suspected murderers, Alby finds he rather prefers their company.

Kaz reclines in his chair, a hand lazily splayed on Captain Ghafa’s knee. He regards Alby with black eyes, a sharpness that pierces through his strength but doesn’t shatter it. A blade meant to probe. A test of mettle. Alby has waited too long for this audience, he cannot lose it. A moment passes.

Dirtyhands looks to his wife, his Wraith. She quirks her head in the silent exchange. Six heart beats have passed, and Alby Rollins is certain he won’t leave this room. He waits for the snap of a cane to bank his vision, a warm blanket of red to cover him from the jugular down.

He waits for death, but does not invite it. It does not come.

Instead, a voice like choking smoke, “Then let us begin.”

Alby Rollins releases a breath. His knuckles loosen in parts. A tattooist is called in.

The Crow & Cup bleeds as it settles, accepting the fresh skin as it’s master’s tithe.

Alby sits taller, a prince of a different kind, a darker throne.

I don’t make the rules but this is now my personal agenda & important that u agree

Crap now I have to put it in a fic

Should I do it?

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just-some-random-blogger · 2 years ago

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I Could Care Less

Daemon Targaryen x Reader

Summary: You were fundamentally the ball and chain Daemon so badly wanted to saw off his ankle. The ditzy cunt, he called you. He'd realize it spoke truer than he thought, considering you knew how to handle matters of society, yet had no idea how babies are conceived.

Word Count: 4k+

Warnings: fem!reader, wife!reader, self-indulgently yucky!daemon, smut (dub con, virgin!reader, vaginal penetration, degradation kink, humiliation kink, corruption kink, sadism, hair pulling, slapping, breeding kink, creampie), typos, etc.

A/N: felt like being ruined so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ MINORS DNI Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @sloanexx @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony @risefallrise @slavyanskiyahui

The maester before me freezes in his place upon hearing what I had just told him.

"Princess," he turns to me, halting his search for his equipment, "I beg your pardon, but did you say," his face contorts, "you have never shared a bed with your lord husband?"

I furrow my brows at his tone, unsure of why he sounded so shocked. I wait for him to speak something further, but he only looks at me expectantly. I pull my head back slightly. A thin trickle of embarrassment rises up my neck due to his expression. I refrain from shrugging but I do shake my head, "I... yes. I don't see why that is a problem."

"You don't-" he starts but then cuts himself off with a deep sigh. The old man makes a sound then slowly walks over to me, "my lady," his eyes widen, "I cannot help you with balms or herbs-- no amount of balms or herbs meant to aid conception will, if your maidenhood is still intact."

I raise a brow at him, "but I am not a maiden, maester, I am married."

"So you have shared a bed with prince Daemon?"

I do not respond to him but I do sigh.

He gives me a grave expression, "if you wish to fall with child, you must share a bed with your husband."

I suck in a breath upon hearing this. A line forms between my brows, "but, maester Abner, my husband does not even like being around me."

He looks away and huffs in defeat. He brings his hands together, "perhaps," he tilts his head to the side, "if you were clear about your intentions, the prince would be... tempted to indulge your desires. After all, your husband is well-abled and hot blooded."

My face contorts at his words.

"Perhaps you can think to use your womanly traits to persuade him."

Must he make such obscene remarks?

I clear my throat and nod vapidly, wanting nothing more than to end this conversation. "Very well," I quickly dismiss, "I will do as you instruct."

Maester Abner nods and greets me farewell as I hasten for the door. Just as I was about to leave however, he calls out and says, "oh, my princess! Do also make sure that you both peak after."

I raise my brows at this. He does not clarify so I simply nod.

"It is imperative," he raises a finger, "inform your husband. He will understand."

With that, I set off, more confused than ever as to how I would ever have a child at this rate.

I place a hand on my belly and mutter a quick prayer under my breath. I can be persuasive. I shall try my best.

Daemon is most likely with his Gold Cloaks at this moment. It will not take much to find him.

It's not a far travel, but it does take a while for me to reach the training grounds. The moment I spot the practicing troops, I suck in a breath and saunter through. The soldiers that spot me make way, some offering greetings in regard, some not. I make it a point to greet all of them in return regardless. It will be easier to have them on my side later if I find it difficult to convince my husband to return home with me.

I spot Daemon, sitting on a table laughing with his fellow men. Everyone around him clamps their lips shut and stand to bow to me. I dutifully return the greetings.

Daemon is the only one left seated. When he finally turns to me, his face is nettled. He rolls his eyes as I curtsy at him. He groans, "what is it, ditzy cunt?"

The men around him stifle uncomfortably at his name calling.

I ignore it, having been used to it at this point, "I would like to have a word with you, my prince."

He releases a breath and turns back to the table before him, "then by all means, don't let me stop you."

The men at his table watch him as he takes a drink from his cup. He slumps over on the table.

I huff and grip my hands tightly as he orders the men around him to sit down. They do so with reluctance.

"I would prefer it if I spoke to you privately," I mutter while stepping forward.

"And I would prefer," he raises his head, though he doesn't turn to me, "that you fuck off."

A long moment passes. It's painfully clear that he wasn't going to budge. I impulsively decide, then, to just get on with it. So, I suck in a breath and blurt out, "I want a child."

The men at the table turn to statues.

Daemon raises a brow and peeks from over his shoulder.

"I've spoken to maester Abner about it. He says he cannot help with the matter, and that we must share a bed."

Daemon furrows, then finally turns to me. His lips curl, "you've come to me after speaking with your maester?"

I watch as he narrows his eyes. I nod, "yes."

Daemon releases a wry chuckle. He rubs his lap then stands, "and what did the old fuck say, hmm?"

A ripple of dread spreads when my husband walks over to me slowly. I clench my jaw when he presses closer into my space, then begin to step back, "I mentioned before..." I word carefully, "maester Abner said that if I wish to fall with child, I must share a bed with my husband."

I flinch when he suddenly leans towards me.

"To do what exactly?" he coaxes with a taunting glint in his lilac eyes.

The question, for some reason, makes my stomach roll. I step back further and clear my throat. What else would we do anyway? There was only so much you could do in bed.

And yet, I find no confidence when I retort, "to sleep."

Daemon straightens up and makes a disingenuous face. "Ahhh," he raises his brows, "is that what your beloved maester told you? You truly live up to the name I gifted you, ditzy cunt."

I do not respond to him.

He tilts his head and leans on his right leg, "let me ask you a question, lady wife," he motions to nowhere in particular, "if one of my men had an issue with land, what should be their first course of action?"

I knit my brows and his rapid change of topic. I release a breath, "well, what is their issue with the land?"

He shrugs, "what issue can you think of?"

"Many issues," I retort, "title, portioning, labor, drought. There are a great many things issues that cou-"

Daemon cuts me off with a raise of a finger. He links his hands in front of him, "which of that could you help them with?"

I give him a look, offended by his insinuation of incompetence, "my father is lord to a great stretch of land. I could help with any issue that is posed."

"Yet clearly, your father did not teach you the most important thing."

I scoff, "lord husband, my father is-"

"Remind me again," he waves his hand impatiently, "why did you go to your maester?

I clench my jaw, "because, prince Daemon," I retort sternly, "we have been married for a while, and still I am not yet with child."

He gives a deep sigh, the deepest and most exaggerated of sighs that I have ever heard him give. And then he laughs. He laughs so hard that the whole room turns to him, if they weren't already turned to him, to us, to begin with. He laughs like he heard the silliest of jokes. He laughs from his diaphragm and shakes with his whole body.

Finally, he sighs again then catches his breath.

"Your whole purpose is to sire children," he rambles, walking over to me.

I have no opportunity to step back this time around because he grabs me by the arm and rips me into him. His breath is hot against my cheek as he mutters against me, "and yet they betray you by hammering ledgers and chastity into your head."

I whimper when his grip tightens.

For a moment, I can only hear my pulse as he looks at me, as he assesses me like a hawk would a mouse.

"Tell me one last time why you came to me, little girl?" he speaks under his breath.

I give a breathy response, "I... want to have a child."

And when I say he drags me all the way back, I mean he drags me all the way back. It didn't feel like a wife being escorted by her husband at all, it felt like a captive being lead by a captor.

I am in front of our shared bed, though we had never shared it before, when he finally releases me with much force that I nearly topple over.

I catch my breath and stare at him as he stalks over to the nearby table to pour himself a drink. He does not turn away from me as he does this, not even when he grabs the ewer and fills his cup.

He takes a sip of wine then raises his drink to me, "lift your skirt up."

My face drops in horror. My chest tightens and my hands protectively grip my skirt. I whisper violently, "I beg your pardon?!"

Daemon purses his lips into a frown that then lifts into a smirk, "I won't I repeat myself when I'm quite certain you heard what I said."

The prince takes another sip of his drink and begins to walk over. I let out a faint yelp when he suddenly chucks his cup to the side, making its remaining contents splatter to the ground and the metal object to clank against the floor.

He wipes his lips as he inches nearer, "on your belly, ditzy cunt."

I am enraged and mortified. I muster out with as much conviction as I could, "I will do no such thing."

Daemon laughs and stops in his tracks, "won't you?"

I gulp heavily.

He giggles, "and why ever not?" He lifts his nose, "is it too indecent for the lady?"

I shift uncomfortably and quip, "I was raised with honor."

"Ah," he throws his head back and holds in a laugh, "I would have never known. Not when you walked into a camp of men, unchaperoned, practically begging your husband to fuck you."

My jaw drops. I am so shocked my his words I don't even know what to say.

He laughs louder, but the next moment, he is upon me. He grabs my arms and I immediately fight back, only to find that I was powerless against him. He chuckles where I squeal. He forces my arms down and keeps me still as he explains through a hot breath, "allow me to disillusion you, little girl."

He rubs his nose against my neck and my skin pricks all over. "If a woman wants to have a child, and she's lucky, she gets her husband to bend her over and shove his cock into her, over, and over, and over again until she's crying from her eyes and her cunt."

My entire body burns at his vulgarity.

"But if she's not lucky," Daemon chuckles as I continue to try and rip out of his clutch, "she gets another man to do that for her."

The next moment, he releases me and I pull away as quickly as I can. I end up falling onto the bed because of this. I bounce on my spot as I look up at him, too petrified to move.

"That is what you want from me," he grins, lifting up his palms as he peers down at me, "you want me to pump my come into you and ruin your petty honor so that your body is molded perfectly into the vessel that will bear my seed."

I'm at the brink of tears.

I expected his venom and his thorns but still, how could he speak so horribly to me?

"So?" my husband says, linking his hands in front of him, "do you still want a child?"

I heave heavily, feeling tears prick in the corner of my eyes, "you're a brute."

Daemon laughs insensitively, "I'm sure you already knew that."

I did. I do, gods I really do. Hearing it face to face still stung though. I cannot help that I am still gobsmacked by his tawdry, lascivious words. I try not to let my emotions get ahead of myself, so I attempt to calm down with deep breaths.

I turn to my skirt when I am unable to contain the tears any further.

Daemon feels his stomach bubble in excitement at the timidity.

He shifts in his spot as he becomes increasingly more uncomfortable with the constraints of his trousers.

"How do I know you're not tricking me?" I mutter.

Daemon feels his pulse in his pants. His lips curve. And though there was a softness in his expression, it was overpowered by flares of debauchery. After all, there was a prize before him, willingly calling out to be corrupted. Who is he to ignore the call?

"I am a great many things, but a liar is not one of them."

I turn to him, shivering when I see his faint smile.

"I have no use for lies. If I must resort to treachery, then I'll grab Dark Sister and be done with it."

My nostrils flare as I will myself towards serenity.

His smile widens. His loins burn at the recognition of defiance. He will enjoy putting that out.

"Think about it," he offers, "you want a child? One that will grow in your belly? How will it get there? What's it going to take to make that happen? A magic potion from your maester?" He narrows his eyes, "if that was the case, why'd he send you off to me?"

I avert my gaze to really take a moment to ponder on his words. The more I thought about it, the more logical it sounded, and it was horribly late realization. My ears begin to burn and my heart wishes to escape the confines of my chest.

"Will..." I pipe up. My voice falls into a whisper, "will it hurt?"

Daemon raises his brows, and demands (though he hears it), "pipe up."

"Will it hurt?" I speak louder, digging my nails into my fingers.

He holds back a grin, "you know, you really ought to look me in the eye when you speak to me."

I suck in a deep breath and repeat once more as I turn to him, "will it hurt?"

Daemon presses his lips together and shrugs, "only if I want it to."

I shudder at this.

He chuckles, "doru-borto genes," stupid mouse.

I feel my tears travel down my neck.

Daemon thinks of smearing it on the sheets.

"Will I be with child after?" I muster up the courage to ask.

The prince licks his lips and shrugs once more, "perhaps. Perhaps not."

A dreadful prolonged moment passes.

I don't have much of a choice, now do I? My poor heart that had only just calmed begins to race when I hear Daemon tapping his shoes on the floor. The next moment, I find myself blurting, "I trust in you, lord husband."

Daemon's shoulders shake in amusement, "a miscalculated judgement."

I turn away from him and huff, "you're incessantly making this harder."

"As I should," he snorts, "I assure you, you would not enjoy me if I wasn't."

I feel my face burn at the insinuation I would enjoy any of this. How could he expect me to enjoy something so lewd? I shake my head and heave, "maester Abner said something else."

He hums, "I doubt it's anything useful."

I clench by jaw and decide not to say it then.

Daemon does not like that. "Well, mouse," he barks, "spit it out."

"He said that must both... peak. It is imperative."

I turn away from him when he laughs. He bends over in amusement and clutches his stomach, "what darling naiveté."

I say nothing to that and he only continues to laugh.

It becomes painful at a point, and so I cut him off but misjudge my bravery, "shall I-"

I also make the mistake of turning to him as he straightens up. It is then that I spot the bulge behind his breeches. I quickly turn away and blink rapidly.

"Shall you?" he calls in question.

"Shall I..." I whisper lower each moment, "turn over and... lift my skirt?"

I dare to turn back to him when he doesn't respond. Upon seeing his expression, the wretched glint in his eyes, the wolfish grin on his lips, I decide not to fuel his flames any further and merely do as he had asked of me.

Slowly, I roll over, feeling the mattress dip as I turned to my chest. My legs dangle from the edge and my feet barely touch the ground. I curl my toes and slowly pull my skirt. My breath strains as I hike the fabric up to my waist, leaving my smallclothes on full display. He laughs all over again. I sink into the cushions and bring my face into my hands in shame.

"An eager slut, aren't you?" he sniggers.

I push my face deeper into my hands, muffling out, "don't call me that."

I jolt and squeak when Daemon grabs my hips and barks, "what was that, slut?"

I do not respond, and it seems that was the incorrect course of action.

A loud crack and squeal reverberates in the room. He slapped my hind like he meant to discipline me.

He did.

I squeal again and grip at the sheets when he yanks me from my hair and lifts my head up, "answer!"

I grow rigid and feel tears instantly spill from my eyes. My breath is caught in my throat, and so my response is quite broken, "I-I-I said don't call me that."

Daemon releases my hair and my head drops. I bury my face in my palms. His hands then go back to my hips and I cannot control the sound I make when I feel him rub against me harshly.

"Oh, you don't like that?" he hisses as his groin moves into mine. I stuff the sheets into my face in order to keep my silence. Daemon digs his fingers up the curve of my flesh then yanks my smallclothes off.

He pants when he pulls away. I hear him march many paces back, "is it too unnerving to know it's true, wife?"

I do not move an inch even though I no longer feel him against me.

Daemon licks his lips at the sight before him. A weeping cunt. Pretty.

I vaguely hear the shuffle of fabric.

"Touch yourself."

I hold my breath. I do not move. I am tenser than ever.

He effectively frees his erection then looks back up. When he is not obeyed, he lets out a guttural growl, "you've never played with your cunny either, pet?"

I do not respond.

My belly tightens when I hear his footsteps. My neck strains as I grunt in response to the feel of his fingers assaulting my core. He moves with such ferocity, I cannot help but press my thighs as close together as I can to repel him.

"This is where it feels good," he announces as his one hand sinks into the cushion while his other toys with a nub that sends sparks all over my body. I begin to feel myself burn and grow uncomfortably drenched as his fingers rub and dip around my flesh. "Remember when you touch yourself after this, stupid girls like you can only peak to the thought of their husbands breeding them."

A coil in my belly begins to wind uneasily. It only calms after Daemon pulls away. I have an opportunity to catch my breath when he does.

But then his hands come to my waist and I feel his hardened length glide against me.

Daemon lets out a string of incoherent noises then his one hand leaves my side. He uses his free hand to grab his member and slaps it against the leaky entrance in spite. The feel of each hit sends ripples through my body. I whimper when he flicks harder.

A croak rips out of my lips when my thighs are forced apart. His hands are excessively rough when he does this and speaks, "arse up, ditzy cunt. Or else I'll fuck you there instead and you won't get the prize you want so badly."

He slaps his hand on my bum when I do not immediately oblige to a command. It elicits a deep cry from my lungs. My skin stings at the contact and with pained noise, I do my best to lift my parted legs and push myself on my toes. The imprint of his hand lingers on my skin.

I'm throbbing all over at this point.

Daemon grabs himself again and points his tip to the plump folds before him. He groans freely where I attempt to contain myself. I feel him lather his member in the wetness that was now spreading all over my skirt and thighs.

Daemon thinks of dragging this out and continuing with torture.

I feel him poke into me a couple of times, easing in teasingly, shallowly entering back and forth before he hisses and speaks.

"Nyke kostagon daor iderēbagon lo jaelan ao naejot sagon adhirikydho lēda riña iā daor," he sighs as he composes himself for a moment, "ziry iksos issare bōsa pār eman ryptan mirros sīr... merbugon."

I can't decide if I want you to be quickly with child or not. It's been long since I have heard something so... hungry.

I scream into the sheets when I feel rip into me.

"So..." he heaves and rubs the fleshy part of my hips, "fucking desperate."

If I hadn't heard myself make the sound that I did, I would have never known it was possible for me to make it. I sob into the sheets, tasting the coarseness of the blankets against my tongue as I do so. I feel the salt from my eyes trickle into my open mouth. I feel snot build in my philtrum. I really don't find it in me to clamp my jaw shut after.

Daemon begins to thrust into me at a punishing rate. He pounds with much vigor and little regard. I feel so full with each blow. I feel so stretched out; somehow it feels delicious. It makes all my nails claw into the surfaces it can reach. The crackling sparks inside me intensify as I progressively lose my breath. With every hit, something soft and tender in me is attacked, leaving my body in tremors.

He pants in sync with his pummeling. My whimpers and groans are at a few seconds delay.

He latches his hands tightly on me and beats into me with singular purpose. Even through the obscene noises we were making, the slapping of skin was very much audible to my ears and it amplified the heat burning across my body. What kind of heat that burned in me was now indistinguishable.

My feet are barely on the floor as he hoists me up and stuffs himself in and out of my folds. It get increasingly harder to not simply succumb, and yet I find it nearly impossible to relax against his abrasive touch.

"So wet and tight," he growls, "so eager to be molded by my cock."

I yelp when he shoves into me once a bit more forcefully.

"What d'you think, come slut?" he jeers, "are you going to make me a kepa quickly, or shall I bully you a bit more before you carry a dragonling in your womb, huh?"

The only response he gets out of me is heavy breathing and high pitched squeaks.

He rips into me harder again, coaxing out a cry that claws my throat. I progressively grow weaker against him.

"You will answer when I spoken to," he forces.

My cheeks rub against the sheets. I feel tears, snot, and saliva pool into the cloth. At this point, I am a convulsing mess against him. I suck in a breath through my watering mouth then shudder in response, "p-please-"

He titters then releases one hip to grab my hair. He rips my locks away from my face as he croons, "I don't think we're understanding each other, squeaky mouse."

He yanks my hair back, lifting my head uncomfortably, causing me to choke on my spit. I wail in response to his careless pulling. He leans down and maniacally heaves, hips not ceasing their ministrations at all, "r'you going to make me a father like a dutiful bitch or not?"

I choke on a moan before I can respond. My breath is shaky when I say, "yes."

I feel an unmistakable tension reach its acme deep inside me. My breath shortens even more.

"Good. Don't fucking disappoint me then, darling," Daemon exhales, releasing my hair, making me helplessly faceplant. He digs all his fingers into my sides again.

After three quick breaths, I am broken.

My terse body reaches its capacity and I shatter against myself, against him, quaking, fluttering, weakening. I drool all over and shrivel up tightly. My belly breaks into a million tiny pieces and my mind goes blank. All that's left is, "Daemon, D-Daemon, Daemon-"

And he loves every second. He feasts in the feel, in the tightening sensation around him. He takes in the smell of depravity and feels his ego inflate.

He savors every minute reaction and, in all his wickedness, quickens his pace, snapping his hips harder.

He feels every shiver and jolt. He relishes every mewl and screak. He makes sure the crash is at its most violent, the peak at its height, before letting himself come undone. And when he comes undone there's so much come.

His momentary self-control was well worth it, considering the noises that echo through the chamber.

Daemon doesn't get sloppy, not at all sloppy as he pumps his flaming arousal deeper and deeper, but he does go a tad weak when he hears his name get called the way it is. What can he say, the sound of his name gets him going.

I am a melted disaster. I am a lump of quivering sobs. I am a puddle of lewdness.

The sensations that I felt magnified inside me when I felt Daemon's release. It was ironic that 'peaking' was now clear to me, considering I couldn't see straight through the tears blurring my vision. I found myself speaking the prince's name as though it was the only word I knew.

The pleasurable feelings from mine and his release were now wearing off and quickly becoming immensely uncomfortable.

I could barely even make a sound at this point. My mouth was drier than sand.

Eventually, when Daemon's movements relent, I finally find reprise and slowly even my breathing.

Daemon releases heavy huffs and gulps loudly. After a moment he reaches a stand still.

I am unsure if the feel of his hands rubbing against my butt was real or not.

My legs tense and core sharply flinches when I feel him unceremoniously pull out of me. Immediately, I feel hot liquid ooze out of my tenderness.

The yelp that leaves me when my soreness is slapped is immensely different to that of the ones I made earlier. It is weak and hoarse. It is telling of how powerless I was in this moment.

And though I would think it is apparent, my husband still had little regard for me as he leans down to my face and whispers, "can't you feel yourself leaking?"

I jolt and whine his name out in a plea when I feel him touch my aching core that he just hit seconds ago. I feel his fingers swirl the overexerted area. I feel like crying all over again.

"You're wasting my seed, you know. You ought to do something about it if you really want a child," he says before pulling away.

I don't find it in me to move after coldness crashes onto me. Not after that, nor after I feel my womanhood twitch as more evidence of Daemon drips down my legs. I don't move even when hear the shuffling of clothes and the crunching of footsteps.

The marching sound travels farther back and soon enough I hear the creak of the door.

"Next time you come demanding things from me, come slut," Daemon wipes his fingers on his thighs, "remember I won't be so gentle."

The door slams shut.

#daemon targaryen #daemon fanfic #daemon smut #daemon fluff #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen smut #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd fanfic #daemon x you #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x you #hotd smut #house of the dragon smut

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thepenultimateword · 1 year ago

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Keep the King

For my song-story writing challenge! This story is based on the song "King" by "The Amazing Devil", which was submitted by @lqmie! I'll be honest, I secretly really wanted this one, so when the randomizer gave it to me I was ecstatic.

Sorry it’s a day late, I’m mad at myself for not meeting the deadline in time when I’m the one who made it, I also meant this to be MUCH longer, but realized I was getting over ambitious , but I hope everyone still enjoys.

***

Chimera ignored the water’s wailing. Phantom hands dragged on the oars while luminescent waves rocking the rowboat to and fro, threatening to leave the vessel stranded and stagnant enough to flip, but she kept her eyes fixed on the shore, lit in a blue, spectral glow that made the shadows of the trees stretch long.

“Not long now, your highness.”

“You’ll hang for this!” King Idris shouted in return. He looked a bit like trussed bird on the boat’s floor, hair mussed, cheek to the boards, fine bell sleeves crumpled in scarlet tatters behind his back. He’d been a bit scrappier than she’d imagined such a slender, pampered thing to be. She’d barely managed to drag him past the forestline and into the glammer before his guards caught up. Pinning him long enough to tie and blindfold him had been a whole other mess. The scratches on the backs of her hands prickled like stinging nettle.

“My soldiers are some of the best trackers in the kingdom; they will hunt you down! You’ll be on the noose faster than you can plead mercy, that is if they don’t tear you apart first!”

“Last I saw, your soldiers were having quite the problem with glammer, sooo…” Chimera heaved against an especially violent pull from the lake’s occupants. An oar almost slipped from her paw side, but she managed to sink her claws into the grooves. “Besides, you’re going back soon anyway. Just wait.”

“Take me back now!”

“No can do.”

King Idris cranked, his cloth-swathed face in her direction. “I’m giving you an order!”

Chimera clicked their tongue in feigned disappointed. “Sorry, not human.”

“What do you want then? Gold? Food? Do you have a grudge on my father?”

“Nope. I only came for you.”

The boat knocked hard against the head of the dock, and Chimera shook off any lingering fingers from the oars. The king yelped as a couple glowing droplets speckled his cheek though they quickly dulled against his skin.

“The water won’t hurt you, silly.” She scooped up the rope from the floor and leaped over his head to the dock, tethering the boat fast to the post. “It’s what’s in the water that wants to hurt you.”

Idris only had the chance to make a small strangled sound before Chimera grabbed him under the arms and hoisted him up after her.

“Don’t touch me! Monster!”

Chimera dropped him. She probably shouldn’t have. Adler would ask if he had a giant bruise on his face. Besides, this was a king, not only a human king, her king. Or he would be.Of a sort. Anyway, she’d been charged with keeping him safe here, not with dropping him face first on s hard, splintery dock. But…that word. Monster. It made her insides burn, and her hands moved on impulse.

“Suit yourself.” A quick flick of her knife and both the blindfold and the bonds around his ankles fluttered to the ground. She kept the hands tied for good measure. “I dont care if you walk.”

Idris rolled onto his side and blinked rapdily at his new surroundings. His eyes widened like silver pieces at the Dead Lake, then like saucers at the sight of dark looming trees and the pitch black spaces in between the trunks. She wondered if he caught the dark’s barely perceptible writhing? Like something alive. But the biggest reaction came when he looked at Chimera. His pale eyes became like twin moons. He’d called her monster based off a glimpse, she must seem truly inhuman now. She was a sight, alright, even among other fae. A lion paw on the top, a goat leg on the bottom, a tufted tail in between. Plus one devilish horn.

“We’re going up there.” Chimera pointed up the cliff face to the rickety house at the top; blessedly, the king’s gaze followed. “I really wouldn’t recommend running off. Especially not at night. The lake will drown you and the wood will eat you.”

Idris leaned his forehead against the planks and slowly shoved himself up onto his knees. He glared up at her. “My soldiers are coming.”

Chimera shrugged. “Then let’s wait for them inside.” She hooked her claws into the knot of his bonds and yanked him upright. “Come on.”

Maybe Idris realized the stupidity of staying out on this rock because he walked forward without argument. Every once in a while his muscles went rigid like he wanted to bolt or jump or turn on her, and Chimera prodded him in the back with the hilt of her knife, but halfway up he was wheezing to much for defiance. By the time they reached the top of the cliff’s stone steps, he seemed to be choking on his own breath.

"Hey." Chimera slapped him a couple times on the back, but it only sent him into a fit of coughing. "Hey, hey, hey."

She pulled him to the dining table and rushed to fill one of their wooden cups with cold tea from the kettle. She only remembered his bound hands as she held out the cup.

"Right." She moved the cup up to his mouth. He drew his lips together into a tight line, though a few spluttering coughs broke threw, sending ripples across the drink's surface. "It's just honey and blackberry. The normal kind. Not fae food. On my honor."

Idris slowly loosened his mouth and took a tentative drag. HIs face unwrinkled a fraction.

After a couple sips, Chimera placed the cup on the table and crouched behind the king to cut ropes on his wrists. He slowly drew his arms in front of himself, flexing his hands and wrists a couple times before folding them in his lap, the shredded ends of his sleeves swathing his knuckles less elegantly than this morning.

"Did they ever make you do anything in that castle?" Chimera said before she could think better of it.

"I tire out easily," Idris snapped with the defensiveness of one already hyperaware of his own limitations and others' thoughts on the matter. "I always have. There are more important things than traipsing up mountains and hitting people with swords."

Maybe so. As far as she knew King Hyacinthe didn't do much of either. News from the deep wood only brought word of sweet torture and cruel revelries, the fae court's specialties.

"Do you want something to eat?" Chimera said.

Idris went even stiffer than he already was. "Why?"

"Becaaaause we've been traveling since this morning?"

"When you kidnapped me?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it kidnapping." Chimera plopped into the seat next to him.

"Oh? Pray tell then. What would you call it?"

"A temporary retrieval. It's not like I just snatched you to snatch you; we've been expecting you, see?" She motioned to the thick pile of skins in the corner. "That's your bed there in the corner. And there is food for 3 stockpiled in the cellar. We even scrounged you up some clothes for the stay."

"Oh, how magnanimous, that fixes absolutely everything because what I've really been concerned about is what I'm going to wear."

"Well, obviously I couldn't come to you, so I was sent to bring you here."

Idris stared at her incredulously. "Sent? By who?"

"King Hyacinthe." Idris continued to stare. No recognition. "The king. The other king. Fae king. My brother and I were specifically assigned. It's a very important job, you know, and not easily acquired."

Idris held up his hands, trembling a little with the rising register of his voice. "Job? Assigned? Is this a political abduction? Are the fae planning a siege on my kingdom? Are there going to be peace negotiations?"

So he didn't know. Chimera had wondered. When a changeling was planted as an infant it often wouldn't know its true identity. But usually, they figured it out. There were only so many unexplainable things that could happen--accidental glammering, elemental phenomenons, new appendages--before someone took notice. But Idris...the way he spoke. It was like a human.

"No, nothing like that," Chimera said.

The human kingdom was already covered 25 years ago. Time for him to know.

"This is an individual issue. You're late."

Idris furrowed his brow.

"You should have manifested years ago, maybe it's best that you didn't, but now you're king. And obviously, you've been doing an awful job on your own, so if you're ever going to change, you're going to need a mentor."

Idris folded his hands tightly together and rolled back his shoulders, staring Chimera down with a cold regality that couldn’t counterfeited. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chimera’s stomach dropped a little. She’d known their situations weren’t the same, but she’d still stupidly thought… Nevermind. None of this was about her. Alder would be depending on her to get their plans in motion.

"Haven’t you felt anything? It's like an itch. An itch so bad you want to claw out of your own skin.”

“I don’t have dealings with magic or magic folk. I have nothing to do with your witchcraft.”

Chimera snorted. “You might want to bend that person ideal.”

“I do not and will not. I demand an immediate explanation of the fae monarchy’s intentions for my kingdom and myself. I will not be cooperating until you do so.”

How did such a pale, and fragile thing pull off such commanding airs? Like he shrugged away his very body and exposed the core of his being. Well, she had to say it straight out sooner or later.

She took a deep breath and then locked eyes with the changeling king. “King Idris, the entire fae court, has been waiting for your ascension. Because only you, a changling raised as human royalty and crowned their king, can make the human kingdom ours.”

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theyareweird · 9 months ago

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Kianna in Wonderland - Part 2

Tea Tangent

"Welcome to our tea party, Alice"! Queen Yuki greeted. She was smiling from her throne as she helped herself to some food. "I hope we will all become good friends". Yuki beamed, pinching a red macaroon in between her fingers.

Suddenly, a silver-haired young man stepped forward. He was dressed in black spade armor. "I present the Queen of Hearts, Yuki Kuran". The Spade Knight proudly announced, gesturing towards the woman beside him. "My name is Zero. I am Captain to the Queen's royal guard and her personal knight". He said, graciously bowing.

A young woman with wavy toffee-colored hair, which fell to her waist, stepped forward. She stood tall beside the king wearing red heart armor. "May I present the King of Hearts, Kaname Kuran". The beautiful woman said in a refined tone. "I am Ruka, Captain of the King's royal guard". Ruka said with honor as she curtsied. She then stretched out a hand to the woman who stood two feet behind her. "This is Seiren, the King's bodyguard". Ruka stated.

Seiren rigidly stood in silence wearing red diamond armor. Her lavender eyes were cold and she had a lilac chin-length hair. "We are some of the card guards". The dignified woman said flatly as she bowed.

"It's nice to met you all". Kianna greeted.

A young man then sloutched in his wobbly chair with a heavy sigh. He wore a navy blue waistcoat with a grey dress shirt. Acknowledging his droppy blonde ears with his matching scruffy hair, Kianna concluded he must be the March Hare. "The rest of us are their subjects..." He huffed. "Just do as your told and nothing bad will happen to you". The blonde hare warned.

"Hanabusa," Kaname called. "Mind your manners". He warned with narrowed eyes.

The March Hare then straighted his posture but kept his bright blue eyes cast down in his lap. "Yes, my King". He quickly responds.

"I'll keep that in mind". Kianna replied. Despite the warning, she didn't pay much attention to it. Instead, Kianna simply enjoyed the crazy, yet fun atmosphere. Her amber eyes scanned the crowed of people at the tea party from where she sat. Kianna's eyes then traveled up the truck of a tree and landed on a red cat figure. She concluded he must be the Cheshire Cat. However, instead of a wide grin, this guy was laying in the tree with a neutral expression. His blue-gray eyes were dull. It was clear he was bored.

Tearing her gaze away, Kianna redirected her attention onto the finely dressed tailor-like gentleman sitting across from her. His suit and large tophat were a pretty green, like his eyes. "I'm Takuma"! The blonde greeted. "Do you like tea, Alice"? Takuma asked. When Kianna opened her mouth to reply, her words were immediately shoved in the back of her throat. "Of course you do! Here, have a cup of rose tea". He smiled, pouring Kianna a cup and handing it to her.

"Thank you". Kianna smiled. Whatever was going on with these people made her decide it was best to go along with their crazy behavior. Kianna then politely took the teacup and saucer from Takuma's gloved hands and smelled the floral fragrance.

"We also have jasmine, green tea, white tea, peppermint, oolong, chamomile..." Takuma said, going off on tangent.

Rima suddenly popped her head out of her teapot. A tiny white tophat sat on the side of her head. She then clumbed out of it and darted to a tray of sugar cookies. Rima selected a thin clock cookie and rolled it on its side up to Kianna. "I'm Rima. Have a cookie, Alice"! She happily squeaked up at her. Rima was dressed in a white Lolita dress with black and white poka-dot tights and matching gloves. It was a stark contrast to her orange hair, round mouse ears and tail.

"Thank you". Kianna politely smiled. When she picked up the lightly frosted treat, the short girl inspected it and spotted tiny nibble marks on it. Rima must have snacked on it earlier and forgot.

"Black tea, rooibos, ginger, stinging nettle, yerba mate, hibiscus..." Takuma continued to ramble on from across the table.

Kianna brought the teacup up to her lips and took a sip. She enjoys tea, but she always needs a little sugar. "Rima, may I please have some sugar cubes"? Kianna asked.

Rima nodded. She then scurried across the table and up to the fancy china container of sugar. Pushing the lid off, Rima grabbed two sugar cubes. She then retrieved a silver spoon from one of the table settings and used it to bat the cubes on the back of the spoon and into Kianna's cup. Both sugar cubes splashed into Kianna's cup. The action was unexpected, but she didn't show it. Instead, Kianna smiled and thanked the mouse once more.

Up in the tree, the Cheshire Cat occasionally glanced at the five-foot-two Alice. Watching her bright smile caused a faint hue of red to grace his cheeks. "At least you like tea, Alice". Senri suddenly spoke.

"I do enjoy tea, but I don't have a favorite". Kianna smiled up at the cat in his tree.

Senri's blue-gray slit pupil eyes then narrowed at particularly no one. "The other Alices either didn't care for tea or pretended to like tea". He spat. Senri killed the Alices who pretended to enjoy tea because hates those who deceive him. Especially since an Alice must like tea to fit in with him and his twi closest friends: Takuma and Rima.

Rima then squeaked on top of the table. "They all liked sweets, though... Without fruit in them". She added.

Takuma was still going on about his one-sided conversation. "red clover, cinnamon, dandelion, red tea, matcha, milk tea, tart cherry tea, lavender tea..."

Kianna then raised her teacup to her lips. "Well, I guess they were taught wrong, or have poor table manners". She said, taking a sip of her tea. "I don't care for any tea or sweets that contain lemon, though". Kianna blurted. "They taste funny to me". She confessed. Kianna then set her cup back down onto its saucer. "But I don't mind if other people do. I mean, I can't control what other people like". She quickly said. Kianna didn't want to offend anyone. To avoid making anyone in this place angry, he tried to defuse the situation.

"That’s alright. We all have things we don't like". Yuki smiled in dismissal.

Senri's intense gaze then softened in response to Kianna's words. He could tell she was being genuine with him. "In that case, have as much tea as you want". Senri replied in a flat tone. Afterwards, the end of his tail began to flick in contentment. Senri took note of how this Alice likes tea, sweets and is well-mannered. It almost made him purr at how polite she is.

"Oh"! Takuma suddenly huffed. Based on how red his face had become, the obvious Mad Hatter figure hadn't taken a breath since he started listing off tea. "You must detest Lemon or Lemon Balm Tea, then". Takuma giggled.

Senri released a heavy sigh between his parted lips. Although Takuma was a close friend of his, the cat rolled his eyes at the Mad Hatter's obvious statement. It's no wonder Senri had to take frequent naps around Takuma because he was tiring.

Kaname then leaned into Yuki. "It seems our cousin likes this Alice". He said in a low voice.

Yuki followed her king's head and whispered, "Does this mean Senri will finally have a mate"?

"Good. I'm tired of killing them all". Zero suddenly blurted.

"Same". Seiren bluntly replied.

Despite the two card soldiers' outspoken behavior, Kianna's brow knit together. She was confused as to what they were talking about, but the little individual was also concerned for her life at their cold words. Now frowning, Kianna then began to question if she should be finding a means to escape this place.

Surprise: @nunezs-stuff

#kianna komori #senri shiki #vampire knight #anime #alice in wonderland #fan fiction

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snarkythewoecrow · 9 months ago

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writing patterns!

rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

tagged by @father-salmon! Ty for thinking of me, friend!

(only slightly concerned what this will say about my ability to start a fic)

1. stirring up trouble - Rated T - Buck & Chris, Buck/Eddie - word count: 2415

“Did you—Oh my god, Buck! What’d you do?!” But twisted his finger again, trying to free it, feeling it already pulsing from the circulation being cut off. “Just give me a minute—it’s fine. I’ll get it.” Chris leaned closer, raising his brows as he pushed his glasses up his nose. He glanced at Buck, shaking his head. Not seeming to believe Buck one bit. “You’re gonna have to call Dad.”

2. from shampoo to shit paper (and all the decisions in-between) - Rated T - Buck/Eddie - word count: 1864

Buck’s damp jeans pulled at the skin of his legs, stuck somewhere near his knees, nearly causing him to topple. And since he’d already reached his daily quota for embarrassing moments, he gripped the counter, then yelled over his shoulder toward the bathroom door. “Hey, Eds, got a minute?”

3. something borrowed, something blue - Rated E - Buck/Eddie - word count: 4978

“Eddie?” Horror seized his heart, mortification and shame prickling his skin like nettles, a reaction he’d never wanted to have in response to Buck’s presence. No one was meant to witness him like this—so exposed—in the blue satin panties that stood out starkly against his hairy legs, awkwardly paired with his department tee and high socks.

4. What's a little spanking between friends? - Rated M - Buck/Eddie - word count: 3966

Buck could admit things had started getting undeniably less platonic lately, becoming much harder to file under bro behavior and not something else. Things like Eddie giving Buck a pat on the ass for a job well done, at first over the thick material of his gear, then becoming more common, eventually right over the oh-so-thin fabric of his uniform pants as he’d murmur a quiet "good job" for something as ridiculous as restocking the four by fours in one of their bags.

5. a little dented (but definitely not broken) - Rated M - Buck/Eddie - word count: 4543

"You don't have to say anything—explain anything—whatever this is, this thing that's got you so—so... I don't think you'd like me calling it scared, but I'll be real with you, man. I've seen you do some crazy shit that would make anyone else shit their pants, but right now?” His molars ached under the pressure of his pause, the attempt to stop his tongue and not make things worse. A shift of the mattress had him looking toward Buck, seeing his dark silhouette rising and moving toward the window, offering only his back and nothing else.

6. let's not tell the church - Rated E - Buck/Eddie - word count: 2977

The skin of his lip felt dry as he curled his tongue over it before sinking in his teeth, gnawing it as he restrained himself from doing something stupid—something like convincing himself that getting onto the bed next to Eddie as his boyfriend napped, stretched out on his back with one arm over his head, resting on a pillow would be a good idea. It wasn't like he wouldn't be welcome beside his boyfriend, but he didn't just want to lay with him or even wake him by sliding a hand into his basketball shorts. No, he wanted something else.

7. you make it hurt so good - Rated E -Buck/Eddie - word count: 2693

It didn't surprise him to find Buck, already half-asleep, flopped on the bed, his bare ass partially exposed from where he'd twisted in the sheet, the thin blanket cascading onto the floor from the tangle of his legs. Not after the day they'd had—not that it had been a bad day, but they'd spent it at the beach, and the temps were still insane even for LA; a heat wave had rolled in days ago. Thankfully, they hadn't been working for the worst of it.

8. birds of a feather - Rated T - Steve/Bucky/Tony - word count: 1541

He pulled onto the long dirt road that served as a driveway for the farm-like compound that had become home to him, Bucky, and Tony, each wanting a chance to live a bit simpler and quieter. They’d had enough adventure. And Steve wasn’t usually one to act entitled, but dammit, the universe owed them a bit of peace—at minimum for Bucky and Tony, who’d never ask but so badly needed someone to say enough.

9. when life gives you shit for parents, use that shit to grow a garden - Rated M - Buck/Eddie - word count: 3734

“You're gonna puke if you keep eating those,” Eddie said with a huff, though the upward turn of his mouth betrayed his amusement as he eyed Buck from across the hood before heading for the driver's door. He gave a little wrinkle of his nose, squinting as he cocked his head to the side before tossing another worm into his mouth. “Says the man who upchucked in Bobby’s sink after eating half a pan of Athena’s brownies.”

10. Pretty in Pink - Rated M - Steve/Bucky - word count: 1850

Steve tried not to care that he and Bucky had to hide their relationship, even though he knew they didn’t have another choice. Because he might be stubborn and hotheaded, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d seen what happened to people caught out in the open. But that didn’t mean it was any less unfair that Steve would never be more than a dirty secret—or at least that was how it sometimes felt, though he’d never say as much to Bucky.

Tagging anyone interested, for real, like hop on and join in, make sure to tag me so I can see and share, but I will tag a few that I can think of off the top of my head @buckybeardreams @kydrogendragon @underwater-ninja-13

Oh and if you see a pattern, feel free to tell me, cuz I kinda don't see one? which is definitely shocking, I was expecting to see some real obvious habits be revealed lol

#tag games

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byoldervine · 4 months ago

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Banter Brewing

“Huh… so you’re saying the pre-mixed stuff’s not gonna kill me?”

“You’re literally fine.” Layni shook her head at the question. “Would I give you something that would kill you?”

“Well that’s the question, now isn’t it?” Connor accused, squinting at her in mock suspicion. The response was a playful eye roll and a light shove on his shoulder, not even enough to knock him off balance

“Connor, didn’t you make that potion when you were running around the realm trying to cure god?”

“It’s ‘brew’ a potion.”

“Since when do you even care?”

“Since I got the chance to wind you up about it, duh.”

Layni scoffed at him, nudging her shoulder against his upper arm. “Idiot. Seriously, you’ll be fine. This is the same stuff dad used to use.”

And Connor knew that, so he nodded, focusing his attention on carefully measuring out the liquids before him. Instinct left him minding the mixture of Fallow rose and whatever other ingredients went into the pre-prepared liquid

He reached for the tweezers next, then took a sprig of stinging nettles between the tiny pincers. Into the bowl they went, a faint hissing and smoking coming from the greenery as it melted into the inky liquid. One step closer

“You gonna tell me what you’re making?” Layni asked, and he just couldn’t resist the opportunity. “It’s brewing.”

“Oh, shut up.” She lightly shoved his shoulder again. “Brewing, then. What are you brewing?”

“Well you’ve seen the witchlet’s glyph magic, so I thought I’d try and see if I can get potions that do the same things.”

“So you want to one-up Persephone?” Layni raised a brow. “Doesn’t she literally teach glyph magic in a school or something?”

“She’s a teaching assistant,” Connor corrected, leaning forward a little to consult his book. “Either way, I’ve got this cool book of potion recipes, and I’m gonna use it.”

Pine needles were next, and he sprinkled a pinch of them into the concoction. Layni watched as he stirred it in, his tongue out in concentration. She considered teasing him about it, but her curiosity win out over her desire to wind him up

“Are you actually gonna tell me, or…?”

“Huh? Oh, it’s supposed to grow plants and stuff like you can do,” Connor finally answered, tapping a finger at the page in his opened book. Layni took a peek at the pages, a smirk coming to her face

“What, because you know my magic is better?”

“Oh, suuure. I’m trying all of them, you’re not special.”

But they both knew, despite his words, that Connor was resisting a smirk of his own. He grabbed a vial of Remaligo sap next, pouring a few drops into the bowl. The golden sap gave the black liquid a richer, more earthy colour

“Is that it? Have you done it?”

“Just needs one more thing…”

Connor ran his finger along the page of the book, tapping a few times when he found the right spot. “Aha!”

He looked around his cluttered desk, carefully pushing things out the way to check behind them for any signs of the ingredient he needed. After a minute of no luck, however, he turned to Layni, giving her his best ‘I’m your little brother who loves you very much’ look

“Layniiiiiii…?”

She rolled her eyes at his attempts to butter her up, unable to help an amused smile. He really hadn’t changed a bit from the dumb little kid she used to look after. “Yeeees?”

“Can you grow some foxglove for me, please?”

“Why, so you can steal my powers with your potions?”

He laughed at that. “Oh, come on! You know it’s not like that! Please?”

“Fine, but you owe me a coffee.”

“Deal!” he agreed eagerly. “Gratitude!”

And what kind of magic wasn’t worth that childish, lopsided grin?

#weekly one shots #weekly one shot poll #tales of the zenith realm #writing #writers #writeblr #bookblr #book #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writers of tumblr #writer #creative writing

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masivechaos · 1 year ago

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arcade and abandoned railway!

── ☆ anderperry x best friend! gn! reader

── ☆ Request: yes / no

── ☆ Synopsis: you and Neil show Todd the town of your childhood

── ☆ Warning/content: nothing, my English

── ☆ a.n.: 0.7k words-

masterlist / dead poets society masterlist / navigation / taglist

Todd didn’t want to go at first. Neil had to convince him multiple times until he accepted. He was scared to be third-wheeling you and Neil even though he was the one in a relationship. You and Neil were best friends for a long time now, you were even the first one who knew about his blond lover. And ever since it’s been months since they started to date, you never had a real occasion to spend time with him. You were more outgoing than he was and he was worried about being erased while hanging out with you.

But Neil wasn’t going to let this slide and he almost forced him to come. So when you saw a blonde head walking next to Neil, your smile widened, glad he was able to convince Todd. “Hi,” you greeted as you shook his hand and he offered you a shy smile as an answer. Neil was looking at him with heart eyes the entire time as if he was the most precious thing on Earth.

“Where should we go?” Neil asked you, holding Todd’s hand firmly.

“The arcade? There’s this new game I want to try.”

Neil and Todd were spending the holiday in your town which Neil is used to visiting during summer and took advantage of it to see you. You decided to show Todd the city, making him discover the streets containing all your childhood memories.

You lead the boys to the arcade and immediately rushed to the said game. “Todd, wanna try?” you asked him. Politely, he shook his head.

“C’mon, Todd” Neil encouraged him. The shy boy accepted, slowly taking place in front of the arcade machine. He held the joysticks between his fingers and started to play, both you and Neil watching him carefully. Todd won the first game and Neil kissed him on the cheek as a reward.

“Your turn,” Todd smiled. Neil took his boyfriend's place and started to play “You suck,” he said playfully.

“Hey!” Neil said, falsely offended. He heard you laugh and pushed you to the machine “Stop making fun of me! Play and we’ll see!” he chuckled. You continued Neil’s game and managed to save his score and won.

You offered him a scornful smile “You’re just bad at it!” you grinned and shared a proud look with Todd. Neil rolled his eyes before walking to another arcade machine and starting to play. He failed, Todd and you let out a chuckle. He tried and failed again. “Um… You know what? I’ll let both of you play.” You and Todd must have spent at least an hour playing before Neil asked you to find something else to do.

You decided you would grab something to eat and then you would show Todd one of your favourite spots with Neil. You headed to the local ice cream shop, they didn’t taste so good but the shopkeepers were so adorable you and Neil had to see them whenever you could.

Ice creams in hand, the three of you walked to an abandoned railway you and Neil liked to hang out to a lot. Only a few people knew about it and it was mostly empty and was the perfect place to create an imaginary world with your best friend when you were kids.

Sat on a moss-covered rock next to the road, you watched around you, remembering all the afternoons you spent there with Neil, imagining you were pirates one day and knights another.

“You remember when you fell into this bush and came back home crying because it was full of stinging nettles?” you asked with a laugh, thinking about his red face and loud cries. You were worried back then but now you could only find it funny.

Todd let out a laugh “Did he really?”

“Oh, yeah,” you chuckled.

“Hey!” Neil yelped “I was like ten years old!”

“It doesn’t make it any less funny, Neil!” You shared a look with Todd and both of you exploded into a fist of laughter as you observed Neil’s pout.

You spent the rest of the afternoon with Neil and Todd. The latter came out of his shell more and more throughout the time and you got to see the way Todd and Neil acted and you were never more sure they were made for each other.

⋆ ★ neil perry taglist: @cauliflowertree @moonlitmeeks @toindeedbeag0d @meredarling @juneberrie @mystic-writings @natashxromanovf @goodoldfashionedluvergirl @spookydarkwitch @duxpuella @innerloverpainter @vancitycharlie @venussflytraps @diorgirl444 @dori-and-gray @maddipoof @starlit-epiphany @etanordiesbullsh!t @mellozhi @lovings4turn

#solaris is writing #todd anderson x neil perry #todd x neil #neil perry x todd anderson #neil x todd #neil perry #todd and neil #todd anderson #dead poets #dead poets society

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hannysarang · 1 year ago

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Control // Twenty Eight.

Summary: Draco hasn't been able to enjoy sex and a little birdie tells him Hermione likes to take control. Is he willing to give it up? Can Draco Malfoy give up control?

Chapter 28 ————————

Using Draco’s laying body as support, Hermione slid up and down in an almost agonisingly slow pace.

Looking down and watching her cunt swallow his cock, he was left speechless, body trembling beneath her.

“You're gonna have to keep listing the potions ingredients or you��re going to end up cumming without my permission,” she reminded him when he stayed silent for a little too long.

“Essence of Murtlap,” he immediately started again. “Scales of a Chinese Fireball.”

“God,” she chuckled, breathing short. “You’re such a potions nerd.”

“Infusion of Wormwood,” he strained, tempted to move his hips to quicken the pace. “Porcupine quills.”

“You want me to go faster, don’t you,” she asked, a smile tugging at the corner of her lip.

Draco nodded, looking up at her with pleading eyes. “I also want to touch your tits. Touching them won’t stop my ability to keep listing ingredients.”

He watched as a short debate happened in her head, the side arguing for him clearly winning as she whispered a countercharm, making the ropes evaporate into thin air.

Immediately, his hand went out to grab her luscious nipple. The other rested on her waist, gripping it tight. When he squeezed her nipple between his fingers, she let out a string of profanities mixed with moans.

“Mistletoe berries. Label quills,” he quickly said, trying to calm himself down. “Billywig- Fuck. Billywig sting.”

With a teasing smirk, Hermione flipped them over and lay on her back. Hands on his biceps, she commanded, “Thrust.”

Eagerly, he did so with moans and grunts escaping his lips.

Fuck. He was too close.

“Powdered billywig wings,” he continued, stopping his motions with a seizing body. “Dried Niffler nose.”

“Good boy,” she complimented, fingers running through his blond hair.

“Fuck, that was close,” he mentioned in a shaking voice. “Please, Hermione.”

“I’m having too much fun,” she shrugged.

He stayed there, kneeling and unmoving between her legs, still trying to calm down because he was unsure he’d be able to hold things back if he started thrusting again.

“Draco,” she warned. “Fuck me.”

“Streaker shell,” he groaned even before he started moving again.

Grabbing her hips and sliding out, he listed another: “Ground scarab beetles.”

Using his hips to thrust, he reentered Hermione in one swift and quick motion, clearly hitting her in just the right spot because she let out a shriek, eyes rolling back.

The sight of Hermione in pleasure made Draco’s cock throb inside of her, begging to cum.

“Mooncalf dung,” he said with a shaking voice. “Sliced caterpillars. Unicorn blood.”

Now moving at a steady pace, Draco’s eyes roamed Hermione’s body as her tits bounced up and down and her face displayed pure pleasure with her mouth gaping open.

“Baneberry.”

“Oh, fuck. Draco, you feel so good,” she gasped, the grip on his biceps getting tighter. “Oh my God, you’re doing so good.”

She had to stop telling him things like that if she wasn’t going to give him permission to cum. “Dried nettles. Dragonfly thoraxes. Hermione, please.”

“You feel so good inside of me,” she continued, completely ignoring his pleas.

“Please, please, please,” he begged. “Eel eyes.”

Moving her hips to match his movements, Hermione met him half way as he fucked her — as she let him fuck her.

“Flobberworm flesh. Fire crab shells,” he strained with a trembling voice, barely able to speak anymore. “Fairy wings.”

“I’m so close, baby!” she cried out. “Yes, yes, right there!”

Now unable to speak at all, Draco could only watch as Hermione brought her hands to her breasts, toying with her own nipples as Draco desperately pounded into her.

Just as he was about to slow down so that he wouldn’t climax, she warned him, “Don’t slow down.”

So he couldn’t.

Continue Chapter 28 on ao3

Start from the beginning

#dramione #dramione fanfic #hermione granger #draco malfoy #dom hermione granger #sub draco malfoy #sub/dom #hermione x draco #smut #fanfic

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fraener · 2 years ago

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3/10/23

the days have been getting incrementally longer. im having some kind of allergic reaction to something in my house, i think. i texted ian today. i dont think hell respond, but i dont think i really mind too much. i can feel flashes of that spring still imprinted in the light and the movement of my heart and the sound of robins and goldfinches. i cut my hair a little strange, but ive been feeling stranger. im finding where my heart settles with h slowly. theres so much in me questioning and probing and posing different things- are there really so many different kinds of love? is it really ok to feel this way and stay in the relationship? i feel exhausted and lonely again. such is the way of winter. but it feels good to not be hurt by my companion, it feels good to be seen and loved tenderly and to be respected. ive been hurt by feeling overlooked and underestimated and misunderstood lately, too. the redcurrant is blooming, the smell like lemon balm and raspberries thick in the air. i wonder about my heart, though. its been a long time since i laughed for real. its been a long time since i felt much of anything other anger or sorrow. i feel myself trying to come back to the garden of my life, to tend and pull the weeds and sow new seeds. the sunlight is yellow and warm. the birds are singing in the mornings, the clouds are rolling through in rhythm thick and dark and charming with occasional thunderclaps and rain. i feel very lonely. el is back in town but ive only seen her once, briefly. she was blushing and i was too. it was sort of awkward and tense in the room. im pacing circles in my heart around ian, though. im really so in love with that snapshot of sensation i had that spring two years ago. the heat, the dark green and thick air of my apartment, the blinding sun the afternoon we met. the purr of his car in the dark, the way he carried me to bed, drinking cold infused lemon balm and rose and mint tea, the feeling of his hair in my fingers, the lilt and reed of his voice, nasally. part of my heart frozen in those moments. wish my heart would come back to me. my heart and i know he isnt it- isnt all, but he acts as the stepping stone back to there. in the same way simon is my sweet stepping stone and i his, we step on each other all the time. i spoke with him on the phone the other day and like always no time had passed. i love him and hate him. we pretend not to string each other on but i can hear it every time we talk, the way we fit together exists in a bigger pattern than just the physical or this place in time. i think the thing im missing is beauty. the city is so beautiful. everything ian gave me, even the emotional welts, was so beautiful. i think i want someone to make me crazy again because the states of dysregulation are states of release. it makes sense for me. i want to be violently disarmed by the mountains again, i want to be caught off guard and driven to tears by a stormy inlet, i want to my kissed over and over by the wind and rain. i want to feel the mud between my feet and eat the earth on the back of a nettle leaf. i know hes imaginary, my ian. like the dead he has become mythological and monolithic inside of me. wondrous how we can create someone over and over, their fiction becomes as real as anyone else, after departure or death. i think i need to do some digging about why i dont want to see h. i might just be tired and need some time to myself from him. i wonder my heart goes in and out of the romance with him, its strange. i felt terrible about it but ill admit when i was in the room with el he faded away. if he and i split i think i wont want a serious committed relationship for a long while again. i sort of dont want one now but im afraid of what his jealousy will do through him. everything would be easier if he had more people in his life. well get there. el is moving into a beautiful new house with a huge garden. i wonder if its the bottle house, since its in french loop. im very excited to get back in the dirt. and i get to see emma tonight so everything will get a lot better. i think everything with h would be resolved if i was just spending more time alone and time more with other people- i want to feel truly excited to see him. i also wish hed talk more, i like him best when i get him in flashes of conversation. different sort of hard to access from previous loves but not a dissimilar effect on me. im itching to turn the house over for spring.

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luveline · 3 years ago

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in the morning, afternoon and night [Fred Weasley x Reader]

tags: reader-insert, hurt/comfort, self esteem issues, low self esteem, reader has acne, sad reader, insecure reader

pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader

word count: 1.8k

You glared at your reflection.

You'd think with such amazing magical medicine available, some witch or wizard would've invented a cure for acne, or at least a spell that covered it up.

You'd struggled with it since your third year. The muggle doctor you'd seen with your mother had suggested it was hormonal, and would calm down as you got older.

That was years ago.

It shouldn't have been a big deal. It wasn't, really. It wasn't usually very painful, though it was itchy as a stinging nettle and twice as unsightly. A large part of you knew it wasn't your fault, that acne was something that simply affected people at different times in their lives. You'd tried topicals and changing your diet, you'd tried losing weight and exercising and dermaplaning and everything they suggested in your mams fashion magazines.

Nothing worked.

Tears welled in your eyes and you sniffed them back, blinking rapidly.

It might've been silly, but it honestly made you want to hide away. You'd skipped dinner without really thinking, finding your way into the girls bathroom you inhabited now. You straightened your tie and robes, dusting down the sides. You leaned forward again, dabbing under your eyes with your sleeve.

The last thing you wanted was for anyone to know you'd been crying, because then someone might ask why. You didn't want to talk about it, ever.

If Fred saw you like this...

You and Fred Weasley had been almost dating for a few weeks now. Almost, because you hadn't talked about the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing yet.

It had been years of thinking he was the fittest boy in Gryffindor (besides George) and months of meeting his gaze in the corridors and catching his eye over dinner. Gradually it had become something more; he started carrying your books between classes and opening doors, touching your arms and your hair and your face.

You cringed at the memory. He had been so caring, moving to wipe an eyelash from the skin under your eye. You'd violently flinched from his hand, afraid he might feel the bumpy texture of your skin, feel the acne beneath your makeup. He'd been apologetic and a little confused, filling you with guilt. You hadn't been able to find a way to tell him it wasn't him, it was you. Of course you wanted him to touch you, the thought of him cradling your face had been the subject of many dizzy daydreams, but you just couldn't tell him this one thing.

It was your deepest insecurity.

The stress had only made it worse. Redness was easy to cover with muggle make up and even some wizarding tricks you'd learned over the years, but there wasn't a way to smooth your skin, and the acne was textured.

It was depressing. You didn't want to use that word, it felt ungrateful to compare your skin issues to something so severe, but it made you miserable.

You but down on your quivering lip, pushing away from the mirror unhappily and opening the bathroom door, a frown on your face.

"Y/N!" a familiar voice said.

You jumped, startled but unsurprised. Fred had a talent of always knowing where you were. You'd find it creepy if he wasn't so endearing.

"Fred," you said, plastering a smile over your frown. "I was just coming to find you."

"What a coincidence, ma chérie, I was doing the same."

"Well," you began, easily sidling into his space, "you found me."

"Yes, I did," Fred hummed, wrapping his arms behind your neck, grinning.

He took a long look at your face, his forehead creased. "What's wrong?"

"Nothings wrong, Fred."

He moved his hands to your shoulders, looking down into your face searchingly. "Have you been crying?" he asked.

You shook your head, lying without thinking. "Something in my eye,"

"Both of them?"

You stepped backwards. He let go of your shoulders accordingly.

"Y/N?"

"It's really nothing," you said through a forced laugh.

He frowned at you for a few seconds more and his face cleared. "Alright," he said slowly, rolling the words in his mouth, "if you say so, doll."

You opened like a blooming flower at the pet name, your whole face softening. You smiled, hoping he understood that the smile meant, oh I just so adore you, Fred Weasley.

He threaded his fingers through yours, dragging you down the corridor beside him and waxing poetic about their newest lot of Peruvian darkness powder as you went.

It got so bad you couldn't go to class.

Okay, so you definitely could've gone to class, but the thought of leaving your curtained bed was enough to make you sick with anxiety, so worried that everyone would see you - see your face.

NEWTs were coming fast and hard. Everyone who wanted to be anyone was working hard studying their asses of, on top of Professor Umbridge's million new rules you had to abide by, including her newest life-ruining rule: Boys and girl are not to be within 5 inches of each other.

What a joke. You struggled through classes, wrote essays so long your hand burned at night and now you weren't allowed to sit next to your almost boyfriend at lunch? It was miserable. It was making you miserable, and now you may as well have sharpied on your forehead how equipped your body was to deal with it.

Fucking badly.

You groaned to yourself, rolling on your side to face the wall. You were at your wits end. It felt endlessly unfair that the thing that was stressing you out most was getting worse from stress.

Your stomach growled hungrily.

You threw your arm over your eyes in defeat, eyes finally filling with tears. You felt so hopeless. There was nothing to be done except keep up your routine until the flare up was over, or until your mothers next 'miracle cure' popped into existence.

The tears felt too hot against your sore skin. You couldn't help but sob quietly to yourself in self-pity.

A knock sounded at the door. You gasped, wiping the tears away in panic.

"Y/N?" It was Alicia. "Are you alright? Can I come in?"

"Yes," you managed. "Yes, of course. It's your room too, after all."

The door clicked open. Alicia appeared, tanned skin completely clear and glowing, though each perfect feature was marred with empathy. "Fred's been begging every girl in the common room to come fetch you, but I told him to leave you be."

"Thank you," you said.

You cleared your throat. Alicia moved her weight from foot to foot, twisting her hands.

"I- Y/N. I won't pretend to know how it feels, but I promise you, Fred won't care. He's beside himself worrying that you're bedridden and dying or-" she laughed to herself, "or that you're still mad at him for the itching powder. What I mean is... he's a good guy, and you're upset. Maybe you should tell him what's wrong. He won't care."

You sniffed. "I know," you admitted, feeling the weight of her shifting the bed. "I know he's a great guy. I just wouldn't blame him if he, if he didn't like me anymore. If he found it ugly. I would understand it, and I think that makes it worse," you choked on your words, heat building behind your eyes.

"Oh, Y/N," Alicia said, placing a tentative but comforting hand on your shoulder.

You lay in quiet, listening to your own ragged breathing.

"I'll go talk to him," Alicia said.

"No! I mean, no. Thank you, but no. I... I'll speak to him myself."

Alicia nodded, rubbing your arm kindly.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind her finally spurred you into sitting up. You dressed in a hurry, chucking a wool jumper over last nights pyjamas.

He wouldn't care, would he? You cringed. Yes, he definitely would. Whatever was between you would stop. He'd have the grace to let you down slowly, drawing away his affections. He was a polite guy, he'd probably even say the whole spiel of "it's not you, it's me". But he would, eventually.

Well, you figured. Let it be quick. Like ripping off a bandaid.

You tread lightly down the steps, hoping to see him before he saw you.

Of course, when the slightest groan on the bottom step sounded, his lovely face whipped to meet yours. He smiled in relief, but it was mixed with something else. Disgust, your brain supplied nastily. He was disgusted. He rose to his feet, smiling smiling smiling. But something in his eyes was different, now.

"Y/N," he said.

"Hi," you said.

"Hi yourself, beautiful. Where've you been all day?"

"I'm... sick. Bad cold," you settled on.

He raised an eyebrow. "You sound okay," he said, not unkindly.

"I..." you looked down at your hands.

A siren was sounding in your head. You didn't think Fred had seen you without make up for the last 3 years. Fight or flight was leaning heavily towards flight.

"Well, are you hungry?"

You shook your head.

"Are you sure? You haven't eaten all day. You need something in your system if you're gonna fight this cold."

"I'm not actually sick, Fred," you admitted under your breath.

"I know."

You looked up. He was still smiling kindly. It was infuriating.

"Look," you said finally, rushed and all at once, "if you don't want to- if you're grossed out. Then it's fine, I'll understand if you don't want to see me anymore."

Fred was stricken.

"I know it's - ugly."

"Ugly? Nothing about you is ugly."

"Fred, my face-"

"No, listen to me, Y/N. It's not ugly. It's not gross. You're not any of those things, are you kidding?" he said, grabbing your hands. "You're beautiful. All the time, in the morning, afternoon and night. You're beautiful in charms and transfiguration and care of magical creatures. You were beautiful yesterday and you're beautiful today and you'll be even more so tomorrow." He stopped suddenly, looking down at your joined hands. His cheeks had turned bright red.

"Smooth, Freddie," came George's voice, from the sofa behind them.

"Shove OFF," exclaimed Fred, growing more red by the second. Heat filled your own cheeks.

"It's skin, Y/N. That's all it is."

"Okay," you said tightly, trying not to cry.

Fred breathed out, his hair shifting in response. His corded arms pulled you tight to his chest. You breathed him in. He smelled sweet and rough, like burning caramel.

He thought you were beautiful.

You smiled into his shirt.

<3<3<3

tag list: @msmimimerton

if you’d like to be added to a tag list, please ask ! for in general or for specific characters, i don’t mind

#fred wealsey fic #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley #harry potter imagine #fred Weasley imagine #fred Weasley x reader #reader insert #reader has acne #reader is an unreliable narrator #reader x fred Weasley #fred Weasley fanfic #fred Weasley fluff #hurt/comfort #Fred weasley x reader

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muffindaddystyles · 4 years ago

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KISMETS.

Harry Styles x fem!reader.

Slow burn, platonic love and jealousy clićhes.

Fluff! Fluff! Fluff!

Frenemies and dad!harry.

Author's Note: The concept's kinda weird but if you've watched F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Phoebe Buffay carrying child for someone. You've got it my pal!

MASTERLIST LETS TALK! PART 2 PART 3 PART 4

"Can ya stop breathing like, THAT!?" She whisper yells twisting to give him a sharp glare full of spleen elbow poking at his side abs, "Like what!?" He half squeaks peering down at her with doe eyes palms flat at sides to convey his surprise.

"Like a train engine whistling -- it's annoying." She mutters rolling her eyes and turning back to listen to instructor.

"Now, I can't even breath without ye' comin' fo' me throat?" He grits with a kink of brows and when she confirms with a no --- He gasps dramatically. It's gonna be a long journey of Hell for them. Harry hates her hormones. Little bitches.

Y/N is carrying a baby for Harry and his girlfriend --- but something went downhill.

Twinkling droplets of crystal rain pelts against the bricked road subsiding harsh noises of surrounding but a nettled groan caught everyone's attention ‐‐‐ stares turning in direction. Have you ever wanted to just disappear under a warm invisible cloak and enjoy the drollery aspects of life without worrying? Because this is what Y/N wants at the moment as she stands under the bus stop shelter with few people beside her and the british showers starts pouring mocking at her for not carrying an umbrella with her.

Everyone leaves when the bus didn't arrive — who remains behind's Y/N huffing and pouting wishing for rain to stop. When it didn't she muttered a 'fuck it' before risking catching a cold and stepping under the pitter patter with her books atop her head for less damage.

Trying to punch in the passcode of society's gate with shivery fingers perhaps it opens before that startling her wet-y self. Similar car drives near her and a head pops in from inside with his big goofy smile and crinkles by his charming eyes, "Ni!" She exclaims pushing away the drippy hair sticking to her lips with her pinky.

"Pet you're gonna catch a cold. Want me to drop ya?" Niall kinda yells over the rain's loudness. She sighs fog whirling infront of her. Shoves her hand in her trench coat's pocket to seek for heat instead it's all icky and drenching.

"No it's just a tiny walk away. I'll manage — call me will tell ya how my class went." She waves him looking at him from her shoulder while rushing away towards the most elegant house in the block. Niall gives her a thumbs up from before getting out of sight and she tries to hop over the puddles of water to make it to doorsteps.

The water she brings from outside pooling at the dark timber floor - it trails behind her past the pink door as she rushes jumpy-ly where the most hot's in the house and apparently it's more than she expected, "ouch. ouch my eyes!!" She screams covering them at the sight of Harry butt naked pinning his girlfriend against the wall near fire place. Her face turning into a tomato at the horrendous raid but she seems pissed and well . . displeased that Y/N ruined a mind boggling orgasm for her.

Before, they could disattach from eachother to unravel their humiliation Y/N jogged up to attic into the guest room slamming her forehead against the door to knock away the embarrassment. She always barges in Harry's house without announcing but sometimes she forgets he isn't alone everytime his girlfriend comes to live by every two weeks (it's his fault too that he never locks the main door as anytime anyone's coming at his place). Changes into clothes she forgets at her visits, tries to dry her hair with a towel that no-more smells like Harry but expensive fabric softeners and has a pep talk for a minute to show herself down infront of them.

Instinctive voices coming from the Kitchen and she pads towards it. They act like nothing happened. Like Harry wasn't dick deep into Chessie moments ago. Harry ushers her to barstool and hands her a cuppa tea moving on with a kiss to her head. It still gives her butterflies even though how many sense awakening scoldings she gave to herself at 3 ams.

"'M sorry." She squeaks with a wavering smile wrapping her palms around the mug. Harry cackles softly brushing the underbelly of his nose as Chessie cordinated the cutlery drawer, "'s okay moppet. we finished our business when ye' left." Y/N almost choked on her hot beverage gulping it down when Chessie shocked gasp throwing little socksies that were laying ontop of the counter at Harry. Are those of toddler? Adam's out of town so there's no way it could be his daughter's socks. Maybe Chessies's one of friend's?

"Should've called me t' pick y'up. Niall was loafin' around too —- wear it you're turnin' blue, pet." He comes back with a swarmy chunky knitted sweater Anne gifted him at his birthday handing it to Y/N and sitting opposite of her pulling Chessie with her wrist into his lap clearing his throat to bring Y/N's attention back from eyeing the socks on the floor. Her eyes flicker between them chest tightening at the love and glow that radiates from Harry when he looks at her.

No. She's not jealous. Mightyyyy bit yeah –- cause she could never be this lucky to have someone as Harry. He's the most caring towards her since ten years been her compass to the home she wanted, her anchor saving her from sinking and the sixth sense of a blind to her. In fact she thinks he's her soulmate and not every soulmates needs to be romantically involved some could watch them growing beautiful in love. Y/N's doing it. Admiring the maturity of his life with the person that truly makes him enough---or she thinks so.

"How was ye'r meditation class?" Harry asks (she took a semester off as she was unable to haul the burden'; Harry convinced her how her health should be her first priority) breaking a cookie in two giving half of it to Chessie who thanks him with a kiss in return, "Was good been feelin' great!" She chirps pulling the sleeves of the sweater that's drenched in cinnamon vanilla-y smell with lingers of what comes of as Chessie's scent. She assumes they cuddled shit loads.

To subside the gnaw in her brain down she finally asks the question pointing at the sock that nobody gave a heed to pick up, they stop chewing looking at eachother to come up with something. Chessie's face distressed knowing Harry wouldn't hide it from Y/N. He tells her everything and sometimes it could be too personal to share.

"Erm. . I bought 'em — 'cos. . " Harry stammers and Y/N smacks her hand atop her mouth avoiding from giving a shocked reaction, "Oh my goodness ye' guys are pregnant!?" It was enough to make Chessie flinch and hike down Harry's lap.

"No! 'S not what ye'r thinkin'." He shakes his head making Y/N confused. "Then you bought it fo' your fingers? Cause that's the only body part it could fit." She teases him to break through the insight tension around and he chuckles shaking his head grabbing Chessie's hand rubbing her knuckles how he used to when Y/N's anxious and over the edge.

"We want to have a family." His words low as he looks at Chessie but she shrugs in return as 'in it is what it is'. Y/N stomach twisted at that. The thought that one day He's gonna have a family of his own and the little bubble that Y/N would be privy to made her throat dry. Because she has no-one despite Harry and he deserves the whole world not just baby keeping Y/N everytime.

"So . .? What's the problem?" She raises her brows looking between them noticing Harry's fingers fiddle with the flower tea mats, "There are complications from Chessie's side." Chessie sighs in disappointment and Y/N ponders over the idea, clocks working and spindling wildly in her mind.

"I could do that for you guys — since I took a semester off --–" She puts the offer nervously and both of their jaws went slack Harry with an adoring grin while Chessie in hitting shock. "--Erm we could go through a traditional surrogacy."

"Are you sure?" Chessie asks squeezing her shoulder and Y/N nodded taking both of their hands, "Anything for ye' guys!" Harry's eyes glossing over and he leaves his spot sprawling his arms calling for her, "Gimme a hug pet. Life saver ye're - we're gonna take care of ye." They group hug tightly and excitedly.

Sometimes actions could speak much more than words because the lies that words hold could ruin the great bondages.

. . .

They went through the medical procedure two days after Her, Harry and Chessie being guided by their acquired doc. She was nervous and sweaty but Harry's presence beside her soothed out any negativity that was building inside her brain. By womb the babies would be Harry's and Y/N but legally Chessie's and Harry. She's just wishing that everything goes alright cause that happiness of them is million worthy to her.

People might call her stupid and brainless for going through sickness, crankiness, back pains and the pain during labour just to give those babies to someone else (she's too afraid to call them her's cause she knows her emotional attachments could be very destructive) but she loves Harry and love makes you do those thingies.

At the moment she's on the toilet seat eyes bolted shut counting threes with the pregnancy test in her wavering fingers. "Please it better work." A squeal of surprise leaves her lungs when her eyes fell over the two positive lines quickly dragging her panties over she tumbled outside where everyone's waiting for her.

"You guys are pregnant!!" Sounds dumb right? She announces loudly. Harry's and Chessie's heads perked up while everyone cheered beers spilling from the rims. She flashed grins to each one of them splitting her gaze away from Harry giving Chessie a celebratory kiss.

"Thank you. Oh my god, love! Can't belive it." Harry held her from shoulders giving her a toothy smile and it puts her off that Chessie didn't say anything just a nod along Harry. "Me too." She breathes out as he leads her to sofa sitting her cautiously. "We'll visit the doctor tommorrow." He reassures popping his head from Sarah's neck as she hugged him tight.

"We're gonna have a little Y/N and Harry running and pooping it's nappies soon." Everyone went silent. A grimace on Y/N and Chessie's face. Niall doesn't know when to shut up does he? Y/N's gonna strangle him alive. Harry laughed out aloud not caring about the thick tension in room, "I'll rip ye'r hair if you'll turn me baby into a golf freak Niall." His baby.

Niall raises his hands in defence, "No guarantees Harold."

. . .

They had a check-up and Y/N indeed's pregnant. Harry's over the moon. Kissing her forehead. Thanking her for millionth time – to the point she told him to let her watch telly in peace and shut up. Chessie bringing her organic vegan dishes that Y/N isn't a fan of but eats nevertheless under Harry's stern gaze. "'S not about them only I want ye' to be healthy too, pet. Can't be selfish now can I?" He'd insist.

When she'd be sick he'd be at her side giving her back rubs while Chessie stood at the doorframe of washroom. Y/N thinks since she's pregnant her womanly instincts has gotten more sharp as she sensed something's off between the pair.

He'd be at her flat early morning waking her up to have a morning walk with him not giving in her grunts and whines. Who'd want to leave their crispy warm bed to just be out in the cold? A fool like Harry only. Making her brekkie afterwards as a reward giggling and massaging her shoulders when she'd gobble down food like a greedy squirrel, "Easy there love. 'S all yours."

Chessie's back at LA. They had a small argument because Harry wants her to be participating in all of this as much as he's. But, her priorities are not set for this. They never were.

Y/N was at Harry's place nibbling onto chocolate cupcakes Anne sent specifically for her with a note ("my grandchild shouldn't be privy to their Nana's bakin' skills all my love to Y/N." along a winky smiley) when she spilled cold milk all over her nooked tee-shirt. Harry gave her his clothes to change into and baby wipes but she warded him with a scoff that water exists. She has become more feisty with each passing day.

Was discarding the tee when her gaze fell over the sveltest of bump in the mirror taking her breath away. It makes her realize it's all real. She never touches her belly in fear if she'd she will never stop. Now, when the pads of her fingers skim alongs the skin it strips shivers down her spine. She always wanted this. Not in this scenario though. Shaking her head of the thoughts she slips Harry's hoodie over it climbing down the stairs and it causes Harry to snap his head in alert. He stops chopping the carrots spinning to see Y/N standing feet away from him.

"My baby bump's showing." Her voice almost a whisper and it widens Harry's pupils as his hands fell in air midway between them hesitant to reach her, "Can I see?" She bobs her head shyly cheeks blazing red while revealing the bump for Harry to see. It's not like he hasn't seen her before. He has. But, this's more intimate than all of that. It made him fall on his knees. He's a sensitive person in general. Pure from heart but during this period it seems like he's pregnant not Y/N which's quite amusing too.

"She's beautiful." His gaze full of adoration. "She?" Y/N furrows her brow with a smile. He bobbed his head with a grin, "Think so our baby's gonna be she." Now that's the problem cause Y/N doesn't know which ours he's talking about.

"My pregnancy instincts says it's he." He scoffs, "Bet!?" She rolls her eyes forwarding her fist to do the hand shake they do while betting, "If you loose your pink macbook gonna be mine." They solid the deal with their traditional shake.

"Can I touch it?" Harry's asks politely. When she gives him permission he spreads his warm palms flat against her tummy tongue tied with the affection boozing in his veins for the baby that's not out in the world yet. Y/N eyes flutters and her fingers twitches by her sides from carding them into his hair. This's wrong she scolds herself. Her hormones all over the place.

"You wanna send a picture to Chessie?" At this his lips thinned and he gave her a curt nod standing up to fetch his phone, "Sure. But she might be busy..." on the verge of spitting his words in vile.

. . .

Y/N was reading a crime mystery book. Stroking the side of her baby bump carelessly. Cosy in her blanket hoodie telly murmuring in the distance. "Your dad's taste in books is shit, innit?" She peers down with a smile. It's the first time she's talking to them. "We'll read loads of good books together so that when you'll grow up – I could know what to gift you on Christmas." She tries to grab more popcorns from the bowl but it's empty. "Wanna be best aunt out there!!"

"Will you miss me? As much as I'll when we'll be separated?" Tears well up at her waterline. She huffs through her nose running her hand down her belly several times. It's coming; the breakdown she was toiling for days. "I know it sucks I cant be your mommy." Her cravings kicking in and all she want's a strawberry oreo icecream.

"Oh no. Seriously? I'm sad and ye' lil bean want an ice? Let's call your daddy and see what he got." She rings him and he picks up on the third one. Voice groggy from the sleep. She wants to feel bad but she isn't when all her taste buds could think of is strawberry flavour.

"'M cravin' strawberry ice-cream bad. . . Is it possible for ya to bring one?" He's already throwing duvets off his body reaching for his phone and wallet, "No worries pet I'll be there in tick."

"What the fuck Harry? It's three in the mornin'." Chessie groaned from beside him throwing pillow at her face. "We already stored her fridge with alot of food — " She squints about to change the side.

"She's carrying a baby for us Chess. Ye should know better since ya didn't wanted to." She sits up like bullet folding her arms against her chest.

"Thank you for throwing it at my face, H." He doesn't even spare her a glance walking outside and Chessie wants to scream at the top of her lungs. Why did she even agreed to this?

. . .

When he bought her ice-cream she throws herself in his arms kissing his cheek and he giggled in return feeling good when her bump pressed against him. They ate ice-cream with a bantering mess discussing names of the babies, the one that Chessie and Harry decided, him telling her about the little onesies they bought hearing that Y/N stood up taking out a little bag from the chests of drawers.

"I hope you wouldn't mind." She mutters showing him the lil knitted gloves and Harry slid his palm above her's wrapping them snugly, "I don't want ye' to think ya can't love on 'em 'cos after all it's ye'r womb they belong too." Her lip wobbles at his words and she stuffs her face against his chest fisting the hem. It fred away butterflies inside Harry. He sucka his lip. He shouldn't be acting like this. He has a girlfriend that he's gonna have a baby with. They're happy or atleast he thinks so.

They've been bestfriend for years and those feelings never drowned him. Is it because now she's having his babies? Maybe? Harry tries to convince himself.

When he looks down Y/N's drooling onto his shirt deep into slumber. He pecks her hair slipping his arms under her to hold her firmly against his chest. Laying her on the bed tucking her under blankets.

. . .

It sounds like multiple thuds as doctor hovered the ultrasound device over her gelled cover belly. Her belly growing way faster than it should. Her gaze glued at the ceiling fingers crossed. Harry and Chessie holding hands tight gazes fixed at the screen both of them confused at the disoriented image. They all were on the edge of their seats waiting for their turns. Y/N wished that someone could give her a huge warm hug to soothe her nerves down. But, in the first place she shouldn't be worried about the gender as it's none of concern but theirs. It's getting hard day by day.

"It's twins!" Doctor announces chirply getting a wave of silence in return. But, soon the room filled with happy giggles and gasps of Harry as he went to hug Chessie who's expressionless from shock. Y/N pouts wishing it was her. Smiling at doctor when she squeezed her hand in consolation. She's frightened though. How could she deliver two babies? To deal with the roughness that comes along them? Gonna be pretty hectic.

"We hit a jackpot, innit?" He grins down at her kissing Chessie's cheek last time before leaning down to hug her. "Gonna be super carin' with ye' now." Y/N gives a pat to his back in return awkwardly eyeing as Chessie left the room hastily.

. . .

It rakes against the wood harshly as Chessie glided keys of Harry's house towards him without a word. He puts the baby guide book aside arching his brow, "I can't do this anymore. I want an out." Dread. Seeping down Harry's bones.

Guarding himself down he grits, "What do ya mean you want an out? We agreed with full consent of yours Chessie." She shakes her head furiously.

"I didn't sign up for two of 'em Harry I could barely be there for one!!" He puts his elbows on his knees head lowering, "But you wanted to have a family with me didn't ye'?" His eyes tearing and she throws her head back in annoyance finding it difficult to make him understand.

"No. No – No. You wanted a family! Because of your continuous protests I gave in. Told you I wasn't ready for all of this bullshit now we are here." She emphasises. Harry stands up from his seat towering her pointing a finger at her.

He's rageous. Could burn this house down. How could she be so mean? Cowarding back at the last moment.

"Don't call it bullshit." He spits full of venom for the woman he mighty love and she snaps her head other way, "Congrats she finally ruined us and couldn't be more happy – now that she's having your mother fuckin' babies." He stumbles back knocking the coffee table lungs congesting.

"Don't drag her in all of this she's innocent." She laughs ironically looking him square in eyes yelling like a maniac, "Gave her your sperms now you can't hold back from fucking her. I knew it. You were fucking her behind my back weren't you?" She thinks of him like that? A cheater? He loved her and she always thought he was cheating her.

"Don't yell. I don't want to see ye'r cruel face when I come back home." He tries not to croak mustering strength to walk away from her. Exposing himslef to freezing weather locking himself in his car and crying his heart out. Sky crying along him. He punches the steering wheel brutally shouting "why's?" Head falling atlast as he thought of all his dreams shattering at his feet.

She caged him instead of giving him shelter. Replaced the butterflies he used to get from her with a burning hell in his pit, should've been mother of his children now she's just an ex.

The excruciating part is how he's gonna tell Y/N about this? She'll be crushed.

. . .

"Oh my god . . ." It was the roar of thunder that startled her but something else took her attention away. That tinsy kick protruding the taught skin of her belly, ". . . which one of you?" She was extra happy today. It's swimming in her head. It's just a thought but sharing it with Harry wouldn't kill someone. She wanna ask him if she could've one of the babies. It's just she's too much into the moment that she forgot she still have a degree to complete. A career to pursue and a life she always wanted.

When there's a knock at door she tries to stand up with the support of armrest a hand on her back. A gasp falling from her mouth at the sight of Harry's clothes soaked and another when he looks up with bloodshot eyes. Tears dried cheeks and heaving chest seeming utterly devastated.

"Pet what happened!?" She grabs him from elbow pulling him inside and he falls onto his knees smashing his cheeks against her showing tummy -- a sob recking through him, "Harry you're scarin' me. Tell me what happened is everything okay?"

"Chessie don't want these babies - sh-she didn't wanna ruin her career but atlast agreed . . . n-n now she doesn't want 'em 'n wants an out." He stutters. White noise deafening Y/N's ears and she steps back with expressions as if she's scared. Horrified of the future.

"It means she never had complications? She just didn't wanted her body to go through all of this." When Harry didn't fill in to her inquiry she flopped onto sofa from the shock shoving her face into her palms giving out a cry of hurt at her stupidity.

"God. I'm such an idiot!" He shakes his head crawling towards her with sad eyes and lil hiccups, "No please don'tcha say that. We'll figure it out yeah? Never wanted this t'happen." God. How bad he wants her to assure him that it'll be alright.

"You'll figure out what, huh!? Leaving them just like she did!?" Swear Harry felt a dagger jabbing it's way into his heart more upsetting tears spilling down his throat. "I hate you guys. They're none of your babies from now on. . ."

"Leave." She orders him wiping her tears roughly with the sleeve of her jumper. Running out of breath with each sniffle. Raises her hand stopping him to step forward and protest, "I said leave before I make you!!" He nods inhaling breath of remorse looking at the ceiling for a second then to her.

"Before, that want ya t'know. I still want 'em. They're mine. How could I not? love 'em. Hope ya'll forgive me." Then it's just sobs of Y/N taking over the buzz of telly as the door ticks. He didn't leave though. He's too afraid to. His back sliding against her door knees closing against his chest letting it all dawn upon him. His green luscious orbs hooding with sadness and the fluff of his curls.

Dunno if Y/N would be able to forgive him.

. . .

He woke up to a boot nudging to his thigh squinting up to find Niall stating down at him with consoling eyes. Poor Harry slept in the hallway. His neck sore and limbs stoned.

"Heard it 'lad. Was suspicious with Chessie long way." He helps Harry stand up patting his shoulders, "Y/N called ye'?" He grogs rubbing his eye with knuckles. When Niall confirms he quips with pleading eyes in a low whisper knowing he'll get his hair ripped if that furious little mama bunny will find him outside.

"Ye' think she'll forgive meh?" Niall chuckles to light up the situation, "'course H. Do ya think our pet's that ruthel—" He bites his tongue. Harry's gaze following the snap of his neck when the door opened revealing Y/N in a lilac chunky sweater. Puffy eyes and swollen lips. Harry feeling like a dickhead at her condition. It's all his fault. Then their eyes fall at the piping hot cuppa of tea in her hand.

With a stoic face she hands it to Harry and pulls Niall inside slamming the door at curly boy's face. So, she knew he was there sharing a door with her the whole night.

. . .

"Isn't it a good thing thou, love?" Niall smiles. He's chill in all of this. Watching it unwrap. They were meant for eachother Niall thinks so, "You wanted one of 'em and ended up havin' a whole bean can." She groans throwing her peach plushie at his chest. A smile swirming up her lips at his silly statement now that she's more stable less sad.

"You're the absolute worst, Ni!" He holds her cold hands tugging her close to make her look, "Want ya to forgive H. He did nothin' wrong, pet." When she pouts ruffling the silk strands of her rug with her feet he grabs her chin.

"Remember how happy he was? Don't go mad on him yeah?" She bobs her head not meeting his gaze. Meanwhile, there's knock at the door and Niall takes it laughing to himself softly at the box of doughnuts with a note.

"What is it?" He's already flopping beside her hooking his nimble finger around the white doughnut with rainbow sprinkles, "If I'd have known pregnant ladies gets treated this way. Would be havin' one baby every year." She smacks him in belly and unlatches the note reading it with a sucked lip.

Ye'r antenatal class's tommorrow. Don't forget to take ye vitamins :)

How gentle, calm and optimistic Harry could be needles her some.

. . .

Harry's waiting for her in the car fiddling with the radio. He isn't gonna lie. He's been going through a heartbreak. To cope with it he wants to accompany Y/N in her parent craft classes. When she waddles towards his car cosied up in a yellow baggy sweater and a cardigan Harry remembers she stole from him ages ago he mighty scrunched his nose in adoration at her cuteness.

Her nose pink and cheeks flushing as she slips into her seat, "Can you stop bringin' me stuff. I know how to take care of myself." She nips at him when he forwards her a kale smoothie. He doesn't seem to mind. Both, of them knows very well she's trying to avoid drinking it. She finds it yucky!

"Wanna take care of ya'll is all." He mumbles putting it in her side's cup holder. Ya'll .She regrets it instantly. Damn his puppy eyes!

. . .

"Mr. Styles and . . . Miss Y/N." The instructor calls them and they both raises their hand awkwardly as if in elementary school. "You're the parents of twin right?" She asks. Y/N wanted to say that their supposed to be parent ran off from the fear. But, she couldn't. Could never. It'll be like rubbing salt to his wounds. Bestfriends don't do that shit even in their most anger.

"Yes." She confirms. When Harry didn't. Scared if he might say something wrong. "Ok then! Lay your mats n' have a seat." Harry guides her with the little of his hand on her back. Her shoulder nudging his taut chest, and goosebumps pimples at her skin when his fingers brushes the side of her belly as he helps her sit down.

She takes an all rounder of the room and none of the parents looks like they're here to prepare for war unlike them. She shyly waves at the two mothers beside her and Harry twinges his lip equally flustered as her.

They start with relaxation and breathing exercises. Telling Y/N to let herself loose in Harry's arms. She fumbles with the hem of her sweater when his fingers gingerly winked at her sides and the lull of his breath hit her earlobe.

"Like a train engine whistling -- it's annoying." She mutters rolling her eyes and turning back to listen to instructor. "Now, I can't even breath without ye' comin' fo' me throat?" He grits with a kink of brows and when she confirms with a no --- He gasps dramatically. He hates her hormones little bitches.

It's gonna be a long journey of Hell for them.

. . .

"Are you hungry?" He asks turning the heat on knowing how cold her feet could get in the span of seconds. She huffs trying to buckle her belt and it squirms a fond smile out of him at her cute effort to be put in place due to her bump. If he'd coo. She'd rip him into tiny bits. It's better if he gazes away.

"Does it mean emptying your pocket?" She arches her brow sinking into her seat. "Bitso. . " He chuckles softly drumming at the steering wheel.

"Then I'd love to." She adds with a smirk. Clasping her hands atop her heart outta excitement. It makes him shake his poof of hickorey curls at her silliness.

They end up taking a takeout of onion loaded cheese burgers. Greasy fries. An iced-tea and a box of cookies from Babara's shop a block away from Harry's house.

"Wanna choose fo' ye'rself?" He asked her before going inside and she denied with a worried expression. Not knowing how she'll explain all of this to Babara who's her one of the good friends from UNI. Harry respects that. If she isn't ready to talk about it he isn't gonna pressurize her. They've been dodging the serious talk since she let him take to parental classes. Knows one day or another they've to decide how it's all gonna work.

. . .

Good food can make you more high than actual drugs. Licking their fingers off now they feel all sleepy and lazy sitting on the comfortable sofa watching telly with hooded eyes.

Harry's cheek smushed adorably against her baby bump ears tuned into what his babies are talking about.

"You know what? 'S not about winners or loosers. Bu' I won." She bubble hiccups slumping deeper with sugar rush hitting her. "Huh? Harry mumbles eyes drooping. The cotton balls of snowflakes glittering outside, collecting at the window and foging them up.

"I get to have babies of my bestfriend and this nice foodddd — 'n what did Chessie got? No babies and no happy feeling of being their mother." Harry shots up from his snooze blinking up at her and she quickly takes it back regret eating her alive, "'m sorry it slipped."

"No!!" He almost shouts cupping her cheeks making her look at him. His dimples deeps that someone could scoop them like an ice-cream. He gives her an eskimo kiss that makes her veins run with glittery blood.

"I wan' ye' to be the mother of me babies." No hesitation. No dithering. Just him asking for the tinsy bit of her heart. For her forgiveness. For the love they've kept blind eye for years. "We'll figure this out, yeah?" He murmurs their lips brushing and breaths kissing. Pulling back with a forehead kiss.

She lives for forehead kisses makes her shallow tin heart explode with glittery firecrackers.

She nods to give him the affirmation that she wants what he wants.

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