#There will be songs written about their sacrifice | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vatelixx · 1 month ago

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The visionary, the willing executor,

Spencer Reid x afab!UNSUB!reader (written with mid!seasons Spencer Reid in mind)

SMUT!! copious amounts of angst (there’s traces of fluff in there as well if u get out ur magnifying glass)

BASED ON THIS SONG (it got so stuck in my head that I had to write something that correlated):

──── autistic spencer (it’s not explored that much, but it’s always gonna be present in my oneshots), evil evil reader (im not being dramatic this time. she’s literally a serial killer. like her ‘body count’ is copious. but idk, she’s kinda sweet. if u squint and ignore the bodies). They were in love ur honour !!! they’re still in love ur honour !!!! She pays him a visit two years after he found out about her homicidal tendencies (they miss each other, Spencer might also hate her a little but it’s okay, don’t worry about that).

Warnings: sub spencer (aaaaaaalways), maybe perhaps some vague, very faint mentions of switch!spencer but idk i blacked out writing this, choking, mentions of death and general behaviour that would get you a life sentence, praise more than degradation surprisingly, coming untouched, crying (you’d think that was a kink or something?), she fucks the good out of him, hopeful ending (eh, kinda), mentions of dante’s inferno, copious amounts of religious imagery, greek mythology references, this isn’t dead dove at all i promise.

w.c: 5k

a/n: everything i write has been so angsty recently. i’m working on something softer for my next upload i swear (alongside the requests, I promise, they’re being written im just a die-hard perfectionist). aaaaanyway, happy (belated) halloween!! It’s Spencer’s favourite season so i thought i’d write him getting destroyed by a serial killer (god when is it my turn????)

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Spencer would consider himself a good person, by default. It’s reasonable: a renowned member of the BAU, with intellect he’s weaponized for morality. The blood etched onto his hands is justified. Necessary evil for greater cause. He’s willing to blemish his skin for the virtue, for the lives of others.

He remembers naivety. He remembers being so fragile he could easily crack into fragmented pieces of wasted innocence. Maybe that’s been stolen from him now, maybe the ruins of his sacrifices are too sharp to touch upon still, but he’s good. He knows he will always be good.

And yet, there’s a bruise. Something ugly and distorted that stains his skin. Something that has the ability to crawl deep into his bones and leave behind a mess of pain. Something bad. Festering and tainted, it haunts him with every breath.

You.

You, who came into his life as an abundance of sunlight. Helios personified. Pretty and warm, and everything he needed. He wanted to kiss you: the moment he stumbled into the coffee shop, tousled hair, overworked and raw from a burdening case. When you took his order, marking constellations onto the styrofoam cup. Andromeda, Ursa Major, Cassiopeia. Later, much later, then when you became an indomitable presence to his apartment.

But for all the good he’s preserved, Spencer knows he’s not allowed to receive it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” is the first thing he says when he finds you waiting for him. He always knew you would come back; you’re bound to follow him indefinitely. Like his shadow, his guilty consciousness, his cracked past of addiction and pre-pubescent torment.

He let you go. When the act was over, the curtain drawn, when he saw you. Homicidal, the perpetrator of the case he was working on, malevolence packed into the frame of perfection, oh even still, he let you go. Free to continue the cycle of death, he was left to scramble in the mess of his own misguided heart.

There’s risk in reward, and reward in risk. You’re meticulous, hedonistic to the last detail. But Spencer? Well, he will always be the one loose end you could never quite force yourself to clean up. The thread that kept untangling, even as time passed. Cut it off, you should be rational, wash every bleeding trace of him from your skin.

But there’s irrationality in love.

Blood adorns your features; there’s no need to touch up your appearance, to return to the domesticated facade you once used on him. No, he’s been exposed to the ugly now. There can be no do overs, no back-tracking, game over try again doesn’t exist in real time.

“What are you going to do about it?” you ask, and god, hes just as beautiful as the day you left him. So perfectly real, with dragging exhaustion and pretty brown eyes to ease the sting of his tight-faced, troubled expression.

You didn’t cut the phone lines, nor move the gun he keeps stashed in his cabinet drawer. Down the hall, to the left. You know he won’t make any abrupt actions. Know, in an intuitive way, telepathic communication between past lovers.

“It was a gamble coming here, aren’t you pleased to see me pretty boy?”

Spencer has to fight every urge he has, every moral he believes in to not lunge at you; to not strangle your slender neck, crack you in half, destroy you the way you’ve destroyed his sanity.

Two years, 8 months, 11 days since you cataclysmically uprooted his routined life. He fell in love with softness, not the jagged edge of a blade.

“I let you go. Wasn’t that enough?” it feels too natural, fighting in his apartment, some sort of twisted lovers quarrel. There’s a definite list of everything he should do in this moment, and despite all logic, he just blanks at the sight of you.

“You had to come back. Rub salt in the wound. Do you get off on this?” a sigh falls from his pretty lips, “Actually, don’t— don’t answer that. We both know the answer.”

“I get off on you,” you correct.

It’s true. If he was to analyse you, profile your warped brain like his other unsubs, he’d find nothing but unyielding loyalty to him. For all the damage you’ve done, there’s always been one anomaly to your detachment.

He stands right before you.

And, sure, maybe you’ve got a leg up in this situation. Perhaps the distorted memory of you holds him back: lazy nights and tangled sheets, his body pressed up against yours. The way he’d talk, quantum physics, philosophy, rambles that dissolved into open admissions of feelings. There’s a lot that was fake, but to be a good liar, you have to add subsidiary details of truth.

God, he wishes the world would be cruel—a cosmic alignment of karmic righteousness that would grant him relief: some kind of justification for what he must do. But the universe is indifferent, nothing but a distant star, a fleeting speck of dust in the grand scheme of life. There’s no such thing as good or bad, only consequences.

Consequences. Consequences for his actions. Butterfly effect. He can comprehend it. But, there were many things he adored about you, while the illusion of love was tangible. The way your hair would curl just above your shoulders, your skin in the morning light. The way you’d laugh at one of his obscure Star Trek references, better yet his criticism on modern, inaccurate horror. He could stare at you for eons, as though he was trying to make out the secrets of the universe in the constellation lines of your scars.

The illusion of love, as it was. He sees you now with the clarity of reality, the same way a mirage fades away as you approach; a distortion of perception.

“And you get off on me. Even now. Don’t you?” you say, shifting forward to close gravitational space.

There’s no way to disregard this morbid connection. No psychological justification he can exploit to demean your feelings. You’re not a psychopath, nor anything that relates to a lack of empathy. You feel— you feel empathy for all of your victims, the line of bodies that mark your path. But it goes deeper than that. There was reasoning for your actions, just as there was for his.

“Say it,” you goad. And there’s satisfaction here, sure. Something mean and condescending. But there’s also hurt, because he was supposed to be a means to an end, and now, he might very well be your end.

“Say you miss me. C’mon boy genius, a few little words and i’ll have enough content to satisfy me for years. Don’t be mean— you know I hate being edged.”

He does miss you, every day that he wakes up, his bones too hollow and cold to leave his bed. The ache in his chest where his heart was supposed to be, too empty to function. No amount of caffeine can fill the void in his skull where thoughts of you used to reside. The longing, the desire for the past to rewrite itself.

“You’re sick,” he tries. But he’s not good at this. Not when the love remained after the inevitable fall out, not when the darkest parts of him still clung to want, even after he realised the truth.

“You’re sick, and..” he tries again, “and I hate how much I miss you. There? Is that enough? Are you happy? Got what you wanted?”

You let out an exasperated sigh, “No. If I ‘got what I wanted’, I would still have you.”

Spencer dies. Metaphorically, literally, what does it even matter? He dies, respawns, and then kisses the admittance from your lips.

Instinctively, just like the past, your hands tangle through his hair, and perhaps there’s a sense of ownership to the gesture. The knowledge that he will always be yours. Scarred from your touch, returning to your lips like a dog with a bird. There’s a mindless attempt at anger on his part, biting lips and rough teeth, but just like always, he quickly melts.

He melts, and you catch him. Because for all it’s worth, lies and deceit aside, you’ve always loved him.

There’s something powerful to the gesture; knowing you have someone wrapped around your finger. Even after you’ve bared the worst of you, the ugliness of man-kind. There’s someone out there that will wipe the blood from your cheek, and kiss you through it.

“Oh, even better,” you mutter against his lips, “Much, much better. C’mon Spence, show me just how much you’ve missed me.”

Two years, 8 months, 11 days since he felt like he could breathe.

It hurts, it hurts so much, because there’s a sense of coming home to the kiss, and he just wants you to stay. To ruin him forever. To leave behind a deformed version of him, something unrecognisable and equally scarring.

You’re too loyal and he’s too susceptible to any form of attention. Because you want him, and it’s easy to fall into a cyclical cycle of self-destruction when you’re the catalyst.

“I did miss you.” he admits again. “You— crazy, homicidal excuse of a person.”

Spencer’s hand comes up to touch your cheek, the rough texture of skin meeting something soft. His thumb traces down the curvature of your jawline, a silent hello that doesn’t linger long, too soon to be replaced with his lips.

You push him back against the wall, a painful groan escaping your lips when you feel his hips canting forward, searching aimlessly for a friction you’ve both been denied. Two years. His body still aches for you. It’s primal, something perverted and tainted and so very good.

You knew this would happen. There was not a doubt in your clouded mind that he would deny you. What you do to me, I do to you.

“There’s my boy.” you mutter when you grip said hips, fingers finding their natural, fated position against divine bone. When he begins to find a stable pace, bucking up to meet you with every kiss that you press to his lips.

He whimpers when you touch him, soft sounds of need slipping past his parted lips into the confines of his empty apartment. He’s trying so hard to maintain composure, but he can’t find it in him to fight the inevitable. The ache of separation between himself and you. So he lets it happen, like he always does.

My boy, the possession goes straight to his head. One simple phrase and he’s untangling, breaking to pieces because yes, he is yours. And yes, he will forever want to be reminded.

“Mhm, mhm. Oh— oh, fuck.” he’s so hard, clothed cock pushing up against you with every movement. He could get off on less of you. He has. Every night.

And yes, it certainly feels like home. It’s only the thing your body has been aimlessly yearning for, day in and day out. It’s not fair, not fair to you, that you’ve allowed your resolve to crumble, your strategic, one-track mind, for the fleeting body of a past lover.

But then again, demeaning him to a past lover doesn’t even begin to articulate this.

You’re fairly certain he was put on this earth, just to torment you.

And you’re fairly certain you’ll always let him.

“God, you’re such a slut for me.” you say, drawing back from the friction just to prove your point. The disintegrating whimpers that bleed out of his mouth in response are enough alone to confirm.

His head falls back against the wall, baring that lovely length of his neck and its pretty bruises. He wants you to kiss him there, to leave one last mark before he says ‘I won’t see you again’ and means it this time.

“Don’t— don’t stop—” even as he speaks, a mess of jumbled words and breathless sentences, you’re still teasing him. He hates how much it works, how much he’d rather fall into the pleasure of your hands.

“Fine. Whatever. Yes. What do you want to hear? That it’s whorish the way I want you. That you’re able to just… corrupt me with all these dirty words, even though I have an extensive vocabulary. Even though i’m supposed to be—“

He’s not even sure what he’s supposed to be anymore.

“You know the extent of my devotion.” he concedes.

There will always be sadistic pleasure in reducing him to such an ignominious version of himself. You’ve seen it before, back when you were trapped in an artificial, yet domesticated, haze of bliss. But to hear it now? Even after everything has been said and done?

That’s a new type of pleasure.

You know he still holds onto the facade of you, aimlessly reaching for something intangible, something that never truly existed. “You want me to be good for you, huh? Just pack up my shit, leave it all behind, get better? Think about it. White picket fence. Coffee every morning. God— it would be insufferable. Coming home to feed the dogs, talking every night over the phone, begging you to be safe on a case, or or—“

Spencer breaks. Silencing your words with a pained whimper.

Usually, he doesn’t allow himself to think about that fantastical hypothetic. He can’t afford to. Months after he let you go, when the truth had been exposed to his naive eyes, he’d spend hours in a mess of aching limbs, dreaming up alternative realities where your hands weren’t stained from blood, and the most despicable thing you could do was make his coffee bitter.

So when you force him to open old wounds, to rehash past hopes, he falls apart. A whine escapes his lips, hips bucking, once, twice and then he’s coming untouched. Making a mess out of himself— and it’s sick, so very sick to get off on the thought of you permanent, the epitome of good.

Something he could hold onto without slicing open skin.

It’s not a good orgasm, it never is without your direct help, but at least it’s some form of release. In the aftermath, he blinks away tears, vaguely aware of the cum staining his boxers, creating damp spots through fabric.

There’s something painful, cutting to your gaze when you look at him. At the debauched sight, corrupted from just a few words.

Give it all up? For what? Him?

All things considered, it’s tempting.

“Spencer,” you mutter in the serrated moments between. When he’s still nebulous, caught in the aftershocks of abrupt pleasure. When he’s just gotten off, untouched, on the notion of a domesticated life with you.

He’s struggling to breathe. He’s spent nights gasping for you, reduced to the most debasing version of himself. So out of touch, you drove a blade through his back, catching his heart on the way.

“Why are you— doing this?” he asks, but before you can even answer, provide him with an explanation that will devastate, he’s lunging forward, kissing the lies that cling to your lips. Kissing you because his mouth hurts when it’s not attached to yours.

“One last time.” he says; he’s too intelligent, too intellectually adept, to allow this swallowing cycle of humiliation to continue.

But, underneath it all, he’s also inherently selfish for you. He’s fairly certain you were engrained into his skin, long before he fell into your barbed trap, teeth and penetrative ruin.

“Then you leave. You actually leave, never contact me again. No showing up at my apartment unprovoked. I have a good life without you. Understood?”

You scoff. He presses forward, “Understood?”

You don’t protest when he elucidates his life as good. Even if it’s quite the contrary. Even if he has to bare witness to depravity every single day, scrutinise his way through the minds of the most perverse. Perhaps this is a social experiment to him, perhaps you are the guinea pig, Laika sentenced to space. You know he loved you once, but it’s hard to comprehend the feelings remained unscarred, it’s hard to imagine you’re anything but a test subject now.

You look at him. Look at that pretty face. Your undoing. He could be your achilles heel, hamartia in its rawest form, or maybe you willingly chose to do this. Maybe fate, and divine intervention played no part in your attachment to him. Maybe it’s just chemicals. The logics explanation. Imbalanced, skewed chemicals.

“Don’t worry, boy genius.” you respond, “You won’t get anything, not even a postcard, from me. It’ll be like I never even existed.” no trace. D.C has always been a monotone cesspit of nothing anyway.

It’s cruel. Because if you leave, truly leave. And he never hears from you again, never catches you in his kitchen, drinking coffee with an unadulterated smile, then he will begin to forget.

The curve of your spine, the scars beneath your chest, the way your fingers fit into his own. The way he was able to memorise your body until he could draw it in the dark, when your body was pressed to his, when there was nothing but a false establishment of safety.

He knows he can’t forget. Not technically. But it’ll grow distant, it’ll be replaced with new normals and routines. That, that, he can’t compute.

“Good,” he says, kissing you again, kissing you because this is it.

Spencer wants you. In every sense of the word, he wants you so badly it’s killing him.

His bedroom still holds traces of you. That, itself, is a crime. But he just falls into you. The way lovers do. Your hands against his skin— his hair threaded through your fingers, your lips at the base of his neck. He lets you leave another bruise, a mark, a confirmation of possession, because even if this is the last time, he is, and always will be yours.

“Still the prettiest person i’ve ever seen,” you admit when he’s flushed naked beneath you.

There’s something in those doe-eyes, brown irises blown out of proportion, that hooked you. Even at the worst, it was still soft with him.

Slender frame, slightly arched, you want to bite into his hips, mark every inch of him as yours. It’s greedy, gluttonous, his messy hair, fanning out like a halo, the tangled curls he never bothers to properly care for.

“God, fucking look at you,” you grip his jaw, tilt his head back to bare that blemished neck of his. To have and to own. He’s so inexplicably different to you, so good it runs down to the bone. And maybe you’ve always been insatiable for what you’ve lacked.

He can’t take this. He can’t, not again. The past, the future will have to dissolve with this moment, because there will never be another again.

You will never get this close to him. It’s a terrifying thought, that this’ll be the standard of intimacy, of love - because he knows it isn’t. But he can’t risk the reality he’s faced with, the reality of living without this. Of living without you.

Your words only make it worse. He wants to beg you to stop. To cease the torture.

“Shut up.” He kisses you, as if to remind you that your mouth is made for kissing, for his lips, for a litany of dirty words that he can’t bear to hear. Those words are for someone else. For someone similar. Not him. Never him.

Defying fate. He gets off on being something bad beneath the surface. No one would ever expect it; boyish maladroit Spencer, the youngest of the team, willingly allowing, condoning, a killer to sink into his skin.

“Don’t tell me to shut up,” you respond, muffled against his lips. “If this is the last time, i’m going to enjoy it. Going to enjoy the sight of you, all desperate for me alone.”

“You assume i’ve ever been desperate for anyone else—“ he counters.

“Oh, that’s it. Keep talking dirty to me.”

“It’s not dirty. It’s a factual statement.”

You pull away, a trail of saliva bridging the space between your mouths. If there is higher power at play here, you want to curse, to spite your creator. Because if ‘things’ had been different, if you had been born from the same rib, this could’ve ended differently.

Or for that matter, never ended at all.

“Sit there and watch me.” you say, and Spencer hates the way he obliges. Pushing himself up against the headboard, he stares at you, at the way you position yourself, standing by the foot of the bed.

“Do you even know what you do to me? Do you even understand the gravity your existence has on me?” you continue, unfastening the lace corset that clings to your frame. When it drops to the floor, breasts exposed, you run your hands across them, catching pierced nipples for a vindictive moment of pleasure.

“I— uh,” Spencer is admittedly a little distracted. Sex had always been something ruinous between you two. Something that conflicted his lack of experience, forced him to adapt.

He always wondered how someone so soft, the epitome of light, could be this obscene. Now he understands.

“Lost your words? Come on, pretty boy. I thought you had an ‘extensive vocabulary?’ Hm?”

He wants to touch himself, to ease the pulsing throb that centres in his cock. But he doesn’t, because despite the time that has passed, he still knows your rules. “Don’t use my words against me. I’m being tortured.”

“Tortured, huh?” your hands fumble over buttons until you’re reduced to a pair of panties, soaked throughly, leaving scarce to the imagination.

“So so tortured. Oh my god, who are you? Can I please have my soul back?” he’s joking, but not really.

“Well maybe if you beg for it,” your words fade into a mess of moans, fingers slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. Spencer’s head spills back against the wall; he looks more affected by the movements than you.

It’s easy to fall back into old habits. Relapse.

“Come here, come here, i’m having an existential crisis.” he says, watching as you slip one finger, then two inside you, struggling to stand now. It’s strange how pleasure can reduce the most antagonising minds to vulnerability.

“Please— oh fuck, please. Please. Don’t make me watch, I can’t. Need you. Need you so bad.”

He thought he found the core of torture in you touching yourself, but he was wrong. Because when you crawl closer, when you slot yourself between his thighs, lips finding skin that only you have ever touched, he sees the root of evil in his brain. The ninth circle of hell.

It’s justified, he supposes. For all the good he’s done, he has betrayed. Himself, his friends, family, existence itself. There is not one thing he wouldn’t ruin, just to feel you. It’s incriminating, so yes, he deserves to freeze in Cocytus. He’ll willingly plead guilty, accept his entrapment in the ring of Caina.

“Poor baby, look at you.” you say, kissing his tip, catching the pre-cum on your tongue. Spencer responds: fisting bedsheets, fighting the restraint to buck forward, to find misplaced solace in the warmth of your mouth. He’s sprawled out across sheets now, lying back in a tangled heap of want. “Shh, it’s okay,” you continue, “I like my men desperate.”

“Desperate? Ah—,” he fights the urge to shut his eyes, too aware that this is the last memory he will ever retain of you.

You, painted into his mind. The final evidence left in the fire: mouth sinking down his length, taking him to the hilt, watery eyes and leaking mascara.

“This isn’t even desperation. You’re killing me. Just, oh oh— please, don’t. ‘M gonna cum. Gonna cum—“

Is it sick that he doesn’t want to? If only to prolong this transitory moment of destruction? Like the lotus eaters, he will always be mindless in the pursuit of more, more, more of you.

You draw back from his cock, only to press a soft kiss against the tip. The gesture alone has him reeling, has him begging to be saved, to atone for every sin he found in the comfort of your divinely crafted lips.

“Gonna let me sit on that pretty cock of yours, hm? Let me use you one last time? Promise i’ll be good,” a lie, “So so good.”

“God, yes. Yes, please. That would—“ You take him deep, deep enough that everything aches. He only feels alive when you’re wrapped around him, when there’s not an ounce of distance between your bodies, when he can touch the insides of you. Pry open the raw, unfiltered version of you.

He only feels alive when he’s sunk inside the harbinger of death. He’d laugh if it didn’t hurt.

You’ve got one hand tangled in your hair, the other pressed flat against his waist, supporting you through each bump of movement. Eyes like marbles, Spencer looks up, and wonders why this will never be enough for you.

You look back, meet his gaze, as if you’re Orpheus, predestined to turn around, to always return. Even if it’s just for one last second. Even if the fall-out is so much worse than pushing forward blindly.

Oh, hes certain you’re carving a hole inside him, something that will only grow and expand, imploring to be filled by it’s inventor. It’ll hurt, for the rest of time, he supposes.

When he finds your hand around his neck, he isn’t startled. Neither, when your thumb presses against his throat, applying pressure until the world cracks and fades, distorting his refined mind to the here and now. He floats, feeling transient in the curse of your touch.

“That’s it. Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He is a sacrificial lamb. The priests favourite. He will take the knife every time, and thank you for it after.

You release the tension, hand taking his instead. For all the cruelty you possess, you’d never think to harm him. Not physically at least. The emotional damage, however, finds you both. There can be no happiness in either of your worlds, not when the memory of each other festers. “Good boy— taking it so well. God, no one is ever gonna compare.”

He cries at the words. Pretty tears streaming down his face, because the reciprocation to his undying piety will forever trigger the warped chemicals in his brain. Will forever reduce him to something saccharine.

“Love you. Love you so much. Don’t go. Please,” he fractures, “please don’t go.” he begs, besmirched words he’ll regret in the wake of his pleasure. They don’t count, and yet, he knows, in the most depraved sections of his mind, they’re true.

You ride him harder. Back curved, finding god in the washed-out body of someone fatally destroyed. “Not going anywhere— fuck, fuckfuckfuck. That feels so good. You’re so good,” maybe it’s a kink to ruin something so perfectly spotless.

Maybe it’s a kink that he wants it.

“Say it. God, just say it. This once.” for old times sake, he almost adds. But that wouldn’t be objectively correct. For all the intimacy you shared, you never once articulated those three words. Perhaps it was to save your dignity, to hold pieces of yourself in the lies you beautifully crafted.

His thumb runs over your clit, and in the tangle of your orgasm, he almost thinks you forget about his demand. But after, when you’re still taking him, when you’re still clenching, unclenching, clenching around his cock, when you know you own every part of him, you answer.

“I love you.”

He falls apart. Hips canting, body squirming, whimper after whimper escaping his bruised lips as he releases inside of you. Pushed deep, defiled to the limit. For a moment, everything is okay, everything will be alright, because there’s pleasure, and it’s you. It’s always you.

How can he justify falling in love with you again? How can he, when he still clings onto the artificial love of the past? He’s not sure his heart can handle one set of feelings, nevermind two.

He takes you again, well… mostly you take him again. In ways that have him polluted with the remnants of your teeth. Canine marks, etched deep enough to bleed. He hopes the swelling leaves behind perennial scars, anything to remind him. Anything to hold onto when you’re gone and it’s cold.

After, when you lie together, he presses his forehead against yours and wishes he was in any other universe. One where you’re happy. Where everything is pure and simple, clean from sin.

There was always truth in what we shared before, you admit. Lazy nights spent draped over the couch, kissing him to silence convoluted rambles. Your presence in the morning, bathed in holy glow, sunlight bleeding over the pretty sight of you. The first night he touched you and saw god. And then the following night, when he ascended all over again.

He wakes to find no body. He wakes to find nothing. It feels like self-sabotage, the promise that you would leave, even if it’s quite the contrary.

In the absence, abstinence of your presence, he discovers traces of you in everything he sees, all of it, everything consumed, returning to the simple thought of you you you.

When the first postcard comes, Portland, dreary weather— beaches and ports, there’s no anger. No exasperation that you broke your word.

You love him, it’s morbid, but for someone like him, it overrules everything. Sanity, dignity, his own stable existence.

You overrule everything.

#criminal minds #sub spencer reid #sub spencer #halloween #unsub!reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid angst #CRAAAAWLING BACK TO U #idk guys they might be in love??#all i do is write smut wtf (i need help)

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katiascraft · 18 days ago

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𐙚⋆°.MODALES | FC43

[MANNERS | FC43]

⤷ franco colapinto x singer!reader x lando norris.

summary: You had a brief yet beautifully intense romance with F1 driver Franco Colapinto a few years ago when he was driving for F3. When he decided to end your relationship, you didn’t expect he would move on that quickly.

Warnings: I think angst. Not a happy ending but another happy ending (?) and strong language I guess. Cheating. Dialogues in Spanish mostly. Not a native English speaker so there could be (so many) errors. Not proofread.

Author’s note: 200 FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION!! THANK YOU SO MUCH EVERYONE!! this was inspired on the EP “modales” by Yami Safdie which I recommend you check it out!! Also I’ll be using her for the posts. First time mixing smau and written stuff so yeah. Hope you like it 💌 don’t forget to like, comment, reblog! And follow me so we can be friends :3 (and drink mate together!)

MASTERLIST

f1gossipofficial just made a post

liked by @/user1, @/user2, @/landonorris, and others.

f1gossipofficial: breaking news ‼️ a source close to franco colapinto confirmed that @/y/nusername singer from Argentina it’s her ex and she just dropped an EP full of tea! 👀 apparently according to the song’s Franco dumped her for her new girlfriend @Franconewgirl and stated that franco isn’t as good as he seems! Let the tea be spilled everyone!

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↳ user123: @y/nusername TE EXPUSIERON BB [they exposed you bb]

↳ user1: OMG

↳ landnorizz1: why is our boy here ????????

↳ franmylove: oh no not this girl again pls leave him alone already!!!

↳ user4: she cute tho

↳ usar89: WHAY DOES SHE LOOKS EXACYLY LIKE FRANCO’s ACTUAL GF

↳ user20: girl I was about to mention it

↳ marylovesy/n: no puedo creer que franco la dejó después de que estuvo para el cuando mas lo necesitaba!!! [can’t believe franco dumped her when she was there for him when he needed it the most]

↳ landonorris: I guess I gotta take this to the group chat

↳ landonorris: she is so pretty

↳ user1: LANDO WTF

↳ usar444: land no rizz BRO WHAT

──── ──── ──── ──── ──── ────

💋ྀིྀི Track 1 - buen provecho.mp3

back to march 2023.

“Amor, perdón, ya sé, esto es una mierda. Pero realmente necesito enfocarme.. No es por vos, es por mi. Obvio que te amo y siendote sincero te voy a amar toda la vida, pero necesito enfocarme 100% en esto y/n” (love, I'm sorry, i know, this is a shitty situation. But I really need to focus. It's not about you,it's about me. Obviously I love you and to be honest I'll love you forever, but I really need to focus 100% on this y/n) you were already sobbing on the kitchen chair of his small apartment in madrid. This couldn't be happening. He wasn't breaking up with you over his career like you didn't have yours. Like all the sacrifices and support were with absolute shit. Franco was crying too but less emotional than you. He was colder, controlled. You were all over the place. You had to stand up.

“Franco, qué pasa con todo lo que construimos? Todo lo que sacrificamos por el otro. Te apoye todos estos años para que? Se que las relaciones a distancia son difíciles pero con vos nunca lo fue. Franco por dios, te amo, te amo con todo lo que soy. Por favor, no me dejes” (franco, what about what we built here? All of the sacrifices we made. I supported you all of these years for what? I know distance relationships are hard but with you it wasn't. Franco, for god's sake, I love you. I love you with everything I am. Please, don't leave me) when he heard you mouthing the last sentences something inside him broke in a million pieces. He felt like a monster. He brushed his hair with one hand, anxious. He couldn't look at you after what you said. He felt like the worst human alive but his decision was already made. There was no coming back from it. It`s he`s dream. “Por el amor de dios, franco, decime algo”(please, franco say something) you expressed desperate. It was real and now you were in another country, alone, with nobody to talk to, to go to. All of that was him but even if he was sitting across the table from you, he was gone. So far gone, the room turned cold. “No lo puedo creer.”(i can't believe it) you were speechless, empty. You had to sit again and that's when he finally looked at you.

“y/n perdon. Pero es lo que necesito. espero que lo puedas entender”(y/n im sorry. But I really need to focus. I Hope you can understand) he expresado. You shook your head ironically dry laughing.he had the guts to act like this despite it all.

“¿Sabes qué es lo más triste franco? Pensé que ibas a tener los huevos para decirme que me cagaste en la cara”(you know what 's the saddest part of this franco? I thought you would have the balls to tell me you cheated to my face) you dropped what you knew leaving him in shock. Exposed. Your anger intensified. “Obviamente lo sé hace 2 semanas. Quería que me lo digas porque vos te mandaste la cagada. Y aun así me pones una excusa de mierda y tenes la cara para decirme te amo.te cagaste en mi, en mi amor, en mi tiempo,en mi autoestima. Te cagaste en todo franco. No te voy a decir quien me dijo porque no importa. Ojala que te vaya bien y seas feliz con ella o con quien eras que no sea yo obviamente. Pero también espero que te enamores de alguien de verdad y te haga lo mismo solo para que sientas lo que siento y te des cuenta tarde o temprano lo que rompiste y nunca más vas a volver a recuperar” (i know it since 2 weeks ago. I wanted you to tell me you fucked up. But you decided to lie about it with an absurd excuse and you actually have the guts to say that you love me. You fucked me up and my selfsteam. You didn't care at all. I'm not gonna tell you who told me. It doesn't matter. But i hope you have a good life and be happy with her whatever bitch that isn't me clearly. But I also hope that you fall in love with someone and they do the same to you just to know how this feels and realize what you broke because there's not coming back from this) you just had to take it off your chest. You were destroyed inside. Of course you still wanted to be oblivious and stay with him like nothing happened. But that was impossible to do. It was your second day here. He didn't even mention he wanted to talk. He was playing fool.

💋ྀིྀི Track 2 - por favor.mp3

back to june 2023.

You and your bff were having a sleepover at your house. You were lying in bed just chatting about anything and everything.

“Amiga viste esto? Pendejo del orto como le da la cara?” (girl, did you see this? That motherfucker. The audacity he has.) she handed you her phone to look at it by yourself. You see an instagram post. She looked so similar to you you got really confused for a moment. Then you realized it was franc and his new girlfriend. I think your jaw dropped to the floor. How could they? How could HE? You rolled your eyes. It still hurts. But you wanted to play it cool. its been only 3 months like did he even love you for real? You felt gross. You felt stupid. How could you believe him? That fucking smile. His fucking humor. His fucking fingers inside you that made you feel things noone did before. Ugh you hated him. You really hated him.

💋ྀིྀི Track 3 - gracias.mp3

Back to september 2023

franconewgirl made a post

liked by @/francolapinto, @/user2, @/alexalbon and others.

franconewgirl: sigan mirando y hablando que el novio más perfecto lo tengo yo 🩵 te amo fran [keep watching and talking. The most perfect boyfriend it’s still mine. I love you fran]

view more comments

↳ francolapinto: te amo princesa 🩵 [I love you princess]

↳ user23: PARENTS

↳ y/nandfran: 🙄

↳ user56: TELL HER TELL HER SCREAM IT GIRL

↳ user1: can’t believe he left y/n still

↳ yourbff: tiraba palo 🤣 [oh she’s throwing indirects]

↳ francolapinto: ?????

↳ yourbff: 🙄

↳ y/nusername: 💀

comments have been disabled

💋ྀིྀི Track 4 - permiso.mp3

Move forward to september 2024 → Monza GP

The Italian breeze of summer made you feel so happy to be here. Not so much the fact you were in the same place with Franco and his girlfriend. But red bull invited you and you loved racing so much that you couldnt say no. plus, your friend kimi and ollie that you knew because they used to race along franco back when the two of you were together.

You were so thrilled you met Max Verstappen and that he was so kind and actually had a genuine conversation with you. He was nothing like how the media wanted to portray him. He also introduced you to Lando Norris, another driver. He looked really handsome and was really welcoming as well. You found yourself flirting with him for a bit. He said he had a friend from Argentina and that if you were free you could go and drink mate together after the race. You couldn't deny you felt attracted to him. He was handsome. Of course you gave him your instagram and started following each other.

A few hours later Charles Leclerc won the race and it was fenomenal to witness. He won the Ferrari home race. The tifosis went wild. Really emotional. It was his first home win. You watched the podium in a smile from the red bull hospitality building drinking a red bull.

After a few minutes, you got ready to go to your hotel to rest for the rest of the day but Max stopped you.

“Hey, y/n, there's a party tonight. You are invited if you want to come. Lando will send you the address” he said walking towards you. You smiled pleased and flustered. He was so beautiful in person.

“That sounds fun, sure” you said with your foreign accent pretty obvious just like franco’s and he smiled widely.

“Perfect. See you tonight!” he said after giving you a quick hug and walking away.

(...)

You were laughing a little tipsy. Lando was by your side almost the whole night so far. He was really fun to be around and Carlos came to the rescue so you could talk to someone in your native language. Sometimes it's tiring to think and translate what you will say 24/7.

After a while you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. Little did you know, Franco was gonna stop you before getting into it anyway. You looked at him surprised. His perfume all over you again leaving you kind of confused.

“Podes dejar de hablar tanto con él por favor?” (can you stop talking to him please?) he said clearly drunk but grabbing your arm gently tight. You frowen and shook you heard before setting free from his grip.

“Hola fran, todo bien? Si todo bien. Que bueno che. No soy mas tu novia asi que no vengas a hablarme y decirme que hacer. Gracias, chau” (hi fran, wassup? Yeah, all good. Great. I'm not your girlfriend anymore so don't come around to talk and tell me what to do. Thanks. Goodbye) you said sarcastically and went straight into the bathroom already annoyed by his attitude. It was being a great night but he has to come around and fuck it up.

(...)

Your moans were all over the place. His hands are right on your waist and his movement consistently gets in and out of you.

“Sos tan linda, y/n” (you're so beautiful, y/n) he said under his breath.

How did you end up here? Again in his arms making you see the stars. Getting you drunk on his perfume. Grabbing his hair and pulling his head back. Him grabbing your waist and twisting you however he likes. Just like he always did.

A part of you was crying behind your face, smiling in pleasure, getting loud in moans. You wanted him forever. Whether You like it or not, he was the love of your life. No other guy could ever make you feel the way he does by just looking at you. You were angry at yourself. He has a girlfriend and here you are. You are not supposed to be anyone’s slut. The pleasure was intense, reaching your high, hiding your face in his neck, squeezing his shoulders.

where was his girlfriend?

What have you done? Fucking alcohol and feelings and shit.

💋ྀིྀི Track 5 - perdón.mp3

Fast forward to the next morning

“No franco, esto es un horror. Es horrible lo que hicimos. Me voy” (franco this is horrible. It's horrible what we did. I'm leaving right away) you said feeling terrible. Awful. A knot in your stomach. You got dressed so quickly.

“Nono por favor y/en espera. Estoy dispuesto a dejarla. Por favor, te extraño muchísimo. Nadie me hizo sentir como vos y nadie lo hará. Lo sé. Por favor, no me dejes” (please y/n wait. I will leave her. Please, I miss you like crazy. On one made me feel the way you did and no one will. I'm sure. Please, don't leave me) he said. How fast the nights change, right? One day you are begging him to stay, and the next he is begging you to stay. You turned around to look at him.

“Bueno es lo que te mereces después de lo que hiciste. No podemos estar juntos franco. Te acordaste tarde de que me amabas. Yo ya no te amo. Y esta noche fue un error. No me busques mas.no quiero saber mas nada de vos” (well that's what you deserve for doing what you did to me. We can't be Franco together franco. You remembered you love me too late. I don't love you anymore. This was a mistake. Don't look for me. I don't wanna know about you anymore.) your words would have cut his skin if they could. Torn him into millions of pieces. His heart sank.

You grabbed all of your stuff. You were scared the girl was coming any minute. You just didn't want to deal with it. This shouldn't have happened.

💋ྀིྀི Track 6 - de nada.mp3

move forward to present day

f1gossipoffcial made a post

Liked by @user567, @user1, @user34, @user890 and others.

f1gossipofficial: the secret it’s out! @/y/nusername Argentinian singer and @/landonorris mclaren driver been spotted together getting cozy in Monaco!

view more comments

↳ user1: OMG OMG OMG OMG I LOVE THEM

↳ yourbff: 🤭🤭🤭

↳ y/nusername: 😳

↳ user45: la princesa de argentinaaa 🩵

↳ user123: I don’t like herrrrr 🤢

↳ landonorizz: Lando has a terrible taste on women tbh

↳ y/nstan: feliz si ella está feliz 💌 [happy if she’s happy]

↳ user12: omg she confirmed it !!!!!

↳ user90: WHAT I CHOKED

——————————————————————————————

y/nusername made a post

liked by @/landonorris, @/charlesleclerc, @/francolapinto and others.

y/nusername: oops! Nos descubrieron! Seguí hablando de mi. Gracias a mi tenes lo que tenes, mejor disfrútalo 🩵 yo estoy disfrutando la mía y nunca fui más feliz. Te amo @/landonorris gracias por amarme como soy 💌 [keep talking about me. You should thank me for what you have now. You should better enjoy it. I’m enjoying mine and I’ve never been more happy in my life. I love you lando, thank you for loving me just the way I am]

view more comments

↳ landonorris: te amo mi bonita 🩵 you make me the happiest. Thank you for being so wonderful and be so you.

↳ y/nusername: omg te amo te amo te amo infinito 🩵

↳ landonorris: te amo infinito 🩵

↳ charlesleclerc: congratulations lovebirds! A pleasure meeting you @/y/nusername

↳ y/nusername: omg thank you prince 💌

↳ user778: ME ACABO DE MORIR SON HERMOSOS [omg I’m dead you are both so beautiful]

↳ yourbff: al fin alguien que te ama casi tanto como yo te amo 🩵😭 [finally someone that loves you almost as much as I do]

↳ y/nusername: 😭😭😭😭 te amo hermana

↳ user09: if he’s happy we’re all happy

↳ user123: I know franco choked when he saw this

——————————————————————————————

Thank you so much guys for 200 followers!! You are the best mwak mwak mwak 💌 first time I tried this format of story so I hope it’s good!! I dont know if it makes sense tho but i tried!!

#works by cate :)#my work!🧉#franco colapinto x femreader #franco colapinto x you #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto #lando norris x reader #lando norris #lando norris x female reader #ln4 x reader #ln4 #fc43 #f1 x female reader #f1 fic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x you #f1 fanfic

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hotnbloodied · 5 months ago

Note

Hi there could I request a yandere rich boy x gn reader can it also be a smut if you are comfortable.

Fun fact, this will be the first time I've written smut for this blog. I'm not too skilled at it I'll admit so I hope that what I wrote will be good enough for you my dear~

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚HB˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Yan!Rich Boy X Reader (!!SMUT!!)

!Warning! This post contains yandere themes and topics that may be uncomfortable to people who are sensitive to the topic, read at your own discretion.

CW: not proof read, yous/yours used, gn reader, there is SEX, sloppy lewd writing, alcohol, drunk sex, yandere is pretty tame since there is smut. (LMK if I'm missing anything.)

!!READ AT YOUR OWN DISCRETION!! MINORS DNI!!

You were a business major at a prestigious college, you worked your butt off trying to get as many grants as possible. Even then, you still needed to seek out loans to help you in your class payments. Luckily you knew that if you wanted to take this path you needed to sacrifice a lot to the grind. A loud laughter broke you out of your thoughts, who the fuck is making so much noise in the library? You look over and see him, the ringleader surrounded by all his goonies, making you grimace. Derek, one of the top nepo babies at the college; his parents being owners of big trading companies. Rumors say that last week he couldn’t decide on either to get a Ferrari or a Lamborghini so he got both.

Laughter rang through the library again, why were they doing this here? There are literal private rooms they could rent if they really wanted a hang out place. Since you were a commuting student you didn’t have a place like a dorm to study in between classes that’s why you had to use the library. You couldn’t sit back and not say anything anymore so you walked up to the small group. “Hey, I’m sorry to be asking this,” why should you be the one that’s sorry you thought, but whatever, “I’m just trying to study and you guys are being just a little loud.” You look at each of their faces finally landing on Derek last looking at him in the eyes. His eyes widen and a cheeky smile spreads on his features again, “sure, if I can have your number.” You laugh slightly because you thought he was joking but he doesn’t laugh along with you so you gulp and take out your phone. After the exchange he leads his friends out of the library with him.

The next day after your classes you were in the library studying again. You noticed that someone sat down beside you and came face to face with Derek. “Hi,” he says with a smirk, “what are you doing?” You looked at him, confused, “I’m studying.” “Is it fun?” You scoff, “no, I wouldn’t say it’s much fun. But I can’t let my GPA drop so I gotta do it.” Your stomach growls, loud enough to be heard making you blush. Derek laughs at you, “come on, a bookworm still needs to eat right?” You were confused but packed up your things and followed him out to the parking lot where he pressed his keys and the lights to a Bentley lit up. What about the Ferrari or Lamborghini you heard about? Like reading your mind he said, “I like Bentley for everyday use.” He opened the passenger door for you as you sheepishly went in. The drive was surprisingly pleasant, the weather was cool and he had the windows down with the radio playing the popular songs, singing along to them making you laugh and sing along too. Your anxiety was raised again when you two arrived at what seems to be a restaurant with valet parking.

“Why are we here?” You ask while nipping at your fingers. He looked at you confused, “for dinner of course.” “I, uh, can’t afford something like this,” you said with a blush. His confusion turns into a chuckle, “dude what? My treat of course, come on.” He led you in and the host brought you two to a private room. You glance at the menu but don’t see any of the price tags, only stuff like aged wagyu. He looks at how you squirm and smiles, your range of emotions have entertained him since yesterday when you first looked at him. You were so different from him, constantly on the move, taking everything so seriously. What did it look like when you came undone? He was determined to find out.

He orders for the both of you and makes small talk to learn more about you, each word captivates him and makes him realize how oddly charismatic you were. (He’s already in delulu land) Each back and forth feels so genuine and like a breath of fresh air to him and the best part is that you would look at him when talking to him. When the food arrives you light up after each bite, never did your broke ass think you’d even taste food like this. And don’t forget the wine, you might have gone a little too far with it. He helped you back to his car and started driving, you had the window down and your head stuck slightly out and in the zone to notice that you never asked him where he was going.

He was bringing you to his place, leading you inside to his room, you crawled into his bed giggling. He gets in bed and hovers over your intoxicated form. “Hey, this isn’t my bed,” you slur slightly. “You’re cute,” he says. You giggle some more and boop his nose with your finger. He leans in and kisses you, you sigh as you wrap your arms around him and return the kiss. His hands start to roam and grope your body, with the help of the alcohol your skin feels extra sensitive making you whimper. “You like that?” He asks as he breaks the kiss to have a taste of your neck, licking and sucking with sloppy wet sounds echoing through the room making you moan out his name. “We’re just getting started darling.” He reaches down to your entrance, “look at you, you’re so excited to take me.” He slowly works one finger, then two into your entrance, the slow rhythm gets you worked up and you beg for more. Derek sighs dreamily, this is different when other people ask him for things. He wants to give you the world if you let him. He slips his fingers out of you and you whine more. “Don’t worry, you’ll be filled soon,” he slides his pants down and his girth springs up making your mouth water. You’re grinding against his shaft and it sends a shiver down his spine. He holds your hips in place so he can line himself up to your opening and slowly pushes in. You gasp as he enters, you feel so full and he did everything not to just ram it into you. You both fell into a rhythm, the sounds of skin slapping, whimpers and moans resounded through the room. You returned the favor and sucked on his neck and teased his nipples which got him worked up and he took your legs and pounded you in a mating press, the amount of pressure was dizzying and you found yourself being drowned in pleasure about to release. Your toes curl as you orgasm and he follows sooner after. You pass out and he looks at your sleeping form with his fluids leaking out of you. As much as he wants to keep you marked he gets a towel and wipes you and himself down before snuggling next to you.

Has he known peace like this before? His eyelids grew heavy as he listened to your steady breathing beside him. He was already convinced that you were the one meant for him, his one and only. He’ll take care of you from now on and he’ll do everything you ask of him. Derek didn’t even consider the fact that you might say no, because in his head he was going to make you his and it was your choice of either heaven or hell.

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dinarosie · 10 days ago

Text

James Potter and Sirius Black were better than Snape. They matured enough to sacrifice themselves to protect Harry, while Snape never grew and never moved beyond his grudges

It’s easy to admire the kind of hero who sacrifices everything to protect those they love—their family, their child, their cherished godson. That kind of bravery is noble, no doubt.

But do you know what’s even more extraordinary? What’s more selfless and heroic?

True heroism is not about protecting those who love you in return. It’s not about fighting for gratitude or recognition. It’s about standing alone, fighting for people who don’t care about you, who misunderstand you, who will never see or value your sacrifice.

It’s about a man who endures hatred, mockery, and indifference—and still chooses to protect those very same people. A man who saves lives that openly scorn him, who risks everything for a world that will never celebrate him.

His heroism isn’t adorned with glory. It isn’t written in songs or remembered in tales. It’s quiet. It’s relentless. It’s profoundly human.

He doesn’t do it for fame or reward. He does it because he knows the right thing must be done, even if no one will ever know it was him.

So tell me: is there any greater hero than the one who fights without glory, loves without reward, and sacrifices without being asked?

Because if you look closely, you’ll see him—the man who gave everything, not because he had to, but because he chose to.

This is Severus Snape.

#pro snape #snapedom #snape fandom #anti snaters #hp fandom #snape defender #snape community #professor snape #snape #hp meta #pro severus snape #pro severus #snape meta #character analysis #Hero In Shadows

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i-yap · 6 months ago

Text

MY FAVORITE IS DICK GRAYSON FORVER WILL BE DICK GRAYSON AND HERE IS WHY

DICK GRAYSON X Y/N ( FRUSTRATED ME EDITION)

- first of all , he is the hottest character in dc (literally the comics have written this line by line)

- he is the real one with communication issues. You think jason struggles with that? NO jason uses any chance to tell me people how much he suffered. But dick? He wears a smile, he hides everything he is feeling

- the only person who gets to see the real him is YOU. The stress, the pressure, the mommy daddy issues...cmon. and bruce prolly was the worst at raising grayson and learned from his mistakes for the rest

- dick is someone who tries to be happy. Who tries to have a normal life. Who tries not to let his issues affect him . But they do which is why he has so many fucked up relationships. But when he meets you he wants to keep you, he needs to keep you with him. So he tries yet again to open up, fix his issues, love you the way you truly deserve.

- AND let us all not pretend we are all not stressed asf in life. He is so joyful and bright and will almost never dull the mood. Car karaoke ? Done. Skinny dipping in some random lake you drive by? His suggestion. Amusement parks? He is excitedly pulling you to all the rides and WILL 100% WIN YOU THE BIGGEST TEDDY

- he is deep, he js in touch with his feelings and he knows how to take care of you. Idk abt u guys but I have issues . I want a man who gives you those words of affirmation, who makes it super obvious he likes you.

- he needs you just as much as jason or tim or damian do. He also never had genuine love, he also has been a soldier a leader the person responsible all his life. He needs yo hold you, he needs that peace and quiet away from everything he has to deal with . He wants someone he can come home to and just show how drained he is .

- he is so kind to the world but he WILL BURN IT FOR YOU . I refuse to believe any other opinion on this. No matter how big a hero this guy is...remember how he killed joker for jason? Someone he said he hated? Broke the no kill rule?? Yea imagine what he will do for you.

- and how dare u suggest he isn't jealous/ possessive. He gets so cranky..not insecure and u don't have to coddle him and avoid all other men ...but u do have to give him extra kisses

-HE IS THE REAL GREEN FLAG fuck the whole " a hero will sacrifice you for the world but a villain will burn the world for you" NOT HIM NO HE WILL KILL EVERYONE OKAY cuz how date anyone suggest taking you away from him after everything he has done for the world. You are his reward and you better remember that.

- slow waltzing in the kitchen while he sings you his favorite love song, giggling in a pretty cafe while sharing a piece of cake( he is feeding you the whole thing and will kiss you when u Ask why he isn't eating any himself) , getting tipsy and walking back home all sweet and drunk and in love. He is adventurous and wants to experience everything With you.

- best part, everyone around u will love him. I'm sorry but I like it when my bf is liked by the old ladies and my parents and my boss. He will make you the power couple, even if you aren't as "powerful". He is your biggest loudest supporter always. Always introducing you to ppl as if you cured world hunger , telling everyone just how smart and kind you are taking any opportunity to talk about You. And dancing with him at galas makes you feel like a princess

- he will get the best gifts, say the sweetest things, be the most supportive kind eyes only for you guy once he genuinely falls in love.

I love jason a lot too, and tim and bruce too. Like yes I daydream about all of them But I just hate how underrated my boy here is.

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filmbyjy · 2 months ago

Text

ONE NOTE

SYNOPSIS > When you turned 18, you heard your best friend’s favourite song. Turns out, it was just one of the various signs to finding your soulmate. However, you couldn’t bring this up to jake. Not when he was in a happy relationship with your other best friend! Would you choose heartbreak or sacrifice your happiness for the sake of keeping the friendship?

EIGHTEEN – the first petal

MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

WC: 0.9K words

a/n: please note there is a written part after these 6 pictures!! don't forget to read it because it is part of something important.

“breathe.” yvette says as she pats your back. it was suffocating. the sink was bloodied up, splatters of blood that you had coughed up in a span of 5 minutes. mae runs in with a bottle in her hands.

“here, drink up.” she quickly opens the bottle up and hands it over to you. you took the bottle and quickly drank it.

“why didn’t you tell us it was this bad. we obviously knew that jake was your soulmate but we didn’t think that your body would react this way.” yvette looks at you.

“you’d honestly think that this disease would be a mythical thing but it is very much true.” mae says. you felt the tears fall down your face. yvette wipes them for you. she looks at you with such pity and such care.

“man, fuck that bitch.” she declares. “making such a sexy girl cry? not very girl’s girl coded of her.”

“she doesn’t know. i don’t think jake would tell her. besides, he doesn’t even know i’m his soulmate.”

“well, i think she would find out either ways. she’s such a weirdo.” mae huffs. yvette nods.

“what are you going to do?” yvette asks.

“live with it.”

“but you’re going to cough out blood if you keep seeing them so loving and disgusting.”

“it’s okay. once it gets worse, i’ll just get the surgery.”

“to remove your feelings? (name), you can’t seriously be thinking of doing this.” mae sighs. “i’ve seen people decide to go through with the surgery, they aren’t like themselves. once you do it, there will also be complications in the end. you won’t live for long.”

“there is no other way. if end up dead then so be it. i can’t let jake know. he’s very much in love with aria. he would never love me.” you sobbed. yvette pulls you closer and keeps you in her arms.

“hey hey, let’s not talk about death. you’re alive and well right now. let’s live your life to the fullest and make the best out of it. you aren’t dying.” she mutters. mae grabs your hand and lightly squeezes it.

“yeah, who cares about jake and aria. you have sunghoon, your friends, your brother and us. we are there for you.”

you were thankful for the people who were close to you. you had wiped your tears and nodded. “you’re right.”

there were a series of knocks at the bathroom door. yvette rolls her eyes and opens the door. “we’re having a sentimental moment here.”

“sorry, girls. just checking in to see if (name) is okay.” jay says.

“that or are you already missing mae?” yvette folds her arms. jay awkwardly laughs a little.

“maybe but i’m more concerned for my best friend of course.” you laughed a little and sniffled. you pushed mae forward towards jay.

“take her oh my god. you find out she’s your soulmate and you can’t stop being away from her.”

jay shrugs. sunghoon steps forward and hugs you.

"I'm not dying, hoon."

"just let me hug you. you need it." he says. your smile falters a little. "you can cry, you know?"

"i already cried just now."

"and? you can cry again and I wouldn't judge."

"I know you won't, hoon."

your brother comes up to you. "okay, break it up. can I hug my sister?"

sunghoon lets you go, and leehan easily replaces him. "when did you get so big?"

"I've always been big." he says. you laughed.

"okay, but you're my baby brother."

"yes, i am." you ruffled his hair and he pulls back from the hug.

"let's go back. those two are probably wondering where we are." taesan says.

"the last i saw them they were making out-" *whack* ni-ki winces when sun whacks him.

"don't even mention that." sunoo warns.

"right, sorry noona." ni-ki pouts. you sighed a little.

"it's fine, ni-ki."

you could see jake and aria coming closer to the group. jake was mainly concerned about everyone but aria...she's just kinda following jake.

"hey, why is everyone gathering around here?" jake asks.

"oh, there was a slight mishap so (name) called the girls over. we were worried so we waited outside for them." heeseung explains.

"you could've told us."

"yeah, but you were busy making out with aria so we didn't want to bother the both of you." sunghoon says. there was a petty tone underlying as he tells jake.

"what the fuck is your problem?" jake comes up to sunghoon. sunghoon scoffs.

"nothing."

"nothing? you said that the other time and then you went on a tangent hating on my girlfriend." jake folds his arms.

sunghoon rolls his eyes. "well, I'm right either ways. you were sooooo oblivious and busy with aria that even when (name) got hurt or had an issue you didn't care."

"she's fine now, isn't she? you guys took good care of her. she's in good hands, so i trust you guys to care for her. after all, I'm just her best friend and I am busy with my girlfriend. You don't understand me because you don't have a girlfriend!" jake yells at sunghoon.

you start to cough up again. this time when you look down at your hand, not only was there blood but there was a petal. the first petal to have ever appeared. you had looked up to see everyone staring at you. jake's jaw dropped when he saw the blood in your palms.

you didn't know what else to do other than run away. sunghoon glared at jake once more before he runs after you.

this was moving too fast...

were you dying?

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targaryen-dynasty · 1 year ago

Text

PRAY FOR ME.

Dark!Prince Regent!Aemond x niece!Reader

Trying to persuade you to declare yourself for their side in the war of succession, Aemond relies on different methods to make your façade crumble.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MINORS DNI; DUB-CON, p in v, dry humping, petting, breeding, power imbalance, praise kink, humiliating, degrading, canon typical incest/targcest, no mention of reader’s appearance, Dark!Prince Regent Aemond is a warning himself

WORDS: 5.3 K

NOTES: The title is inspired by Kendrik Lamar‘s song, as it’s about loss, loyalty, sacrifice and redemption. Something reader struggles with in this. This is also dedicated to and written for @black-dread. I‘ll spoil you rotten for as long as I’m on this app. ILU.

You had lost track of how long you had been forced to stay isolated in your chambers. It could have been days, but it also could have been many moons by now.

The only company you got were the serving girls coming three times a day to serve you food and something to drink, and bring you water for a bath – everything else was left for you to do on your own.

It was a cold comfort that you got to spend your days in the chambers you had occupied during your childhood, but still better than to be stuck in one of the cells or the dark dungeons.

Apart from the Dowager Queen visiting you a few times in the early days, trying to persuade you to side with them in the upcoming war of succession, you hadn’t heard from anybody else. You did not even know what progress your mother’s side had made over the time you had been locked away, and what precipitations they had to suffer.

Deep down you knew Alicent was only after your dragon to gain support, because, with not more than three adult dragons, they clearly were outnumbered. But that knowledge, however, didn’t stop the doubts about your mother from rising.

You had not expected to be saved by them, but you had firmly believed to receive at least one letter by raven in secret – yet not one had come.

There were enough people loyal to your father, mother or both of them in the Red Keep, and the chances of one raven reaching you were not too far-fetched.

It was your deceased grandsire that had stated back then that the crown could not stand strong if the House of the Dragon remained divided, and now it was tearing itself down.

The tension truly had simmered at the last supper you shared with all of them — if it hadn’t been for your uncle to raise a toast to your strong half-brothers, forcing them and your parents to depart for Dragonstone in the midst of the night.

You had stayed behind, wanting to make up for the time you had lost with your grandsire ever since your family had relocated.

What proved to be a terrible mistake.

In the following morning, you had awoken to a commotion outside of your chamber’s doors, only to find it locked and with no way for you to escape.

You hardly learned what had been going on when three maids scurried into your chambers no less than six hours later, bathing you and dressing you for an important occasion, yet not telling you what it was.

A queasy feeling had weighed you down back then, which was confirmed by Alicent coming into your chambers right after to briefly inform you of Viserys’ passing and their plans to put Aegon on the throne, forcing you to attend the coronation.

She had assured your safety — for as long as you would declare yourself for Aegon.

For a fortnight she had blessed you with her presence, after you had witnessed the coronation and the frightening exit of Rhaenys and Meleys. She had inquired about your well-being after, but not without asking if and how you had chosen.

You had stated that you would never dare declare yourself for your mother’s usurper, and the will to keep your word was strong at the very beginning, until it wasn‘t anymore, the choice fickle and marked by your doubts. By your loneliness.

Suddenly, Alicent had stopped visiting you. You assumed she was done hearing you reject her offer, and even though you loathed her, it had been nice to have someone to talk to – even if it was forced and merely for her own benefit.

Most of your days you sat in silence, waiting for the moment someone would open the door to bring you to the place where they would take your head and end your life.

But at the same time you knew that it made more sense for them to keep you alive and locked up, minimizing the chances of having you fight against their forces or even risking another enemy to claim Vermithor.

Darkness had overtaken King’s Landing some time ago when the rustling of metal caught your attention, a deep voice booming behind the locked doors. Never before in your life had you shut a book so quickly, almost throwing it aside in plain fear.

The dark mop of Criston Cole’s hair was the first thing you saw, and your instincts forced you to bring as much space as possible between you and him.

Despite your father being none other than the Rogue Prince himself, having learned it by accident after eavesdropping on a conversation you should not have heard, you lacked his fighting experience and hadn’t been trained with the sword. All efforts to get away from the man they dubbed the Kingmaker therefore were fruitless.

It might have been the mistrust caused by Rhaenys‘ escape, highly doubting your refusal to come with him was intimidating enough, but a thick ribbon was tied around your wrists to keep you bound and secured as he guided you out of your chambers.

It was clear it was a volatile decision, assuming he had taken the ribbon from one of the maids' clothing, but you were glad he had not put you in shackles.

“His Grace wishes to speak to you,“ another guard accompanying you two barked after an endless amount of pestering, annoyed that you only wanted to learn if it was the fateful night the Stranger would take you.

The path they led you along was not unfamiliar, and when the heavy doors to the Throne Room opened, you were roughly shoved into the darkness, barely illuminated by the light a few torches and candles granted.

At the far end of the room on the massive throne sat who you assumed was your uncle Aegon, the Conqueror's crown atop his silver mane and shimmering in the light.

His presence felt heavy, overwhelming even, and forced your eyes to dart to the ground, watching every step as Criston all but pushed you towards the seat that was destined for your mother.

Preparing to meet your fate, the color drained from your face as you spotted the wrong uncle sitting on the throne, looking exactly like he had the last time you two were in the same room.

It was the evening before the Stranger had taken your grandsire, the only difference was the crown forged for none other than Aegon the First sitting on his head.

The Iron Throne loomed large behind his lithe frame, looking every bit as intimidating as Aemond in his all black attire, clad in leather from his boots up to the eyepatch, and a dagger strapped to his waist.

His one good eye studied you carefully, almost curiously, remaining on you even as Aemond rose from the throne, stepping down to approach you. With the intensity of his gaze, you felt almost bare in the black nightgown you wore, though the high neckline and long skirt didn’t give anything of your modesty away.

“Leave us,” Aemond’s voice eventually pierced through, the words said in a tone void of any emotion.

You heard Criston‘s armor clink behind you. “But, Your Grace, I–”

“Rest assured I can handle her,” Aemond interrupted.

And then the man behind you left the room at once, leaving only you and your uncle. It was eerily quiet, quite different from the Throne Room you knew back as your grandsire occupied the large seat.

You gazed down at the ribbon still tied around your wrists, tugging at it once to distract yourself from the steely gaze of Aemond burning through your skin, unsettling you.

“Do you know why I brought you here?” he asked in the same cold tone, sizing you up.

When your head tilted up again, meeting his eye, you spotted it darting towards your neck, causing your skin to heat up. Briefly looking to the side, you shrugged your shoulders. “To get rid of me, I assume,” you replied, trying hard to suppress the shaking in your voice.

A low ‘hm’ rumbled in his chest, and you spotted his lilac eye moving from yours downwards to your neck again. Something must have caught his attention, causing him to smirk as if he had seen a particularly fine artwork.

When he reached to slightly tug the neckline of your nightgown down, the hairs on the back of your neck stood up, and your eyes widened – intrigued or afraid, you weren’t quite certain.

The pendant of your necklace was pinched between his fingers, and you glanced down to spot his thumb dragging over the small sapphire in the center of it.

It was the Valyrian steel necklace he had gifted you to your name day, acquired on one of his rare journeys onto the streets of King‘s Landing long before he had lost his eye.

“You were meant to be mine, you know?” His voice remained mostly unemotional, yet a lilt of affection became evident in his tone for a second, the corners of his lips quirking up. It appeared as if he had thought back to the times you two had spent together at court, without a care and without the burdens of the crown on your shoulders.

The frown on your face encouraged him to carry on, a smirk still adorning his lips. “Do you remember when we practiced dancing when we were ten-and-one?” Oh, how you remembered. Aegon had always been a drunken fool, stepping on your feet and pushing you around out of the rhythm of the music, while Aemond had been nothing less than gentle and careful with you, laughing whenever you or he stepped onto each other's toes.

“I never thought someone could have such delicate feet, such–”

“Why am I here, Aemond?” you pressed, not wanting to dwell on the fond memories you had shared even longer with your heart rate rising with every word.

His smirk faltered for a split second, the eye that wasn’t concealed by black leather widening. One of his hands found the small of your back, and he used the grip to pull you towards him. “I could treat you right,” he said, his voice growing softer.

It was evident he knew how he made you feel. He knew you had admired him back then, you had confessed it before your family left for Dragonstone, and he just assumed you still did. You had admired his boldness and courage, his wit — and nothing had changed.

But it also felt as if he merely intended to persuade you for the same reasons his mother had tried to do, the fluttering emotions flattening out as quickly as they had soared through your body.

You took a step back in an attempt to create some space between you. Aemond didn’t hold onto you, he didn’t stop you, but his hand stayed in the air as if he meant to reach for you again. But he didn’t.

“I know, and I can‘t…,“ you said. I want to, but I can‘t betray my own mother, my own blood, was what you thought. “No.“

The lingering feelings of loneliness and abandonment had you wanting to give in. You wanted to give in to him more than anything. It was what you had desired for so, so long. But you had to remain strong, even though you were left to fend all by yourself, for none of your family had come to save you.

“No, I won’t declare myself for Aegon,“ you said, looking him straight in the eye. You tried to keep your voice cold, though it was clear that something inside of you tried to crawl to the surface.

An arrogant smile etched onto his features at your words. He could see your resistance weaken, spot your eyes flickering between his good one and his lips. Your attraction was not as hidden to him as you would have liked it to be.

“Your fears are unfounded, little niece.“ He caressed your cheek with a gentle touch, while mischief flickered in the lilac of his eye, juxtaposing his actions. “Let me show you just how well I could treat you. Let me show you that you matter… to me.“

Your fears were not unfounded. Not in the prospect of committing treason should your mother ever ascend the throne. But it was his gentle touch that made you weak, though you tried to hold onto the last threads of your resolve, trying your best to remain loyal to the side of the family that had obviously long abandoned you to rot in the viper’s nest.

“No,” you muttered softly in response, looking away once more. I must not, for I shall regret this, you thought. The fear to betray your mother by giving in to him was too big, but in the end it was far outweighed by your lust for him.

It was as if Aemond could spot the exact moment in which your resistance started to crumble, because in a swift movement, he had his hand right where it had rested on your waist before, and used the grip to turn you around, forcing your back flush against his chest.

The gasp you released was loud, but nothing compared to the way your heartbeat pounded in your ears as his other hand clasped around your throat, your tied hands immediately coming up to seize his wrist.

He had heard one no too much, his patience running thin. “I’ll show you that you belong to me,” he rasped into your ear, a shiver running down your spine that settled at the apex of your legs.

Squeezing your throat once, Aemond urged you forwards, shoving you towards one of the big column statues of the Throne Room.

Without tilting your head up, it wasn’t as if you had the chance to do so with your cheek pressed against the cold stone, you knew it was Aenys the First looking down at you two. And if he would've known what was going to take place right under the keepsake dedicated to his memory, he would’ve ordered his dragon to burn the keep to ashes at once.

Aemond’s weight pressed you against the column, your hands pinned over your head by one of his large ones. With his lips close to your ear, hot and heavy breath fanning over your flushed skin, you couldn’t even bring yourself to care about the trap you found yourself in.

“I’ll show you what you are,” he said. You firmly believed for him to make a jab at you, similar to what he had said at supper, but it didn’t come. Instead, his lips landed on your neck, not lingering long enough to press more than one chaste kiss to your skin before he pulled back to speak again, “mine.”

You weren’t quite sure whether you wanted to leave or not – for your mind had gone blank. The possessiveness laced within his cold voice, the burning where his lips had pressed a kiss to your neck, and his hands on your body were the only things on your mind.

The nightgown you wore was thin enough for you to feel even the faintest of his touches, fingertips roaming over the curve of your waist down to your arse, driving you to insanity.

Mewling and squirming in his grasp like a trapped kitten, the husky chuckle behind you gave away that he was more than enjoying this. You were giving in, your resolve crumbling, and he knew you were enjoying it just as much as him.

“There, is that my sweet, little niece I missed from court?” he whispered softly, while his hand fisted the skirts of your nightgown, lifting it enough to allow his hand to snake underneath. Goosebumps prickled on your skin, much more at the sudden realization of just how close he was.

His fingers mindlessly ghosted over the linen of your smallclothes, the outside of your thigh, but never coming close enough to where you wanted him most.

“Did you miss me, princess?” There was a sense of affection weaving itself through his cold tone, only for him to emphasize your title in such a condescending manner, it had your heart beating wildly in your chest.

When there didn’t come an answer, he connected his palm with your arse in a way that had your whole body jerking, your thighs trying to squeeze together to diminish the aching. But Aemond had his foot firmly planted between yours, his knee positioned high enough to make any movements impossible.

“I asked you a question,” the prince behind you snarled, the grip of his hand on your wrists bruising, feeling as if he meant to crush your bones. “Did you miss me?”

“Y-yes,” your voice was low, almost shy, “yes, Aemond, I missed you.”

A satisfied hum rumbled in his chest, and, trying to catch a glimpse of him from over your shoulder, you spotted his characteristic smirk on his lips, seeming even more devilish with the red rubies of the Conqueror's Crown shimmering in the dim light.

His fingers traced over the contours of your thigh before they dragged over your clothed cunt more firmly, and you choked on a moan, trying your best to stifle the sound in case anyone were to barge into the Throne Room.

But seeing how much your body ached for him, how badly you wanted him, Aemond didn’t care whether you were too loud or not.

He just enjoyed having you at his mercy, unable to really see him or get away from him. You were completely depending on him and whatever he wanted to do to and with you.

Aemond pressed his clothed member against your lower back, letting you feel its hardness and making his desire for you clear.

You were unable to escape him, but you didn’t even want to for the heat emanating from him drove you insane, not able to contain your desire and passion any longer. Your smallclothes were clinging to your soaked womanhood, and the aching you felt between your legs started to become uncomfortable.

When his head tipped towards yours, your eyes searched for his, wanting to lock gazes and beg for him to finally free you from his torments. But his good eye didn’t meet yours.

The pressure on your wrists released with his arm snaking around your waist, holding you tightly in place while he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

“Four moons did I have to walk these halls with the knowledge of you waiting for me behind one of these doors,” he gruffed into your ear. “Do you know how badly I have longed for this moment to happen? How long I had to wait to finally be able to claim you as mine? There will be no one else desiring to have you once I am done with you.”

You didn’t answer him for your voice was gone as you panted for air. Your body was shaking, wanting him oh so desperately.

“All you have to do is to swear to me, niece,” he said, his lips moving along your neck, nibbling and licking over your skin. It should have concerned you. It should have felt like a knife to your heart. And your body felt as if it was on fire, but it was ignited by his lips and fingers working the most sensitive spots on your body, not by his words. “Just give me your word, and you will be mine.”

That was the moment his true intentions showed, juxtaposed by his lingering touches and the desire in his voice.

His caresses had pushed you to your limits. You were drunk on him, drunk on his warmth, his scent and the dominance he displayed over you. “I swear, I-I swear,” you stammered, “All of it, I pledge myself to you, Aemond.”

Aemond had you, and there was no way to refuse him now, no way to stop him. You were giving into his touches, his words, his presence. You were his.

As you arched your back against his frame, he was caught off guard and took a step back, inhaling a sharp breath at the friction your arse created against his stiff member. You seized the opportunity and spun on your heels, staring at Aemond with wide, lust blown eyes.

He was on you in a matter of seconds, backing you firmly up against the column again. But this time, his mouth was on yours, kissing you with a burning need. Slipping past your lips, his tongue moved to explore your mouth, sliding back and forth along yours.

You whimpered into the kiss, the heat of desire weakening your knees. Aemond pressed himself against you, his body molding around yours as his hands traveled over your sides, consuming you entirely.

With his hands trailing down to your thighs, he hoisted you up and wrapped them around his waist, supporting your weight as he slowly walked towards the Iron Throne. It seemed as if he knew the path by heart, your lips not parting once for him to watch his step.

Sitting down on the throne, you sat astride him, hunched over and gazing down at him, while his half-lidded eye studied you carefully. It darted down to your bound wrists, and his nimble fingers were quick to reach for his dagger and slice through the fabric.

You massaged the reddened flesh with a soft hiss, though you were not sure it was prompted by the ministrations of your own hands or Aemond’s harshly digging into your hips. You closed your eyes, frighteningly aware of the dagger pinched between his digits, and tried to squirm away from his grasp with a jerk, dragging your clothed cunt over the protruding bulge in the front of his breeches.

A blush covered your cheeks as it dawned on you what you had done, more so as you heard him draw in a sharp breath, and you sheepishly folded your hands in front of you, looking down at them.

Raising an eyebrow, Aemond leaned back against the throne, his lips quirking into a smirk. “Your lack of self-control humors me,” he said, his voice mocking and full of judgment. You swallowed thickly, heat blossoming in your belly. “I only let you have a little bit of me, but you seem so desperate to have me fully.”

With his hands still on your hips, he started to guide them back and forth, dragging your cunt over his hard cock. His head tipped back slightly, and the bump in his throat bobbed as he swallowed each time you rutted against his member.

The coil in your belly tightened slowly, and encouraged you enough to grind your hips against him all by yourself, your breathy whimpers growing in volume.

“All it took for you to give in was my cock, mh?” he groaned, one hand entangling in your hair to bring your face level with his, “and I have yet to stuff it inside.”

A breathy whimper was all you managed to release at his words, your lips agape with shaky breaths escaping them. The movements of your hips didn’t stop once, chasing the pleasure that built inside of you.

Half-lidded eyes fixed with his good one, and, even in the dim light, you could see that the lilac hue of it was almost eclipsed by black.

“Pray tell, how badly do you want my cock, niece?” he asked, a lilt of mockery in the baritone of his voice. But you could not form a coherent thought. The profanity of his words, and the way his hardness pressed so firmly against your aching cunt robbed you of your ability to think.

“Do not make me repeat myself,” he warned, fingers digging into your flesh to halt your movements, and causing the pleasure to dissolve just as quickly as it came.

Pouting at the loss of friction, you were forced to find your voice again. “So, so badly,” you whined, sounding more desperate than intended. “Give-Give it to me… please.”

You stared at him with wide eyes, eagerly anticipating his next move, though there was disappointment igniting inside of you as Aemond merely tsked at your words. “My my, look at you. You came here convinced the Stranger would take you in your mother’s name, and now you are begging for my cock, begging me to finally put an end to your suffering. Who would have thought that my cock would turn you into a traitor?”

You would have felt ashamed and guilty you gave in to him, to the enemy, but the only thing on your mind right now was the longing to be filled and consumed by him. If there was a traitor, it was your mother for not once inquiring about you or saving you from your misery.

Caressing your cheek in an unusually tender manner, you all but melted into his touch. “But how could I ever say no to my sweet, little niece? You have been such a good girl, let me give you what you desire.”

Aemond bundled the skirt of your nightgown in one hand, revealing your undergarments to him. In a careful movement, he dragged the sharp tip of the dagger from the curve of your waist down your side, hooking it beneath the waistband to easily slice through the linen.

As he pushed it to the side, his eye fixed your exposed womanhood like a man starved, ready to feast on you at any given moment. It was amusing to watch him recklessly throw the dagger aside and fumble with the laces of his breeches, a stark contrast to the stern and cold demeanor he had kept before.

Grasping hold of your hips firmly, he lifted them slightly before he aligned the tip of his cock with your cunt. “Let us see how well you can take me.“

He pressed his cock against your tight entrance, feeling the resistance as he prepared to ease into you. One hand moved to cup your arse, supporting you, and allowing you to lower yourself on him. And, with a swift buck of his hips, a seemingly impatient Aemond met yours halfway, filling you completely at once.

Your face contorted in pleasure at the sensation, the burning of the stretch quickly melting into a feeling of plain bliss. “Gods,” you whimpered, clenching tightly around him.

With slow grinds, you started to adjust to his size, growing bolder and bolder with each swivel of your hips over his.

“Feels so–”

“Good, I know,” he finished your sentence, the words accompanied by a raspy groan. His head tipped back against the throne, his hands mindlessly tracing over your sides as he groaned a ‘you feel so fucking good’ that had you biting your bottom lip, keening at the praise.

Every now and then, Aemond bucked his hips up into yours, the intensity forcing you to topple forwards, causing you to plant your hands firmly on his shoulders. His cock was bullying the sweet spot inside of you that made you see stars, causing your fingers to dig into his shoulders.

One of his hands settled at your breast, groping it through the thin fabric of your shift. His fingers pinched and teased your hardened bud, and with the added pleasure, your moans grew more wanton.

“Shit, you’re taking me so well,” he rambled, seemingly cunt struck by the way your walls clenched and released around him every time you sank down his hard member. “You may be a princess, but I shall make you my Queen. You belong to me.” Though his voice was still gruff, it had gained an added layer of intimacy, reflecting in the way he looked up at you.

Your heart hammered in your chest at the sight and his words, and the pace of your hips faltered as he brought his hand up to grab a hold of the Conqueror's Crown, taking it off his head to place it on top of yours.

“It looks better on you than it ever did on him,“ he panted, his voice genuine as he stared up at you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine.

You moved a hand upwards to hold the crown steady, afraid it would fall to the ground with the impact of your hips colliding with his. Your body moved on its own accord, hips grinding down on him, riding him as you chased your pleasure.

You moaned softly, “By the Seven, Aemond, so good.“

Spurred on by the sight of you wearing the crown and fucking yourself stupid on his cock, he firmly planted his feet on the ground to piston his hips up into yours, meeting you halfway.

The sound of skin slapping on skin was not really audible with him barely pushing his breeches down enough to free his hard cock, the hem of his tunic sitting low enough to cover most of his lower stomach. But there was no need for it, for your heavy pants, grunts and moans were loud enough to echo off the walls of the empty Throne Room.

Aemond’s thumb started to drag over the little bud at the apex of your legs, sending a bolt of pleasure up your spine, causing the knot in your belly to tighten rapidly. Your breath quickened, and your walls clenched around him so tightly, you were not sure if they even unclenched once.

“I shall fill you up, put a child in you,” he grunted, gaze fixed on where you both were connected, watching himself repeatedly disappear inside of your tight cunt. “Do you want that?” His tone made it clear that it was not a question, but you still whimpered several yesses in return, merging into a loud cry of his name as your peak washed over you.

He drove his hips up into yours, fucking you through your high despite your body crouching forwards and your hips stilling, merely clinging to him for dear life as the pleasure soared through your body, coursing through your veins like liquid fire.

“And when you’re with my child, you will not be able to get away from me,” he rambled, inhaling sharply as he felt his stones tighten, nearing his own peak. “You are-,“ he hissed in between, “You are all mine.”

You were trembling astride him, barely registering his words and whining when you felt how your peak’s contractions were practically forcing the spend out of your uncle‘s cock, milking him for every drop of his seed.

There was silence between you, safe for your heavy breathing, as if you both waited for the other’s voice to cut through it.

The realization of the repercussions your actions and words would bring settled a few moments later, when the haze of your peak cleared, and you spotted Aemond looking up at you with a smug smirk on his lips.

“The crown on your head is a promise of the fact that I will make you my Queen,” he purred, a cold edge to his voice. Aemond licked his lips, and grazed his hands over your hips, squeezing your flesh. “I have claimed you, and I will make use of you however and whenever I see fit.”

As he spoke, you slowly realized what he meant and felt yourself growing warm inside all over again, clenching around his flaccid member. It felt exhilarating to know that he would not hesitate to take full advantage of you, and there was excitement filling your body. But most importantly, it felt as if you finally found a place where you belonged, where you were wanted and seen.

“That is how it is going to be,” you whispered, nodding once to emphasize your words. “I-I am all yours.”

Aemond leaned forwards and rested his forehead against yours, releasing a deep sigh before his smooth voice interrupted the short moment of intimacy and proximity.

“With you now sworn to me, I believe ‘tis time to bring you back in the fold. There is much that has happened since you last were at court.”

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almondmilktargaryen · 1 year ago

Text

Duty & Sacrifice (Part One)

Summary: Aemond is married with two kids to Floris Baratheon, as it was his duty. But it's when he ventures into Flea Bottom in the night that he faces his sacrifices.

Couple: Aemond Targaryen/Fem!Reader

Category: Flangst

Content warnings: Cheating, mention of dead children

Word count: 2k

Also on my Ao3

Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four ✍️

The memory of Aemond’s mother holding a blade inches from Rhaenyra’s eye pops into his head whenever he plans to head into the city. His mother’s thirst for justice and balance, for the sake of him, is an image he has never shaken.

“Where is duty!” He remembers. “Where is sacrifice!”

And years later, with the Greens victorious and the Blacks slaughtered, sacrifice reveals its head here. As Aegon takes rule on the Iron Throne as the one true king (according to future history books, not the people), and Helaena’s ashes rest in the sept with Jaehaerys, Aemond takes on his own sacrifice.

Well aware of his brother’s ineptitude (and reliance on the milk of the poppy), their grandsire assigns Aemond responsibility for helping train the Royal Army with Ser Criston, as well as command the City Watch. As much as Otto claims not to care for it, Aemond and Daemon were shockingly similar. So there was no better person. Aemond agrees with his grandsire but knows he only won the dragonback fight against his uncle because he was more disciplined. He flew away on Vhagar unscathed in comparison because of his discipline.

Because Aemond understands duty and sacrifice.

And like his mother, he understands his role in the family and takes it seriously.

He wears his typical black leather attire whilst eyeing the hood in his wardrobe. He’s even just about to grab it before his chamber doors groan loudly, the force of his two boys clamoring through to see him. Baelon attacks his legs while little Daeron stumbles behind, forcing Aemond to submit and fall to his bed. Aemond’s laughter mixed with the squeals of joy. Before Baelon can sit on his chest again, he quickly sits up. “Is it almost that time?” He asks them.

“Yes,” Baelon says. Aemond rises further and the boy rests against his father’s arm. Aemond is sure that if he blinks, he’ll find his oldest suddenly tall enough to rest his head on his shoulder. “Mother says I still have to go to bed when Daeron does.”

Aemond shrugs with an amused sigh. He had learned through his oldest how much time children have to argue and dwell on their smallest of issues. “Your mother’s rules are your mother’s rules.” He simply says.

“But I’m much older than Daeron.” He has used this argument multiple times on his father, yet Aemond remained delighted as his lips curled. Aemond places a hand on his boy’s head and brushes over his matching Targaryen locks. He’s letting them grow past his ears now. Aemond has also learned his eight-year-old bends his will effortlessly, something powerful men with the most fearsome reputations and twice as many battle scars could not even dream of. Meanwhile, his son achieves it with his mother’s eyes and little effort.

“I will speak to your mother about it tomorrow.” He grabs Baelon by the waist and lifts him to let his feet land on the stony floor. “But for tonight, you must return to your chambers at the same time as your brother.”

“But Papa,” he drags out the last syllable.

“I will not hear it. Your mother--”

The doors echo again, and Princess Floris Baratheon steps in like she was summoned. Her belly has already started swelling with their third child. Despite what handmaidens and wet nurses have prepared her for, Floris has yet to discover any dreadfulness during her pregnancies. Bards have written songs about her and each birth so far, claiming the Baratheon strength eases the process, and the camaraderie between her and her sisters ensures strong sibling bonds for House Targaryen. Aemond cannot disagree with the first, holding her hand throughout each labor. Baelon took seven hours, and Daeron took four. Not a scream, but Aemond was sure he’d witness her clenched teeth reduce to dust before the babies took their first breaths. He brushed the hairs sticking to her brow and kissed her head and cheeks when she could finally sleep. She deserved those songs, every lyric.

He has reason to doubt potential bonds, though, considering his relationship with Aegon. His hope remains strong for his girls.

“Say goodnight to Papa, boys,” Floris says.

“But Papa thinks I should stay up late--”

“I said nothing of the sort.” He responds matter-of-factly. “Listen to your mother or lose your negotiation opportunities.”

Baelon groans while Daeron giggles, following him out into the hall.

“Stay with Ser Criston, boys,” Floris tells them. Her hands rest naturally on the bump as if her wrists missed it. “I will be out in a second.”

When they disappear, Aemond keeps his expression light. She still beams, and it helps. “Best to head to them before the handmaidens snatch them up.”

“Yes.” She replies. “Though I’ve told them time and again to leave bedtime for me.”

Aemond puts a hand on her forearm and the other on her belly. “You go on. I have a meeting concerning the City Watch. I won’t be back until later.”

Floris maintains a radiant expression while nodding, despite the noticeable swallow in her throat. When the door closes and he hears scampering pairs of feet grow farther in distance, he briefly questions going out, aware of his wife’s subtle yet looming suspicions. But by the time he finally reaches out for his hood, he has already pushed the thought back.

Aemond follows the hills and dips of the cobblestone roads whilst keeping his head down and royal roots securely hidden. He turns some corners sharply and holds his breath before advancing toward others. He knows his path through Flea Bottom well, but the odors of sweat, rotting meat, as well as discarded piss and shit (in buckets and sometimes small piles) are all elements he has yet to get used to. It would be a more straightforward path if he took the Street of Silk, but they both agreed they would never return there again if they had the choice.

The roads were dimly lit, and though dangerous men lurk more prominently at this late hour, one stare down from Aemond and a good view of his eyepatch gets the message across that he is not one to be trifled with. Not to mention his skills with a sword. He claims not to care for his appearance, but hot-tempered or drunk men hesitate to come close when they see him. It saves him time.

Aemond looks around for lingering faces in nearby windows before repeating the special rap at the door: three times, then two, then one. He opens it, unlocked to his dismay, but his arrival was expected. He enters anyway and moves the heavy metal bolt to secure it after an audible shut.

The small home is dimly lit, with barely room for a stewpot, let alone one bassinet. Aemond can see a single flame burn near the bedside. He follows it with the sound of his own name, as it’s spoken so sweetly from around the corner.

Radiance fills Aemond's sight: a mess of copper curls and a nightgown, and two swaddled babes in her arms. An exhale leaves his lungs and nose as he comprehends the familiar sight. “Welcome back.” She says softly, not to disturb the girls, or likely from her own lack of sleep.

“You know I hate it when you leave the door unlocked,” Aemond tells her.

“It’s too early in the night to worry about that. They are all at the taverns and whorehouses.”

One of the girls starts fussing.

“You cannot be too naïve. If I’m not here to protect you like what happened at--”

“Oh, hush and get over here. Hold your children.” She tries to sit up properly.

Aemond presses his lips together and takes a seat on the small cot, bumpy and unpleasant, nothing he’s been unfamiliar with in the past eighteen months. The comfort settles in him like a kindling fire when he gets to gaze upon his two girls. United since birth, it is hard for their mother to nestle one while Aemond cradles the other. But with every visit, they learn and adapt. Now is no different, as Aemond reaches for the one closest to him: Alisha. He’s studied the difference between them, staring at them still in the hours of the night, observing from the floor while their mother rested. Small strands of white peek through the auburn, already beginning to curl. Alyssa's hair is a blazing hue of ginger.

Aemond gives Alisha time to adjust in his arms. She fusses but eventually settles. Her eyes open gently, a dull brown. Nothing special. Nothing Targaryen. Alyssa is safe too. And her mother keeps her close with two arms now rather than one. “Are you staying the night?” She asks Aemond.

“I certainly can.” He scoots closer, meeting her hip. He brushes some strands behind her ear before cupping her face, bringing her in for a kiss. It was gentle, and the longing was the same as their first night together where nothing more happened other than this; sitting and kissing. They did not feel the need for anything else right away, understanding what the other had been through amidst long talks in the dead of night. When things escalated, she showed him patience and love, despite his fears and questions.

Now he’s more confident with movements, as his hand traveled to the back of her neck to keep her close. The brown eyes she blessed their daughters with stared back at him. Her breath smelled like bowls of brown, and he did not mind. “You know what I think you deserve?”

“Hmm.” She looks up toward the ceiling as she ponders. Brown seeps from the corners, and Aemond has hesitated to ask. She puts a hand to his face, just below the scar. “I’m sure you’re eager to show me.”

“A house.”

“Oh.” She pulls back as her brows quirk. “But I have a house, Aemond.”

“Not one you deserve, though. This was just temporary, to get you off the Street of Silk. You deserve comfort. A home where the girls can run around outside and fall asleep at night in proper beds. Where danger doesn’t loom just outside that door. No one would ever hurt them.” He kisses her again, and he feels her hesitate.

“How do you know no one will hurt them? Will you be there?”

“Not all the time. But more than I would be now. That I can promise.”

“Aemond--”

“I can assign guards to protect you when I’m not there. Servants that understand discretion. The girls will be happy and safe, well-provided for.” Prisoners in the black cells live more comfortably than she does, with space to move and leftovers from royal dinners served to them (that was Helaena’s biggest request as queen, and Aemond pushed it on Aegon as an attempt to honor his late wife). When he visits, Aemond sees how little she moves. She hurts from sharing such a horrible cot with twin babes, and Aemond cannot do anything about it here. “Please, my love. You’ve done so much for me. Taught me so much. Let me do this for you.”

“You know what will happen if they find out.”

“Nothing will happen.”

“The last war was about bastards taking the throne. People have been finding your brother’s bastards on the street. They butcher any boy or girl with silver hair like livestock, left to rot in dark corners alone. I know you’ve seen them.”

“And I would do everything in my power to make sure no one touches you. I have a lot of power. And will. I’ve protected you from horrid men before. You cannot doubt I won’t do it again.”

Water lines her eyes. It glistens painfully in the candlelight as her palm falls from his face, his shoulder, and then his chest. She keeps her voice steady. “You can’t have lost one eye, be so intelligent yet so blind,” she says. “People see. People talk. Even in the fields where nothing happens. It only gives them an excuse to be more vigilant. To see a whore just show up from the capital with guards, servants, and two girls. One with some silver in her hair and another with a purple eye. What else would they think?”

Aemond pulls back. “Purple?”

She gives Alyssa her full attention once more, coaxing her to open her eyes.

“No, last time I was here, they were both brown. Like Alisha’s. Yours.”

“This happens with babies sometimes, Aemond. This is only month three.” She tries to keep herself together. “The gods are in their right to punish us. For what we’ve done here. In here.”

“No,” he simply says. “The gods have tested me before we met. I’m used to their tests. And I’m used to prevailing, eventually. I will do it again.”

“You can’t--”

“I will.” A surge runs through him, nothing dissimilar to when he went to war. The simplistic instinct that comes with the will to survive. When he was at war, there was one he relied upon from beginning to end, and even years before that. Aemond is gentle as the surge flows through his veins. “I can’t stay tonight.” He tells her.

“Where are you going?” She doesn’t try to hide the stress.

He gives her time to take Alisha back. Alisha protests, but only momentarily. With a flat palm on each, he brushes over the heads of the twins. His gaze meets hers and he notices tears streaming halfway down her face. He brushes them away, planting a kiss on her lips again, holding her by the neck once more. He doesn’t speak a word until she looks him in the eye. “I love you.” He’d say it with more of a tender demeanor if time was not of the essence now. “With all my heart, I love you. You made the grave mistake of letting a royal war hero fall in love with you, my dear. The determination to keep you safe comes with that territory.”

Her head drops as tears finally do the same, dripping off the edge of her chin. Aemond kisses her nose.

“I want to make you a home and keep you safe. That’s not possible here. But it is possible. For you. For them. It is possible. I just need you to trust me.”

“I’m scared.” The whisper shakes from her, like dead leaves against the winter wind. “Don’t leave me yet.” She holds the babies. She can’t reach out to touch him, yet her arms try.

“I’m not leaving.” He kisses her lips again as if each one was a grant of safety from the gods. He gave each one to her willingly, frivolously, like he was a god himself who had the power to control such things. Because he did. He was a Targaryen. It was close enough. “I will be back, I promise you.”

She still cries as he stands. The babies too. And he cannot show how it breaks his heart, not now. If he gives in and does what he truly wants, it will only be a problem when he wakes up here the next morning. His eye stung with its own unshed tears, but he turned away regardless. He took a long, steadying breath before heading toward the exit. With a grip on the bolt, he commanded, “Lock this door.” He tried keeping his voice firm. “And do not open it unless you know it’s me or a man named Ser Criston Cole, you hear me?”

She nods, and he can feel a tear slide down his cheek, mirroring her own. He took in the image of the three before slipping out. The door closed and hearing the heavy bolt provided some relief.

Then he stood there, longer than what was safe, yes. The cold of Flea Bottom wrapped around him almost instantly, a biting chill of the desolate streets while the soft glow of candlelight shut out from him on the other side, as it was not his to bask in for too long.

But even in the nearly black darkness of the narrow streets, he could spot one of them; a tiny figure huddled in the corner of a nearby alley, a broken skull with hair shorter than Baelon’s. Royal blood left to soak into the cobblestone under his feet. Bones exposed and rotted in the dark, forever cold, soon forgotten.

Aemond made haste to vanish into the shroud of night, swallowed by the fog. Criston would be in his quarters at this hour, surely. It was a straightforward path back if he took the Street of Silk. And he didn’t have a choice.

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sugruzt · 8 months ago

Text

❝ castaways ; 명재현

𖥻 pairing: loser!myung jaehyung x female reader

𖥻 contains: rockstar!au, childhood best friends to lovers

𖥻 warnings: inspired by 5sos "try hard" + "heartbreak girl" / english is not my first language so i am sorry if there are any grammar mistakes or misspellings, and i also forgot to proofread so i'm sorry in advance everyone

word count — 2.4k

synopsis — you and jaehyun had been friends ever since you could remember, supporting and caring for each other. but little did you know that the boy you saw as the personification of a soulmate found in a friendship, saw you as the most perfect muse for all the songs he had ever written. you didn't know it yet, but jaehyun was doing his absolute best to make you see his true feelings.

🎀

IT was no secret that looking back to your whole life, you’d lived more years being friends with jaehyun than not. it was natural — for the both of you — to share memories, habits, tastes, experiences, or whatever it was with the other; more natural even than doing so with your families. myung had always been there for you and you had always been there for him. always.

however, for a little over two years now, the two of you have not been able to see each other as often as you used to in the past. between you getting into university and him chasing his dream in the music industry, the necessary sacrifices took more from your individual lives than your teenage fantasies could’ve ever predicted when you were in high school.

the weather that afternoon was warmer than the usual autumn days and you couldn’t help but smile thinking that perhaps even nature knew that two halves of the same soul were about to meet again for the first time in eight months or so and was happy that this encounter was going to take place. there was a light breeze running through the city, refreshing the anticipation inside of you and making your hair dance with movements worthy of the highest class of ballet as you opened the heavy dark-wood door before you.

your eyes wandered around the ambience, looking for those large round dark of his you could recognize anywhere, no matter how much time had passed. “sometimes i swear i can see stars reflecting on your eyes, hyun”, you said one time when you were younger right after your first ever heartbreak and your best friend came to your rescue on the parking lot where your former boyfriend left you; jaehyun picked up the tiny broken pieces of your crushed heart only to somehow find a way to glue them back together until you found the strength to heal by yourself, and the musician never asked for anything in return, because that was who he was in the end. it didn’t take long before you smiled from ear to ear at the sight of him.

“hi, jae!” the excitement in your voice was noticeable to anyone close to the table at the almost empty café you were supposed to meet. “you look different. what did you do?”

the boy, at least you thought it was still the same boy you’ve known since childhood, let out a faint laugh as he hugged you tightly against his body, a good amount of centimetres taller than yours. just like he always used to do, jaehyun cupped your face with his right hand — the soft hand, the only one that should touch you, in his mind — and caressed it before messing up your hair while laughing a little more. “you noticed, didn’t ya?”

before you could answer anything properly, your attention was immediately drawn not only to the edge of the brunette’s lips but also to his left ear, and a confused frown took over your face. “is that a lip ring? and you got an industrial! jaehyun, you cut your hair!”

“but do you like it?” he asked raising his eyebrows in a split second before focusing on the menu. the music lover didn’t have the courage to say the real reasons as to why he did all that, at least not at that moment, but the biggest parts of his heart were praying that you enjoyed the modifications to his appearance like his heart was telling him you would, simply because his heart knew you better than his conscious mind did.

“i mean, yeah i do… it makes you look even more of a rockstar now, hyun, you don’t look like the good mama’s boy you always looked like.” with a chuckle, you decided to copy his moves, and turn your gaze back to the menu, even though you already knew what you’d order anyways.

jaehyun opened a smirk but that kind of good humor didn’t reach his dark eyes. he was twenty years old, over fifteen years had passed since the first day he ever saw you before him and the agony of suppressing the deep and unique feelings the musician had towards his best friend had been eating him alive for the majority of those fifteen years; living twenty-four months without having you as close to him as before was the trigger to make the myung open his eyes to the reality he tried to ignore so badly. all he ever wanted was for you to actually pay attention to the lyrics he wrote, to understand that everything you needed to have your heart in a safe and respectful place was to give it to him; ever since he was fourteen years old, jaehyun’s birthday wish when blowing the candles was always the same: for you to love him the same way he loved you. despite the depth and complexity of his feelings, the singer decided to keep it cool for a little longer; the last thing he wanted at that moment was to unconsciously push you away by bombarding you with all the words bottled up inside his heart since the very first day.

“so how’s school?” he asked once the waiter left you two alone after taking your orders. genuine concern and interest filled every word that came out of your best friend’s mouth, as there was no scenario in this world where jaehyun wouldn’t be worried about you.

you shrugged, looking away. “could be better, to be honest. the classes this last semester were three times harder than the previous one… it caught me off-guard.”

the kind-eyed man offered comfort with his speech, which warmed your heart a little bit more: no matter how much time passed or how much jaehyun changed his appearance, he was still the clumsy kid you met at kindergarten and defended from the other mean boys. in an attempt to take your mind off the stress that tool such a heavy tool on you, he playfully asked if at least there was anyone interesting in that fancy university you got yourself into — even though there was also shy and scared anticipation of his part towards your answer, as the thought of you, his muse, his best friend, his soulmate, being in love with someone who didn’t know you nearly as well as he did or that was willing to go the extra mile for you like he was, made his heart sink. even more so when you nodded.

“i mean, yeah… but it’s not going well. at least not like it used to. i haven’t talked to him in over a week or so, since we had this major argument and i needed to catch a break from that behaviour.”

myung watched uneasily when you played with your fingers, trying to escape his gaze. “why didn’t you tell me that, dove?”

“i didn’t want to trouble you with my petty problems, jaehyun. you need to focus on the band and making it out of here.”

when finally your eyes met his dark ones, the musician felt his blood freeze for a second. there was something different in the way you were looking at him, something he wasn’t used to suddenly was making those marvellous eyes of yours look a thousand times more special than normal. myung jaehyun couldn’t tell right there and then — because he was petrified by his own tornado of thoughts and feelings — but your cheeks were burning with a pink shade of embarrassment, only it was because you didn’t really know what to say or do as this was the first time you met your best friend after admitting to yourself that those feelings of care and affection towards him were due to something a lot stronger than just friendship.

“c’mon, y/n… you could never trouble me, dove.” jaehyun chuckled and took your hands between his with such gentleness that your heart began to race faster than any race car. “i’m here for you, okay?”

the following couple of hours went flying by like those leaves in the wind outside the café. your mind was blank and your thoughts, numb, as you tried as hard as you could to not let it show just how confused you were with everything taking over your judgement towards that friendship. you were scared to ruin it and you were terrified of the idea of not having jaehyun around anymore because of something dumb or did or said; but at the same time, much like him although you didn’t know it, your heart ached just from imagining what it would be like if you jumped off that cliff and confessed your feelings.

before you even realised it, the both of you were outside. the hot coffee from before didn’t really do much to keep you from feeling a shiver down your spine as a stronger breeze hit you colder than the ones from before; instead, jaehyun’s embrace felt like a personal fireplace. you couldn’t help but smile with that comparison, but even more so when he asked if would like to see what the studio looked like — with such invitation, the myung hoped it would create a nice setting for him to show you the newest song he wrote. if destiny decided that was the last melody jaehyun were to play to you, then he would do so with an undying smile.

the place was a little dark: deeper shades of brown and grey all around the walls and furniture but the acoustic panels were black and the only form of lighting came either from the computer screens and mixing consoles or from the few led lights on the ceiling above you. it smelled like cigarettes and scented candles in there, but you were too mesmerized by the fact of being in a recording studio for the first time in your life to pay attention to such details. as for jaehyun, he thought the studio was too small, too simple for you to be this enchanted by it, but your excitement brought joy to his heart and it felt like this was heaven for him; you with him in the one place he worked so hard to make his dream come true was what life should be like. this felt natural, and he only prayed that after that night, it would truly be like that forever.

“do you like it, dove?” the brunette asked, biting his lower lip while playing with his ear piercings.

“it’s so cool, hyun! look at all this stuff! what does this button do?” with sparkling eyes, you sat by the mixing consoles and bombarded your friend with a thousand questions per second. laughing, he only shrugged and rested his weight on the headrest above you.

“i don’t really know. taesan knows more about this than i do, i just stick with the guitar.” liar. jaehyun loved to produce as well, but he didn’t want to sound cocky to you so he decided to hold his tongue.

before the boy could say anything to keep you from pressing any buttons you didn’t know what they were for, your finger gently hit one of those and it triggered a recording from the night before. jaehyun had forgotten about it, but before leaving the studio, he didn’t delete the recording of him playing the acoustic guitar and singing the first song he had ever written about you; as the words came out on the speakers, the shame and fear paralyzed him so badly the guitarist couldn’t even stop it from playing anymore. his eyes were closed shut and he didn’t see how a smile took over your lips, that grew with every note because your mind was interpreting the lyrics and you understood what the song was about.

butterflies started a rampage on your stomach and your hands covered your face out of shyness, but the reality was that you felt like the teen version of yourself all over again in a matter of minutes.

“it’s beautiful, jae” you whispered by the time the song ended and you tried as hard as you could not to cry. “tell me about it”

those big, brown eyes you knew like the palm of your hand now stared at you with a feeling you had never seen before. you could feel every breath that escaped your lungs, every beat of your heart pounding against your chest, and every droplet of sweat that ran down your temples like a mustang crossing the grasslands. the entire universe had stopped for that brief moment to watch what would become of these two best friends who were exhausted of hiding their true feelings for one another; with jaehyun’s eyes tracing every little inch of your angel-like face, the repeating recording in the background was nothing compared to the symphony of two unaware hearts colliding into each other. how could you know he felt this way? how come jaehyun never did anything to show you the love prints engraved inside his heart god knew how long? worse than that: why didn’t you see your own feelings before?

“i can’t… i’ve waited too long to say this and now i can’t. i can’t say it with you looking at me like that, dove.” he whispered back and with a trembling hand, touched your face with just his thumb, scared that the roughness on the skin of his hand could scar a perfect face like yours. tears were forming in his eyes as the frustration of being incapable of confessing everything to the love of his life consumed jaehyun on the inside.

“then i’ll say it first: i love you, myung jaehyun.”

caressing his puffy red cheeks, the loving words slipped out of your mouth with such ease it scared you for a quick moment but as you repeated them back to him like a mantra, bringing his face closer to yours every time you did, the weight that had been destroying your shoulders and crushing your heart for the past year was finally gone and all you could think of was how gentle of a soul the boy you fell in love with had.

“i’ve loved you since the very first day, dove… i’ve waited fifteen years to be honoured with the privilege of being the one holding your heart. i swear i won’t ever drop it. your heart is safe with me, your love is safe with me.”

#— ⟡ 𝐦𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐣𝐚𝐞𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧 !#— ⟡ 𝐤𝐩𝐨𝐩 !#— ⟡ 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫 !#myung jaehyun #myung jaehyun x reader #myung jaehyun x y/n #myung jaehyun x you #myung jaehyun fluff #bnd x reader #bnd fluff #bnd #boynextdoor #bnd sfw

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yandere-toons · 1 year ago

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Yandere Klaus Hargreeves (Platonic & Romantic Headcanons)

Warnings: substance abuse, bloody violence, references to child abuse and neglect, self-harm and suicidal ideation, sexual references, mentions of religious concepts.

Platonic:

Hugs, where he snuggles up with his whole body, are his favourite way to greet the one he has so fondly dubbed his truest friend. Klaus shuts out all other communication and responsibility, preferring to laugh with them and grasp for any reason to keep the conversation going. He makes no apologies for his enthusiasm and, if only privately, ridicules those who frown on his behaviour.

A snack or nightcap that happened to be on hand serves as his excuse, but in reality, Klaus is looking for any opportunity to lean in and show how attentive he can be. Klaus will endure an inordinate amount of hostility before he recognises that it's more than a lapse of affection. Even so, he assumes the fault rests squarely on his shoulders and scrambles to be more forthright in his attempts to praise and help.

Sleep exhausts him more than life unless Klaus downs a shot of liquid courage and passes out on his friend, calling their heartbeat the best sedative. He finds comfort in entangling himself with them: then the slightest movement will alert him to a disturbance or an attempt to leave, and he won't have to wake up alone, wondering if he's hallucinated it all.

When his friend exits the room, Klaus jumps up from whatever compact position he's been sitting in and hurries after them. Even if his question about going out together fetches an unequivocal "no," Klaus reacts with joy, as if he's snagged a resounding "yes," and continues to follow at their heels until they reach their destination.

Whether it's throwing himself into the back seat of their car just before they drive off or physically clinging to them, Klaus insists on not being separated for even a minute. Anything longer than a few seconds of uninterrupted silence discomforts him, so he is eager to fill that time with stories of his bizarre visions.

If Klaus's friend lands in a scuffle, he enables them by shouting words of encouragement for them to hit the other. For Klaus to strike, the friend must either ask him to do so or catch him in a moment of extreme distress. Once the altercation is over and Klaus's friend emerges victorious, he approaches the opponent and taunts them quietly, if possible extinguishing his cigarette on their skin.

Suppose his friend loses or appears to be struggling. In that case, Klaus will call upon his brother Diego to intervene with deadly force. Klaus frames this as a personal favour between brothers, but Klaus has, at best, a tenuous intention of repaying Diego, unless what Diego asks for comes in the form of pills or powder. This becomes clear when Klaus decides not to stay for the end of the fight and leaves with his friend to pour a celebratory drink.

Being a bystander in the fight means staying behind Klaus while he holds out his arm like a seatbelt. Klaus believes he has failed to fulfil his sole purpose in life and is therefore unworthy to live, so at the first sign of danger, he will sacrifice himself for one of the few people who have not yet written him off.

Klaus enjoys swapping gossip and bad memories of questionable validity about how awful the person was. He even steals valuables from the person's house, small enough to fit in his coat pocket, and then splits the reward with his friend, distracting them with compliments and jokes in hopes that they won't confront him about the crime.

If the friend presses him hard, Klaus will hand over the stolen goods but will argue that he is thieving solely in their best interest. If you wait a day or more to ask him about it, Klaus will have the time he needs to pawn off all the stolen goods and double down on the lie that someone else is to blame.

Hearing a good song, Klaus will try to dance with his friend. Humour him or not, Klaus improvises a whole routine and "accidentally" plants his elbow in the ribs of everyone he suspects has the same dance partner in mind. He makes a point of swaying in his friend's line of sight and slides into the way each time they venture out.

Despite this, Klaus is the first to flee and invent insults against the others for smothering him. Should the people claim that Klaus is the real hanger-on, that his friend stays with him out of pity rather than necessity, he lashes out in a burst of verbal and physical rage at whoever said it last.

Acts of impulse serve as a cornerstone of his fragile attachment. In a more domestic setting, Klaus falls into their lap on the pretext that his family is hogging all the chairs. Kisses blown across the room, closer if his friend asks for such things, earn him much derision from his siblings.

No matter how much Ben gags in his ear, Klaus pays no mind to his antics and gradually isolates himself from those who challenge his view of the relationship. He has had enough of being expected to validate his every choice in his family's eyes and declares that he will never again bring his friend round the mansion. When questioned as to his motives, Klaus is unusually honest about his preference for them over his family.

Klaus jokes that, even in death, he will hold them to all the promises they made in life. He warns them not to bunk with other spirits, as he has dedicated a La-Z-Boy and a bottomless supply of pizza to them in his afterlife. One-on-one existence, where his dream could never again be taken from him, is his paradise, and the resurrection, the gasp of loneliness that comes with leaving such a world, takes more from his heart than any bullet.

As someone whom the dead haunt like a shadow, Klaus will continue to talk to his friend long after their death. Everyone else can only watch and guess at his condition as he chats with empty air about what to eat that day. Klaus is well aware that his friend is dead and that no one else can see them now, but it gives him more reason to include them in conversations with others.

This is how he soothes his grief and tells himself that despite the new barrier, he can still socialise with them and, at least for a few blissful minutes, pretend that everything is as it should be. If anyone is angry with him for this, Klaus teases them: in his eyes, they are shamelessly envious that he has such a loyal friend.

Romantic:

Playdates with his abrasive family are a necessary evil, but as soon as his partner leaves, Klaus waves goodbye to his siblings and follows. He packs his nonexistent bags and sets off, unable to trust that his partner won't realise he does more harm than good and abandon him while they're apart.

Klaus fears his attachment—he worries that by revealing its burning intensity and seeking appreciation, he is inviting future rejection. Every time Klaus takes such a risk, he anticipates problems in the relationship that will exceed his abilities and expose his incompetence. Consequently, he may attempt to sever the connection before it has the chance to evolve.

Throughout Klaus's existence, fortune has conspired against him, divine intervention has been a lie, and karma has overdosed him twentyfold before granting him another fleeting sense of hope. Any individual who treats Klaus as anything more than his father's failed experiment and values him for reasons beyond his powers which he so loathes must be clueless.

However, Klaus notes, they must also be a finer person than himself, one to whom he could never measure up, and for whose sake he would mutilate himself at a moment's notice. Anyone who hurts them is beneath contempt, a bastard whom he would gladly let burn in a fire of their own making.

Klaus dreams up an intricate history of conflict and pleasure in case he has to step into the role of a jilted ex and deliver a heart-wrenching story to win that coveted second chance. He dallies in places frequented by his partner to catch them alone, spilling his deepest affections, hoping that one day, even if a thousand lifetimes from this one, they will embrace him once more.

For Klaus, eye contact with his partner means that they find him the opposite of repulsive and are open to seeing more of him, a feat he cannot even allow himself. At the slightest hint of their presence, he casts a wistful stare that, when interrupted, turns listless and dejected. It is this ingrained hesitancy to trust his own judgement that causes him to doubt his right to exist until another sees him and proves that he deserves life.

Klaus chases this meaning as he often has the bottom of a bottle, languishing in every sense of the word until he may experience it again. Perhaps a glaring difference in interests leaves him at a loss as to how to bond, such as if his partner turns out to be a grease monkey. In this scenario, Klaus resorts to conning a mechanic's shop into giving them lessons.

He deliberately injures himself, making sure that some part of his body is streaming blood, and then claims that an employee assaulted him. The act is contrived to arouse sympathy for him and punishment for another, replete with tears, dramatised accounts of every blow dealt, and threats when no one else is listening.

Klaus pretends he is too disoriented from blood loss to walk on his own and insists he must hold on to his partner when he stands. He grossly exaggerates the time and energy needed to recover, suggesting they carry him in their arms and focus all their attention on him until he "feels better."

Claiming that insensitive siblings will only aggravate his fragile state, Klaus plays up the injury and groans his way into his partner's abode. There, in the bedroom or on the couch, he finds his strength, undresses with a quickness he previously thought lost, and makes every effort to seduce.

Each day reminds Klaus how readily most people dismiss him as a useless junkie, so much so that he struggles to see the point of recovery. He considers his perceived attractiveness to be his one redeeming quality or, at the very least, the only quality that elicits positive reinforcement from others. Thus, he often sees his body as all he can offer in terms of incentive to stay with him.

When an attempt fails or, worse, is so unsuccessful that the relationship is jeopardized, Klaus rushes to propose alternative forms of intimacy: sleeping in the same bed from now on or spooning for a couple of days. In the meantime, Klaus worries inwardly that he is no longer desirable and fears for his ability to maintain his partner's interest.

That afternoon, Klaus presents them with a cocktail he swiped from Reginald's stash or a local bar, dressed in clothes he snatched from their bedroom without asking. Klaus is down to share a bottle of hard liquor, but addiction is the price he alone must pay for all his mistakes.

When his partner has similar issues, he takes the bottle and pitches all the street drugs, forcing the substance into his own veins when he needs to remove it completely from their reach. Klaus would rather bear the pain of another overdose than risk that for his partner.

Suppose the two have five dollars between them; the partner wishes to use it for a packet of cigarettes, while Klaus wants to put it towards a rice cake to split. Given the risk of disappointing them or starving, Klaus will suffer an empty stomach until he keels over. Once they look pleased, he can always shoplift the odd armful of crisps from a convenience store.

As the days turn to weeks, Klaus finds that less and less of life brings him the high he feels when he is near his partner. Nothing inspires the same happiness, and everything that used to thrill him has dulled. For Klaus, the whole of his life's worth depends on whether his ardour is reciprocated. If not, if he has devoted so much only to humiliate himself again, then the world of the living is no place for him.

Seeing how his family treats him like a ghost, Klaus trusts no one would mourn him if he vanished and never found his way back. At least, in death, he could enjoy a moment's peace and await the day when the one in whose steady hand he put forth his heart, freshly torn from his chest, would visit him.

Gone is the will to eat save for a cold waffle here and there, drinking himself into a nonstop bender that aims to drive out his heartache but instead only deadens it. Wrapped in a memento he never takes off to keep up the semblance of closeness, Klaus lingers at their final resting place so as not to miss any effort at contact.

It is not at all uncommon to find Klaus hungover, musing that perhaps if he dies in the same place, he can follow them to the other side. The more breath leaves his body, the closer their touch, telling him if he falls a little deeper, he can be with them. Whether it's a pipe dream or a drug-induced flashback, which Klaus is no longer able to tell apart, he resists coming out of it until a defibrillator or stomach pump forces him back to reality.

Each time the Maker rides to him on Her dirt road, there comes the possibility of a reunion. At his lowest, Klaus stops his heart for this exact purpose, or rather, he welcomes a moment in the hereafter with one who eases his burden of life.

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