#SILENT SERVICE II | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lyinginmeadow · 2 months ago

Text

Breakaway II. | hockey!Azriel x reader

It is finally here! Thank you all for being patient, hope the wait was worth it <3

Part I. Summary: Your brother finds out about your relationship with Azriel and he's less than fond of it. Will he come to terms with it before he ruins his relationship with his best friend and sister?

Word count: 2,7k

Warnings: Rhysand is an asshole in this one (I still love him, tho), swearing, angst, violence

A/N: I gave the reader a name, I couldn't leave her as Y/N, sorry. I tried to tag all of you, but some blogs weren’t found :((

Going on the ice after everything went to shit was not ideal. The whole team was nervous, Cassian tried to make jokes to lighted the mood, but to no avail. Rhysand wasn’t paying any attention to him. But he was pissed. Azriel never saw him this pissed. It was clear as day that the teamwork they had built over the years had just crumbled as if it were a house made of carts. And it was his fault.

‘’What’s the matter, pretty boy? Girl trouble?’’ Taunted Eris while all the players returned to the ice. His eyes flickered between Azriel and the tribunes were you were sitting. You were not looking at him, which made Az even more anxious. Instead, all your attention was on Rhysand who was returning it.

‘’Fuck off.’’ Azriel snarled, not willing to pay him any mind. Eris was trying to get rise out of him. It was how he always played. Usually, Azriel didn’t take the bait but with everything going on, Eris was getting on his last nerve.

‘’Aw, if you need her off your hands, I’ll gladly be of service.’’ He continued. Azriel clench his jaw. Thankful for the puck being dropped in the center to mark the start of the last period, he tried to shake off everything that plagued his mind and focus solely on the game.

The last period was an utter disaster. Rhysand completely ignored every advantage Azriel made. It was becoming absurd. He knew he fucked up by not telling him about the two of you, but this was just Rhysand being Rhysand. Insufferable. Rhysand was his friend and he made it clear that you were off-limits. But Azriel couldn’t help it when it came to you. You were like a breath of fresh air. He couldn’t imagine not being with you, not wanting and loving you.

Rhys loved you and Az knew he would never hold anything against you, except for the lying. Rhys hated lying with his whole heart. All you two wanted was to share something that was exclusively yours. He also knew that you two were just trying to avoid the inevitable which he regretted. The stolen moments now tainted with this ridiculous feud. Worst of all, Azriel didn’t know how you would react to the news and he was terrified. What if you wanted nothing to do with him in order to avoid ruining the relationship with your brother?

As Eris went for the puck, Azriel snapped out of it, flying after him instead, silent as the night. He was quick, but Azriel was quicker. Everyone knew that no one on that damned rink could outskate him. But that didn’t stop Eris from trying. The game was tied, and everyone was on the verge of their seats. Azriel smiled as he neared the player, just as Eris reached the attacking zone, Azriel skated right in front of him and crouched to bodycheck Eris. He went flying right over Azriel landing on the ice with a sickening crunch. ‘’Ups.’’

Eris screamed in pain as he clutched his injured hand. Azriel usually wasn’t one to hurt his opponents, he was not a defenseman, but with everything that went to hell that day, he just couldn’t let Eris mess with his head any more than he already did. Eris finally stood up with the help of his teammates who glared in Azriel’s way, leaving the Cavaliers without one of their best players.

It was a miracle he didn’t get a penalty, but he did get booed by Cavalier’s fans. Technically, the bodycheck wasn’t against the rules. It was just unfortunate how Eris landed on his hand with his whole body weight. Some could say it was his own fault he didn’t know how to stick a landing. But Azriel couldn’t act as if he was sorry, because he simply wasn’t. That bastard deserved it. He played dirty more than once, it was time for him to finally get a taste of his own medicine. Judging by Cassian’s expression he approved. Usually, Cassian was the one to brutally bodycheck his opponents. The nickname Lord of Bloodshed, which he earned from the fans, made Azriel chuckle more than once.

As the puck hit the ice once again, he didn’t wait for Rhys to claim the opportunity instead, when one of the opponents passed the puck, he interjected it, claiming it for himself. He glanced at the clock, realizing there were only ten more seconds in this match. He glided swiftly across the ice, dodging other players as he reached the attack zone he smashed the puck with his stick. It wasn’t the clearest shot, but somehow it bypassed their goalie earning Velaris U a winning point. The horn rang announcing the goal. The tribunes erupted in cheers, but Az didn’t feel like celebrating.

When the Cavaliers went around to congratulate the winning team, Azriel grabbed Eris’s uninjured hand more tightly than was necessary. The player returned to the rink just for the handshakes, which Azriel did not expect. But he guessed that Eris was more of a diplomat than he believed him to be. ‘’Talk about her again, and I will break more than just your wrist.’’ He let go of his hand with a tight smile.

Usually, a win made him feel proud. All the hard work they – he – put in paid off. He loved celebrating with his teammates, and the camaraderie that came with the territory. But there was nothing to celebrate. They barely won and it was his fault.

‘’I hope you packed because you’re benched till the end of the season.’’ Rhys snarled when they left the locker room.

‘’What are you talking about?’’ Azriel whipped his head around to find the source of the interruption. He didn’t want you to be subjected to any of this, even though he knew there was no way around this conversation. That was what got them in this mess. That and Rhys being a complete asshole.

‘’Stay out of this, Velaria.’’ Rhys signed pinching the bridge of his nose. You looked between the two most important people in your life frowning.

‘’You kicked him off the team, didn’t you? Are you serious?’’

‘’Veli…’’ Azriel started. ‘’No, Az. He’s being ridiculous. He can’t do that!’’ You yelled in frustration throwing your hands up.

‘’I can and I already did. And I don’t want you anywhere near him.’’

‘’You can’t boss me around, Rhysand. I’m not your child.’’ She snarled poison seeping through your clenched teeth.

‘’No, but you’re my sister and I will not sit around idly watching you get hurt.’’

‘’I wouldn’t hurt her, ever. And I won’t leave her, not until she says otherwise.’’

‘’You will if you know what’s good for you.’’ They stared each other down. ‘’That’s enough. We’re leaving.’’ You shot daggers in your brother’s direction as you took Azriel’s hand in yours. He looked as if he wanted to object, but you didn’t give him a chance, dragging him out of the stadium.

Mentally drained after last night's shit show, you were grateful for an empty apartment. Azriel went to pick up a few of his stuff from Rhysand’s house leaving you alone with your thoughts. You groaned loudly when you heard the doorbell ringing, so much for a calm morning.

‘’What the actual fuck?’’ Yelled a voice as soon as you opened the door.

‘’Don’t you yell at me. I didn’t want you to find out like this.’’ You turned around after closing the door of your apartment. Thankfully none of your roommates were home to witness this escapade that was undoubtedly about to unfold. Even if you would appreciate the support, you were glad Azriel wasn’t here either. The match was enough of a fiasco that you didn’t want him to be subjected to any of this. Rhysand was your brother and his hissy fits were yours to take care of.

‘’No, Velaria, you didn’t want me to find out at all.’’

’Well, I’m sorry. What else do you want me to say? I mean, look at how you’re reacting. It’s ridiculous. I am my own person, I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. Who are you to tell me, that they are wrong, hm?’’ You were staring him down. This whole situation was blown out of proportion. But that was how Rhysand operated. Nothing concerning him was ever subtle.

‘’He sleeps around, don’t you remember how he went after Mor? Or Elain for that matter? He will dump you once you stop being exciting to him. Which I imagine will be soon now that your little charade is over.’’

‘’He’s your best friend!’’ You exclaimed.

‘’Exactly! That means I know him. You’re my sister. He’s not good for you!’’

‘’You don’t know him like I do.’’ You kept defending Azriel. It hurt you beyond belief to drive a rift between them. Ever since they met, they had been practically inseparable. You never imagined that Rhys could act like this towards someone who he considered important.

‘’He will break your fragile heart.’’

‘’My fragile little heart can take it. But what it cannot and will not tolerate is how you handled last night. I don’t want to see you unless you want to apologize.’’ With that, you pushed gaping Rhysand out of the door and smashed it in his face. He didn’t deserve any more of your time after the stunt he pulled.

The sound of a motorcycle pulled you out of your trance. ‘’Shit.’’ You gathered yourself from the floor wiping the tears and running to the bathroom to spray cold water on your face to help with the puffiness.

‘’I’m back!’’ Azriel yelled as you wiped your hands dry.

‘’Would you believe that he was not there? Also, Cassian says hi. He was very dramatic about me moving out.’’ You could hear the chuckle from your bedroom. He opened the door to your bedroom, his expression falling after taking just one look at you.

‘’Hey, hey…What’s wrong, love?’’ He crossed the room swiftly, his hands gently coming up to your face. You signed at your unsuccessful attempt to hide your emotions from him. He was always great at finding out other people’s secrets.

‘’I would imagine he was not there when he was here.’’ You whispered unwilling to hold his gaze, looking at anything else but him.

‘’What did he say?’’

‘’Pretty much the same as yesterday. He’s such a child, Az.’’ You said in a defeated tone. ‘’I’m so sorry, sweetheart.’’ He caressed your cheek finally making you lift your gaze to him to see the small smile he offered.

‘’No, it’s not your fault. Can we just…Not talk about this? Please. I want some sense of normalcy back.’’ Your tired eyes closed for a second to collect your thoughts.

‘’Well, I did get you something I know you would like before coming back.’’ That made you open your eyes, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

‘’Really?’’ Your eyes shined which in return made his smile grow even bigger. ‘’Mhm.’’ He nodded, turning to pick up the bag off the floor. As he took the items out, a smell of fresh pastries filled the whole room making you melt instantly.

‘’You got me strawberry shortcake?’’ You squealed like a little child on Christmas day.

‘’From your favorite pastry shop.’’

‘’But that’s on the other side of the city.’’

‘’And? I would go to the end of the world just so I could see this smile.’’ Your lips wobbled tears threatening to spill out of the corners of your eyes. You launched at him nearly knocking him to the floor. He laughed catching you in a tight embrace.

‘’Thank you, Az.’’

‘’Don’t mention it.’’ You looked up eyes filled with tenderness reserved just for him.

‘’I love you, you know that?’’ His thumb found your cheek to caress it. ‘’I love you too, sweetheart.’’ He kissed you deeply, and every worry melted away just for a while.

It had been two weeks since the incident at the game and Azriel was still living at your apartment. The girls were not ecstatic at first, but his breakfasts with excellent coffee changed their minds rather quickly. You had fallen into a routine getting used to having him around and waking up next to him. It was nice, you could even imagine yourself one day living with Azriel in quiet suburbs.

‘’Velaria…’’ A voice interrupted the trail of your thoughts as you moved through the crowded halls of the campus. ‘’No, I don’t want to hear it.’’ You continued walking trying to ignore him. The day started great and you intended to keep it that way without Rhysand interfering.

‘’Please-, come on, stop. Please. You were right, okay? You were right and I want to apologize.’’ You halted, your eyebrows shooting up. Rhys had a personal problem with apologizing so this came as a surprise.

‘’I’m listening.’’ You sized him up not willing to give him anything for free.

‘’I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. It wasn’t my place. I shouldn’t have said those things about Azriel. He is my friend and if anyone is right for you, it would be him.’’ He stopped as if he was gathering his thoughts. ‘’I…I want you to know, that I do trust your judgment. I was just scared. You’re all grown-up but to me, you’ll always be my little sister, who needed my protection from spiders and snails.’’ Rhysand, unlike you, always looked everyone in the eyes. It may have been an intimidation tactic in most cases. But not to you, never to you, in this case, you believed he wanted you to see the regret in his eyes. And it worked because your own softened unwillingly.

‘’Rhys…You know I will always need you. But this whole thing. You can’t do that. Ever.’’

‘’I know. And I am incredibly sorry I did, I can’t take it back even if I wanted to. And trust me, I wish I could.’’ You simply nodded thinking over his apology. ‘’I think I still need time. It hurt me what you said.’’ Resting a hand on his shoulder you gave him a light squeeze.

‘’Could you ask Azriel to stop by? I want to apologize to him, too. But I can’t seem to get hold of him. It’s like he knows how to blend in with shadows.’’ You chuckled. Azriel did have that superpower. He told you he was trying to stay out of Rhysand’s radar to not cause a bigger rift between the two of you.

‘’I’ll try my best. If you promise to let him be on the team again.’’ You bargained knowing fully well that Azriel would probably refuse a couple of times, but eventually, he would relent. He missed the rink and his teammates way too much to not come back.

‘’That’s a given. I shouldn’t have kicked him off in the first place.’’

‘’Exactly. Now I would love to chat, but I do need to get to biophysics, or the professor will kick my ass.’’

‘’We wouldn’t want that.’’ He chuckled. You hesitated for a little bit before offering him a quick hug. ‘’I missed you.’’ He smiled, he wasn’t willing to let you go, but you weren’t there quite yet, so he reluctantly let go. ‘’I missed you, too.’’ He returned the sentiment as you hurried through the halls to get to your seminar.

The last game of the season was in full swing. The winner of this game would take home the title of Champions and they were so close to claiming it. We were winning only by one goal courtesy of Rhys, but there was still one minute left and the opposing team was eager to score to at least tie the game, leaving their net empty. They were close to scoring, but then Cassian interjected their shot sending it to the middle where Rhysand was. He literally dived for the puck hitting the ice and barely pushing it with his stick in Azriel’s way who skated as if his life depended on, the other player right on his skates. He didn’t hesitate as he shot the puck into an empty net. The crowd erupted in cheers as did the commentators.

‘’They did it!’’ You squealed in cheer, jumping up, and hugging Nesta who was now on her feet as well. She smiled proudly hugging you back. ‘’Thankfully. I couldn’t handle their whining if they didn’t.’’ She rolled her eyes as you laughed. Looking back to the ice when Rhys hugged Azriel and Cassian ruffing their hair. You smiled fondly. Everything turned out great in the end.

Taglist: @lilah-asteria , @fourthwing4ever , @acourtofbatboydreams , @kylaisra , @starswholistenanddreamsanswered, @honethatty12 , @acrawford6173

#azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #acotar #acotar hockey au #meadowwrites

229 notes · View notes

drunkenkissesatdusk · 4 months ago

Text

ARE YOU FLIRTING?

pairings — simon (dinner in america) x reader

warnings — swearing, simon may get a little mean idk yet, finally not an already established relationship, a little oblivious reader and a pretty blatant simon, tiny bit of projecting (just to say the reader likes riot grrl music), one mention of smoking (and a scene where they do smoke weed i’m sorry it’s a part of his character forgive me please)

summary — working at a record shop was supposed to be fun and relaxed, yet you (specifically you) have a regular customer who sometimes asks for recommendations and seems to have a staring problem.

notes — okay so hey… i watched dinner and america… this is my literal longest thing written sorry

i. the first time you met Simon

━━━━━━━ IT WAS QUIET, the silent hum of music flowing in from the vinyl player. it was connected to speakers, filling what would have been an unbearable silence, which would conjure a consistent ringing in your ears. you didn’t want that.

you were used to the dragging and seemingly endless Mondays at the record shop. most days did seem quiet, minus the days there would be some real shows of people who can’t sell physical copies and people who can’t sing. you hated it, but you loved working with music.

besides, who’d pass up being able to play whatever record they wanted through the entire store?

you wouldn’t.

flipping through a comic you grabbed from the dwindling comic section, the door rang. briefly looking up, a man walked through. he seemed pissed off, but clearly wasn’t mad at you.

you could see the top of his head at the punk rock section, and didn’t let your gaze linger. the comic - what one you chose, you didn’t seem to remember the title of - was somewhat capturing.

you didn’t like the female character, you didn’t like the male character either (you didn’t like any characters), but you had nothing better to do. if you had been in high school still, you’d probably be doing homework hunched over the front counter.

“excuse me?” you looked up, a police officer with his shiny badge was standing in front of you, and you could see the guy crouched on the floor. you’d never lied to an officer of the law, but everyone starts somewhere.

“hey; what’s up? we just got a new order of Metallica, if you’ve got somewhat good music taste.” you grinned. the officer didn’t, and your face fell again.

“i’m lookin’ for this man.” he slapped a flyer poster down, you looked at the page. Simon, whoever he was, was clearly in need of a haircut.

“so’s a haircut.” you scoffed, sliding it forwards and shaking your head, “sorry dude, no Simon’s here.” the officer glared at you and looked to a corner suddenly.

your eyes flashed to who you’d guess to be Simon, crouched behind a rack. hurriedly, you waved for him to lay flat. dropping your hair seconds before the officer saw, he gave you a hard nod and left.

opening the employees only entrance to behind the counter, it wasn’t hard to find him laying on the ground. “i’m guessing you’re Simon?” you hummed, standing over him with your arms crossed over your chest.

“who are you?” he spat. after a brief introduction, you walked away from him. sliding to the riot grrl section, your hands seemed to automatically find a Bikini Kill album. you grinned at walked back behind the counter.

you didn’t see Simon afterwards, he’d left out of the front entrance and walked somewhere. you were reading your comic again.

ii. second time meeting him, and he stays longer.

━━━━━━━ FRIDAYS, the only days that your manager opened the stage in the back of the building for live performances. typically it was packed, and you’d have to remove a few drunk teenagers and break up a few couples from having sex right then and there, but it seemed emptier than before.

you found out that quickly that you’d spoken too soon, as a flood of people came in and the back door bands used buzzed. you groaned internally - and externally - and opened the door. flashing your customer service smile, you pointed them to the back.

there was a small fluster of background noise after everyone went to the back and flooded that area.

you already missed your silence.

“hey, you the worker from Monday?” Simon, familiar in the second cluster of people, asked you when he separated from the hoard. you nodded, biting back a yawn and cracking your back when you finally stood up straight.

“not gonna go listen t’the band?” you slurred as you fought back a yawn again.

“nah, not yet. those assholes don’t know how to play.” Simon scoffed. you grinned tiredly.

“almost every band that plays here doesn’t know how to. i wish we sold alcohol here, i’d love to drink right now.” you hummed, tapping your hand against the table. “or coffee.” you muttered. the muttered phrase was meant for just you, but Simon seemed to have heard.

he didn’t say anything else, spinning around and walking to the back.

iii. meeting after rude customers

━━━━━━━ YOU DIDNT REALLY REMEMBER what day it was. but you were standing behind the same counter like before, as you did nearly every day of the week.

“excuse me?” the woman was blond, wearing high-heel stilettos and a short pink skirt and matching juicy couture top, “you sold my son this, and he is not allowed to listen to whatever soon-to-be-drug-dealer drugs you put in this music. i want a refund.” she annoyingly chewed her gum, loud nails clacking against her glasses when she went to readjust them.

“sorry ma’am, no refunds.” you huffed.

“that’s just… unacceptable! you have to give me a refund.” she exclaimed.

“dude, i literally can’t. im sorry but im not allowed to.” deadpanning her, your eyes - donning a bored look cast through her eyes - met her sunglasses. you could see your expression, uninterested and tired. she lowered them to glare at you.

“i don’t care what the hell your rules say, give me a fucking refund!” she exclaimed.

“dude can you not yell? it’s not in my hands.” you scoffed.

“give me a fucking refund!” she screamed. then the door rang (only you seemed to hear it) and you could hear a slightly familiar thudding footsteps approaching you and this woman and her awkward looking son.

“christ lady, shut the hell up and accept that you aren’t getting a damn refund.” Simon overstepped her, cutting her off and practically forcing her away from you and the counter.

you grinned small, leaning against the back counter. it didn’t take awhile for the woman to give up and walk off. her son silently followed behind her.

a silence followed afterwards, you waited for Simon to say something and you assumed he was waiting for you to say something. neither of you did for a little, and you silently cursed yourself out for not having an album spinning at the moment.

“people do that often?” Simon reached into his pocket, shuffling around in it until he produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. you cringed silently.

“nah, only when i’m super lucky.” you huffed. Simon brought a cigarette to his lips and flicked his lighter on. promptly, he lit the cigarette and took a drag from it.

“call that lucky?” he raised an eyebrow.

“ask a lot of questions?” you retaliated, exiting the front counter and finding yourself in the riot grrl section again. after you found an album, you opened it, prepared it, and put it on the record player.

with music in the background, you let another tsunami of silence flush over the two of you. it wasn’t awkward since you were more focused on unpacking a newer shipment of vinyls.

the store had recent had a flush of customers and bands playing, which helped you get a raise, but didn’t help your slight social awkwardness. you managed to cope by not hanging out with people outside of work anymore.

with your sudden interest switching to the new vinyls, you didn’t notice Simon leaving.

iv. coworkers and being hit on

━━━━━━━ AS MUCH AS IT SEEMED YOU DIDN’T, you did have coworkers. a few high school students and then a few older middle-aged guys. despite that, you didn’t really like most of them.

you liked the peace that came with single-person shifts, which were mostly what was worked, but events that had multiple bands coming up meant there’d be more than one worker.

you didn’t have to go into work until evening.

but that evening, you were displeased to see the most irritating coworker of yours by far. Chase, a middle aged man who still lived with his parents and was “voluntarily celibate”, was consistently hitting on you.

you didn’t like him, and you made it very obvious. sometimes you were so blatant you thought any child could understand you clearly. Chase was worse than a child.

not to mention, you’d grown accustomed to seeing Simon on most of your shifts, and it had been awhile since he’d shown up. you were a little worried, but you didn’t know him all that well regardless.

you still worried.

during the later half of the shift, the one that included the bands showing up and having to spend all your shift breaking up fights, sex, and so much more you never wanted to talk about anymore.

“hey,” Chase said with your name afterwards, “y’know we could go catch a drink after this.” he offered. you stared at him blankly. you clocked in 5 minutes ago.

“no.” you deadpanned, resting your already beginning-to-ache head against the cold counter. Chase was on the other side, but was still talking to you.

when the door opened, and you could hear the familiar stomping of Simon’s boots, you grinned just a little. you could hear him practically storming closer to the front, as Chase continued to blabber on and on about going out with him.

Simon called your name, and you rose your head. “cmon, i wanna talk to you.” he didn’t look at Chase, just at you. you groaned dramatically, going to slam your head down. a hand on the counter where you were gonna let your head thud against stopped it.

Simons hand led to his body, and his eyes were waiting for you to go with him.

so you did.

you had 30 minutes, and this would count for your break instead of you just taking it later on. you’d probably hate yourself for that later on, but now that you weren’t being hit on by Chase and there were no mean customers, you were happy.

“you smoke?” Simon held up a pre-rolled joint.

“no, i haven’t.” you shook your head.

“wanna try?”

“sure.”

twenty minutes later, you were lying on your back on the blanket you laid out to sit on. Simon was beside you, still sitting up. with the affects of the weed passing over you, your sudden need to have your hands on someone else sent your hands to draw shapes on Simon’s back.

he didn’t seem to notice, or care, and let you carry on.

“where have you been lately?” you asked carefully, your words softly spoken with a grin across your face and eyelids drooping to nearly being closed.

“out.” he hummed. you didn’t bring it back up, letting his words be the only explanation. “you got a boyfriend? girlfriend?” he asked. you shook your head, you didn’t have a relationship because most of your time had unfortunately been devoted to the record shop.

“do you?” you asked him right back.

“nah.” Simon mumbled.

“hey, breaks over.” Chase said, his head popped out of the door. you groaned dramatically, letting your body go lax and not moving.

Simon grinned, his head turned to look at you. every other body part was still, except for your hand - which you kept on a consistent movement drawing a star over and over again.

when he stood up, you frowned as your hand dropped. he reached down again, whisking you from the floor and helping you stand.

for the rest of the night, Simon stayed in the shop until you were done with work and about to walk home. without you noticing, he began walking with you and another joint was shared.

once you made it home, you unlocked the door and let you and Simon in. it was an apartment complex, and you led your guest alongside you to the elevators, which you used to find your apartment.

you unlocked that door too, and let Simon in and closed the door behind you both. “y’hungry?” you asked him. he shrugged, which you took as a ‘yes’, so you began making a box of mac ‘n’ cheese.

Simon took it upon himself to explore your apartment in that moment. you didn’t stop him, letting him look around and walk through every room. after some time, you called him back over and handed him the bowl of food, sitting down on the couch.

after eating, you and Simon found yourself basking in the soft glow of the moonlight on your balcony. it was calm, and there wasn’t really anything happening, seeing as it was around 12 a.m. at this point.

you could’ve fallen asleep out there, the guy you brought with you sitting separated from you by the door, a choice he made himself. you didn’t bother telling him he could come closer, if he didn’t want to sit by you originally then he didn’t have to in the end. you were fine with it.

“i’m gonna go, alright?” Simon said after an hour or so of sitting outside with nothing really happening. you nodded, weakly and tiredly waved goodbye.

he was gone after that.

v. record recommendations

━━━━━━━ YOU DIDN’T SEE SIMON FOR a few weeks after that. you didn’t expect to entirely, he was a little flaky like that, but you at least thought he could tolerate you better than dropping from the face of the earth suddenly.

you spent awhile alone at work again, standing behind the register listening to music and doing stupid stuff, it grew more and more boring.

you missed Simon’s presence. it was the one thing that differed from your typical workday which made everything a little more tolerable.

rather than rest on pondering the “what if”s of this whole situation, you’d found a rather interesting pass time. you began listening to more albums in an attempt to expand your music taste.

even that was in vain - it never worked.

after a week, you gave up the final sliver of hope and stopped wishing. you happily grew more adjusted to spending shifts without anyone with you, and it became easier and easier to go to work.

the third day after what you’d dubbed “The Acceptance” (you had nothing better to do, and were now clinging onto anything that could make it all more interesting) the door chimed and you could see the familiar face and hear the familiar stomping.

“hey, welcome in. do you need help finding anything?” if he wanted to be flaky, you could be petty and treat him like a normal customer. you held up a faux smile, throwing on your “customer ready” face.

Simon stared at you, and you patiently waited for him to do something, say something. but he didn’t. he continued to stare, which grew slightly more irritating.

you huffed internally, cussing him out in your mind while you were at it, spinning on your feet and walking to the side where boxes of new shipment lay.

pulling one up to counter, you grabbed the box cutters and opened it. a new set of the most sold album. you didn’t expect these to last awhile.

“excuse me?” a father with his son walked up to the counter closest to where you were opening boxes to restock the inventory.

you looked up, “yeah what’s up?” you set the cutters down and walked to the front counter.

“do you guys have anymore Korn albums? specifically Follow the Leader.” the father asked. you hummed, walking into the back after quickly excusing yourself. walking back out, album in hand, you were surprised to see Simon still standing there.

you gave the father and son the album, checked them out, and sent them out with a smile.

“did you need something, dude?” you finally broke the silence, back turned to Simon as you kept unpacking box after box.

you didn’t hear anything for a minute, and you prepared to say something else. “that genre you like, give me a recommendation for a band.” his voice was rough, and he sounded hesitant.

you turned around again to stare at him, sighing and complying. you gave him a Bikini Kill album (Pussy Whipped, specifically) and checked him out. as you went to say goodbye, he stomped off.

vi. admittance

━━━━━━━ THE NEXT TIME YOU SAW Simon, was a week later. you’d grown even more used to his absence, and no longer felt as bored as you originally did. you felt the same as before Simon showed up.

it’s like he never walked in.

until he did, the first day you met him and now.

“has anyone flirted with you?” he demanded as soon as he got to the counter. you stared at him in mock-awe.

“seriously, Simon? you turn into a disappearing act like you’re goddamn Houdini, but now you can walk in here and use that type of tone?” you rolled your eyes. huffing, you shook your head tiredly.

“has anyone flirted with you?” he repeated his question. your anger subsided into confusion.

“pretty sure, probably not seriously. why?” you hesitated to answer at first, genuine curiosity running through you like your own blood.

“that explains it. when are you off? or going on break?” he asked.

“i get off in an hour, and my break was like twenty minutes ago. why?” you took a step closer to the one thing stopping you from walking straight up to Simon.

he shook is head, “i’ll be back in an hour, then.” he muttered, turning around and stomping out.

the hour that you had left was dragging on suddenly, and your body practically shook with nerves and insecurity and one too many thoughts for the rest of the day.

you tried everything to get rid of it, attempting to listen to music (your thoughts were louder), attempting to read a book (the words moved when you tried focusing, like they were shaking with your nerves), and trying to work on inventory (there was nothing to unbox).

once it was over, and you were clocking out, you were surprised to see Simon driving a blue truck. he waited for you, as you hesitantly approached the car. with a single honk of his car and a mean glare, you got in quickly.

he hardly waited for you to get in before driving off. you didn’t get scared or anything, you just braced yourself and got comfortable in the plush seats.

“who’s truck is this?” you quizzed.

“my friends.” he bluntly spoke, leaving no room for any other conversation.

it didn’t really bother you, the silence was comforting and now that you were with Simon, your previous nerves and feelings had been dropped entirely.

after what seemed to be around an hour, Simon pulled onto a desolate dirt road, that switched to a untouched grassy trail. your relaxation turned into confusion. was he about to kill you? you expected you’d live a few more years, but maybe you were wrong.

he parked near a cliff, and got out. you went to follow him, but he closed your door before you could. you watched him in confusion as he circled the car and opened it for you.

you looked at him, even more confused than before. this was not like the Simon you had been talking to in the past.

“who are you and what have you done with Simon?”

“shut up and come the fuck on.” now it sounded like the Simon you knew, you grinned playfully and got out.

“are you taking me here to kill me?” you questioned carefully.

“why the hell would i do that?” he turned to you, confusion written across his face.

“no clue, not every serial killer needs a motive.” you tapped your temple after saying that, before pointing at him.

“what the fuck.” he muttered.

“you choose to bring me here!” you exclaimed.

“clearly, i made a mistake.” Simon complained, watching as you walked closer to him.

“why did you bring me here?” you finally asked, folding your arms over your chest and patiently waiting for his answer.

“isn’t it obvious?” he scoffed. you shook your head with an eyebrow raised. what was supposed to be obvious? you waited for him to continue.

“jesus christ. i fucking like you, dumbass.” he emphasized the insult at the end. you rolled your eyes before stopping. it was like everything around you practically did the same thing - stopped.

you stared at him long and hard.

“you’re lying, right?” you hesitated to break the seemingly ever-lasting silence, but what was done is done, and Simon was the one rolling his eyes.

“no, i’m not. are you really this dense?” he was getting mad now.

“well, sure.” you shrugged one shoulder, letting your arms unfold and fall to your sides. he scoffed - which seemed to be his favorite thing to do. it didn’t help how awkward you were.

sure you had been mad at him, but now, thinking back, you could feel the undertones of yearning for his care, and yearning for a relationship. you sighed, looking down to regain your confidence before looking back up.

“if it makes you less mad, i like you too.” you hummed with a sly grin.

masterlist — reminder that asks / requests is open!!

#ceciljameswork #fluff #fanfic #simon dia #simon dinner in america #dinner in america #kyle gallner #kyle gallner imagine #imagine #oneshot

378 notes · View notes

simplygojo · 5 months ago

Text

masterlist

My current masterlist of my work and it is always growing!

Requests are always open <3

Here is the link to my Request Guidelines and Character List if you are interested in making a request, feel free to read these first :)

SEASONAL MASTERLISTS:

Spooky Season Masterlist

LEGEND:

☼ - a personal/current fav

✧ - a reader favourite

☷ - a blurb/headcanon/<1k wc

JUJUTSU KAISEN:

Multi-Character:

☷ The Cool Uncle Blurbs ⸺ Toji, Gojo, Nanami, Geto (fluff) ☷ More Than Enough ⸺ Toji & Nanami (fluff, slight angst) Double the Pleasure, Double the Pain ⸺ Nanami & Ino (smut w/o plot)

Satoru Gojo:

☼ The Devil He Made Me ⸺ Series Masterlist (fluff, smut, angst, everything) Unspoken Desires ⸺ (smut, fluff at the end) What Was I Made For ⸺ (angst, fluff) Die With A Smile ⸺ (angst, smut, fluff) ✧ The Witch’s Surrender ⸺ (smut) ☷ Public Display of Humiliation ⸺ (fluff) Your Brother's Best Friend ⸺ (fluff)

Nanami Kento:

A Slice of Fate ⸺ (fluff) ☼ I Like Your Tie... ⸺ (smut) ☷ Under the Desk ⸺ (smut) 12 Days of Desire ⸺ (holiday smut)

Suguru Geto:

Care Between the Chaos ⸺ (fluff) ☼ A Path I Can't Follow ⸺ (raw angst) Always My Love ⸺ (fluff) How To Handle A Suck ⸺ (fluff)

Choso Kamo:

☷ Pussydrunk... ⸺ (smut)

Ryomen Sukuna:

Let's Play A Game... ⸺ (smut)

Toji Fushiguro:

Can't Remember To Forget You ⸺ (smut) His Heart, Your Home ⸺ (fluff) ✧ Gettin' a Full Service ⸺ (dirty smut) Mysterious Day Off ⸺ (fluff)

Megumi Fushiguro:

✧ Drink, Dare, and Desire ⸺ (fluff, smut) ☼ Silent Moments; Silent Moments II ⸺ (fluff, minor smut)

Here is a link to my old (5+ years old) masterlist if you don't like anime, but please keep in mind that I do not write for these fandoms/characters anymore :/

220 notes · View notes

mrsbuckybarnes1917 · 5 months ago

Text

8: HOMECOMING

Chapter 7 <MASTERLIST > Chapter 9

SUMMARY: To your surprise, the Winter Soldier finds you in your home.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warning: SMUT: Breeding kink, penetrative sex, possessiveness — If there is any more you find not listed here please be sure to let me know so I can add it.

As you waited with bated breath for Soldat to emerge from the stasis chamber once more, you seized the opportunity to delve deeper into the mysterious man's past. Eager to uncover the truth behind the silent, deadly assassin you had grown so inexplicably attached to, you set out to meticulously comb through the vast trove of Hydra's classified files. What you uncovered left you utterly stunned - the man you knew as Soldat was in fact none other than James Buchanan Barnes, the revered and loyal best friend and comrade-in-arms of the legendary Captain America himself.

Falling down the rabbit hole of research, you became enthralled as you pieced together the story of Bucky Barnes' history. Articles and military records painted a vivid picture of the brave young man who had fought side-by-side with Captain America during the war, his steadfast dedication and skilled marksmanship making him a formidable asset on the battlefield. By all accounts, Bucky had been a faithful and unwavering companion to Steve Rogers, providing moral support and watching his friend's back through even the most harrowing of missions. The two were spoken of as an unbreakable duo, their bond of friendship forged in the crucible of combat.

As the weeks passed in a blur, you found yourself consumed by your investigation, devouring every scrap of information you could uncover about this legendary figure. The more you learned, the more your respect and admiration for Bucky Barnes grew. He was a true hero, a man of honor and courage who had sacrificed everything in service of his country and his best friend. And now, that very same man lay frozen in Hydra's grasp, his true identity and heroic past obscured by the dark mantle of the Winter Soldier. Your heart ached at the thought, spurring you on in your quest to uncover the full truth and, perhaps, find a way to restore Bucky Barnes to his former self.

As you delved deeper into your research, you finally came across the most tragic event in Bucky's history - his apparent demise during World War II. According to the historical records you uncovered, Bucky had been on a crucial mission with Captain America to stop the nefarious plans of HYDRA when disaster struck. Amidst the chaos of battle, Bucky fell from a speeding train, plunging hundreds of feet to what was presumed to be his untimely death. This devastating event had been a crushing blow to Captain America, who was left to mourn his closest friend and most trusted ally. Bucky Barnes was mourned as a fallen war hero, a true patriot who had given his life in service of his country.

Your research allowed you to meticulously record every tidbit of information you could find about this enigmatic figure. You documented his impressive background, learning that Bucky had been an exceptionally skilled marksman and hand-to-hand combatant, honing his abilities through rigorous military training. His physique was described in vivid detail across various accounts - tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that often fell across his piercing, steely eyes. These eyes concealed a complex duality, for while they could be cold and distant when Bucky donned the mantle of the Winter Soldier, you had also witnessed them spark with warmth and raw emotion, a testament to the man he had been before his apparent demise.

Beyond the cold, hard facts, you also recorded your own personal thoughts and feelings about Bucky Barnes. His brusque exterior and guarded nature initially made him seem unapproachable, but you had glimpsed the depth of his loyalty and the fire that burned within him. He was a man who had sacrificed everything, even his own life, to protect those he cared about, and the tragedy of his loss continued to weigh heavily on your heart as you delved deeper into uncovering the truth behind his fate.

As you packed up your belongings and prepared to leave the facility for the night, a sense of melancholy washed over you as you thought about Soldat, or rather, Bucky. You knew he had been dispatched on a crucial mission, one that would likely keep him away for several days. With a pang of disappointment, you resigned yourself to the reality that it would be some time before you would see him again. The sudden, abrupt nature of his departure had left you little opportunity for any meaningful goodbyes or parting words. All you could do now was wait anxiously for his safe return.

Bidding a somber farewell to your colleagues, you stepped out into the cold, dark night, the chill in the air matching the emptiness you felt within. As you made your way home, the rich, earthy aroma of borscht suddenly filled the air, enveloping you in a comforting blanket of familiarity. Despite your lack of appetite, you found yourself drawn to the hearty soup, serving yourself a small portion and savoring the way it warmed you from the inside out as you settled into the quiet sanctuary of your own apartment.

Cradling the steaming bowl in your hands, you allowed yourself a rare moment of relaxation, the soft sound of your own breathing the only thing interrupting the stillness. Your eyes drifted to the battered notebook resting on the table beside you, filled with meticulous notes and observations about Bucky, your most precious possession. Tracing your fingers over the familiar lines of your writing, your thoughts inevitably wandered back to the last time you had seen him, the memory of his abrupt departure still lingering painfully. With a heavy sigh, you steeled yourself to wait patiently for his return, your heart aching with the knowledge that it may still be some time before you would lay eyes on him again.

The emptiness in your chest felt like a physical ache, a hollowness that seemed to reverberate through your entire being. As hard as you tried to ignore it, Soldat’s absence felt like a constant, gnawing sensation, a void that no amount of distraction could fill. In quiet moments, when your mind was allowed to wander, the memory of his unexpected tenderness would loom largest, playing on a bittersweet refrain.

Despite the taciturn exterior and the ever-present aura of stoicism that surrounded him, you had been privy to those rare, fleeting instances when the icy walls he had so meticulously constructed would crumble, revealing a softness and vulnerability that had touched you to the core. The gentle brush of his calloused fingers against your skin, the comforting press of his solid frame against yours - these moments of intimate connection had left an indelible mark, awakening a deep, primal yearning within you. You found yourself constantly chasing the elusive high of those tender interludes, craving the warmth and security they provided in contrast to his usual aloof demeanor.

Try as you might to tamp down these feelings, to convince yourself it was foolish to long for more, the memory of Soldat's unexpected displays of affection refused to be extinguished. They had wormed their way into the fabric of your being, becoming a source of both comfort and torment as you ached to experience that vulnerable intimacy once again. The emptiness in your chest was a constant, nagging reminder of what you had tasted but could no longer freely indulge in, fueling an insatiable desire to reconnect with the man who had so thoroughly captured your heart.

The sudden, soft clicking sound that shattered the quiet of your apartment sent a jolt of fear through your body, instantly snapping you out of your thoughts and putting you on high alert. Your muscles tensed as the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, your senses heightening as you turned to pinpoint the source of the unexpected noise. A surge of trepidation washed over you, your heart pounding rapidly in your chest as you scanned the dimly lit room, searching for any sign of an intruder or potential threat.

With a quick, practiced motion, you reached for the gun you kept stored nearby, your fingers wrapping firmly around the cool metal as you raised the weapon, taking up a defensive stance and aiming it squarely at the door. The adrenaline was coursing through your veins, heightening your awareness and priming your body for action. Every nerve was on edge, your breathing steady and controlled despite the palpable tension in the air. You were poised and ready, waiting with bated breath for the slightest hint of movement, prepared to neutralize any danger that dared to cross the threshold.

Then, suddenly, a familiar gruff voice called out from the kitchen, shattering the silence. "Kotyonok?" The sound of Soldat's voice caused your heart to leap in your chest, a surge of equal parts shock and relief washing over you as you turned to face him, your revolver still raised. In that moment, the hormone-fueled fear and apprehension melted away, replaced by the comforting realization that the source of the noise was not a threat, but rather your trusted companion.

For a moment, you stood frozen, the gun trembling in your hands. Your mind was a chaotic jumble of emotions - surprise, fear, relief… and maybe a hint of elation at his sudden appearance in your home.

How was it that Soldat stood in the shadows of your kitchen? His figure barely illuminated by the scant light filtering in from the other rooms. He was a ghost-like presence, a silhouette against the darkness, his features concealed under the cover of shadow.

You could just make out the vague outline of his toned physique, the breadth of his shoulders and the glint of titanium from his left arm. His eyes were like dark pools, their depths unfathomable in the dimness of the room.

“You don't need that.”

His voice was low and calm, the edge of a command beneath his words as he motioned to your revolver. You could feel a slight wariness settle over you as the situation sunk in. This was unprecedented. He was standing in your home, in your safe space, and you had no idea how he had come to be there. Why was he there? Were you in danger?

As you pondered these questions, a new thought popped into your mind. Did he know your name? You had always been ‘Kotyonok’ to him, never anything more. It felt strange, almost unsettling, contemplating how much he truly knew about you.

"You're safe.”

His words hung in the air between you, a statement of reassurance that sent a wave of peacefulness through you. You felt your heart rate beginning to slow, the initial rush of catecholamines slowly ebbing as his voice repeated: "You're safe."

It was strange, hearing those words from him, the Winter Soldier with his gruff exterior and his deadly past. But in this moment, standing before you in your own home, it felt true. For reasons you couldn't explain, you felt safe in his presence. Here he wasn't Soldat, he was Bucky.

You cast a quick, furtive glance towards the dining table, your gaze settling on the open notebook and the half-finished bowl of borscht beside it. A wave of embarrassment washed over you as you realized that your research and the meager supper you had hastily prepared were all out in the open. You wondered if he had noticed them, if he had seen the myriad of notes and tidbits about him that you had recorded in that notebook.

You felt a strange mix of anxiety and excitement as you stood there, rooted in place by the weight of the moment. You wanted to do so many things - show him the information you had gathered, offer him a seat and a warm meal. But somehow, the words wouldn't come. You were frozen, like a deer caught in headlights, unable to make a single move as his gaze bore into you from the shadows of the kitchen.

As you stood there frozen, an unfamiliar feeling took root deep inside you - a nagging, gnawing fear of losing him. The very idea that this enigmatic, complex man standing in the shadows of your kitchen might slip through your fingers if he discovered his past terrified you in ways you couldn't yet fully comprehend. The thought of him seeking out that lost piece of himself and abandoning you was more than you could bear in that moment, even if you couldn't fully understand why.

Soldat stepped out of the shadows, his muscular frame coming into view as he moved closer to where you were standing. Without the mask concealing his face, you could see his angular jawline, the sharp planes of his cheekbones, and the intense blue eyes that pierced through you like twin blades. He looked utterly exhausted, the weight of whatever mission he had been on etched across his features.

Your mind raced with questions as he stood before you, his unexpected presence in your home both startling and intriguing. "Why're you here?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could fully process the gravity of the situation. His arrival was shrouded in mystery, and you couldn't help but wonder what had compelled him to seek you out, risking exposure and potentially putting you both in harm's way.

He paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on yours, his expression unreadable. There was a brief flicker of something in his eyes, something like hesitation, before he spoke. You could sense the weight of his words, the vulnerability seeping into his gravelly, low voice as he uttered the simple phrase, "Needed to see you." The admission hung in the air, a silent plea for understanding, for acceptance, for the comfort and solace that only your presence could provide.

Your mind whirled with a torrent of questions - how had he found you? Was he in danger by being here? What would happen if the ruthless organization he was a part of, Hydra, discovered his unauthorized visit, his defiance of their control? The implications were staggering, and you struggled to articulate your thoughts, your eyes never leaving his, the mixture of confusion and concern etched across your features.

“But-” You started.

Before you could get another word out, his lips were on yours, cutting off any line of questioning with a swift, unexpected kiss. His mouth was rough against yours, his lips slightly chapped but warm and firm, as he held you tightly against him, his arms encircling you in a desperate embrace. He drank you in like a man starved for water in the desert, the kiss conveying a depth of emotion that words could not capture.

"Just need you," he murmured, his voice thick with vulnerability and longing, a silent plea for the comfort and solace that only you could provide in this moment of uncertainty and danger.

His words, simple yet laced with a rawness that sent a shiver down your spine. There was a note of desperation in his voice, a need that went beyond mere physical attraction. He pushed you firmly against the nearby wall, his body pressing against yours as he continued to speak, his lips hovering just above yours.

“Needed to see you. Need to feel you. Can't control myself anymore.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck inhaling your scent, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispered those words in your ear. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, the barely restrained desire coursing through his veins like fire.

His hands were everywhere suddenly, fingers running along your sides and gripping your hips as if he couldn't get enough of your touch. He let out a low, guttural groan as you encircled his neck with your arms, his body pressing you even more firmly against the wall. His hands found your thighs, gripping them tightly as he lifted you up, pinning you in place between his muscular frame and the solid wall behind you. His lips trailed along your jawline, kissing and nibbling at your skin with a desperate need that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

As he pulled back slightly, his gaze hungrily roamed over your body, taking in every detail of your casual, comfortable appearance. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as if he were seeing you anew, a fresh perspective that seemed to stir something deep within him. His hands slid along your sides, caressing the gentle curves of your figure as he spoke again, his voice rough with a raw, primal want tinged with something even more profound.

"You look... different."

His eyes raked over you, drinking in the sight of your plaid pajama bottoms, the snug, soft tank top that hugged your frame, and the cozy boyfriend cardigan that enveloped you in its comforting embrace. Your freshly-washed hair framed your face in soft, alluring waves, the silky strands tantalizingly close and smelling of your favorite lily & amaranth shampoo. His gaze flicked from your hair to your outfit and back again, his eyes darkening with each passing moment as he took in every inch of you. There was something in his expression - a mixture of ravenous hunger and almost disbelieving awe at your appearance - that sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

"Different how?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He was silent for a moment, his eyes roaming over your form as if he were trying to find the precise words to capture the shift he was witnessing. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with a tangle of emotions.

"You... you look warm. Soft. Safe." His fingers traced along the edge of your tank top, just grazing the bare skin underneath as his eyes met yours, burning with an intensity that stole your breath away. "You look like... home."

He gazed at you intently, his eyes roved over your face as if he were committing every detail to memory - the curve of your cheek, the delicate sweep of your lashes, the soft fullness of your lips. There was a flicker of something tender and almost reverent in his eyes as he repeated the word again, almost to himself: "Home."

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing along the gentle line of your jaw as he held your captivated gaze. He repeated the word once more, a soft, reverent whisper that seemed to have been torn from the very depths of his soul, resonating with a profound longing and a sense of profound belonging.

"So beautiful.”

His hands explored your body with a fervent, almost desperate intensity. Every touch was charged with a raw, primal hunger that made your breath catch in your throat. His fingers traced the delicate curves of your breasts, caressing the soft, supple skin with a reverence that bordered on worship. As they drifted lower, tracing the gentle slopes of your stomach, you could feel the tension thrumming through him, a coiled spring of restrained desire. It was as if he was fighting a losing battle to maintain his composure, his control hanging by a thread as he struggled to keep his touch gentle and measured. His eyes, dark and smoldering, locked onto yours, and in their depths you glimpsed a storm of emotion - lust, need, a hint of vulnerability. When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse, ragged whisper that sent shivers racing down your spine.

"Don't think I can control myself anymore." The words were laced with a raw, primal hunger that made your heart race.

"Is that all you want from me?"

Your own question, spoken in a moment of sudden clarity, hung in the air between you and you watched as something flickered in his expression, a chord struck deep within him. He pulled back slightly, giving you a brief respite even as he continued to pin you in place, his body a tantalizing, unyielding presence. For a heartbeat, his features softened, the fierce desire tempered by something else - a tenderness, a need that went beyond the physical.

And then, with a single word, he laid bare the truth. "No."

His hands moved to your sides, holding you gently now, a stark contrast to the desperate, gripping way they had clung to you just moments before.

"Then why? Why me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as you searched his face, seeking answers to the questions that burned within you.

He paused again, that familiar stoicism faltering as he struggled to find the words to express the tumultuous thoughts and feelings swirling inside him. This man, so often in complete control, now appeared almost lost, grasping for the right way to articulate the intensity of what was unfolding between you.

"Because I..." he began, only to shake his head, the words failing him as he moved closer, his body pressing against yours, his hands wrapping around your waist as he finally spoke. "Because it's always been you.”

The weight of his declaration hung in the air, leaving you stunned.

"You don't even know me,” you countered, unwilling to accept the notion that this man, this virtual stranger, could feel such a profound connection.

Yet, the soft, dry chuckle that escaped his lips held a world of meaning, as if he was privy to a secret that you had yet to uncover.

"Don't I?" he asked, his fingers tracing delicate patterns across your skin, his eyes drinking in every detail of your face, as if committing it to memory. "I know you better than you think, Kotyonok.”

Instead of voicing his thought, he leaned in, his lips brushing against your neck in a feather-light kiss, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. He pulled back again, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes a deep, tumultuous sea of blue and gray.

"And I know-”

He cut you off before you could continue, his hand coming up to rest against your lips, shushing you gently. He didn't need to hear the rest of your sentence. He knew what you were going to say. Or rather, he knew what you thought you knew.

"That's where you're wrong. You think you know, but you don't.”

His words were spoken with a raw honesty that seemed to surprise even himself, and they hung in the air, pregnant with unspoken truths. When he took your chin in his fingers, gently tilting your face up to meet his gaze, you were struck by the complex emotions swirling within his eyes, a blend of hardness and gentleness, a lifetime of experiences and revelations etched into their depths. You frowned but he kept on.

"I want it all. Everything. With you.”

In that moment, it became clear that his understanding of you ran far deeper than you had ever imagined, and that he harbored feelings and desires that he had kept carefully guarded, until now.

“With me?”

He shifted you in his arms, adjusting his grip on you so he could press you closer against him. His fingers moved to your hair, combing through the soft strands as he spoke again, his voice deep and rough with emotion.

“Yes. With you. Always with you.”

You wanted to tell him what you had found but he moved with a controlled precision, his strong arms lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist, the action feeling both natural and yet incredibly intimate as he carried you across the room. Without a single thought of consequence, he pushed everything off the dining table. Your half eaten soup and your precious notebook sent clattering to the floor. But with him between your legs, you couldn’t find it within you to protest his actions.

He lowered you gently onto the table, the soft thump of your body against the hard surface sending a jolt through your core. He stayed standing, his eyes roaming over you hungrily as he loomed above you, the intensity in his gaze making it clear that he wasn't done yet.

"Every part.”

He took his time, slowly removing your pajama bottoms, his hands trailing over your skin as if he were mapping every inch of you. His touch was both gentle and possessive as he pulled the fabric down your legs, leaving you exposed to his gaze.

“Every piece.”

He began stroking your thighs, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles along your sensitive skin. His eyes never left your face, watching your expressions intently as he continued his slow exploration of your body.

“All of you.”

He continued to touch you, his hands roaming over your bare skin in slow, deliberate movements. There was an intensity in his gaze, a raw need that went beyond mere desire. A need to not just take from you, but to give, to share, to make you his completely and utterly. But not just physically. He also craved something deeper, something that went beyond the physical. He yearned for your trust, your everything.

He shed his pants with practiced ease, the fabric hitting the ground in a heap. As he stepped closer to you, you could feel his body heat radiating against your skin. Shirtless, you could see his scars and the muscles of his chest on full display, the shadows cast by the dim light making him look even more formidable than usual. His hands came to rest on either side of you, his arms caging you in, his body pressing against yours. He was so close you could feel his breath on your skin, warm and rough and ragged as he watched your expression, his eyes drinking in every reaction.

"You're perfect," he crooned, his hands not completely idle, gently stroking himself as he held your gaze. "I need you."

There was no mistaking the longing in his words, the sheer desperation that seemed to emanate from every syllable. It was as if he were a man starving, and you the only thing capable of satisfying his hunger. He gripped your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the table. His strength was evident in the way he moved you, his hands holding you effortlessly in place as he positioned himself between your thighs.

His eyes met yours again, their intensity almost scorching in their heat. "Can't wait any longer.”

But he took his time, sinking into you slowly, inch by inch. His eyes never left yours, watching your expression as he entered you. He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched as he fought to maintain his control.

“Feels so good inside you, Kotyonok. Look at you, look how you take me so well. Looking so pretty with my cock in you.”

The words escaped him in a broken litany, a mix of adoration and raw desire, his voice thick with the effort it took to keep himself reigned in.

The way he uttered that single word, ‘Kotyonok’, sent shivers down your spine. His deep, velvety voice caressed the syllables, imbuing them with an almost affectionate, intimate quality that made your heart race. As his piercing gaze locked onto yours, you felt utterly captivated, your breath catching in your throat. The intensity of his stare and the weighted meaning behind his words left you trembling, your mind whirling as you struggled to process what was happening.

When he lavished praise upon your appearance, calling you beautiful, it only heightened the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. And then came the shocking question, a bold proposition that struck you like a bolt of lightning.

"You look so beautiful. Just like this. Want to be a mommy? Hmm, Kotyonok? Have my babies? Is that what you want?”

The very idea sent your pulse skyrocketing, your head spinning as you grappled with how to respond. His words echoed in your ears, resonating deeply within you in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling. As he continued his advance, his touch igniting sparks of sensation across your skin, you found it increasingly difficult to think clearly. The sheer intensity of his presence, the unwavering determination in his gaze, and the relentless press of his body against yours threatened to drown out all coherent thought.

"Relax Kotyonok, you're so tight. Let me in,” he murmured, his movements slow yet utterly unstoppable as he filled you completely. The strange, alien nature of his words only heightened the potent sincerity with which he spoke them, as if unveiling long-buried truths. And through it all, his metal palm kneaded your breast, a tactile reminder of the primal, unyielding nature of his desires.

“Wanna see these tits all full, gonna milk them dry.”

His eyes took on a feral gleam as he watched your reaction. Each thrust eliciting a new reaction for him to revel in. He was taking in every shiver, every gasp, every expression that passed over your face. He was reading you like a book, studying in every nuance. Yet there was a paradoxical safety in his presence, an almost primal protection that belied his predatory demeanor.

“Gonna look beautiful, carrying my baby in that pretty belly. So big and round and gorgeous. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Kotyonok?”

His words, so raw, sent a shiver through your entire body, his voice and touch setting your skin alight with desire. There was a part of you that felt exposed, vulnerable, yet at the same time you felt strangely safe in his presence.

"Yes, yes I would." The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, a breathless affirmation of his desires.

"Yes, you would.” The rough, rumbling chuckle that reverberated from his throat sent fresh tremors of desire coursing through your entire body. He was enjoying this, enjoying the effect he was having on you, the way his words and touch were driving you wild. His hands were roaming over your body again, mapping out every inch of you with a possessiveness that felt almost like a claim.

“You like that, Kotyonok? You like that I want to knock you up?” His voice was a low, rumbling purr, dripping with a carnal need that set your nerves alight. “You'd be so pretty carrying my kids. I'm going to put one in this precious pussy. Right now, I'm going to cum. Legs up, just to make sure.” The words were a promise, a declaration of his intent to claim you, to fill you with his seed and make you his in the most primal of ways.

Your mind was still reeling, unable to fully process the onslaught of sensations and emotions washing over you. It was like being caught in a storm of desire, the intensity and passion between you both threatening to drown you completely.

“Please. I need to feel you cum inside me,” you begged, your voice thick with need. And as he buried his throbbing cock deep within your welcoming heat, waves of pleasure crashed over you, your body clenching around him repeatedly in the throes of ecstasy.

“Oh Kotyonok, look at you, milking my cock so fucking good,” he growled, his voice low and rough with need. The sensation of him filling you, stretching you to your limits, was almost too much to bear. You teetered on the edge, balancing precariously as the coil of pleasure wound tighter and tighter inside you. “Want me to fill you up? Want me to stuff you, til you're so fucking full that you can't hold it in?”

His words were a siren's call, luring you deeper into the depths of ecstasy. You could feel yourself unraveling, your thoughts swirling like a hurricane as the pleasure threatened to consume you.

“Take it for me, I know you can,” he urged, his hips snapping against yours with a bruising force.

Your body was a maelstrom of sensation, every nerve ending firing at once as he continued to move against you, his touch became too painful to endure. The world narrowed to nothing but the two of you, locked in a dance of passion and desire. He could sense the moment when you reached your limit, the moment when the sensations became too much to bear. His movements slowed as he watched your expression, his hands moving to your hips as he stilled inside you.

"Are you alright, Kotyonok?" he asked, voice laced with concern, though the hunger in his gaze betrayed his true desire.

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving steadied himself. He was still inside you, still pressed flush against you. He watched you for a moment, his eyes roving over your face, searching for any sign of discomfort or distress. A flicker of relief washed over him as you uttered those reassuring words - “Felt good, Soldat.”

He allowed the hint of a satisfied smirk to tug at the corners of his mouth, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of desire and the knowledge that he had pleased you. With a gentler tone, he reaffirmed his intent, his voice still carrying a gruff edge but now tinged with a newfound softness. “Good. I want you to feel good. Just a little more. You can take it.”

As he spoke, he shifted his hips, testing the boundaries, gauging your limits, before beginning to move again, his pace slow and purposeful at first, building gradually as he watched intently, drinking in every gasp and shiver that escaped your trembling form beneath him.

With a deep, guttural growl, he repeated the words, "just a little more," his voice growing increasingly hoarse and strained as his primal need and desire consumed him.

He was pushing you again, testing your limits once more, his need and desire overriding his restraint. The feeling of you clenching around him was enough to send him over the edge, his body shuddering as he came, a low growl escaping his lips as he buried his face in your shoulder. He held onto you tightly, his arms encircling you, as if trying to keep you as close to him as possible. He was quivering, his chest heaving with each labored breath as he tried to catch his own breath.

“Tell me what you are.” He growled the words, his voice deep and guttural, a demand more than a question. There was no mistaking the authority in his tone, the possessiveness in his eyes as he looked at you.

“Yours.”

"That's right, mine," he whispered harshly, the words spoken with an animalistic ferocity. "Mine to touch, mine to take, mine to claim.”

In the aftermath, he moved with a deft, practiced efficiency, dressing himself with the same dexterity one might expect from a seasoned military veteran. But when he turned back to you, his eyes skimmed over your still-naked form, and for a moment, the harsh, unyielding facade softened. It was not a leering, lustful gaze, but rather one of genuine appreciation, as if he were admiring a work of art. And then, with a surprising tenderness, he reached for your discarded cardigan and carefully draped it over your shoulders, shielding your exposed skin from the chill.

As the washcloth made contact with your skin, a wave of relief washed over you. The soft, moist fabric was delightfully cool against the heated, sensitive areas he was so tenderly tending to. His touch was feather-light, his movements measured and deliberate, as if he were handling the most precious of treasures. There was a look of intense focus etched across his features, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously cleaned you up. Yet despite the intensity of his gaze, his fingers remained remarkably gentle, caressing your skin with a care and reverence that bordered on reverent.

When he finished, he lifted you effortlessly into his strong, steady arms, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed no more than a feather. His grip was firm yet tender, his muscles flexing subtly beneath your weight. As he carried you the short distance to the bed, you couldn't help but marvel at the sheer power contained within his frame, and the remarkable control he exerted to temper that strength into something so delicate and soothing.

Laying you down upon the mattress, he handled you with the same delicate precision, as if you might shatter at the slightest misstep. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he noted your expression, his hand slipping beneath your hips to gently position the pillow, the action almost casual in its familiarity. Yet there was an undeniable possessiveness to the gesture, a silent claim of ownership that sent a thrill racing down your spine. In that moment, you knew with absolute certainty that you were his, and his alone, a precious treasure to be guarded and cared for with the utmost devotion.

“Just to be sure.” He murmured the words softly, his deep voice rumbling with a hint of satisfaction. A small, self-assured smile played on his lips as he gently caressed your stomach, his calloused fingers skimming over your soft skin. He seemed pleased with himself, clearly enjoying the idea that he had left some kind of permanent mark on you, a tangible reminder of your intimate encounter. Of course, he was blissfully unaware that your IUD made the prospect of conception impossible, no matter how ardently he may have wished to impregnate you.

His hand trailed higher, stopping just above the pillow he had thoughtfully placed beneath your hips. His brow furrowed slightly, as if he was envisioning a very different scene playing out in his mind, one where his seed had taken root and begun to grow within you. The notion seemed to captivate him, his gaze growing distant and pensive as he contemplated the possibility.

Oblivious to his musings, you drifted off into a peaceful sleep, your body sated and satisfied from the ardent love making that had come before. Soldat watched you slumber, his keen eyes tracing the delicate contours of your face, the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed. He was acutely aware of you, his senses attuned to even the slightest movement or change in your demeanor. It was as if he was standing guard over you, even in sleep, his protective instincts firmly in place. A silent sentinel, vigilantly ensuring your safety and well-being, even in the most intimate of moments.

As the blaring alarm shattered the stillness of the morning, your eyes fluttered open, momentarily disoriented as the haze of sleep slowly lifted. For a fleeting instant, you found yourself dislocated from reality, the events of the night before a distant, dreamlike memory.

You rolled over in the bed, expecting to find Soldat still lying beside you. Instead, you were met with an empty space where he had been. You sat up, disoriented and a little lost. There was a brief moment of confusion, a pang of disappointment at the realization that he was gone, the sheets were cold where he had vacated them. It was as if he had vanished in the night, leaving no trace of his presence behind.

The emptiness in your heart was palpable, a sense of loss and longing settling in your chest. The thought crossed your mind that it had all been a dream, a vivid and realistic illusion. But the lingering feeling of his touch and the soreness between your thighs reminded you otherwise.

Chapter 7 <MASTERLIST > Chapter 9

#winter soldier smut #bucky barnes smut #winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes x reader #winter soldier fan fiction #bucky barnes fan fiction #winter soldier x you #bucky barnes x you #behind blue eyes

152 notes · View notes

lovelykhaleesiii · 1 year ago

Note

Lactation kink aegon? You can add this into any other plot but I just need more of this 😚

aegon x lactation kink has me crying, (s)creaming, throwing up!!!!

Wet Dreams

PAIRING: King!Aegon ii Targaryen x WetNurse!fem!Reader

WORDS: 1,661.

WARNINGS: wet nurse references, breastfeeding, mentions of an affair, lactation kink, Daddy kink, degradation kink, female receiving (fingering), breast play, swearing.

A/N - I kind of went feral, this was meant to be a very small blurb... whoops!

Since the royal twin heirs, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, had been born lively to King Aegon, the Second of his Name and his sister-wife, Queen Helaena, the realm had rejoiced in joy and excitement. Gratefully appointed by the Dowager Queen herself, to be a fellow wet nurse for the twins, following the ancestral footsteps of your mother, who nursed Laena and Laenor Velaryon, and your grandmother before who nursed the many royal offspring of the Old King and his Good Queen wife, before being relieved of their duties.

You were quite younger than your predecessors when being anointed as a fellow wet nurse, however, Queen Alicent saw it fit that the younger the woman in the peak of her youthful maidenhood, would in return have the better production of the milk. Trusting that it was naturally in your genes to produce. Not to mention, you would be relative for quite some time to the royal couple, starting off in your young adulthood.

Nonetheless, as the twins grew familiar around your tits, latching on more comfortably, their repetitive suckling motions began to show results. Your tits had swollen abundantly with milk in vast supply, often at times leaking, if they were not in use. You were relieved from the burden, as was the Dowager Queen and her beloved daughter, satisfied with your loyal services... And yet it seemed that you had caught the lurking eyes of the King himself.

From time to time, when Helaena had delivered or called upon for your presence to nurse her newborns, Aegon remained solemnly distant in the background, yet ever so present. Never uttering a word, nor showing an ounce of acknowledgement for the intimate yet crucial service you provided to his children, and yet, his violet eyes would loosely ponder over you. Whenever you meekly entered their chambers, your eyes would inevitably meet in mutual focus, before forcing to resume your undivided attention unto the newborn babes. At one point, he was so drawn to your readiness to provide for his children, mindlessly caught in his own, unfathomable thoughts, that it took his sister-wife to hastily tug on his arm, harshly pulling him away to be drawn back to reality.

Having grown accustomed to his children's feeding times, he knew that you would reliably arrive on time in the early morrow, to feed the babes, whilst their mother and the rest of the royal family would attend their own breakfast feasts.

And he remarkably knew this would be the perfect time to strike...

Just as you faintly swayed and nestled little Jaehaera back into her crib residing with her asleep elder, the sudden knock on the door startled you vividly. As you hastily turned towards the direction of the abrupt sound, so anxious that the children did not stir awake, as your focus reluctantly panned from them still deep in slumber, did you meet the familiar, unnerving gaze of Aegon.

"M-My King, th-the babes have just been fed and put to bed. Queen Helaena is not here, I-I can fetch her for you, i-if you wish-"

Aegon remained dead silent, only taking a few slow paces towards your rigid state in front of the cribs, only inches apart before having the decency to respond.

"I have no need for my sister. Nor do I intend to wake the babes... I am here for one other matter, that is," He lowly uttered, his voice deep yet clear and stern, those formidable violet eyes tainted over you, lingering from head to toe and back.

"Mayhaps, I-I can help you, your Grace," You anxiously stutter: yet a strange feeling in the pit of your stomach began to churn, the feeling gradually extending between your inner thighs, that began to intensely throb, each passing minute the King blessed you with his attention.

"In fact you can... Get on the bed."

His serious tone was cold, you obeyed the command as you obeyed all your previous doings, and yet, this was one that should not have been taken lightly. Glancing at the sleeping babes one last time before the frame of the crib hid their tiny bodies, some comfort was provided knowing they remained peacefully unstirred in a deep slumber. The voice of their father not stirring them awake, even though Aegon spoke an octave above a whisper.

Following you closely behind, you could almost sense him inhaling your natural scent, sensing the fear oozing from your every fibre.

"Lay down," He further instructed, as you continued without hesitation in abiding by your Grace's honour. How could you defy the King? The consequences would have been detrimental, even so, fatal, to your very unimpressive existence...

Making yourself somewhat comfortable, despite the tension in your body from the uneasiness of the situation, Aegon knelt above you, each thigh in level just below your waistline as his knees sturdily supported him, his large hands began to snake their way up towards your body. Heavily breathing, the tight fabric felt suffocating, as you felt the foreign touch of his hands gliding over your body frame, gently tracing over the curves of your waistline, up until it reached your ample bosom.

"Hmm-" As the grazing touch of his soft lips glazed over the skin of your cleavage, you swore you could feel the ripples of his deep growl vibrating over you.

"So these are the fruitful gifts the Gods have blessed you with, that feed my very babes. Fuck, how I have been envious of my own seed-" Aegon lustfully whispered, with each breath taken and word spoken, his eager mouth latched to your skin, suckling leaving a moist trail of his trace over you.

"How they cry for your tits day and night. How they suck on these, taking in your taste with every mouthful. Favouring each swallow... Now it's my turn."

The foreign feeling of Aegon's thick, probing cock pressing down against you, just directly above the clothed entrance of your cunt, sent an exhilarating thrill through the entirety of your body, stemming from between your thighs. You had never truly been with a man before, let alone, your first being with the King himself. Nonetheless, you naturally dismissed all self-control, moaning and whimpering for Aegon's touch and more, your eager sounds brewing, louder in volume.

"Shush, shush, my pretty whore. My babes are fast asleep, perhaps milk drunk from you. We must keep quiet, nonetheless."

Instinctively, despite your mind pathetically trying to fight against the urge, you felt yourself keen for more. Hips lifting forwards, burying his stiff, pulsating cock further down into you. Immediately noticing your advances, you felt Aegon's hand reaching beneath, hastily pulling your gown length up, as his rough fingers sneaked tugging beneath your undergarments, teasing your silky folds.

"It seems someone is needy for their King... Have you been desperate for me, my pretty whore? Want Daddy to spoil you too, huh?"

"Y-Yes-" Breathless and yet inclined, your mind a haze, you shut your eyes closer, as Aegon's fingers delve deeper between your velvet folds, his fingers moving in slow, sensual motions stretching you out.

"My pretty whore, gonna be such a good girl for Daddy, yes? Gonna take good care of me, just like you care for my babes, hmm."

"Y-Yes Daddy."

His low, growling chuckle reverberating from his throat, was soon interrupted, as those violet eyes once more fixated firmly on your bosom, tutting at the sheer sight before him.

"Look at you, so fucking full of that sweet, sweet milk, you are practically leaking through your clothes, angel. Have my babes not drunk their full? Not taking advantage as their father would. Mayhaps, your needy body is producing ample supply for my take now."

His hand that had been eagerly venturing between your innocent walls, sprung free, as he began to unloosen the strings of your gown at front, ripping apart the fabric to expose your sensitive, swollen tits.

The appetising sight, nipples red and raw from feeding his babes, oozing with a white, milky substance that drizzles across your stretched skin. His thumb grazing and flicking over it was enough to make you moan in an agonising excitement, back arching hopelessly sulking for more.

"Look at the fucking mess you have made, and in front of your King. Have you no shame, whore? Need Daddy to make you feel better, want me to ease the pain, hmm? All you need to do is ask with that pretty mouth of yours."

"Uhh- Y-Yes, Daddy. P-Please, I'm s-so fucking full."

A growling groan echoed through his throat, before his mouth keenly opened, latching over one tit, as his hand massaged the flesh of your breast. Alongside his suckling movements with the kneading motions, the milk poured lusciously into his mouth, harsher and hastier than the babes, his mouthful took more, as his breathing hastened, his broad chest heaving deeper.

"Mhmm, hmm-" Once more that same hand found its way impressively down to your wet cunt, shoving his thick digits deeply inside, as he began to pump his hand backwards and forwards, almost in rhythm with each sucking motion. His tongue swirled over your nipple, causing you to convulse and jerk beneath him from the tenderness.

"Fuck, you taste divine... My babes are truly spoiled and will grow healthily with your milk. Now I know why they cry for these ardently-"

"It-It is my duty, your Grace. B-But it is my honour, to f-feed my King w-whenever your Grace n-needs me."

"That's right, whore... At my beckon call now. Perhaps I may fuck some bastards into my pretty whore's cunt, keep her filled so these tits keep swelling with milk, leaking for Daddy to relieve."

The milk dribbling off his soft lips was enough to send you into an oblivion, as his tongue hungrily lapped the substance lingering over, before it could trickle down.

"Y-Yes, Daddy. W-Whatever you see fit."

"Good girl, my good whore... So obedient for Daddy, we are going to have fun, indeed..."

general taglist [bold means I could NOT tag] - @evenstaris @bel-bottoms @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @hightowhxre @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1

Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit @bucknastysbabe @jawline-of-steel

credit for divider - @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more

887 notes · View notes

shesjustanothergeek · 2 months ago

Text

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirty-Five

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: Hello everyone! There's nothing like an update six months later... I appreciate everyone's kind words and patience regarding the writer's block I was dealing with. I tried many things to help me get out of that funk, but nothing worked. Until one day, I was like, "You know what? I'm just going to write," and here we are! I hope you enjoy this chapter. We're slowly inching closer to the grand finale!

A sense of weightiness hung within the Tower of the Hand. Queen Alicent, her loyal protector, and the Lord Hand were seated in the softly illuminated chamber as the afternoon sun filtered through the leaded glass windows. The Queen absentmindedly picked at her fingers, her restless body betraying her unease, while her eyes flitted anxiously around the room. An unexpected sound finally shattered the oppressive silence, prompting all present to turn their gaze towards the speaker.

"This is but a temporary visit. We must encourage Prince Daemon to take the Princess back to Dragonstone as soon as possible," Otto Hightower said, two sets of brown eyes focused on him as he stroked his course beard. "You have done well, Alicent, but you must know this solution is not long-term. Fear and respect go far until there is someone who inspires more."

His daughter responded with a silent nod, her full lips forming a slight frown as her attention shifted back to her fingers.

"He must not discover her relations with Aegon nor the fruit of it. Not only would it be an insult to our House but to the realm, duty, and the Gods," Otto declared, the metal lapel of the Hand shining in the daylight.

"I understand," the Queen answered as Ser Criston followed suit, offering his services to guard your chambers and lend another helpful eye.

Daemon would find himself in a predicament where he had no choice but to yield to their demands, as refusing would paint him as a traitor. The group was committed to ensuring Daemon was nowhere near them should the Stranger decide to claim a soul. If it meant casting the Rogue Prince in the light of an overly protective, perhaps irrational, father, they believed it to be justified by the divine will of the Seven.

After your father's tears had long dried and you were in the deepest depths of sleep, he stood on numb limbs. He no longer desired to be alone with his thoughts, feeling weak for having broken down in the presence of another man. He did not know when you would awake as your snores carried off into mid-day, so sound asleep that not even the mournful songs of your dragon woke you.

Daemon's eyes never left the cut on your temple nor the bruise beside it that bloomed. It stirred an uneasy feeling in his gut, mind reeling into conclusions and connections to things as Ser Criston Cole posted at the exit, his presence an ever-watchful eye for his Queen. The knight irked Daemon from when he was forced to yield against the Dornish man all those decades ago at a tourney for the deceased Prince Baelon. He had let things go seeing as Criston was Rhaenyra's protector and that he knew his niece's genuine desire was her uncle, but as the years went by, the man grew more insufferable, practically sucking on the Queen's teats wherever he went.

It was no coincidence that the White Cloak was here now instead of Ser Arryk, the man you chose to be your sworn shield. As Daemon studied the contents of your room, the dust on your bookshelves, the mended garments thrown on your chairs, and the overflowing ash lying in the fireplace, he could guarantee that none of your servants, whether it be knight or maid, had been allowed to do their duty for quite some time. The only people Daemon had seen in your chambers since he arrived were Maester Orwyle and Cole.

"May I ask, Ser Criston?" Daemon announced, breaking the silence as his violet eyes left your listless form and strolled away from the bed, "where is my daughter's knight?"

Criston straightened his posture, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as his dark eyes bore into light ones. "He's been punished for failure of duty. Ser Arryk allowed the Princess to be maimed under his watch and must suffer the consequences of such an offense."

"I see," your father hummed, leaning his hip to the side as he examined the unforgiving nature of this man. "And that of her maids? Jeyne and Fiora, if I remember correctly."

Ser Criston's face was impassive, leaving nothing but a stone slate as he swallowed. "The Hand deemed those of highest suspicion to be kept away from her Highness," he answered.

"Is that so?" Daemon sneered, brows raised in disbelief. "Bedmaids and knights are the only suspects?" Criston gave no reply, silver armor glinting in the daylight peeking from your curtains. "Otto Hightower is as useless as he's always been. Where are her maids now, then? In the cells being interrogated, I presume."

"No, my Prince," Criston answered without emotion. It seemed as if the knight did not care whether a member of the royal family died so long as it was not one of Alicent's.��This infuriated Daemon beyond measure. The impulse to commit violence that haunted him itched to be free, and his fingers curled into fists to keep it at bay.

If he so wished, he could bash Criston's face as he did to the squire friend of Laenor Velaryon the night of his wedding feast. No consequences were divided out then, so what was stopping your father from doing the same now? He heard your quiet moan then, a soft sound of one in a dreamy sleep they could not wake from, and reminded himself of the cost.

Daemon was more pragmatic than people allowed themselves to believe. He did not always desire bloodshed, though the lust for it existed. He recalled your letter then, remembering how he clung to every scrawl of ink as if it were to be the last you would write. The previous correspondence you had echoed in his head. The prose was much more upbeat, as if you were speaking to Daemon in person instead of through parchment. It mentioned the bright outlook for the future and how you could feel that Rhaenyra's succession would not be as troublesome as your father worried it would be. If Daemon had put your trust in him and your faith, all would be well.

Several lines echoed in his mind, seeing the High Valyrian as if it were in front of him again atop his writing desk illuminated by the glow of melting candles.

"Aegon has no desire to rule, nor does he think he is fit. He loves his mother and is sympathetic to the path ahead of her, but one can never be sure. However, I believe that Aegon is, at the very least, more sympathetic to me."

Daemon felt a smirk stretching his thin pink lips. Perhaps he should visit the drunken Prince.

"Let us round the maids up then, question them, and if they do not cooperate, leave them to the Lord Confessor," the Prince demanded, leaving no room for counterarguments.

Criston visibly balked at the idea, his stony visage turning white as snow, but he swiftly recovered. He bowed his head and whispered, "As you wish." Then he stalked off to inform the Queen and the Hand of the new progression.

Daemon would not be played a fool in his own home. He knew your maids would never try such a thing. They were chosen by the Rogue Prince himself before you arrived at the Red Keep. He could not allow just any person into a place where valuable information would be provided, so he tasked his previous mistress, Lady Misery, as she was now called, to find the most trustworthy servants for your service, to care and protect where he could not.

But even then, that was not enough. Daemon pulled strings, whispered honeyed words into people's ears, and made handsome payments, but still, it did nothing. He had never felt so powerless, inadequate, or inept as a new wave of shame washed over him.

He decided he would speak to Aegon, though he felt conversing with such a wastrel was below his worth. Daemon would stop at nothing. He would walk through the trenches in the Stepstones, bribe and steal, even marry his Bronze Bitch again, so long as it meant that you were safe and well back in his arms.

The castle's corridors were dimly lit in the early dawn, shadows stretching long and thin as Prince Daemon Targaryen paced outside his daughter's chamber. The scent of bitter herbs and smoke wafted from within, where the maester worked to keep the girl from slipping further into a restless sleep. A near-silent rage simmered within Daemon. His daughter's pallid face and the shallow rise and fall of her chest were enough to make him thirst for blood. But vengeance required clarity, and he needed answers first.

He turned sharply toward the two maids whom his guard had summoned. They stood quietly, trying to mask their worry under the Prince's intense scrutiny. These two had attended her, he thought, his gaze narrowing. He suspected them both, or at least wanted to, for they were the last to have touched his daughter's food, and every fiber in him sought to lash out.

Jeyne, with her silver-streaked hair, moldered her chin high as she looked back at Daemon with an unwavering gaze. Years of service to House Targaryen hardened her demeanor, giving her the poise of a knight facing a charging army. Fiora was pale and trembling, her fingers fumbling with the edge of her yellowed apron as she sniffled. Daemon's stare pierced her, and she seemed ready to bolt had Jeyne not placed a steadying hand on her arm.

"Who did this?" Daemon demanded, his voice a blade of cold steel slicing through the silence. He did not flout around words or purposes in favor of courtly manners.

Jeyne's expression remained resolute. "Not us, my Prince. We have served the young Princess faithfully. We would have warned someone if we thought her drink was tainted."

Daemon took a step closer, his tone dark. "And yet she is lying there, fighting for her life. She did not miraculously become ill. She was poisoned." Fiora flinched at Daemon's cold stare, hands clasped at his waist. Jeyne tightened her hand on Fiora's crimson sleeve.

"My prince," Jeyne said carefully. "We would never harm her. Young Fiora brought her fresh water and some fruits before she dismissed us that evening, nothing more."

He studied them both, searching for a flicker of guilt, the shift of eyes, but there was only worry and steadfast resolve. He could tell the older woman was offended by his accusation, but she held her tongue, deferring to him without wavering from her conviction.

"Why should I believe you?" Daemon asked, softer this time but no less menacing. "These Green cunts have placed staff sympathetic to their ambitions."

Jeyne's voice flowed calmly through the air, a soothing melody amidst the charged silence surrounding them. She leaned slightly closer to her fellow maid, her expression softening with empathy. "Because we love her too, my prince," she said, her words imbued with a deep sincerity. "She holds a place in my heart as dear as family."

Her gaze shifted toward Fiora, whose face streaked with tears that glistened like crystal in the dim light, revealing a raw vulnerability beneath her frightened exterior. Each gentle quiver of Fiora's lips betrayed her fear, and Jeyne couldn't help but feel a pang of protective instinct rise within her.

"And I know this girl," Jeyne added, her voice still steady but now laced with urgency, "is far too terrified to lie to you." She took a breath, feeling the weight of the moment. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she witnessed Fiora's anguish. The air felt thick with emotion, and Jeyne hoped her conviction would reach him, bridging the divide between fear and trust.

"Her Highness has a kind soul that is rare to find. I would gladly have my life taken instead of hers," Fiora expressed with a tremble, yet an unwavering conviction laced her tone.

Daemon narrowed his purple eyes, his anger dimming as his tactical mind began to turn. They spoke plainly, unafraid to meet his gaze when the time came. The poison was efficient, the kind that took mere moments to weaken a body and soul. No maid would have easy access to something deadly, nor the knowledge. His suspicion was confirmed without a doubt that the assailant was those with means, resources, and motives.

Jeyne inclined her head, inhaling an offensive breath as she prepared for Daemon's wrath at her following words. "My prince, we would never harm her. I swear it on my honor. But... there is something you should know." She glanced at Fiora, silently urging her to speak.

Fiora flinched under Daemon's scrutiny but nodded, her voice trembling as she began. "It-it was the Queen, my prince. Queen Alicent herself. She ordered the Maester to keep the Princess on the Milk of the Poppy."

Daemon's grip tightened on his sword, the veins in his hand standing out starkly against his pale skin. "Why?" he demanded, his tone like the low growl of an approaching storm.

Jeyne's expression was resolute, but a flicker of regret crossed her face as she answered. "To keep her quiet, my prince. The Princess was... accusing her majesty. Speaking of things that might have implicated the Queen. That this is what her grace wanted because she had ordered her to leave King's Landing."

Fiora sniffled, tears spilling down her freckled cheeks. "I didn't understand at first, my prince, but now I do. The Queen didn't want her to speak. That's why they gave her the milk."

Daemon's gaze darkened, his fury palpable as he stepped closer, looming over the maids like a dragon preparing to strike. "And yet you said nothing. You let them silence her under my House's roof."

Jeyne held her ground though the faintest hint of guilt shadowed her features. "We did not know the full extent until now, my prince. We are but servants. To speak against the Queen without proof..." She shook her head. "It would have been our heads."

Fiora sobbed softly, her voice breaking. "I only wanted to help her, my prince. I swear. I... I didn't know."

Daemon exhaled slowly, a heavy cloud of tension escaping his lips. The fury within him ignited like embers in a dying fire yet restrained from erupting. He scrutinized the two before him, his piercing gaze probing for any hint of betrayal, only to find a stark absence of dishonesty in their expressions. The fear etched on their faces was palpable, mingling with a deep, sincere remorse that hung like a thick fog.

"Jeyne," he said, his voice low and menacing, "if you value your life, you will do as I command. From this moment forward, you will watch the Queen. Every word she speaks, every order she gives. I want to know what she plans before she does."

Jeyne nodded solemnly, her expression unwavering as she searched Fiora's eyes for reassurance. The weight of her decision pressed heavily on her shoulders, but determination ignited within her. "You have my unwavering loyalty, my prince," she declared, her voice steady and resolute. "We will carry out whatever must be done."

"And you," Daemon said, glaring at Fiora, "stop sniveling. You will do the same if you wish to atone for your cowardice. Serve her, but serve me first."

Fiora pressed the rough fabric of her apron against her eyes, desperately trying to stem the tears that blurred her vision. Her heart raced as she nodded vigorously, her voice trembling with emotion. "Y-yes, my prince. I would do anything for the Princess," she declared, determination shining through her sorrow.

Daemon's lips curled into a grim smile, stiff shoulders slightly relaxing. "Good. If either of you falters, I will ensure you pay the price."

The maids nodded in unison, their faces pale but determined. As Daemon turned back to his daughter, his expression softened, though his fury simmered beneath the surface. He brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, his heart aching at your vulnerability.

"Rest, little dragon," he murmured. "They will not harm you again."

Behind him, Jeyne and Fiora exchanged glances, understanding the weight of the task ahead. As Daemon exited the room, his steps purposeful and deadly, they knew the storm was far from over. The Queen's court would soon feel the wrath of a father scorned. In the coming days, Jeyne and Fiora would do their duties with quiet diligence, and their loyalty was divided between the Queen and Prince. Jeyne's sharp eyes would note every whispered conversation and carefully hidden glance. The more the maids observed that day, the more they noticed Queen Alicent's face, so often painted with politeness, seemed to crack at the edges whenever he looked at their Princess lying in her sickbed, nails bit down to the quick.

The servants' vigilance would become Daemon's advantage. They would watch the shadows where betrayers might lurk while he stood ready to bring the fight to those who dared threaten his blood.

Aegon stood within the hallowed confines of the Sept of Baelor, the weight of uncertainty pressing heavily upon him. His back leaned against the cold, wax-covered altar, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with the aromatic blend of frankincense and myrrh, a bittersweet scent that wrapped around him like a shroud, stirring cherished and painful memories. In this sacred space, he often sought refuge in times of turmoil, a jug of rich Arbor Red clutched tightly in his hand, its crimson hue reflecting his troubled thoughts.

The familiar embrace of the Sept's walls surrounded him as he felt an emptiness beyond physical solitude. He wasn't searching for solace from the deities said to dwell in these ancient stones. Instead, he pondered the lingering influence of his mother, whose shadow seemed to loom more prominent with each passing moment.

The Prince's sworn protector had left him to his own devices as he often did, yet keeping a close eye on things should the need for Erryk's presence arise. There was no point in shepherding Aegon, that much the knight knew after years of service.

Aegon was alone with his thoughts as the hours ticked and the sun lowered over the horizon.

Was his life not built on foundations that would surely crumble? Living a life of poorly planned architecture built by arrogance next to a rising tide that would sweep it away should the sea decide to do so. Often, Aegon wished that the waves would swallow him whole, take him out into the vast ocean, and let him sink deeper and deeper into the depths until he felt the brine on his tongue and salt burning his lungs. And just when he felt the urge to swim, to not succumb to the cold and murky waters below, the same people who sculpted his being called the waves to rise.

Numbing the relentless ache that gnawed at him was his sole refuge, the only path to liberating himself from the suffocating weight of his despair. Whether it provided a fleeting respite or the promise of eternal silence, it was a desperate grasp at freedom from the torment that consumed him.

Aegon remained blissfully ignorant of the muted echoes of finely tailored boots trudging through the wet sand, his senses dulled by the relentless tide that filled his water-logged ears. Towering above him was Daemon, his posture exuding a quiet authority, an arched brow hinting at both curiosity and disdain as he surveyed the disheveled state of the drunken Prince sprawled carelessly on the shore.

"Get up," the Rogue Prince commanded, kicking his leather shoe into Aegon's thigh.

The Prince groaned in response but refused to move, slightly adjusting his reclined position.

Daemon heaved a sigh, the weight of nostalgia pressing down on him. He reminisced about countless nights lost in a haze of drunkenness, where the world around him faded away like the flickering candlelight in a dimly lit tavern. Memories of his days spent lurking in the shadowy presence of Otto Hightower and the haunting specters of deceased children lingered sharp in his mind, a constant reminder of his perceived failings. The sting of being overlooked by his niece gnawed at him, a wound that never truly healed. In his search for solace, he turned to the embrace of women and the warm allure of fine wine, crutches passed down through the generations, a familiar way of coping with the burdens that weighed so heavily on his soul.

The Rogue Prince had little patience for the feeble-minded and cowardly. In a moment of reckless inspiration, he seized one of the flickering candles from the altar, its flame dancing wildly in the dim light. With a deliberate tilt, he allowed the molten wax to spill forth, a glistening stream of warmth cascading down onto Aegon's forehead.

The Prince's body reacted instinctively and jolted, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as the searing liquid made contact. Swiftly, he raised a hand, frantically wiping away the viscous substance before it could burn him further, leaving behind a shimmering wax glistening in the muted glow of the altar.

"Wha-" he stammered, violet eyes bleary.

"Get up."

Aegon continued to stutter, his head filled with cotton as he swatted at his imaginary foe. Daemon thought it amusing yet pathetic to see his brother's eldest son, whom everyone whispered about becoming king, reduced to a blubbering mess.

"Get up, you wastrel," the Rogue Prince commanded, his voice a mix of irritation and authority.

He did not give his nephew a chance to respond or make an attempt to rise. Instead, with a swift motion, he seized the collar of the young man's tunic, yanking him upward with a firm grip that betrayed both frustration and resolve.

Groaning in discomfort and annoyance, Aegon stood on unsteady legs, using his uncle's weight to stay upright. "What? Have you got more wine for me?"

Daemon rolled his iridescent purple eyes, a gesture filled with disdain as he forcefully shoved Aegon against the cold, stone altar. The impact sent a few flickering candles toppling over, their flames sputtering and extinguishing in a puff of smoke.

"You're utterly pathetic," Daemon declared, his voice dripping with contempt as he released his grip, leaving Aegon gasping for breath. "I cannot fathom why my daughter would ever find fondness in someone like you."

Aegon's swirling mind focused on his uncle's words, tilting his head to clear his blurry vision at the notion of you. He blinked, the words slow to make sense in his clouded mind. He was still drunk, still floating in a haze of self-loathing and wine, but there was something about Daemon's tone that cut through the fog. The mention of you... It lingered in the air like a physical presence, a sharp, biting reminder of the past days.

Aegon's hand went instinctively to his forehead, wiping away the remnants of hot wax that had burned him just moments before. He could feel the sting, but it was nothing compared to the sensation in his chest—the twisting, gnawing ache that had settled there since he had last seen you, injured and silent.

"Your daughter?" Aegon repeated, his voice slurred but with a strange acerbity beneath it. He forced himself to stand straighter despite his swaying body. "Why do you care? You left her in the viper's den to get bit, and now she has."

Daemon's lips curled into a sneer, eyes narrowing with that sharp, calculating look that had made him both feared and revered. "You know who did this?" he shot back, his voice low and venomous. The Prince was silent, a brief war of loyalty and honor raging inside his mind. "Do not fool yourself into thinking you can hide behind your wine and self-pity, Aegon. If you truly cared about her, you wouldn't be here, drunk and useless. You'd be at her side, ensuring she's safe and her assailants are brought the sword."

Aegon's heart skipped a beat, the words slicing through him like a dagger, sharper than the pain of the wax on his skin. He tried to swallow the bitter lump in his throat, but it stuck there, choking him.

"I didn't know," Aegon muttered, almost pleading as if he needed to convince himself as much as Daemon. "I didn't know what happened... I didn't know she was in danger." He winced at the admission, though his voice was thick with guilt. "How could I have known? How could I-"

"You should have known." Daemon's voice was as cold as the stone beneath their feet, his words brutally cutting off Aegon's excuses. "You're the one who's supposed to protect her, aren't you? You love her, after all. Yet you failed her when she needed you most."

Aegon's chest tightened at the notion that you had told Daemon of your secret vows, his throat constricting with the weight of his uncle's words. The guilt that had always gnawed at the back of his mind, the feeling of being a deficient imitation of the strong eldest son, a poor excuse for a man, overwhelmed him, threatening to drown him in its suffocating grip.

Daemon observed him, his gaze unwavering. "You think I do not know what it's like to be trapped in a world of expectations and failure?" he continued, his voice softer now but still edged with a quiet fury. "I have walked that path. I've suffered for it but never let it weaken me. And neither should you."

Aegon's hands tightened into fists, the tips of his nails pressing painfully into his palms, each pulse of agony sending a jolt through his senses. He stood there, frozen, grappling with the weight of his thoughts, unable to articulate the turmoil inside him. Every misstep, every moment of indecision chained him to this place, facing Daemon, the man who was meant to be family, yet felt like an unsettling specter from a distant past. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, a stark reminder of the chasm that grew between family.

"Tell me what I'm supposed to do," Aegon finally whispered, the words hanging between them like a fragile plea. "Tell me how to fix this... before it's too late."

For a long moment, Daemon said nothing. He studied Aegon with that piercing gaze of his, the kind that made even the bravest men falter. Then, with a soft snort of derision, he stepped back, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"There's no simple answer, Aegon," Daemon said, his voice laced with a bitter edge. "You can't undo the past and erase your mistakes with a few words. But you can do something. You can be something more than a drunken waste of space hiding behind the throne your mother wants you on."

Aegon felt a lump rise in his throat, the enormity of Daemon's words bearing down on him as if he were trapped beneath a heavy weight.

"But I'm not like you," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, tinged with a flicker of resentment that colored his tone. A shadow crossed his face as he struggled to articulate the profound loss, tears glistening on his porcelain cheeks. "I don't possess your force." He paused, his gaze drifting to the ground as the memory surged. "She was carrying our child," Aegon added, pain lacing his words, "but it... it didn't survive," Aegon's voice faltered, and he grasped for the courage that seemed to elude him.

Daemon's heart plummeted like a stone at the weight of the revelation, each word cutting through him with a searing clarity that left him breathless. Anger bubbled within him at the thought of you and Aegon, reckless in your union, seemingly unaware of the consequences that loomed over such a decision. Yet, alongside that rage, a deeper, more profound sorrow enveloped him, tugging at his very soul as he thought of his child. The anguish of your loss struck him hard; the pain of a mother who had endured the shadows of childbirth only to mourn a child stolen away too soon—a tragedy that claimed the lives of many women who faced such grief.

This took him back through the corridors of his mind to the haunting memories of his late wife and mother, lives extinguished too early. An unsettling question gnawed at his heart, one that had plagued his mind for decades. Was it his fate, cursed and unyielding, for the women he loved to endure suffering and despair in the birthing bed? The thought twisted like a dagger in his chest, leaving him to grapple with the weight of his legacy and the maternal heartache that seemed inextricably woven into it.

"No one is born with strength, Aegon," Daemon declared, his voice sharp. "Strength is something you earn by facing the things you're afraid of, by doing the things no one else will do. I did not get where I was by sitting around waiting to follow orders. And neither will you."

Aegon looked at his uncle, the silence stretching between them, filled with an uncomfortable tension. His uncle's eyes were colder now, harder, like the steel of his sword.

"I don't have the luxury of time, and neither does she," Daemon continued, his voice quieter but no less intense. "So listen well, Aegon. You may not be ready to defy your family, but you will if you love her like she claims."

Aegon swallowed, the weight of Daemon's words sinking in, pressing down on his chest until it felt like he could hardly breathe. But there was something else there, too, something more profound than anger or resentment. There was a strange, unspoken understanding, an acknowledgment that neither was truly free from their past and mistakes.

And in that silence, Daemon's voice softened, though still edged with a hard truth. "You want to fix this?" he asked. "Then start by bringing those to justice."

Aegon felt the weight of those words, of the expectation in his uncle's gaze. He didn't have the answers and didn't know what would come next, but one thing was clear: if he were to ensure your future together, he would have to start now.

For the first time in the Prince's life, Aegon felt the faint stirrings of a purpose. Something outside of himself. Something worth fighting for.

"I will," he said, his voice firm despite lingering uncertainty. "This was my mother's doing, but I cannot prove it with her hounds and my grandfather so diligently by her side."

Daemon nodded once, satisfied for the moment. While he could not prove the Hightowers were the cause, he understood that having their kin loyal to him and his daughter would serve greater justice when Viserys met the Stranger. "Good. Then, prove it when the time comes, and she will be by your side again."

With that, the Rogue Prince turned, his footsteps echoing in the quiet of the Sept as Aegon remained behind, staring at the flickering candles, his mind already moving forward. He wasn't sure how he would fix everything, undo the damage, and make things right, but Daemon had given him something more than just words.

He had given him a chance. Now, it was up to Aegon to take it.

The heavy, oppressive silence of the dungeons seemed to wrap around Ser Arryk Cargyll like a shroud. His once-pristine white cloak, the proud symbol of his service as a Kingsguard, was now dirtied and torn, a reflection of the disgrace he now carried. Shackled to the cold stone wall of his cell, he sat hunched in the corner, his mind a labyrinth of guilt, regret, and anger. His failure still burned through him like a wound that wouldn't heal—the inability to protect the Princess due to his hubris.

He could hear the whispers of the guards in the corridors, the occasional clink of keys or boots on stone, but none stopped. No one came to offer him solace. He had betrayed his vows, and now he was paying the price.

There was no doubt in Arryk's mind about what awaited him. The Rogue Prince would not be merciful. He would die here, alone in this dark cell. Or worse, he would be forced to suffer before his inevitable death—a public disgrace, a mark on his and Erryk's name that would never be erased.

The sound of footsteps approaching snapped Arryk out of his thoughts. His heart sank, but not out of fear. He knew who it was before the man appeared in the dim light of the dungeon corridor.

Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince, the shadow that hung over the Targaryen family.

Arryk didn't rise from his sitting position. There was no need for any formalities. His failure had already stripped him of his dignity.

Daemon didn't say a word at first. He stopped before the cell, his violet eyes glinting in the dim torchlight as he studied the disgraced knight. He gave Arryk a long, pointed look of disgust and amusement.

"Ser Arryk," Daemon's voice was low, dripping with disdain. "You've fallen far, haven't you?" He stepped forward, his boots echoing in the cold, cavernous hallway.

Arryk didn't respond. What was there to say? The facts were clear. He failed in his sacred duty. No words could change that.

Daemon studied him for a moment longer before he smirked, the cruel twist of his lips never reaching his eyes. "You were meant to protect the blood of the King, Ser, and yet, the very Princess you were sworn to guard was nearly killed right under your nose. Tell me, how does that feel?"

Arryk's chest tightened, his hands clenching in the chains that bound him. He didn't have the strength to defend himself anymore. He didn't deserve to. "I failed," he whispered, voice rough from days of silent anguish. "I failed my oaths."

Daemon's smirk widened as if pleased by the admission. "Yes, you did. And now, the question is, what happens next?"

Arryk's head jerked up, his eyes locking with Daemon's. He saw no pity in those eyes. No mercy. Just the cold, calculating gaze of a man who had long since discarded any pretense of kindness. "What happens to me?" Arryk's voice was hoarse.

Daemon's lips parted in a faint, humorless chuckle. He pulled a dagger from his belt—simple, sharp, and deadly, the hilt made of dark iron. He dangled it in front of the bars, allowing the torchlight to catch the gleam of the blade. "You'll pay for your failure, of course. I will ensure that much." Daemon's tone was almost light, as though speaking about a matter of no importance. "But my punishment won't be death at the hands of another."

Arryk's heart skipped a beat. He couldn't speak. The weight of his fate seemed to settle in his chest.

Daemon raised an eyebrow, watching the knight's reaction. "You see, I am not as quick to kill as the people of your ilk might expect. No, I'll have you suffer. Perhaps I shall keep you locked away for the rest of your miserable life, a reminder to every knight in the Keep that failure is not tolerated." Daemon paused, allowing the words to sink in.

The pain of the thought was almost unbearable. Arryk had never thought of a fate worse than death, but now he could see it—an eternity of being nothing but a stain on the honor of his House.

A shadow.

Forgotten.

Daemon's voice lowered again, and there was now a weight to his words, a deliberate finality. "But that is not what I have come to offer you, Ser."

The dagger was placed on the cold stone floor beyond Arryk's reach. Daemon gave him one final look—measuring, unblinking. "The honorable thing, Ser Arryk, would be to take this dagger and end it yourself." He let the words linger in the air, heavy as iron. "That way, at least, you'll die with some dignity. You'll not be remembered as a coward too weak to take responsibility for his failure."

Arryk's eyes flicked to the blade, and his breath hitched in his throat. The thought of it, the sharpness of the steel, and the cold weight of the hilt in his hand comforted him in the depths of his despair. Death was swift, easy. And in some ways, it would be a release.

Daemon studied him for a long while before he spoke again. "If you choose to live, it will be a life spent in humiliation. I will never allow you to forget what you've done. You will be a shell of what you once were, and your name will be erased from the annals of honor. You will have nothing left."

Arryk's heart hammered in his chest as his eyes remained on the dagger. His failure had broken him. His soul felt heavy, burdened with the shame that would haunt him for the rest of his days. But could he end it? Could he choose death over a life of misery?

Daemon didn't move as he let the silence stretch on. "It's the honorable thing to do, Ser," he said quietly, almost as a command. "You know it as well as I do."

Arryk swallowed hard, his mind a whirlwind. He had failed so completely that nothing left for him was shame or death. He reached out a shaking hand, and his fingers brushed the cold steel of the dagger, the reality of the decision settling in his bones.

Daemon stood, watching, his arms crossed over his chest. There was no sympathy in his eyes, only the cold certainty that Arryk had already made his choice, whether or not he realized it yet.

"Make it quick, Ser Arryk. I won't grant you such a mercy again," Daemon added, his voice low and final.

And with that, the Rogue Prince turned and left the dungeons, leaving the dagger behind as the only reminder of the honor that had once been and the shame that would now define him.

The air in your bed chamber was thick with the pungent scent of incense. The faint orange glow from the setting sun filtered weakly through the heavy velvet curtains, casting a dim, feverish light over the room. The dim glow of the hearth cast wavering shadows across the opulent green decor, the only light rivaling the room's heavy tension. Daemon Targaryen stood at the foot of his daughter's bed, his jaw set like granite, his lilac eyes aflame as they bore into the two figures before him. Queen Alicent Hightower, clad in a gown of deep emerald, held her composure, her hands clasped before her as though she were at prayer. Beside her, Lord Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, straightened his posture, his sharp features betraying only a hint of disdain.

On the bed, the pale and fragile form of Daemon's youngest daughter lay motionless, her breath shallow and her lips tinged with an unnatural stillness. A half-empty vial of milk of the poppy rested on the bedside table, its glass catching the flicker of the firelight.

He could see your face now, pale and drawn, your lips dry and cracked, and your breathing shallow. Your hair clung to your forehead, damp with sweat. You had barely roused since he returned to the Red Keep. The wound on your temple, the poison that still coursed through your veins, all of it seemed to pull you deeper into the shadows.

Daemon broke the silence first, his voice low and venomous. "How long?" he demanded, his hand clenching the hilt of Dark Sister. "How long has my daughter been your prisoner in her skin?"

Alicent raised her chin, her voice measured but with an edge of exasperation. "Daemon, your accusations are baseless. She is not a prisoner. The maester prescribed milk from the poppy for her comfort."

"Do not dare!" Daemon snarled, taking a step forward. "Do not dare speak to me of comfort while my daughter lies here, drugged into silence. Fragile, you say? What lies beneath your 'comfort,' Alicent? What truth were you so afraid she would speak?"

Otto stepped in, his tone dripping with authority. "Prince Daemon, you insult Her Grace and the King's council with this madness. Your grief clouds your reason. Do you hear yourself? These are the ravings of a man desperate to find enemies where none exist."

Daemon's laughter was cold and mirthless. "Oh, there are enemies aplenty, Lord Hightower, and none closer to my family than you." He pointed a finger toward Alicent. "Do not think I am blind to your schemes. Drugging my child, is that not desperation enough? Or would you rather have me believe that poison is beyond your reach?"

Alicent flinched, but only slightly, her calm demeanor hardening. "You think us capable of such atrocity? We seek only peace in the realm. Your daughter's well-being has always been our priority."

"Peace?" Daemon hissed, circling them like a dragon sizing up its prey. "Peace through silencing the truth, you mean. And what truth terrifies you so, Alicent? That your precious Greens are losing their grip on the throne? That your Targaryen children will not be your puppets?"

Otto's voice cut through the air, sharper now. "Enough! You speak treason, Prince Daemon. Were you not her father and brother to the King, I would have you dragged from this room in chains for such slander."

Daemon's grip on Dark Sister tightened, his knuckles whitening. He leaned in closer, his voice a deadly whisper. "And were she, not my daughter, I would have your head for daring to lay a finger upon her fate. Tell me, Otto, if the Greens are desperate enough to keep her tongue tied, are they desperate enough to steal her life?"

Alicent stepped forward, her expression resolute. "Daemon, this is your grief speaking. You imagine plots where none exist. Please, for her sake, do not let your paranoia destroy what remains of your family."

"My family?" Daemon barked, his eyes narrowing. "You have no claim to speak of my family, Alicent. The blood of the dragon burns brighter than the shadows you and your father cast. But be warned, if I uncover a single thread of truth behind this betrayal, I will burn every last one of your schemes to ash."

The room fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the faint, shallow breathing of the girl on the bed. Alicent and Otto exchanged glances, their faces masks of composure but their eyes betraying unease.

Daemon stood firm, a tempest barely restrained, his gaze never leaving them. He spoke once more, quieter now but no less dangerous.

"Leave this room. Leave her side. And pray, for your sakes, that the truth never comes to light."

Alicent hesitated, but Otto placed a firm hand on her arm, guiding her toward the door. They exited without another word, the heavy oaken door closing behind them with an ominous thud.

Daemon walked silently toward your bedside. His strong hands, so accustomed to wielding swords and bending the wills of others, now trembled as they reached for your delicate, limp fingers. The quiet vulnerability of this moment struck him more than any battlefield ever had. His daughter, the one he had sworn to protect, was broken, and he was powerless to do anything but watch. He gently curled his fingers around yours as if holding on to whatever little remained of the angry girl he had raised.

The Rogue Prince turned back to his daughter, kneeling beside her bed, his hand brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. "They'll pay for this, little one," he murmured. "I swear it on my blood."

You shifted slightly, just enough to draw his gaze as your lips parted gently. Your eyes fluttered open briefly, sparkling with a soft, dreamy awareness that hinted at the depths of your thoughts.

"Father?" Your voice emerged as a fragile whisper, barely lifting above the air around you. The sound seemed to fracture something deep within Daemon, a tiny shard of his once-impenetrable heart splintering into pieces in his chest.

"Shh, don't try to speak," he murmured, brushing your damp hair back from your forehead with a tenderness he didn't often show. His eyes were wet with the tears he hadn't allowed himself to shed until now.

In return, you weakly squeezed his hand, your gaze struggling to focus through the Milk of the Poppy. "I... failed, didn't I?" you whispered, voice cracking. "I couldn't stop it... Couldn't stop the Greens."

Daemon's heart clenched. He could feel the depth of your regret, the weight of your self-doubt in those simple words. His mind flashed back to the fateful days that brought you to this point.

Sending you to King's Landing was the plan you had agreed upon, knowing it was dangerous. You would infiltrate the very heart of the enemy and make a place for yourself at court. You would seduce Aegon, the eldest son of Queen Alicent, a man with no taste for power and no ambition beyond the pleasures of the flesh. You would make him fall for you, win his favor, manipulate him, and stop the usurpation. You would ensure Rhaenyra's crown was secured and that Aegon would never take what was rightfully hers.

But everything had gone wrong. Daemon underestimated the treacherous nature of the court, the depths to which the Hightowers would go to secure the throne for their own and your young, bleeding heart. He had failed as a father, as a man. And now, his daughter, his precious girl, was paying the price.

Daemon swallowed the lump in his throat. He took a slow breath, trying to steady the fury that threatened to consume him. "You did what you could," he whispered, his voice breaking on the words. "You were brave. You were everything I asked of you and more."

You stirred again, your brows furrowing as if in pain, and lips parted to speak, but the words faltered.

"Father, if I fail... if Aegon becomes king..." you whispered hoarsely, struggling to stay conscious. "Leave me to die in the forests of the North. A pack of hungry wolves would be kinder than what he will do to me."

Daemon's hand clenched around yours, and his heart shattered at the words. He knew what you meant. Aegon, a man who would become consumed by the luxuries that power had brought, could never be a better man. He would use his newfound strength to break his enemies and your family, bend them to his will, and crush them beneath the weight of his crown.

Aegon would not cease until you were by his side, even if it meant the destruction of House Targaryen and the kingdom. If he were to ascend to the throne, it would be the end of you.

You closed your eyes again, your body sagging slightly as the feverish haze claimed you again.

Daemon sat beside you on the mattress as it dipped with his weight, holding your hand in both. The stench of a floral musk that reminded Daemon of Viserys wafted through his nose as a sudden realization came to mind. His breath came fast, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts, but it was all drowned in his overwhelming rage and helplessness at the world's cruelty.

His daughter, his favorite daughter, was so close to death, and there was nothing he could do to save her. His mind began to work, to churn with decisions that could shape their future.

He will not let you die here.

"No," Daemon whispered to your sleeping form, his voice thick with emotion. "I will not let them do this to you. Not while I live." His hand trembled as he stroked your hair, his heart shattering again as he looked at your pale, suffering face.

He stood slowly, but his movements were sharp and purposeful now. The anger and sorrow had merged into a singular driving force as he turned to the window, glancing out at the fading light of the day. There was only one place he could take you, one where you might have a chance to heal and one where you would be safe, but at the potential cost of the throne.

"Prepare a ship," Daemon ordered to the guards outside the door, his voice hardening as he straightened, the weight of his promise pressing down on him. "Get it ready. We leave for Dragonstone tonight."

Turning back to the bed, he gently lifted you into his arms, carefully cradling you as though you were the most precious thing in the world. You were frail, but still his daughter—the fire from his blood, the only legacy worth fighting for. He kissed your forehead, the promise in his heart now fully formed.

"Do not fear," he whispered, more to himself than you. "You will be free. You have not failed. I will ensure you are never hurt again once we return to Dragonstone."

The ship would be ready by the hour of the owl, and Daemon would take you and leave the city behind. The politics, selfish intrigue, and Hightowers were all irrelevant now. The only thing that mattered was his daughter's life. The rest of the realm could burn for all he cared so long as you lived.

Masterlist of Series

Spotify Playlist

We all want heads to roll, but we must let them have their moments. Otto, Alicent, and Larys will eventually get what's coming. I have about ten or eleven more chapters to go!

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte , @silverslive , @prettykinkysoul , @duesobabe, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid , @dd122004dd , @ladybug0095 , @millies0bsimp , @kalfild , @sheislonelyalways , @tempt-ress , @minttea07 , @trikigirl271 , @esposadomd , @prettywhenicry4 , @justarandomflowerchildofthenight , @partypoison00 , @please-buckme , @pastelorangeskies , @existential-echo , @priyajoyy , @valaenatargaryensdragon , @merovingianprincess , @candy12110 , @w3ird11 , @ruhjkie , @somemydayy , @marikkjj , @zillahvathek , @sunfyresrider , @heavenly1927 , @hjgdhghoe , @im-sidney , @aurorathi , @marihoneywk , @xitsemm , @justbelljust , @qardasngan , @shari-berri , @tomgcmrs

Bold means I couldn't tag you •́⁠ ⁠ ⁠‿⁠ ⁠,⁠•̀

78 notes · View notes

syluss-karaoke-teacher · 25 days ago

Text

Love and Deepspace - Nightly Rendezvous - Part II, Zayne

As promised, here is the second part of the short smut series inspired by the new quad banner~ I began writing Xavier and Zayne's parts after the teaser dropped but before the cards came out, so that's why it's not a faithful retelling of the plot. Especially since I found the premise of Zayne getting *that* drunk off ONE chocolate so outlandish lol.

Word count: 2286 words

MDNI! Tags and main text under the cut. You have been warned.

NOTE: This fic is only posted on tumblr and on AO3 under the pseud Yuli_Hunter. All other uploads on any other websites are non-authorized. I do not own any part of Love and Deepspace as an IP, but I do own this piece of fanfiction, and you are not allowed to repost it, copy it or otherwise claim it as your own.

That's it, enjoy! ❤️

Tags: reader!MC, fem!reader, PWP, fingering and oral (f!receiving), PIV, Zayne is a lightweight, tipsy and neglecting his doctorly duties lmao

Not beta-read we die like Grandma

~*~*~

You had hoped that finally, after so many weeks of the two of you running yourselves ragged at work this short work trip together would at least help you spend a night together. For Zayne there was a medical conference to attend, and for you a chance to aid your neighboring city’s Hunters by being on-call as backup for the preparations of a local festival. Nothing too intensive, maybe even time to have a nice long dinner together.

Alas, from the moment you arrive at the hotel hosting Zayne’s medical conference he gets swamped by his colleagues from all over the country. As you converse with the front desk staff Zayne is soon engaged in small talk from all sides, and slowly but surely gets walked towards the conference hall. Your boyfriend looks over his shoulder and offers you an apologetic frown. You wave back at him with a small smile, trying your hardest to not let your disappointment show. That’s what you get for having such high hopes.

The suite Zayne had reserved for you two is nice, but it feels so very empty with only you occupying it. As Zayne’s day at the medical conference drags on your Hunter’s watch stays silent, and by the time your on-call shift ends, you place an order to the room service. After a moment’s consideration, you add a bottle of wine to the order, in case Zayne only arrives back during late hours of the night.

As you wait for the food you fix your hair and makeup and try on some of your newly bought clothes to pass the time. If there is a chance that Zayne arrives early you want to surprise him. You end up choosing a sleeveless silk top with floral designs and barely-there black shorts. You tie your hair in a high ponytail to show off your shoulders and dab your pulse points with a jasmine-scented perfume. Satisfied with your look you take a few mirror selfies, and on a whim decide to send them to Zayne, thinking he would only look at his phone after his panel talks are over.

The food finally arrives, and you help yourself to a glass of wine as the staff sets up a table for you. Just as you are thanking them your stomach growls loudly, and you see the staff out the door with a sheepish smile. Afterwards you dive into the food, practically devouring the delicious truffle pasta. You make a mental note to have it again with Zayne before you return home.

As you reach for the dessert, a generous slice of dark chocolate cake, you hear the door open. You set the cake and your wine glass back on the table and hurry to the front door, where you are met with a tired looking Zayne.

You frown a bit as you notice how visibly tense Zayne is, even a bit irritated. However, the moment he sees you his pupils widen as he takes in your appearance. He barely notices you trailing your hand up his chest, and he doesn’t register your concerned voice as you ask about his day.

“Zayne?” you repeat, and he finally snaps his focus back to your eyes. That’s when you notice that they are glossed over, unfocused. You lean toward him and as he wraps his arm around you, you notice a faint fruity scent.

“Have you been drinking?” you ask in amazement. Zayne never drinks alcohol, citing the endless health hazards and the ever-present possibility of being summoned to handle an emergency at the hospital. Yet now Zayne merely hums and traces your cheek with his fingertips.

“I had a cocktail or two in the lounge. Some of my work colleagues were… quite insufferable, not letting me get back to my room.”

A surprised gasp escapes you as Zayne suddenly pulls you flush against him.

“I was waiting for a call from the hospital, to get an update on next week’s surgery,” he says as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. His other hand slides down the slope of your back to rest on your ass as the other one tangles itself into your hair.

“So, imagine my surprise when I check on my phone and find your pictures there instead.”

You are about to apologize when he lays a heated, open-mouthed kiss on your neck, and your words die out in a moan. Zayne starts walking you backwards, kissing up your neck as he does. Soon your back meets the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window, and at that moment Zayne claims your lips with fervor you have never seen from him. He slips his tongue into your waiting mouth, sharing the sweet taste of the fruit cocktail with you as he presses his thigh between your legs. When you finally part you barely recognize Zayne with his eyes so cloudy and dark, his glasses misted up and his breathing ragged.

“I might have been able to endure my colleagues and the inevitable phone call if I was by myself… But knowing you would be here, looking like this—” he groans and slips his hand further down to grab your ass better, “it was too much. You are too much. And here I am, falling to pieces while you stand there so… unaffected,” he says, and sounds almost angry as he does.

“Zayne—” you don’t even know what you want to say. It doesn’t matter, as Zayne claims your lips once more. He grinds you against the window while cupping the back of your head so as not to hurt you. There’s a slight wobble to his movements, induced by the alcohol he so rarely drinks, and as you slip your hands down his abdomen to caress the growing bulge in his pants, you feel him unravel. Zayne moans loudly in your mouth, and before you have a chance to react, you are swooped up by him and carried to the living room work desk.

Zayne has apparently decided that the bedroom of the suite is too far away, and he pushes the stationary items off the table and settles between your thighs. You bite your lip as you gaze upon his face: his cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and the naked desire, his eyes shining as he maps your kiss-swollen lips, and his labored breathing as the jasmine perfume pushes him ever deeper into delirium.

“Don’t try to escape me, please,” he murmurs as he peppers your lips with more kisses, “it’s been far too long since I had you like this. It’s like the universe itself is mocking me by keeping you away from me. And the pictures…” he sighs and squeezes your naked thighs before sliding his hands further up. You tremble as his thumbs circle closer and closer to your core under the fabric of your shorts.

“I’m not going anywhere Zayne,” you sigh and tilt your head to the side to give his mouth a better access, “I’m all yours.”

Just then you two hear a buzzing noise. It’s coming from Zayne’s phone that’s still in the pocket of his slacks. You sigh and squeeze your eyes shut, preparing to wind yourself back. You open your eyes just in time to see Zayne fish the phone out of his pocket—

And chuck it somewhere on the floor before slipping his hands under your shirt. The phone keeps buzzing incessantly on the floor as Zayne gets back to making out with you, his hands deftly undoing your bra and unbuttoning your shirt. You wait for the phone’s voice mail to prompt Zayne to leave the room in a hurry, but all you get are intermittent messages notifications, and after Zayne manages to unzip your shorts and slide his fingers into your panties, the phone sits silent and forgotten on the floor.

You wrap your arms around Zayne’s neck as he rubs your clit in slow, sure circles. His lips are tethered to your neck and shoulder, kissing, licking and nipping the tender flesh. You try to pay him back by lifting your leg and pressing your shin against his groin, but instead of faltering in his ministrations Zayne merely groans and slips two fingers inside your slick heat, curling his fingers just right to make you gasp and tremble in his hold.

“Z-Zayne, more—” you whine and try to shimmy your shorts off. Zayne pulls his fingers out, but instead of helping you out of the last pieces of your restricting garments, he pulls your shorts and panties just barely halfway down your thighs and then pushes your knees towards your chest. A scarlet blush overtakes your face as you realize how lewd a position your usually well-mannered boyfriend has just put you in. Zayne leaves you no time to protest as he pushes his fingers inside of you again. You quickly grab your thighs as Zayne starts a fast rhythm, rubbing incessantly against the sweet spot inside you while the thumb of his other hand teases your clit. Zayne stares at the spot where his fingers disappear into your wet heat, and you catch him licking his parched lips.

“Do you want to taste me, Zayne?” you ask him, widening your thighs as you struggle to temper the flames of your arousal. The sight of Zayne being so utterly mesmerized by you is unbelievably arousing. His pupils dilate at your suggestion, followed by a goddamn whimper, and you feel yourself squeezing down on his fingers.

Zayne grabs his glasses and places them on the desk with more force than necessary. Then he drops to his knees in front of you, still pumping his fingers at a steady pace. You spread your thighs impossibly wide and whine as you feel his warm breath on your pussy. Your core pulsates with need, your heart jumps wildly in your chest, and as his lips connect with your heat you feel yourself shaking to the core. You moan, deep and desperate, as it takes no more than a few precise licks to make you cum all over Zayne’s awaiting mouth. The desk creaks under you as you do your best to keep your balance with your hips bucking wildly into the wet softness.

You don’t hear the noises Zayne makes over your own, but as you come down from your high you feel Zayne’s fingers slipping out of you and grabbing your thigh. You open your hazy eyes and see Zayne staring down at you, panting hard as he blindly reaches for his zipper. You take advantage of his momentary distraction and finally push your shorts and soiled panties off. You wince inwardly at the feeling of the expensive wood of the desk being soaked in your juices, but before you can comment on it, much less do anything about it, you feel Zayne’s arms winding around you once more. You are hauled up and against him, your sweat slicked skin pressed into his expensive vest as he balances you on one arm. You expect him to carry you to the bed, or at least the couch, but then you hear the sound of his metal belt buckle hitting the floor. Your eyes widen as you feel him widening his stance.

“Hold on tight,” he murmurs, and you scramble to hook your arms around his shoulders as you feel him guide his weeping cock to your hole.

“Zayne, oh, fuck—” you manage to exclaim before he sinks into you. He is rock-hard, filling you up inch by inch. Your jaw grows slack when his tip slides against your sweet spot torturously slow. You lock your ankles behind his lower back and hold onto dear life as Zayne begins bouncing you up and down.

“So tight and sweet for me darling, just as I remember,” he pants against your neck, and you respond by squeezing his cock even harder. You can feel him pulsing inside you, his release not far off. You mewl into Zayne’s ear, licking the lobe to tease him as his grip on your hips tightens.

“Only for you Zayne, only ever for you.”

Zayne sucks in a breath and slowly kneels on the floor in a way that makes you quietly marvel the strength of his thighs. The position makes it easier for him to thrust into you, and soon you are little more than a ragdoll in his lap with Zayne fucking into your weeping pussy hard enough for the slapping of your hips to echo around the suite. You bite into his shoulder and feel his cock throb in response.

“Come into me Zayne, fill me up nice and good,” you whisper and give his earlobe one final teasing lick that’s enough to make him come undone. Zayne groans as he stills inside you, the head of his cock pulsating against your sweet spot. You reach for your clit and rub it as you swivel your hips, soon following him over the edge and milking him even further as your own orgasm wrecks through your body.

As you ride out your release on his lap Zayne reaches his fingers behind you and circles your leaking hole, slowly pushing your mixed juices back in. You hiss at the intrusion that’s almost too intense to bear, but then you pull yourself back to see that the intense heat in your lover’s eyes has not faded. You feel any objections die on your tongue as Zayne continues to ease two fingers inside you with his still semi-hard cock filling you.

“I’d hate to leave things half-way,” Zayne murmur against your lips, “won’t you let me continue? Just for a little while?”.

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #reader is mc #smut #pwp #fanfiction #lads fanfic #yuli writes #love and deepspace zayne #lads zayne #lnds zayne #zayne x mc #zayne smut #zayne x you

63 notes · View notes

eskymoos · 11 months ago

Text

Keegan P Russ As a Romantic Partner

Headcannons by Eskimos

I. A Methodical Maestro with a Playful Twist

It's been confirmed that his personality type is ISTP, which means that his brain is his strongest weapon. He is methodical and very tactful with his language and would always offer a hand to you. Feeling lost? He's always there with a good solution. Feeling sad? He's the guy to ask for advice.

Even if he lacks experience in some fields he's very quick to learn and perfect them so I suppose he'd also be a bit competitive. Keegan doesn't miss an opportunity to beat you to everything you like. All while playing dumb in order to cherish the amazement on your end.

***

''How'd you do that?! Wow!''

''Just luck, I guess,'' he'd say with an indifferent shrug while a childish grin creeps onto his face.

***

II. The Jester of your Heart

Keegan is very reserved but he's a skilled people reader. He would quickly get used to your moods and soon you wouldn't even have to tell him when you're feeling sad. He just steals a glimpse and he already knows what to do.

However, sometimes the cocky side of him comes out in the most inconvenient time and things tend to get more spicy. Whenever you give him the silent treatment for no reason, he begins threading on thin ice with you.

***

''Whatcha want for dinner, sweet pea?''

*Silence.*

''What's wrong, my beautiful?'' He asks, coming closer to you. When you turn the other way to further provoke him, he guides his hands to your hips and presses the weight of his chest to your back.

''Funny little thing. Have you given a vow of silence? I like when we play this game, y'know.''

His hands drop lower and lower and his mouth comes to caress the back of your neck. His hot breath makes your hairs stand.

''Your heart's beating fast.''

III. Under the Hard Scales of His Heart

Independence is Keegan's last name. He never learned how to embrace the art of teamwork, though his job required it. At times he was too disconnected to properly do the job.

In a relatioship he might have some trouble turning to you for assistance. Whenever something is on his mind, he blocks out the world and faces it on his own. He's likely to turn down tips from other people.

Not from you though.

The first time you lent your hand for help, he was quite surprised and even a bit suspicious. It unlocked a part of him he never knew he had. He felt cared for and seen.

In time Keegan learned to trust your word and be less stubborn when you tried to aid him.

IV. Tsunami of Love

That's what he is. A natural disaster. A tornado of energy and a tsunami. Behind closed doors he is much less calm. His love language is mostly acts of service and physical touch but sometimes the two mix together into something even more grand.

If you happen to be struggling under a pile of undone work, he would find the perfect moment to distract you. Before you can even get a word out, he has already picked you up from the chair and carrying you to your room bridal style.

***

''What are you doing, Keegan?!''

He continues to march through the house and whistle proudly. Keegan tosses you onto the bed like you don't weight anything at all.

''Stay here.'' He commands, exiting and closing the door behind him.

In a few minutes time he comes back with your favorite chocolates and a beer for himself.

''I will be your only occupation today.''

***

V. The Kids' Favorite

The way I see it, Keegan would have very specific sense of humor. His jokes can be very sharp and borderline offensive but the moment a kid comes in sight he turns into a soft cinnamon roll.

He has this energy that kids absolutely adore because he's a great listener and adapts to the circumstances easily. There's something about the purity of the young generation that makes him feel protective.

***

One time you saw him play with a small group of children after a difficult operation. He was kneeling down in front of a little girl and his eyes glimmered as she tried to pronounce his name. The child obviously had rhotacism (cannot pronounce the letter r) and he found it quite adorable.

''Keegan Russ. Russ. Can you say it?'' Keegan bit his lip, holding back a chuckle.

''Keegan Hhhus.'' The girl tried to repeat it but failed terribly. Keegan burst out laughing.

''Rrrrrrrr,'' he growled playfully and she giggled at it.

''Grhhhrr!''

''Oh, you're growling at me now? Come here you.'' Keegan extended his arms to trap her in a harmless embrace.

There was something about his love for children that won your heart every time.

***

170 notes · View notes

retrocgads · 2 years ago

Text

USA 1990

#USA1990 #MICROPROSE #SIMULATION #IBM #AMIGA #ATARIst #SILENT SERVICE II

27 notes · View notes

noxturnalnymph · 11 months ago

Text

Devotion 🖤 II. Predator or Prey? (Ch 4)

CultLeader!Joel x OFC!Reader

Series Summary: When is it enough? When is it too much? When does Devotion become Obsession?

Visit the Series Masterlist for series warnings, cult info, timeline info, and HCs on ages. Reader has a nickname and some minor physical descriptions - is an OFC from Reader POV.

*This series is 18+ MDNI. I will not be listing individual chapter warnings as I don't want to spoil the plot of each chapter. Please see the series masterlist for entire series warnings to decide if this is for you.*

LAYOUT OF JOEL'S HOUSE

II. Predator or Prey?

CH 4 (4.8k) The following Sunday everyone in town is gathered at the old church with the big white steeple for the weekly Valley meeting. After a midday interfaith service, the religious leader gives Joel the floor for his usual speech. As he always does, Joel begins by extolling the virtues of the community, speaking on their recent raiding successes, and then reviews the three tenants.

We are stronger together. It’s important that everyone finds a place within The Valley that caters to their strengths, so we can depend on each other and serve one another. The predator versus the prey. You have to be one or the other and we choose to not be anyone’s prey. This community is held above any other and we must protect it at all costs. Create a path to the future. Everything we do here paves the way for us as a society to beat the fungus, to find a cure, and to return to the top of the food chain.

The crowd listens, enraptured, nodding along and smiling as Joel holds them in the palm of his hand. He praises the men and women who patrol the perimeter of the community for their diligence and bravery. He thanks the farmers who live outside the town borders for their perseverance. Then he scans the crowd, looking for you, to silently acknowledge how grateful he is for your presence. But all he sees are the same eyes over and over again, looking at him with devotion and reverence. He usually sees you in the second row with the rest of the house, but you’re not there.

As his speech winds to a close and he heads back to his front-row seat, he realizes that you were in the crowd with the rest of his household. You were there in the second row the whole time, staring at him just like the rest of them do, with blind adoration, with expectation, with mindless loyalty. He’d felt a change on Thursday. After the meeting he’d touched you everywhere, gotten down on his knees for you, and worshiped at your altar. He’d felt something shift and now the wild look in your eyes is gone.

You’re completely devoted. You’re under his spell. You’re one of them.

One of us, he corrects himself. You’re one of us, just like he wanted you to be…. Right?

You watch Joel speaking at the meeting and it's as if his words have new meaning – like he’s speaking directly to you. You’ve never felt small or beautiful or feminine, but he makes you feel whole. He makes you feel strong. He makes you feel like a woman. You feel like you were supposed to be his, always. And it was always supposed to go like this, as if your whole life has led you to this moment. All of your failures have led you here, to him.

The trepidation you felt when you first got here has completely disappeared and you know that you’ll give everything you have to Joel. You’ll give him all of you, your mind, body and soul, gladly. He can fill in all of the broken or missing pieces of you. Every bad thing that ever happened to you Joel can fix. He can heal the parts of you that weren’t good enough, that weren’t pretty enough, that weren’t smart enough.

He can save you.

As soon as the crowd begins to move out of the large room and amble towards the dining hall next door for dinner, he grabs your arm and pulls you roughly into a small supply closet. It smells of lemon and vinegar and is far too small for two people to move about comfortably. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that there is a crowd of people on the other side of the door or that he shouldn’t be asking you to do what he’s about to ask you to do.

The look in your eyes has gone to his head, he needs to see your supplication right now. He needs to witness your devotion, he needs to give you communion. He pushes you down onto your knees, undoes his pants, and offers himself to you. It’s your first time seeing the size of him and you look willing to comply, your eyes still dazed and glowing, still filled with trust in him. He watches as you take hold of him with one hand and begin to lick and kiss the head, slowly dragging your tongue up and down his shaft.

Once you put him fully in your mouth he loses all patience, needing more immediately. He pushes your hand away and takes your head in a firm grip on either side, pausing as you look up at him. Your eyes are still glassy. He nods his head and you reciprocate, which he takes as permission to begin drawing himself in and out of your mouth, gently pushing your head forwards and backwards.

Slowly, he passes back and forth over your lips, allowing you to adjust to him. This only lasts for a few thrusts before he begins to move faster, deeper. He matches the movements of his hips with his grip on the sides of your head, coordinating them to fuck your face in earnest. He hears your gurgles and sees tears beginning to run down your cheeks but you don’t push him away, so he doesn’t stop. He tells himself that you want this. You want this as much as he does.

You kneel beneath him, knees stinging on the hard floor, mouth full and struggling to breathe around him. You’re not sure where this is coming from, but it's obvious that he needs this right now, and what you want above all else is to give him what he needs, to be everything for him. You place your hands on his thighs to brace yourself and try your best to breathe through your nose, to be quiet and still and exactly what he needs you to be, even if this is painful and uncomfortable.

You wish the tears would stop streaming down your face. You’re afraid to even look up at him, worried that he’ll take one look at you and think you’re not enjoying it. What if he thinks you’re having a terrible time, what if he thinks you look awful, what if he thinks he’s hurting you? Maybe those things are kind of true, but still…. What if he stops? What would you do with yourself if he stopped? If he didn’t want you to do this anymore?

You finally look up and meet his eyes. You barely recognize him, his eyes black and his face hard. He doesn’t even meet your gaze, it’s like he’s staring right through you. His pace begins to falter and his hips start to stutter, and you hope it means he’s nearly done. You’re trying so hard to bear this, to not choke, to not cry, to ignore the stiffness in your jaw and the stinging in your knees, but you don’t know how much longer you can do it.

“Are you gonna swallow it?” he huffs out, voice strained. He pulls himself out of your throat until only the tip of him rests on your lips.

“I’ve never–” you swallow back a gag, “I’ve never done that before.”

“But you will, right?” he nods his head as he asks.

He nods, so you nod. And you will. You’ll do anything he asks of you. You don’t have time to wipe your face, which you’re sure must look a mess, before he puts his entire length back inside your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You can’t stop your body from heaving as he pushes in, and part of you wonders how he’s able to ignore it. He’s usually so in-tune with you.

He lasts less than a dozen more thrusts before his hips stutter to a halt as he starts to release his orgasm down your throat. You feel hot spurts hitting the back of your mouth and you’re awash with shame that it instantly makes you want to gag. He needs this, you tell yourself. You have to be good for him, you have to do a good job for him. You have to be everything he needs you to be.

He pulls himself back so his cock rests on your tongue as he continues to come, coating your mouth, and now you taste him for the first time. The salty bitterness covers your tongue and you’re begging yourself not to retch. He holds your head still, encouraging you to swallow him, even placing one hand over your throat and telling you don’t spit, and swallow it all, which you do with difficulty.

When you’ve swallowed every drop, he seems satisfied and lets go of your head, tucking himself back into his pants. Without warning he turns and walks out of the closet, leaving you to lurch forward since you were resting on him for support. You fall forward onto your hands, catching yourself before your face meets the ground, scraping your palms a bit on the dirty linoleum.

You stay there for a moment like that, on all fours, in a cleaning closet, alone. Down here it smells like musty mop heads and mildew. Down here. On your knees. For Joel. Days ago you were alone with him and he was the one on his knees, worshiping your body, treating you like a goddess. Today he used your mouth like a fuck toy. No, you can’t think like that. That’s not what Joel did, he would never do that.

You run the last ten minutes through your mind a few times as you slowly get up and brush yourself off. He needed you. He could have anyone here but he chose you, out of everyone. No one ever did that before. No one ever chose you over anyone else. But Joel did. Joel needed you today and you were able to be there for him, and that’s what matters.

Joel pushes his way through the crowd, not an ounce of shame or regret present. He smiles and shakes hands and gives hugs. Everyone in The Valley looks to him for answers, for guidance, for leadership. He’s the reason every single one of them is here and he’s responsible for them all. They are his flock and he is their shepherd. He gives so much of himself to be here, to do this. He deserves the adoration and the appreciation. He deserves you. He deserves your body, your mouth, your reverence.

He knows you’ve changed since you arrived, you’ve become more trusting, less wild. You’ve morphed into what they all wanted you to be, a devoted member of The Valley. He’s changed also. He used to be different, back when you first met. Back then he could give you pieces of himself, his real self. But the more you’re drawn to him and the more you’ve trusted him, the more he's become unworthy of your trust. He doesn’t even remember doing it intentionally, but it’s done.

He’s slowly lured you into his trap and now, you’re caught.

–

The rest of the week your head is completely filled with thoughts of him. He’s your first thought in the morning and your last thought before you fall asleep. All night your dreams are filled with him, and you cling to the fleeting images of him when you wake. You can’t seem to get enough of him, aching to be near him every moment of the day. You stare at him longingly across the table at every meal and follow him around like a puppy whenever you can, unable to focus on anything else.

Joel himself is so lost in his own delusions of grandeur, he walks around the house with his head held high, cocky and full of himself. He can feel you staring at him all the time and he indulges you once in a while by taking your hand and grazing it across his lips, down his chest, over his burgeoning erection. He’s half-hard all the time now, anticipating. He’s convinced that you’re going to let him fuck you after the next Thursday meeting. He’s going to have you, he’s going to have every piece of you.

The days leading up to it, he thinks about it all day; his dick achingly hard but he refuses to jerk off now, wanting to save it for you. He’s practically vibrating with anticipation when Tess comes up to him Thursday before dinner and gives him the bad news. She tells him you’re sick, started throwing up a couple hours ago, and won’t be able to accompany him to the meeting.

Before he can argue, Tess waves her hand in front of his face, telling him not to worry, that Kerri will be going with him instead. Without a moment for an argument to leave his lips, Tess slips away and Kerri is standing in front of him. She has been living with them for almost a year now, since he found her battered and bruised about a half day’s ride from here.

Kerri is petite, has chin-length curly hair, a toothy smile, and a faint scar stretching from her left temple down to her jawline. She walks with a barely noticeable limp but always pulls her weight around the house, doing most of the meal prep and impressing everyone with her fine cooking skills. She is nurturing, generous, pretty, and maybe the last person Joel wanted to see tonight. She’s not you. He wanted you.

He’s made so irritable by the last-minute change that he can’t even hide his disappointment. He can barely focus during the meeting, getting easily distracted and having to ask people to repeat themselves. After the meeting, Kerri, sensing his unease, gives him a hug to try and ease some of his tension. He knows she feels his erection, how could she not? It’s been raging for days and he can’t help himself, he pulls her tight and grinds himself into her for a brief moment of satisfaction.

Back at the house he heads into his room but within minutes Kerri is knocking on his door. She asks, is this okay? and he hesitates. She hasn’t come to his room since before he brought you into town, but pushing his dick into her thigh at the meeting tonight for the small relief that friction brought him must have signaled to her that he desired her company. He doesn’t. He only wants your company.

He looks at the closed door to your room and thinks about you inside, sick, probably asleep. What would be the harm in seeking comfort from Kerri? He’s fucked her before, it’s not a big deal. He’s never fucked you, it wouldn’t be like he was cheating. In fact, he thinks you’d probably want this for him. You wouldn’t want him to be suffering, and he’s been painfully hard for days. You’d want him to have relief.

There’s a small voice screaming in the back of his head that he ignores. You’ll never have to know about Kerri. You didn’t know about her before and you won’t know about her tonight, and what you don’t know can’t hurt you.

He opens his door further, silently inviting Kerri inside. She attempts to kiss him but he won’t let his lips meet hers, instead kissing the side of her head, her cheeks, her neck. He tries to breathe through his mouth, unable to get over the scent of her that isn’t at all like yours. He lets her hands grope along his body and he closes his eyes tight, trying to imagine they belong to you instead.

She undoes his belt and pushes his pants down with a practiced hand as she palms his length, working to get his half-hard cock to come to life. Between her curls tickling his chin, her all-wrong scent, and her rough touch, he can’t seem to keep his erection. How is he supposed to fuck away his need for you if he can’t stay hard?

Wordlessly, she sinks down to her knees in front of him. Don’t worry, she says, as she puts him in her mouth, doubling down on her efforts to work his stress right out of his dick. With her not-your scent, not-your hair, and not-your face out of his line of vision, he’s able to let his mind wander and let his thoughts of you return.

He imagines you on your knees in front of him, thinks of you in the closet with your lips wrapped around him. He thinks of your wet mouth, your soft hands, your wild eyes. That does it. He comes immediately and without warning, causing Kerri to cough and sputter around him, spitting his come back onto him. His own release gets splattered onto his thighs, slides down his shaft, and drips from his balls as Kerri wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, rising to her feet.

“Uhhh, thanks hon,” Joel mutters, as he pets her head and pushes her towards the door.

You know it’s probably close to midnight when you rise in your bed, having spent hours throwing up and then sleeping. Your body is tight with pain, you feel flushed and sweaty, and your head is pounding. You should drink the water Tess left on your nightstand but you worry that it might cause you to throw up again. You were really hoping to see Joel when he got home from the meeting tonight, so when you hear his door open, you heave yourself out of bed and turn your doorknob to greet him.

You see Kerri leaving his room as he stands in the open doorway, pants undone and softening dick still dripping with the evidence of his release. Kerri doesn’t see you as she heads down the hall to her room but Joel’s eyes rise to meet yours for a brief moment before you hastily close the door. You hear the clinking of his belt and then hear his voice directly on the other side of the wood.

“Hey baby, how you doin’?”

Your head is spinning, you’re sweating profusely now, your pulse throbs behind your eyes. Did you really just see what you think you saw? It was pretty dark in the hallway, maybe your eyes were playing tricks on you. You’re pretty sure you have a fever, maybe you’re hallucinating. Joel lightly knocks on the door and you jump.

“You alright?” he asks.

You mutter back a yeah before you stumble towards your bed, wondering if this is all just some bad dream. Joel wouldn’t be fucking around with Kerri, he wouldn’t do that, he isn’t like that. Joel doesn’t use people, right? Joel is yours… right? This must all be a nightmare you’re having. You’re taking short, quick breaths now, fighting to remain conscious. You fall onto the mattress. You’re so fucking sick and as your head hits the pillow you let sleep overtake you.

After a long, fitful night’s sleep, you wake in the late afternoon, feeling slightly less feverish than the day before. You’re immediately hit by a wave of panic, feeling tightness in your stomach and it starts to hurt, causing you to fear you may throw up again. You saw Joel and Kerri last night, and you’re pretty sure she wasn’t helping him with a stuck zipper. You need to talk to Joel, you need to confront him about what you think you saw. You need to hear him tell you it’s not true.

Joel is sitting at his desk, going over the patrols for the upcoming Christmas holiday, when you knock at his door. He’s been waiting for you to come see him since you caught Kerri leaving his room last night. He knew he’d have some questions to answer, he’s just not sure yet how he’s going to answer them. He knows he was well within his rights to have Kerri get him off, he just hopes you don’t come crying to him, jealous and angry.

He opens the door for you and lets you into the office. You enter the room and round the corner away from the door, keeping your gaze at your feet. You fumble with your hands but don’t speak, attempting to gather the courage to ask a question you’re not sure you want the answer to. Joel opens his mouth to start the conversation but before he can speak, there’s another knock at the door.

He moves to open the door and Rosie, all five feet nine inches of her, is peering at him over her glasses. She throws her arms around him, pushing him back into the room a little, whispering in his ear.

“I heard you were stressed out honey, I can help ya out a little,” as she lowers herself to her knees.

Joel doesn’t even have time to protest as she reaches for his belt, looking up at his face. She stills her hands and follows his gaze behind her, turning back to meet your eyes, which are bulging out of your head.

“Oh PJ, I’m sorry sweetheart, I didn’t know you were in here.”

She gets up off her knees and quickly exits, leaving you and Joel alone once more. Joel knows the other shoe has dropped. Some of these women have been here for a long time, some for a short time, they are free to come and go if they desire, but living in his house is considered a privilege. He’s the leader of this community and to be able to help take care of his sexual needs and have him take care of yours is held in high honor.

The women who live here aren’t petty or jealous, they are sweet and giving people, hard workers, and dedicated members of The Valley who make sacrifices and put others – notably Joel – first. They’ve been keeping their distance out of respect for the obvious affection that you and Joel feel for each other, but they must think that since Joel seems stressed then it’s their time to step in and perform their usual duties.

They don’t know that you aren’t aware of the long-standing arrangement they have in this house. They don’t discuss things over the breakfast table but they also don’t keep things secret, because they don’t know that it should be a secret. They’re all open and honest with each other and have no idea that Joel has kept you in the dark about his relationships with them.

Of course, you have been kept in the dark, and now that the light is shining – too brightly – on the truth, it’s making you sick to your stomach. You stare at the ground where Rosie was just kneeling in front of Joel. You know that what you thought you saw last night was, in fact, Kerri leaving Joel’s room after getting him off somehow. It happened. It was about to happen again. It’s probably happened before.

“It’s all of them?” you ask.

Joel shrugs.

“It’s all of them,” you say again, not a question this time. Your vision is going blurry from the blood pumping through your skull so hard. You’re afraid you’re going to pass out. “You fuck all of them?”

“I have, yeah,” Joel says, shrugging again.

“And you plan to fuck me too?” You can’t even meet his face, your mind is reeling a mile a minute.

“You’re welcome to come to my room anytime you want, baby,” he answers casually. Goosebumps roll across your whole body and you fight back a dry-heave.

“Like they do?”

“Sometimes,” he fucking shrugs again. “It’s not a big deal, PJ.”

You barely hear him, the sound of your own heartbeat creating a hum in your ears, the sick feeling in your stomach rising up your throat, threatening to spill your insides out at your feet. Not a big deal, he says. It’s not a big deal that he’s been lying to you since the day you got here. It’s not a big deal that he wants to use you just like he’s apparently been using these other women, that he wants to use your body for his pleasure. It’s not a big deal that you thought he was different.

And now you see the cracks in this whole place, see it for what it actually is. This place is upholding a façade of a normal society, but it isn’t even close. Joel is treated like some kind of god or king or both and no one says no to him, he gets whatever and apparently whoever he wants. You can’t believe that he made you feel like you mattered when you clearly don’t matter at all.

You thought he could fix you. All he did was break you. You’ve never felt so low.

“Just another one,” you start to repeat, “Just another one. Just another one. Just another one.”

You’re just another one of these things that he gets when he wants it, and he gets whatever he wants.

“Just another one. Just another one. Just another one.”

He’s just another man, in a long line of many, who used you.

“Just another one. Just another one.”

He walks towards you, backing you up against the wall, bringing his face closer to yours. Baby, you hear him say, as he brings his lips towards yours. He tries to kiss you but you shudder away, repulsed by him, and he grabs for your arm to pull you back to him. Overwhelmed by his scent and the clawing tightness gripping your insides, you bend at the waist and throw up all over his shoes.

“What the fuck,” he curses loudly before he takes a deep breath, calming himself. “You okay, PJ?”

He reaches for you again and you push him away, a loud sob leaving your lips. Oh fuckin’ christ, he mutters. Here come the fuckin’ waterworks. You’re making a big deal out of nothing and he’s getting annoyed at the theatrics. He grabs your arm and yanks you up, ignoring the vomit dripping from your chin and the tears streaming down your face.

“Quit bein’ dramatic,” he says as he shakes you by the arm.

Tess comes in the door just then, seeing your face and the way Joel is manhandling you.

“What the fuck, Joel?” she wrenches you out of his grip, touching your forehead and feeling your fever.

She sees the throw-up all over Joel’s feet and sees him roll his eyes. She has no idea what’s going on right now but Joel has lost all his tenderness with you. She scolds him for letting you out of bed, telling him you’re still really sick. She takes you back up to your room, makes you drink some water, and tucks you back into bed, threatening to call the doctor if you try to get up again before your fever breaks.

–

Later that night as Joel heads up to bed he goes to your door and knocks several times, but you don’t answer. He knocks again, no answer, and knocks again. Tess comes out of her room and down the hall, having heard the noise he’s making knocking repeatedly at your door.

“Leave her alone Joel, I told you she’s fuckin’ sick.”

“Shut up Tess,” he doesn’t even turn to look at her. “Get back in your room.”

He throws your door open and sees you laying in bed with your back to the door. He says your name several times but you don’t move a muscle. He takes a step forward, his foot crossing the threshold to your room.

“Don’t you dare,” Tess snaps at him.

His steps halt. He says your name again, louder this time. Aside from the rise and fall of your breathing, you don’t move. He knows you can hear him, the whole house can fucking hear him. Tess is behind him, berating him some more. He repeats your name, yelling now. He hears a door down the hallway open, yells again, hears Tess hissing stop it, goddamnit, and then hears another door open.

How dare you fucking ignore him. Who the fuck do you think you are right now? He lifts his foot to take another step into your room and he hears Tess start to go ballistic behind him, cursing and bellyaching. Why don’t you fucking look at him? He hears whispers of the other women further down the hallway. Jesus fucking christ, why don’t they leave him alone? Why don’t you roll over?

He steps back into the hallway and slams your door closed, rattling the walls of the entire house. “Go to bed,” he screams at Tess. “Go the fuck to bed,” he repeats down the corridor as he steps into his room, slamming his own door behind him as well.

🖤

Thank you endlessly to @papipascalispunk for helping me with this series and listening to me rant about Cult Leader Joel. 🫂 I appreciate you SO much.

TAGLIST (lmk if you wanna be added or removed) @strang3lov3 @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @covetyou @iamasaddie @sr-lrn @clawdee @theywhowriteandknowthings @beefrobeefcal @merz-8 @speckledemerald @alltheseperfectimperfections @survivingandenduring @afraidtofear @millennial-teenybopper @missladym1981 @xdaddysprincessxx @lumoverheaven @ghoulettesinspace @brittmb115 @wintersquirrel @obscurexsorrows @littlevenicebitch69 @lulawantmula @pedroswife69 @joeldjarin @heimtathurss @untamedheart81 @pixielou5 @feel1n-h1gh

#devotion series #cult leader joel miller #noxturnalpascal #ofc!reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

182 notes · View notes

howlingday · 5 months ago

Note

(demi- arkos au) pyrrha makes the mistake of asking her mother how to attract boys.

The Virgin Goddess is not nearly as helpful as you'd think.

secondary story: jaune has two moms, why does he exist? like physically speaking? (jaune takes psychic damage as his goddess mother explains in detail all the advantages of shapeshifting)

"Pyrrha! It's so good to hear from you!"

"Hi, Mom." Pyrrha smiled through the video feed. "Um, is mamá there?"

"And if I am?" The goddess said clearly from out of view. "Would you prefer I not be here?"

"No, no, I don't mind! I just..." She sighed. "I have a question, and I'm afraid of the answer you'll give."

"Oh no..." Her mortal mother gave a soft groan.

"If this is in regards to courting, then I'm afraid I will be of little help." Her other mother said. "If this were in regard to the tournament approaching, then perhaps I would be of better service."

"So you don't have any advice at all?"

"I never said that. I have brought kingdoms to their knees and risen children to tyrants. If there is a way within my knowledge, then I will help you with what I know."

"Okay." Pyrrha took a deep breath. "So, there's this boy-"

"No."

"N-No?"

"No." Athena repeated, this time in a more commanding voice. "Men are fools who would destroy everything they touch in service of their own hubris. You would only benefit yourself by abstaining from them altogether."

"All men or all mortals?" Pyrrha's eyes glanced to her mamá, who gave a gulp. Pyrrha could feel a migraine grow, as though her brain were trying to escape from her skull. It was dull, but the message was clear. 'Don't question the will of Athena'. "He's... different..."

"As was Heracles. And Odysseus. And Paris, and Perseus, and Achilles-"

"I am not those people, mother."

"No, but I'm Jaune is very much the same as them in one way or another." Pyrrha became quiet. "Oh, yes, child of mine. I know the name of this man you seek. And he will bring you naught but ruin."

Pyrrha became silent, her lips pursed. She wanted to yell, though it would do no good. Throwing a public tantrum never solved anything for anyone, as her mother taught her. But it would feel so good, wouldn't it?

"Is that his name?" Mamá asked, hoping to ease the tension. "Jaune?"

"Are you talking about me?" Pyrrha whirled around to find her team leader walking up to her, his hood up and his sunglasses on.

"Jaune!" She looked to her mother, then looked to him. She waved him over and his face came into view of the screen. "Jaune, this is my mamá, Carnelia."

"Hello there~!" She greeted.

"Hullo, Misses Nikos~!" He waved to her. "I can see where Pyrrha gets her beauty from."

Pyrrha flushed.

Misses Nikos giggled.

"Oh..." Another voice growled. "You..."

"Uh, hi? Is that your... Dad?"

"Jaune, this is... my other mother."

"Oh, nice to meet you, too, Misses Nikos!" Jaune smiled to the empty space. "Uh, my name is Jaune, Jaune Arc. Short, sweet, and rolls off the tongue. The ladies love it!"

Pyrrha giggled with Carnelia.

"Moulári pou flertárei." Athena grumbled.

"Wait, what was that about a donkey?" Jaune blinked. Suddenly, his scroll buzzed. Checking it, he hopped away. "Oh, sorry to cut this short! I gotta go. It was nice meeting you~!" Jaune turned and ran for the door. "See ya later, Pyr!"

"Uh, l-later?" Pyrrha waved. She looked to her mothers, Athena now in view. "So... That was Jaune."

"He seems nice." Mamá said.

"Pyrrha..." For the first time ever, her mother paused before speaking. "Focus on you studies for now. You are here to fight, not to flirt."

Pyrrha gave a nod. "Yes, Mother."

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

"Hey, Mom?"

"Yes, Jaune?"

"I was wondering... Do I have a dad?"

The kitchen was quiet. His mother, Iva, clenched her jaw at the stove while Aphrodite, his biological mother, hummed while carving an apple. The family of nine were having stew with an apple pie for dessert. Setting the knife down, Aphrodite looked to her son with glistening eyes.

"No." She smiled.

"No?"

"No." She picked up the knife again and began slicing the apple into halves.

"What about David?" Jaune asked. The huntsman gone and away from home often was the father of seven children in the Arc family. All girls. His only son was not truly his to claim, if he so chose to do.

Aphrodite giggled. "No, not him, either."

"Then... Who is my dad?"

"I am." She set the knife aside and began placing the slices into the pie crust. "You are my son, and I am your mother."

"So, I don't have dad?"

"Y-You do have a father," Iva said, earning a quirked brow from Aphrodite, "just... not one biologically."

"I... I don't understand." Jaune blinked.

"I'll explain everything when you're older." Aphrodite chirped.

"Mom, I'm 17."

"When you're older, honey."

#rwby #jaune arc #pyrrha nikos #demi arkos au #mama nikos #mama arc #athena #aphrodite #greek pantheon #demi arkos

73 notes · View notes

nothinggold13 · 2 years ago

Text

On Peter and Violence

I think there’s two popular fanon camps regarding Peter Pevensie’s relationship with violence, and though there are certainly plenty of others who, like me, would disagree with both of them, it is those two versions of Peter that I keep seeing pop up again and again.

The first is that of the powerful, raging, warrior king: the version of Peter that speaks more to his mythologized persona within the books than the Peter we actually witness and interact with inside the narrative. His temper is hot, and his sword is fast, and his legacy is soaked in blood. It’s this Peter that lends itself so readily to the (equally fanon) idea that Edmund is the more diplomatic of the two.

The second is that of the pacifist. This idea of Peter is opposed to violence, and only fights under great duress, or because he has been given no other choice; it’s the version of his character that people have snatched from a deleted scene in the “Prince Caspian” film in which he claims he is “thinking about a career in medicine,” and in doing so, distances himself from the war back home. (Although, I would also blame the PC film for the angry, impulsive version of Peter who dominates too much of the fandom; that movie’s interpretation of him is a tragedy.)

Now, of the two, I would prefer the second. It’s at least marginally truer to the boy who “didn’t feel very brave” but did his duty in “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe,” and I appreciate that. However, I also have a personal vendetta against the extreme version of this viewpoint which prioritizes Peter’s peaceful nature over his dutiful courage, and this is why I’m writing out what I believe are the nuances of his character that sometimes get overlooked in favour of idolizing either his strength or his softness.

There is a statement in my mind to describe him that I avoid using, because I know it requires more context than I usually want to give, but here and now, we’ll call it my thesis: Peter prefers problems he can hit.

I don’t think Peter is a violent character. Genuinely, I don’t. And so I imagine those two statements seem pretty contradictory, because how can he not be violent, if violence is also the ideal solution to his problems?

Well, here’s the thing: Peter’s growing up in a war. Heck, he’s growing up in two.

He’s thirteen in the first book, and World War II is breaking out above him, and, more than that, there is nothing he can do about it. What could he do? He’s a kid.

And then, suddenly, he’s in a new world. They tell him he’s meant to be there. They give him a sword, and he takes it silently. They tell him he will be king.

We see him in his fight with the wolf: “Peter did not feel very brave; indeed, he felt he was going to be sick. But that made no difference to what he had to do.” We are told there that violence is not something he takes to lightly; it is a matter of duty for him: to the country that stands behind him, and his sister who is in harm’s way.

He fights a battle. Years pass, and he fights more. He returns to the war he is powerless to fight against, and then finds himself King again, where he comes up with a plan to fight a duel which -- if everything had gone to plan -- would have put no one but himself at risk.

Yes, Peter is steeped in violence. C. S. Lewis tells us at the end of “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe,” that he is a “great warrior,” and when he is mentioned in “The Horse and His Boy,” it is said he’s off battling giants. He is High King, and as such, he has to be a soldier. He chooses to be a soldier. He consistently fights, especially so that others may not have to. He fights to protect. To shield. To provide freedom.

And then he goes back home, and is trapped under war again.

Depending on his birthday, Peter turns eighteen around the time of the end of World War II, meaning I have no reason to believe he ever fought within it; however, National Service continued after the war. And this is where I thought that Peter, ever being driven by duty, would sign up without question. It’s what would be expected of him. And, even more, it’s what he’s been doing for years for a country that isn’t his anymore; how could he not do the same for England?

(I put that in a fic. I had a scene where Peter, freshly eighteen, confessed to Susan he would still have to serve, and Susan said, “But not in the war, and I’m glad of that.” And then -- because it was what Peter did within canon time and time again -- I had him tell her, “But I hope you understand that I’d fight for you. For all of you. If my fighting had any chance of helping to keep you all safe, I would go.” ......And somebody told me that was out of character.)

I don’t mind if somebody really likes the idea of Peter becoming a doctor rather than a soldier. Truly, I understand the appeal. But I do have a problem when somebody tells me I’m wrong for believing Peter would continue to do what he had always canonically done after coming back to England.

Because Peter does have a relationship with violence. He doesn’t have a love for it, but he has been tangled in the necessity of it too many times not to follow through when it needs to be done.

And what happens when you raise a boy in war? What happens when you let him fight it? What happens when he learns the chain reaction: fight the battle, win the war, set them free? And then what happens when you put him into situations that can’t be solved with his hands? Give him enemies he can’t fight? Give him wars he can’t be a part of?

And that’s what I mean by “Peter prefers problems he can hit.”

Not that Peter rushes to violence when it isn’t called for, or that he craves war when he finds himself in peace, or anything else of that angry, vicious nature that some people have come to believe--- Gosh, I think Peter would far rather lay the sword down than ever have to pick it up again.

(But it’s what he does. Time after time.)

Peter is a big brother, ever looking after the others. Peter is the High King, ever doing what Narnia requires. Peter is the loyal servant, ever following Aslan’s instruction. Even if it scares him, it’s what he does.

So I don’t think he likes feeling helpless. I think he likes knowing what to do, and I think intangible problems drive him a little crazy, and I think a sword is a very physical thing that has served him well too many times.

Despite my very obvious complaints against “Prince Caspian’s” movie characterization here, I have to say that this is something I love about “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.” Peter’s older in the film than he is in the book. He’s closer to going to war himself. And what do we see him do? We see him distracted by passing soldiers-- not much older than himself. We see him reading on the train: “Biggles Goes To War.” We see him consumed by the war, even up to the point that he mimics WWII battle strategies against the Witch’s army.

This is the Peter I’m talking about: the one who feels sick at violence, and shakes and cries and hugs his sisters when its done, and yet...... does it. Every time.

I feel like there’s a dozen things I may be missing, but I think that’s the gist: Peter’s an unwilling soldier who doesn’t know how to put down his sword.

He’s a great warrior, but not an indiscriminate one. He’s a gentle spirit, but not a passive one. Violence made him, but he is so much more than his violent acts. He’s complex. He’s dutiful. He’s faithful. He’s capable. He fights because he has to, and as long as it’s asked of him, he will continue to do it.

So that’s where I stand. That’s why I may seem to show contradictory versions of Peter throughout my fics and edits and commentary; why I may say he’s not violent and then paint an image of him that ties him to violence anyway.

Whether you disagree is your prerogative. This is, by nature, a nuance-based take, and while I do think there’s wrong interpretations of Peter Pevensie out there, I also believe that there is a lot of room within that nuance for various interpretations to be equally right. This isn’t me making an end-all-and-be-all analysis that everyone else must follow to the letter.

This is just me explaining -- for myself or for anyone else who cares to listen -- what I believe, and how it affects the things I create. <3 So there’s my take on Peter’s complicated relationship with violence: the way it coats him, and yet, doesn’t define him: the way he’s so softhearted, and yet not himself without it.

“For never since we four were Kings and Queens in Narnia have we set our hands to any high matter, as battles, quests, feats of arms, acts of justice, and the like, and then given over; but always what we have taken in hand, the same we have achieved." ~Peter [The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe: Chapter XVII: The Hunting of the White Stag]

Disclaimer: none of this is anti-Aslan “look how he traumatized this poor boy” propaganda, and if that is your viewpoint, kindly do not interact with this post. :)

#narnia #the chronicles of narnia #peter pevensie #the lion the witch and the wardrobe #prince caspian #look at me :) I made a new post

408 notes · View notes

tw1nkee28 · 6 months ago

Text

No one asked for this, but I really needed to infodump about him to someone or I was gonna go insane.

˙⋆✮ Info about my CoD oc, 'Dawn'! ✮⋆˙

⚠️Warning!⚠️ There will be a lot of words and one image containing (mild) nudity below the cut. (A shirtless man, in case you are uncomfortable with such)

The first image is a reference for the finer details of his character such as his hairstyle, his facial details like his nose and eyes, and his major scars.

The second image is more of how I envisioned his body type, but I struggle with consistency and being able to convey some bodies in different angles and intricate poses.

——————————————————————————

These are just some drawings I've made of his character as I was developing him.

While he is a rather calm individual, being stoic and silent most of the time, he does still get rather angry on the inside. Which is what I was trying to convey in the first image.

He respects his peers and superiors, but when they do legitimately stupid shit, he can and will rock their shit depending on how bad it was.

I've included this in his lore before but I am too nervous to share some of the finer details of his lore and will only be vaguely referencing it, sorry ☹️🫶

——————————————————————————

I made a janky, very brief timeline of his career above.

Now, I haven't filed through complete details so some things such as his rank and experience in the field may or may not be entirely accurate with the time he was working especially since I made his character on the fly and did little to no research at first. Only now am I actually trying to expand his character and lore and am realizing I did not do nearly enough research. Most of this is just what I thought sounded nice at first.

——————————————————————————