#Welcome to the far east. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rqnarok · 7 months ago

Text

LINGER | 4,3k

old man!logan x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Being another mutant who survived Charles’ seizures, you are forced to live alongside Logan. The things between you and Logan goes on and off, fragile and indefinite—yet it always lingers.

TAGS AND WARNINGS: smut, mdni! mentions of blood, death, and grief (not logan), lots of angst but lots of fluff too, old man!logan x mutant!reader but unspecified mutation so it’s up to you! minor injuries, nightmares, miscommunication, kind of slow burning (?), pining, logan calls himself ‘old man’ several times, petnames, reader being called ‘kid’ by logan, unrequited love but actually requited (just angst all over…), logan howlett is bad at feelings, love confessions, virgin!reader, dirty talk, praise kink, p with little plot, fingering (f receiving), insecure!reader and insecure!logan, logan loves reader, unprotected p in v.

NOTES: not proofread! bello! ‘m not new to writing but new to writing fan fictions hehe! old man!logan is kinda my everything and this fic is kindaaaa self indulgent. listened to “linger” by the cranberries while writing this :0 feel free to send reqs and feedback to my inbox. this was mere my writing practice and my attempt to gain motivation in life. oh, sorry for the spelling and grammar mistakes, eng is not my first language! hope this isn’t my first and last fic.. see u all <3 or not....:p

'Shamed what happened back in the East.

A saying you heard but don’t know where. Even who said it. Still, you remember all of it—their cries of death, their pain, their suffering.

A haunting vivid memory in X-Mansion, where all of your friends are lying on the ground, in pain—and you could not do anything. You just watched. In pain, too. There was a thought which you think that it was the end. You were already accepting it with open arms, welcoming your exit.

Then your mutation saved you from your fate. Your survival, at the price of grief.

“You’re doing it again.”

Jolted by his comment, you dart your eyes away from the road and into your lap. “Do what?” You mutter quietly, not sure if he even hears it.

But he always does. “Never mind.” Logan sighs in the damp air. You both know it is better not to talk about what exactly happened back then. Talking is not what you two are best at either. “I asked you a question earlier, you hungry?”

“A little, yeah. Yeah.” Your gaze sways to his driving figure: how his right hand grips the steering wheel way too tightly, how his soft blue shirt is all wrinkled, how his tired eyes look with those heavy eye bags, and the grey hairs all over his untrimmed beard. He looks worn out. But so are you.

The two of you have been doing this for God knows how long. Wandering from one place to the other with Charles in the backseat. Looking for a place to settle but not really looking for it either. It’s simply a suicide travel.

He makes a turn towards a cheap-looking diner on your left.

Northern Mexico.

A place where you both decided to settle indefinitely. Alongside Charles, who lives in the abandoned smelting plant not so far away. Logan takes up a job as a limo driver in El Paso and every time you tell him you don’t want him to be so far away during the daytime, he always says: One of us has to earn the money, kid.

Kid.

To this day, after time living together, you aren’t sure of the nature of the relationship between you and Logan. Companions? Friends? Strangers?

Well, one thing you are sure of is you are not his adopted child and he does not see you in that way, either. He sees you in the same way he sees Charles, as his responsibility.

Before all this, you were aware of him: what he looked like, his mutation, his reputation. But you do not know him personally. You passed him once or twice in the hallways after your studies. That was it.

All of a sudden, he’s all you have. The only other sane mutant you are fully sure, survived Charles’ seizure. Still, you two weren’t friends before and sure aren’t friends now. In this shared house, you and Logan are strangers—forced to live together on the sole base of sentimentality.

Deep down, you know there is something more. Something vulnerable, down there. Something fragile. There are moments like where-

Your thoughts are frozen by the sudden creaking sound of the front door. The sight of Logan all bloody and bruised entered your wandering vision. The book you were reading is now abandoned as you get up from the comfortable sofa.

“W-what happened?” Rushing into him with quick movements, this is not the first time he returns all beaten up but it is still a blow to you every single time. You can’t stand the thought of losing another person in your life, even if you convince yourself that he is a mere stranger.

His white shirt has reds in many parts, and he’s bleeding all over the house, “Some fuckin’ kids tried to mess up with the limo. F-fuck.” With the blood smeared all over his hand, he managed to get into the shared bathroom, his breath coming out short.

“Wait!” You rushed to his figure with an aid kit in your trembling hands. He slouched forward, cursing himself. Gently, you wrap your arms around him before he falls and help him lean his back on the white tiles behind.

He shakily opened the buttons of his shirt and you could see everything. While you grab all you need and start cleaning his wounds, he looks at you with his half-lidded eyes. The intense gaze that always makes you want to shy away from him—you are not so sure why.

After a while, you kneel beside him and break eye contact, “Did you kill them?” you question him carefully as you tread his wounds. Not sure how he would answer tonight.

Logan grunts when you touch one of his nasty wounds, still looking at you, “No. But you should see them.”

You feel uncomfortable at his reply, retreating your hands and facing the mirror, looking down at the sink, “I don’t want to see them, Logan.” At some point, as you search around for more supplies to treat his injuries that still haven’t healed by his mutation, you break down crying. Out of your realisation, you have been holding back your worries and sobs since you saw him.

Logan, who notices this, pulls you abruptly into him and seats you on one of his thighs. “Hey, hey, why y’crying huh? Hm?”

You hate this. You hate how you suddenly cry at the sight of him, at the reminder that this is all finite. His big calloused hand starts rubbing up and down your back, gently shushing you. You hate how he knows you all too well by now.

“I told you to stop doing the job. I-I told you that this… this would happen. I’m always scared. I thought— ” You let out one big sob or whimper, you’re not so sure. Not when he’s cradling you in his arms like this. “You can’t heal like you used to, you can’t barely–”

“Hey, shh, pretty girl,” Pretty girl. You blush at that. “I’m here with you now, aren’t I? That’s all that matters.” He shushed you oh, so tenderly. Such a paradox could live inside a man like him. Logan forces himself to smile, “Aren’t I? Come on, feel me up.” Logan sits you up straight on his lap.

He always does this. Giving out, you delicately place both of your hands on the sides of his face, feeling him up. He watches you brush around his greying beard while holding your waist in place, drawing circles on your skin. “There ‘ya go. I’m here.”

When you feel calm down and tired, you rest your heavy head on his shoulders, “Maybe I should take a turn going to town–”

He cuts you off while lifting your chin, forcing you to look at him right in the eyes that you were trying so hard to dodge. Without him saying any words, you know he is saying no. Your assumption is confirmed when he shakes his head slightly, looking down at you sternly.

“It’s just me and you, Logan.” You say meekly and defeatedly.

“Exactly. That's why it’s gotta be me, baby.”

Moments later, you continue mending his cuts. And moments after that, you’re both lying together on the bed. Holding each other in slumber. Your head on his chest, his hands on your back.

Through these delicate moments, you know him. That he is not simply a stranger to you. That this means something more.

But he does not talk about those moments. Which makes you feel like your perspective is an illusion that you made by yourself, untrue. A false memory that you created in your head because you do feel something for him.

In the morning, you wake up alone. Logan is nowhere to be seen around the room. Only traces of his scent are left on the white sheets wrapping around your figure.

When you open the bedroom door, there he is. Sitting on the kitchen chair, his slouched back facing you while he sips on his black coffee which he secretly hates. He likes the coffees that you frequently make for him more. You don’t know that. He never told you.

“Logan?” you call out to him. But he didn’t budge away from reading the newspaper. As if you weren’t there at all. As if moments like last night never happened. As if it’s true that you are merely a responsibility to him. A burden, even. You hang your head low at his ignorance and retreat to your room.

Such a paradox could live inside a man like him.

Other moments happened too. One afternoon, his phone suddenly rings while he is out visiting Charles. With all the self-control you have, you try to ignore it, ignore everything that connects to him because it upsets you. But your curiosity gets ahead of your mind and you pick his phone up.

“Hello?” you place the thing on the side of your left ear. No sound, nothing, nada. Before you know it, you feel a presence behind you and Logan is looking down at you with that look again.

Snatching his phone away from you, not so gently, he mutters, “How many times do I have to tell you not to touch my stuff, huh?” The way he remarks and the way he looks at you makes you feel small and embarrassed. These are the moments where he is not going to cradle you in his arms–you know that.

Your eyes darted to the floor. The lines on the wood oak floor suddenly seemed very interesting, “I’m- Your phone wouldn’t stop ringing. So I thought–”

“You thought? What? You have the right to?” Logan cuts you off before you finish your poor excuse of explanation. “You have your own pile of shit and I have mine. Stay out of my shit. You understand?”

Sometimes there are sparks of rage inside of you that make you gain bits of confidence, “Well, we technically live in the same place, so–”

Though, Logan quickly dims off that spirit by not letting you finish, “Understand?”

You limit yourself to a nod in agreement because you don’t trust your voice. Confusion often fills up your body to the brim. These are the moments you hate. How he treats you differently at one time and another. You hate how he makes you so weak. You hate how he has you wrapped around his fingers. You hate that you don’t have the same effect on him.

“It’s not your fault, darling.” Charles reasons you one time when you visit him for weekly check-ups. “That man has issues! Even after all these years, I still could not fully understand him and his... complexities.” You force your lips to quirk up a little and pretend as if you justify that, too. But you're in so deep.

Weeks after weeks, it went on like that. You, confused. Logan, indifferent all the time. You miss his touches. Was it just a game to him?

Paralyzed, the color red clouded your vision. You see bodies lying everywhere, dead bodies. The room smells like dread. With what is left, your power manages to slow down the pain that rushes in you. Protect you from the incursion.

Here, there is no way to hide. Their cries echo through the halls. Their screams still haunt you.

If you could have saved yourself, you could have saved them too. But you watched them die.

You watched them die.

Inside the dark of your room, you did not realize that you had been thrashing and screaming in your sleep. The nightmare came to you again. Grief shows through in the form of tears, flowing into your cheeks as you open your eyes in fear, “I let them die, I let them die, I let them die–”

“Sweetheart?” a voice comes from outside your room. Near but so far away.

You kept repeating those words until a figure finally came up in front of you, Logan. He calls out your name, “Hey, no, no–” Now he is touching you all over, trying to stop you from moving rapidly and hurting yourself in the process. Sitting you in front of him and making you face him. Closing your eyes for a brief second, your chest heaving up and down, you remember again and you panic, “I-I watched them die–” your voice wavers.

“No, shh, keep those eyes open. You’re okay. I’m here.” His hands hold your face and his thumb brush off some of the hair in your wet cheeks.

“I could’ve saved them. They were dying, they were in pain–” You cry out as the scene on that day played out again. Daunting and haunting you without your consent. Always lingering around on the back of your neck. Only one person knows what it feels like.

Logan’s eyes soften while he remembers that bitter memory too, “So were you,” His voice coaks out, soothing you, “So were you. ‘s not your responsibility.”

At this, you put your arms around his neck and grip him tightly, finally comprehending what is happening. “Calm down, baby. Logan’s here. ‘M not leaving.” He hushed you back to your senses.

After minutes of him comforting you in silence, his eyes dart to your bleeding lips which you bite to stifle your sobs. With much surprise, Logan parts them and caresses them. Looking at them then back at your eyes, then at your lips again. Your foreheads are now touching and you find yourself nose-to-nose to him.

In your chest, your heart beats so loudly that you fear he may actually hear it. Then with that look that he gives you again, every logical thought and pride you were trying to build, collapses inside you, making you putty in his arms. As you always do.

But tonight, something more is happening, “Logan.” You managed to call out his name in a whisper, begging for something. He feels the same way too, “I know, baby. I know.”

Logan scans your face, searching for any signs of discomfort as he starts to kiss each one of your cheeks. He tells himself repeatedly in his mind, “No, not her. Anyone but her, you dipshit. You’ll lose her if you do this.” A belief that he has been telling himself every day.

What you don’t know about Logan, after all this time, is how he is afraid that if he touches you, if he shows you his feelings, you will be gone from this world. If he cares about you, he will lose you. He is in fear that the cruel world will take you away. As it always does to people he cared.

Bad shit happens to people I care about. And he managed to hold onto this thinking and compose himself every time.

Until now.

Your whimpers and pleads get to him–he cannot hold back anymore, he doesn’t want to hold back anymore. He peppers your face with kisses, everywhere but where you need him the most, your lips. “L-Logan…” you feel your face getting hotter every moment. “Ah, p-please–”, you greedily grind your lower body onto his thighs.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” He groans while breathing all over your face, “You have no idea what I would do to you, the shit I’d do for you.” One of his hands gets under your nightgown and he succeeds in squeezing your tit. “Ah!” you squeak in surprise and quickly get embarrassed when he chuckles at the noises you make.

When your gaze meets him, the force can no longer be stopped. What you both try to bury deep down, what you two were locking away in a box, is bolting itself abruptly. The thumps of his heart match yours. There is no going back now.

While breaking a promise, he makes a new promise to himself: that he’d protect you before all the bad shit happens. He will not let any of it get to you.

After a brief staring contest and lingering doubts, he loses himself, mutters ‘Fuck this shit’ under his breath, and locks his lips on yours, melting you completely into his embrace. You gasp into his mouth and tighten your hug around him. His tongue finds yours sensually as he cradles your head to deepen the kiss. It was the first time he kissed you.

“It’s just you and me, kid.” He blurted out against your mouth and you could not conceal your smile. Whatever you both were trying to suppress, it’s now roaming free in liberation.

His mouth grins at your reaction and before he can stop himself, he confesses, “‘M sorry for how I acted these days. This old man was so fuckin’ afraid of how things would turn out.”

You were about to say it’s okay but he continues, “But he will try his best from now on. What d’ya think? Hm?” Logan looks over at you hesitantly, afraid of what you’d reply. His ‘confession’ does sound way better in his head, when he practiced beforehand. You didn’t know that, of course.

A giggle went out of your lips, “I think I’d like that.” you say breathlessly before kissing him again.

Our brain is meant to be effective. It is not designed to be right at all times. Well, sometimes we are right, but we experience the wrongs more. What we thought we knew, we don’t. What we thought we didn't know–maybe we do. Especially about another person and their feelings. Similar to what you thought Logan Howlett feels.

Following that night, things had changed between the both of you. The ‘boundaries’ separating you two are torn into pieces, in a good way. Now you are reminded by the nature of your relationship through everything. When he comes back home to you every day, when he puts his arms around you while you are cooking dinner, when he kisses the crown of your head before sleeping, when he fixes your favorite kitchen chair, and many other whens.

Including now, when he kisses you so roughly and gently at the same time, fueled by the desire he kept while he was still stubborn back. Logan hiked up your dress until he could feel your breasts, pinching one nipple. “Missed you– missed you so much today.” He says while kissing down between your chest and your stomach, “Missed this,” somewhere in between. You are not so sure.

“Tell me, did you miss me too, Little Missy?” Logan, who is kneeling before, tilts his head upwards so he can see your face. You cover your blushing face, shying away from him and his question like you are used to, “You know the answer.”

He picks you up from the kitchen with one hand and puts you down on your shared bed, “Oh, you don’t wanna say it?” You shake your head in an attempt to tease him. Lying down on your back and with parted legs, you can feel his rough beard while he kisses your inner thigh. “Aight' then, we may just see it.”

By seeing it, he means ripping your white underwear, the one you adored the most and has a pink ribbon, “Shh. I’ll buy you another one.” Logan quickly says before he can hear your protesting remarks.

“Really liked that one... ah!” The tip of his tongue probes your entrance without much warning, lapping up and down your cunt. “See, baby? You missed me so much. She’s dripping here.”

You feel embarrassed with how he is looking at you down there as if he is inspecting you. Unconsciously, you try to close your legs slightly. Logan does not like this as delivers a soft spank to one of your butt cheeks. “So shy all the time when it’s just your old man.”

Now, his rough hands are gripping each one of your thighs and keeping you in place. His tongue lapped at your pussy—from your hole to your clit, circling and sucking until you can feel his beard slicked up by your juices. Whimpering, your hands desperately pull at his hair, pulling him closer and closer as if he isn’t already eating you up.

He chuckles darkly when you whine pathetically at the movement of his one thick finger entering your wet hole. “Such a pretty pussy, baby.” He huffed and looked up at you with pure animalistic need as his fingers worked your walls, hitting that gummy spot that had you crying.

“Please! P-please—Logan. Want you inside,” This plead makes Logan stop his actions and glance up at you, questioningly. You weren’t sure about a lot of things, but you are sure about this. “‘M ready, pleaseplease…”

Logan has been denying you his cock for who knows how long. All this time, he gets you off by his mouth, thighs, fingers, anything except his cock. He always has an excuse, “You’re not ready for me, baby.” Or “This ain’t about me, kid.” Or “My old bones are too tired today. Next time, yeah?” Each one of them frustrates you.

Your virginity is making him hold himself back. You know this, he knows this. Deep down, he still thinks he is a filthy man who does not fully deserve you and that he is ruining you. He thinks by not penetrating you by his cock, he gains some sense of decency but he really is just unsure. Not about you, no, never. About himself.

But when you look at him with those big eyes while sprawling yourself bare to him, how could he deny you? “Are you sure? Fuck. Can’t hold myself back anymore.” Logan takes off his crumpled white shirt, undoes his belt, and tosses them away, making a clinking sound that echoes through the room. His eyes grew dark with raw desire as he brought down his pants and fists his large cock in his hand. All while looking at you.

“Yes! Please, please, give it to me. ‘Can take it!” You snapped with excitement and lean up, pressed a kiss to a part of his greying beard—the older man grins at your eagerness. “You’re going to be the death of me, pretty girl.” Logan lifts both of your legs and puts his mouth on your mound once more, making sure that you’re ready and you haven’t changed your mind.

Between his hunger licks on your pussy and the probes of his thick fingers, he mutters, “I fuckin’ love you.” And that statement itself makes you cry out his name and come all over his fingers and tongue, “L-Logan!”

“Atta girl.” You arch your back in a euphoric state of your orgasm. He could smell you. Every part of you. “So beautiful. Can’t believe you’re all mine.”

He helps you remove every fabric you had on, your pretty white sundress, your bra, your socks—everything that is separating you and him. Now you and he are completely bare, “All this for your old man, huh?” He mumbles the rhetorical question into the chilly air, his hands ghosting over your perked nipples and pinching them softly, then kisses each one of them. He goes down on you again and kisses your clit one more time.

The sight of him makes your breath caught in your throat. You swallow your spit at the look of greying bread glistening with your cum, at the sight of his thick cock springing against his stomach. “Is my baby ready for me?” You nod your head eagerly at him, assuring him that this is what you want.

With one hand on his cock, he lowers himself between your bodies, “Use your big girl words, darlin’” He nudges at your already wet entrance, waiting for your response, taking his time with you.

“‘M ready..! I want this, want you.” You pamper kisses all over his face the same way when he comforts you during your nightmare. His forehead meets yours and he kisses your lips gently as a form of understanding your needs. “Hold on t’me, my sweet girl.”

Then his tip slips inside and you gasp into his mouth, “Good girl. My good girl. You can take it.” You tighten your grip around him as he pushes himself deep inside you, “D-Doing so good, baby. Just a little more,” down to the hilt—his cock bottoms out, “There ya’ go, princess.” Logan coos at your trembling state.

He swallows your moans with a hungry kiss, his tongue exploring the insides of your mouth. “Feel so fuckin’ good. I fuckin’ love you.” There he says it again while he pulls himself all the way out to just the tip, then all the way back in—making you throw your head upwards.

Logan growls and kisses your bare neck, leaving some marks on it but you don’t care, in fact, you want him to. “I love you too, Logan.” You utter those words to him as he rams into you, his thrusts going faster and faster as he loses himself watching you. The friction of his cock against the velvet walls of your cunt is addictive, the pleasure makes the older man grunts.

He thrusts harder, his hips slamming into home, the sound of flesh hitting flesh fills the room, alongside your little ah ah ah's .

"Cum for me, baby. Come for your old man." With one final, powerful thrust, he releases inside your tight heat, his warm seed filling you as he curses and lets his head fall onto your embrace.

"Ah!" You shudder as you clench tight around him and milk his cock. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your body giving out of control as you experience another release of the night.

Logan lifts his head to scan over the scene before him. He had never seen anything like it and he had seen a lot of shit. Your figure is all fucked out and filled. He didn’t think anything could be more beautiful than what he has right now. And he says it again before bringing his lips into yours, “It’s just you and me.”

You tiredly return his kiss and look at him with a soft smile, “It’s just you and me.”

His meaningless and plain life becomes something again because of you. You are the anchor of his life and his reason not only to stay but to fight and protect.

Logan knows there are things that can be stopped, but then there is love.

He is in so deep too. This time, the both of you willingly let it linger. It’s just you and him.

885 notes · View notes

thekinslayed · 10 months ago

Text

The Ails of a Cup of Red

summary | Aemond's esteemed visitor on his coronation day falls ill, and he has a way to make her feel better.

pairing | king!aemond targaryen x foreign princess!reader

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! unprotected sex, oral (f), nipple orgasm, dubcon, use of aphrodisiac, dark!aemond, multiple orgasms, manipulation, gaslighting, thoughts of incest, aemond thinks all siblings fuck, mentions of pillow humping, breeding kink, babytrapping, this is so filthy u guys idk

wordcount | 6.5k

note | still on vacation and haven't been in the headspace to write so this might not be the best, but i wanted to get something in before the new season!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

(divider by @zaldritzosrose)

Your nose scrunched in disgust at the smell of manure that wafted through the slits in the carriage. A sigh left your lips at the image of the Red Keep growing bigger as you passed through the Kingsroad. You wished your brother didn’t have to bring you on this diplomatic visit to Westeros, but alas, there was a new Targaryen king who was to sit on the Throne, and as the king and princess of your kingdom, you were expected to show a gesture of good faith to your house’s longstanding friendship with the dragonlords. Your family’s friendship with the Targaryens ran centuries deep. The dragons may have thought themselves mightier than men and equal to none, but they bore respect for your family. After all, your kingdom was prosperous long before Valyria had been reduced to ashes, longstanding on its own as it continued to be.

This respect had saved you from being conquered by Aegon and his sisterwives but instead had welcomed them as friends of the kingdom. It had protected your lands from being rained on by dragonfire, and from fighting the war where the dragons had danced perilously and ended with a one-eyed Kinslayer emerging as the sole victor of the crown.

The last time you were in King’s Landing, you were only a girl, eight years of age. Your late father had been good friends with Viserys the Peaceful, the two men finding an acquaintance in each other with their shared interests. You remembered that visit quite vividly, especially the cold hostility in the air within the castle, one that seemingly did not affect their king. It was visible in the sharp stares between princes and princesses, the queen and the heir. It permeated the pliable minds of the children, making way for an unnurturing environment no child should find themselves in. Those blurring memories made you dread the moment your carriage stopped at the gates of the Red Keep, though there was little you could do. You slumped back into the plush cushion of the seats, covering your nose with a handkerchief.

“Do remember to be nice to them, Aemond.”

Aemond gritted his teeth when the tailor poked him again. He stood as still as a statue in the middle of his chambers, while his mother made some final adjustments to the future king’s garments for his coronation. He nodded obediently at his mother’s instructions, ever the dutiful son.

“Have our guests docked into the bay?” he asked, earning a nod from his mother. Aemond was made aware that their esteemed visitors were on their way through the Kingsroad and would soon be welcomed.

“You remember your time with the princess, don’t you? You both seemed quite fond of each other,” Alicent mentioned, to which Aemond responded with another nod and a hum. He remembered you, not much, but he did. In his youth, the royals from the far east of Westeros had visited as a gesture of good faith with the Targaryens. His nephews had pestered the young princess with wanting to show off their mounts, but you had been petrified by the prospect of coming face to face with their beasts, falling into tears of fright. Instead, you had stuck by Aemond, who had been dragonless and quite apprehensive about babysitting a little girl around. Still, you had been good, sitting quietly beside him whilst you read peacefully in the Keep’s library and eagerly following him around his home. Overjoyed with having found a companion in Aemond, you had given the young prince a big hug upon your departure, as well as the promise of reuniting.

“She had even written to you when you–”

“I remember, mother. There is no need to remind me.”

Alicent cut her words short from Aemond’s sharp tone. The Dowager Queen could feel the impatience emanating from his rigid form the longer the tailor took to adjust his doublet. Her son had no patience in being fussed over, especially not when he was to be king. Alicent could only sigh, and let silence encompass the ever-growing space between them.

There was a sense of familiarity as another one of Alicent Hightower’s sons was to be crowned king of the Seven Kingdoms. Her second son, her favored one, and the last of her babes left alive. The sharp tension in the air felt like an odd moment of deja vu. When Aegon had been crowned, she feared for the war that was sure to come, and now with Aemond soon to be crowned, she feared him. The war had changed her son, had taken away any ounce of tenderness her sweet boy once held. He had become the terror of the realm, the Stranger descended upon earth with nothing but death following his trail. When Aemond took to the God’s Eye, Alicent prayed. She prayed for the battle to end the bloody dance they had found themselves in. She prayed that the gods take the biggest threat to the realm away from them; whether she meant Daemon or Aemond, she dared not speak.

The pit in your stomach grew into a clammy flutter in your chest once the carriage stopped right at the foot of the steps of the Keep. You were announced with a thunderous boom in the vast open yard, which made you let out a nervous sigh and run a hand through the ends of your hair.

“I still do not see why you had to bring me, brother,” you mumbled, looking at your lap when your king fixed you with a pointed stare.

“You know why. We have to keep ourselves in good faith with the Targaryens, even more so now than ever. Now, no more frowning,” he commanded, just before the door of your carriage was opened. Your brother climbed down the steps first, before holding out his hand for you to take. You took another breath to calm yourself, before plastering a bright smile on your face and stepping out of the carriage.

“Not a very warm welcome, is it?” your brother commented. To even call it a welcome was an understatement. The only people around were the Kingsguard lining the steps, and the two members of the royal family stood on the top. From the distance, the silver-haired, one-eyed Targaryen stood out like a beacon of light against the drab red bricks of the castle. Your eyes couldn’t help but immediately cast to him once your feet touched the pebbled ground. Their future king stood tall, with his hands crossed behind his back and his chin held high. The green of his leather doublet appeared a darker shade in contrast to his silver mane, which billowed in the light breeze of the late spring air. The most striking feature of all was the strip of leather fastened around his head, covering his left eye.

He looked so different, in every sense of the word.

You could scarcely see the young boy you sat in the gardens with–– no, this was a new person altogether. His gaze was prickly, causing gooseflesh to rise on your skin as you took careful steps towards him and his mother. His tall, rigid figure made for an imposing presence, and as you took the last step towards him, you had to crane your neck to meet his eye. You greeted him with a smile, yet his face remained unchanging while he put out a hand for you to take.

“Princess, welcome,” Aemond greeted, with a kiss to your knuckles. His lips were soft against your skin, a stark contrast to his otherwise harsh demeanor. A heat tingled on your flesh in his hold, one you ignored as you bent to curtsy.

“Prince Aemond, it is wonderful to be in your presence once more,” you responded. Aemond’s lips quirked up in response to your words, which you figured was his attempt at a genuine smile, though it looked somewhat more like a grimace. You turned to the Dowager Queen, dropping into another curtsy before kissing both of her cheeks in respect.

“It is an honor to have you here for Aemond’s coronation. I hope your travels have been easy,” Alicent said. She looked older than you remembered, much older than she actually was. The war had definitely taken its toll on the Hightower queen, cementing its place on her conscience in the form of the crease between her brows in a persistent worried look on her once plump face. Still, she regarded you with a comforting downturned smile, motherly and warm. You were always fond of Alicent, her presence reminding you of your own late mother’s. She gifted you a pretty dress once, you remembered, and had let you play the harp in her chambers while Helaena watched on in amazement.

Helaena. The loss of the queen’s only daughter was a loss you felt that still hung heavily in the air. You had heard of the atrocities inflicted upon her and her babes, the news bringing you to tears when you had heard of her passing. You missed her, Aegon too, in all of his frivolities and drunkenness.

“The travels are of no worry, your grace, we wouldn’t have missed prince Aemond’s coronation for anything else. Isn’t that right, sister?” your brother replied, turning to you with a raised eyebrow. You nodded in agreement, turning to the prince before you, whose stare upon you was unwavering. A tingle in the back of your neck rose to your occiput, one you ignored with another smile to the dragon prince.

“It shall be quite a momentous day on the morrow, I am glad to be present for it, your grace,” you said, to which Aemond responded with his word of gratitude. He intimidated you, he always had, but even more so now. His gaze alone had you flustered, his towering presence making you want to shrink in your skirts, and as you were led inside the Keep, you clung to your brother’s arm before the silver-haired prince could offer his.

You have always considered the court of King’s Landing quite dreary, lacking any lively splendor and charm that decorated the halls of your kingdom. The air in the Red Keep was thick with a rigid tension, the prickling heat of the south and the constant stench of shit and decay making you wrinkle your nose and shift uncomfortably in your garments. To rule with terror was never the way of your kingdom. Respect was never demanded, it was earned, so as your father said, but Aemond, he had earned the respect in the darkest of ways. The home of the dragon lords and its constituents had grown dourer upon your second visit, only ever heightened by the imposing presence of the man walking beside you. Where your people greeted you in the halls with genuine cheerfulness and adoration, there is more fear in the eyes of this kingdom’s people when they come across the Kinslayer, casting their quivering eyes to the floor lest they catch his sharp gaze. It interested you, albeit terrifying.

You are pulled from your thoughts upon hearing Alicent’s words. Aemond remains unmarried, she said, and she hoped he would find his queen soon and perhaps have his heir.

“Mother, please,” the crowned prince grunted, throwing her a stern look. You accidentally caught his eye, but you quickly trained your gaze back to your feet. “Our guests have no interest in hearing of such matters.”

“Oh, hush, Aemond. The princess has been welcoming suitors herself, haven’t you, sweet girl?”

A warm flush rose on your cheeks once the attention was turned to you. A gaze on your left burned the side of your face, the expectant look on their faces flustering you.

“Yes, I have, your grace. Since I have come of age, I have had the pleasure of meeting many noble lords from across our land,” you responded.

“Have any of them caught your eye, princess?” Aemond asked, much to your surprise. Up until that moment, it seemed he barely gave you an ounce of his attention, and his sudden interest in the conversation was quite unexpected. Before you could respond, however, your brother had spoken up.

“I have given my sister the privilege of choosing her own husband, one that would please her, but she has been quite meticulous in the process thus far, not one of them has passed her standards,” he said, teasing. You nudged his rib, which only made him snicker. The silver-haired man beside you found no amusement at the young king’s words, his face still as stoic as ever. It almost seemed frozen in place, like a mask.

“My brother hasn’t been too keen on sending me off either, your grace. We are all we have left of our family, after all.”

Your words piqued Aemond’s interest. The young king had always been harshly protective of his sister, this Aemond knew.

Viserys had once tried to offer a betrothal between the princess and Aegon but had fallen through when your brother had caught the king’s first son feeling up a maid at the dinner table, already drunk on wine before the main course had been served. Next, it had been Jacaerys, but the sight of the princeling training with a burly knight who looked too much like each other had concerned your brother, who then informed your father, which ended in no marriage pacts being formed.

Aemond observed how you exchanged a warm look with your brother, how you clung to his elbow. You were kept close to the king’s side, and farther from the dragon prince. This made for a curious sight in Aemond’s good eye. Affairs between kin were part of the queer Targaryen customs, with marriages between siblings a normal occurrence in their bloodline, but yours?

Aemond couldn’t deny your beauty. The first glimpse of you stepping down from the carriage had all but knocked Aemond off his feet. The wind had shifted when you had stepped into his midst, almost akin to the way it had slapped his face when he was falling from the heavens beneath the God’s Eye. He had to will himself to remain unphased in your presence, with your bright eyes and radiating smile. You were beautiful, utterly so.

Was the future king’s blackened heart beginning to beat once more? Perhaps it was. Perhaps it was never capable of doing so, but only to pulsate desire. He couldn’t deny the news of your unclaimed hand intrigued him. He kept a close eye on you at the feast preluding his coronation on the morrow, how you glided through the tunes of the harp in a graceful dance, how you smiled at every noble who had the gull to think they were worthy of such beauty.

You had felt it throughout the night. His gaze burned like droplets of wax upon your skin. You felt it despite being away from him, in the halls, in your own guest chambers. You thought it best to shake off the feeling as much as you could. Perhaps it was the ghosts of the Keep playing its tricks on you, making a prey out of an unassuming guest. As the night grew dark, you willed yourself to lay your mind off thoughts of the one-eyed prince, descending into slumber after a week’s worth of travel, ignoring the creak from a wall panel in your chambers.

Aemond’s coronation was barely a grandiose affair, at least not as grand as your brother’s when he took the throne after your father died. It was rather solemn, rigid, and tense as the people watched with bated breath when the crown of the Conqueror was placed upon Aemond Targaryen’s head. It was heavy, perhaps even heavier than the first time he had carried its weight when he became Regent. The sight of him upon the Iron Throne was menacing, the melted swords beneath him were uncomfortable, but as they all knelt before him, Aemond was pleased. His chest swelled with an oozing pride. This was his place, his crown. He had always known he was suited for it, had fought for his seat with fire and blood.

There was little merriment in the people’s spirits, though it cannot be blamed. The repercussions of the war were still well felt, even more so when the man who had drawn first blood was now their king. The celebratory feast was livelier, at least. It was obvious his mother had taken charge of the preparations, with the extravagant decorations, performers she found from gods know-where, and an endless flow of wine. It seemed like a desperate attempt at normalcy, as though his reign wasn’t permanently tainted with darkness. He wouldn’t have stayed for the celebrations if it were completely up to him, if it weren’t for a presence beside him.

“Are you enjoying the celebrations, princess?” Aemond asked, urging you to turn to him. You took a small sip of your wine, before giving him a nod.

“It is quite wonderful, your grace,” you responded. It was rather drab in your opinion, but you held your tongue. The sweet wine made for a better experience. You didn’t drink much, but something about their liquor made you reach for your cup often. It didn’t take long for you to start loosening up, the warm buzz making you feel more at ease. “The wine is delicious!” you commended, making the man beside you smirk.

“Arbor Red from the Reach, one of the very best we have to offer,” he informed you, a dimple on his cheek deepening when you took another gulp. Aemond was rather handsome like this, you realized, with his thin lips lifted, his purple eye sparkling under the dim flames. His hand rested a hair inch away from yours, the warmth from his flesh radiating into your own. You watched as he took a sip from his own cup, his throat bobbing when he swallowed. Gods, what was happening?

A warmth began to pulsate through your body, making you start to sweat in your dress. You felt an odd throb in your core, your hands growing clammy. You tore your gaze away from Aemond’s, clearing your throat. “Are you alright, princess?” you heard him say, before touching your arm. It left a searing burn on your flesh, and your chest started to heave as your pulse started to rise.

“I... I don’t…” you stammered, though it felt impossible to get the words out. Beside you, you, Aemond looked at you in concern, his voice muffled by the thunderous thrumming in your ears. The rest was a blur, your mind barely registering what the king had said.

Maester… unwell… chambers…

A hand on your forehead, another on your waist, all leaving its mark on your flesh.

In the dead of night, a panel in the princess’ guest chambers opened, revealing a head of silver hair. Aemond stepped into your accommodation, his eye immediately catching your writhing form on the bed. The sheets were crumpled and damp from your sweat, the furs kicked to the floor. You were only clad in your nightgown, which had grown sheer as the sticky cotton clung to your form.

“Princess,” Aemond whispered, making you turn to him. He loomed over your figure like a shadow, with the threat of taking you into his darkness. Your hazy mind could barely comprehend when he had gotten here, or how, too muddled by the burning throb deep within you.

“Aemond,” you whined, pressing your thighs tight as you lay on your side. “I-It hurts…”

“What hurts, beautiful? Hm?” he asked, tone much too soft than you were used to. His fingertips trailed on your calf, but you had jerked away. The slightest touch left your skin tingling, the dampness in between your thighs only growing with the scent of smoke and sage that engulfed you.

With a hand on your thigh, Aemond urged you to lay on your back to face him, despite your protests. He shifted his weight on one knee to lean over you, his fingertips pushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your face. Your nipples pebbled painfully against your nightgown, and you had moaned wantonly when Aemond had accidentally brushed his knuckles over your chest, skimming your overly sensitive buds. Seven Hells, what a delectable morsel of flesh you were. Aemond could start salivating with how irresistible you looked, with your flushed, teary face, plump bosom, and the curves he traced under his palm.

Gauging your reaction, he cupped your breast, squeezing the supple flesh in his palm. Your jaw fell slack, a whine falling from your lips. Your thighs squeezed dangerously tight as slick gushed from your cunny at the slightest touch.

“Does that feel better, princess?” Aemond prodded, but you could only moan in response. Slowly, his other hand made its way up your garments, trailing his fingertips up your thigh. His brow raised as his hand met your weeping center, pulling away to show his coated fingers. They shone from the dying embers of the hearth, your juices thick and stringy as the silver-haired man scissored his fingers to show you. Your eyes squeezed shut in shame, unwilling to look as Aemond put his fingers in his mouth to get a taste, groaning. His fingers returned to your slit, tracing and massaging your entrance.

“This is where it hurts, hm? Poor you,” he tutted. His good eye fell upon a pillow thrown to the side, smeared with your arousal. You must have tried to relieve yourself with it, he assumed, and the thought of you humping a pillow made his cock jump in his trousers. He grabbed the cushion, pressing it to his nose to smell your essence. “Gods, you smell heavenly. This wasn’t of much help, was it, darling? You need more.”

Humiliation filled your veins, rendering you unable to look at the man before you. You fisted the sheets tight into your palms, your conscience fighting through the thick cloud of whatever curse was making you feel this way. “Please… I-I need…” you whimpered.

“Tell me,” Aemond urged. You bit your lip harshly, tears streaming down your temples. You need not say it, he knew, he had put you in this predicament after all.

“Help me, please… just help me. I can’t take it, Aemond,” you sobbed, pulling on his cotton undershirt. He only hummed, pressing his aquiline nose against your cheek as he breathed in the sweet smell of your damp flesh.

It was quite a pitiful sight to see you like this, and perhaps he should feel a small bit of remorse, but it was all for a reason. The empty vial in his pocket was a burning reminder of why you had ended up like this, of what he had done.

He had to thank Alys, really. The bastard witch, once he had seeded her, was as eager as he to place the Kinslayer on the throne. Her hopes of putting their offspring on the Iron Throne after Aemond were too obvious. It was all too easy for him to bend her to his will, make her procure any tincture he asked, and slither into his enemies’ minds upon his bidding. She was a good fuck too. It was a shame he had to gut her after his victory above the Gods’ Eye. He had no trust in the dark magick, nor for Strong bastards. Alys Rivers was a cunning woman, but a fool to think the prince king, would take her as his wife. No, Aemond now had someone else in mind.

It was all too easy to slip the witch’s tonic into your cup of wine, which you had drank eagerly. It was easy to blame it on exhaustion from your travels, on the heat in the Great Hall. You had been escorted back to your chambers, the maester unable to do much for your condition, and that was that. You were all his for the taking.

He tore your nightgown off your body in one, exposing your bare form to the night. Aemond’s good eye darkened at the sight of you, his gaze hungry as it ran down your naked body. You had crossed your arms over your chest, the other over your sex, but the king had pulled them away with a tsk.

“None of that now. You need my help, don’t you?”

You let out a sob, shaking your head. Aemond mimicked your refusal, cooing with a sticky sweet tone painting his motives.

“What is that? You do not want my help? Shall I leave you alone then?” he asked, a devilish smirk rising on his lips when you shook your head again, more profusely this time, when he started to pull away.

“No! No, please! I beg of you, do not leave me like this!” you wailed, pulling on any part of him you could reach. Aemond looked at you with a dark satisfaction, one that only grew when you had spread your legs for him, giving him a perfect view of your weeping cunny as you caged him with your thighs.

He had muttered something in mocking, something about helping his most esteemed guest, but the cloudy haze your mind was lost in made it difficult to comprehend anything. All you could feel was his touch on your waist, another on your jaw, and the softness of his thin lips when he smashed them against yours. He swallowed down your whimper as you engaged in a clash of teeth and tongue, his eagerness almost equaling your desperation.

He trailed his lips down the column of your neck, leaving his mark on your flesh. A deep sigh of relief left your lips when he enclosed on one of your stiff buds, rolling it with his warm tongue. It felt utterly delightful, like a poison finally being sucked out of your wound. Aemond gave the other breast the same amount of attention, massaging its pair with his calloused hand. A heat steadily rose from deep within your belly, and with a nip of his teeth on your sensitive nipple, you came undone with a moan of his name.

The one-eyed Targaryen pulled away with a look of amazement on his face. He looked at the mess in between your thighs, where the evidence of your climax mixed with your slick. His throat felt dry, like he had been walking aimlessly through the deserts of the Red Waste before stumbling upon the water that shall fill him with life.

“You are divine,” he exhaled, his good eye still trained on your pulsating core. They clenched around nothing, beckoning him to taste. He looked at you, evidently still overcome with the need for more. He knew you wanted more, needed it. You wouldn’t be better from one release alone, no, Alys’ tonic did not work that way. You needed an antidote, one only Aemond could give you. He shall end your suffering soon enough, but first, he had to get a taste of you.

He wasted no time, licking a hot stripe up your slit. Aemond groaned in delight, the sweet taste of your essence coating his tongue. He devoured you like a man starved, slurping up the tears your cunt had wept in its despair.

“Hells… you taste of the most delightful ambrosia, princess. So sweet, so wet… all for me,” he praised, his voice coming out muffled from the apex of your thighs. You were long lost, moaning unabashedly like a wanton whore. Your grip on your morals had been weakened by the slippery trail of carnal desire.

Aemond’s silver tresses were clutched tight in your hand, a pain the king revered. You ground your hips against his face, the tip of his nose rubbing on your pearl deliciously. He held your thighs in a vice grip, and he shook his head from side to side, making you whine in delight. Shifting his thumb to rub on your clit, Aemond began to fuck you with his tongue, the hot, wet muscle darting in and out of your walls rhythmically. Sparks of pleasure ran from your bundle of nerves wildly up your veins, spreading into a speckled flush across your chest. With a shudder, you released all over the king’s tongue. Your eyes rolled back as you came once more, your chest heaving up and down from the weight of your second undoing.

Your pulse still buzzed with desire, and you cursed the gods on whatever it was they had inflicted upon you. You whimpered when Aemond pulled away to stand, a panic rising within your chest when he looked to the door. He wasn’t leaving you, was he? Your blood still ran hot with need, and you needed him to take you, take all of it away.

“Don’t go, please,” you begged, reaching out for him. You scrambled to rise to your knees, pulling Aemond in by his trim waist. The cotton of his undershirt was gripped tight in your fists, and his neck grew damp when your teary face buried itself in the junction between his shoulder. “My king.”

Aemond’s chest grumbled from your words, his cock now throbbing painfully, begging for its release. His arm wrapped around your waist to pull you flush against him, his stiffness poking your hip. With a hand on the base of your neck, he urged you to look at him.

“Say it again,” he growled, nipping your ear with his teeth. He squeezed the flesh on your hip tight, making you whimper.

“Aemond, my king! I need you; I need you to take all of this pain away,” you sobbed, hot, desperate tears streaming down your flushed cheeks. You grabbed a hold of his hand, urging it towards your center, but he was stronger. Aemond pulled his hand away, cupping your jaw in his calloused palms to make you look at him.

“The only way for your pain to subside is for your maidenhead to be taken, princess. There is no other way. Are you sure of this?” Aemond asked, looking to you for confirmation. Your mind barely regarded the implications of what was to occur, of what he was taking from you, nodding eagerly without any doubt. You rambled a series of yesses to him, and then he was pushing you to lay on your back once more. The king before you was never one to dally, evident in the way he wasted little time in baring himself. His stiff length slapped against his stomach when his trousers dropped, the mesmerizing sight making you trail your fingers down to play with your cunt in impatience. He was a sight to behold, with well-defined form, and the scars that littered his milky skin; the remnants of war had cemented itself on the king’s physical form.

Aemond grabbed hold of his cock, stroking it while coming to kneel before you. He slapped your hand away from your center, taking hold of your thigh to spread them wide. He couldn’t deny the spark of anticipation in his chest, and if he were a lesser man he would’ve plunged himself into your walls in one push. Instead, he lined himself with your slit, before looking to you for one more confirmation. Your brows were adorably furrowed in frustrated desperation, a small whisper of ‘please’ falling from your pouty lips. With your hand pushing on the base of his spine, Aemond breached your walls.

Your previous releases and the copious amounts of arousal the aphrodisiac had produced from your body made for little hindrance. There was only a mere sting at his initial thrust, but it required little effort for him to bottom out. His pace was relentless from the start, clearly as overcome with desire as much as you were. The slick pooling on the back of your thighs made a wet slap, slap, slap with every thrust of Aemond’s hips.

You gripped the sheets to ground yourself as your body jerked in rhythm with his thrusts, your legs wrapping around the silver-haired man’s trim waist to keep him close. Your jaw fell open, moans freefalling with no regard for decency. Aemond fared no better, growling in your ear and delivering a harsh bite to your shoulder. It was animalistic in nature, something primal and heavy. The bedframe thudded against the wall, and you could only hope no soul would happen upon the halls outside your chambers at this hour.

“This is what you wished for, was it not? You wanted my cock, you needed it,” he groaned, letting out a dark chuckle against your skin when you nodded fervently, followed by a chorus of whiny yesses. He left his mark on your breasts, tugging and sucking on the supple flesh to claim you as his. “Taking me so well, my princess,” Aemond rambled on, muttering dirty nothings into your skin as his thrusts stayed unrelenting.

“Aemond, oh, Aemond!” you cried out, gripping his broad shoulders tight. Your nails dug themselves into his sculpted back, making him hiss in delight. Your core spasmed with your impending climax, massaging his length as it drove into the rough spot within your walls.

“Perhaps I should put a babe in you, hm? Make you mine, all mine,” he taunted in your ear. Perhaps you should be more concerned with his words, but the wave of pleasure threatening to take you over robbed you of your sense and wit, reducing you to nothing but a moaning mess. Aemond’s thumb found its place on your pearl once more, rubbing tight circles into the nub that threatened to send you into overdrive. With another thrust, then two, you fell apart on Aemond’s cock, spilling your white, hot essence all around his length. He followed soon after, painting your walls with his seed in a couple of spurts.

The cloudy haze that had impeded you reduced to a pleasant buzz in your fingertips, your head lolling to the side as your eyes closed in utter bliss. You felt Aemond pull out of your walls, whining when he pushed your combined juices back into your cunny. He laid beside you, pulling you into his chest with his arms wound around your sweaty form. A delighted sigh left your lips when he cupped your jaw, then bestowed a kiss on your forehead, and the tip of your nose, before capturing your lips. Pulling away, Aemond leaned his forehead onto yours, the tip of his aquiline nose nudging slightly against yours. It was pleasant, the way he held you like this, almost more intimate than your coupling.

“Marry me,” he whispered against your lips.

Your eyes opened while your brows furrowed in confusion at his proposition. Your mind lagged to follow along, the remnants of the aphrodisiac’s heady swirl still tainting your better thinking. “W-what?”

“Be my wife. Together, we shall forge the legacy our ancestors have strived to achieve. Our kingdoms shall unite in power, our houses would be formidable allies, and more. This would all be possible with our union,” he explained eagerly. His grip on your face had grown tighter and tighter, his pupil widening, making him look almost crazed. You were starting to grow wary, if it weren’t for the ache in your muscles, you would have dashed as far away from him as possible. Perhaps this was the Targaryen madness everyone said, but in the darkness of your chambers, you could hardly consider him madder than you were.

“I-I don’t…” you stammered. The haze that had clouded your conscience was starting to lift, making you think more clearly. You tried to pull yourself away from his grasp, but his firm hold on your cheeks and your trembling limbs rendered your efforts futile.

“After tonight, you will no longer be untouched, and your future husband will know. A princess who will not bleed on her marital bed,” Aemond iterated sternly, his brows raised. Your lower lip trembled with dread, your hands pushing on his chest–– closer or away, you couldn’t decide which.

You squeezed your eyes shut in an attempt to tune him out, but he was everywhere, from his hot breath on your face, his seed in your womb, his curse tainting your spirit.

“You are being cruel,” you whispered, turning your face away. When you had shifted to lay on your back, he had risen to lay on his side, his silver mane framing his face ever so beautifully.

“I am showing you mercy,” he contradicted, cupping your face, softer this time. His thumb caressed your cheek tenderly, and if you had known less the gesture might have brought you comfort. “You needed me, I did what you asked me to, princess. Would you have rather I left you writhing in pain?”

You were starting to grow muddled. He was right, you did need him, had begged for him like a desperate harlot. Humiliation coursed through you for having debased yourself like this, unabashedly so. You think of the shame this would inflict on your name, your brother’s. Gods, what have you done?

“What will they say when my seed takes? Hm? What will your brother think of his sweet sister?” Aemond taunted, rising to loom over you. A curtain of starlit hair enclosed around your head, making you see only him. He was tantalizing, with his sharp stare and a face sculpted by the gods’ own hands. Your resolve was starting to crumble as you pondered on his words. “They need not question your honor when you shall be my wife, my queen.”

You, a queen. It would be a lie to say you had never imagined yourself crowned as such; you have done so all your life. In time, you had learned it would never be, your brother was king, and you were to be married off, reducing your worth to a lord’s wife, but Aemond wanted to make you queen. It was a daunting prospect; you had never thought to become queen of Westeros. Hells, you had no wish to come here in the first place! But the seed had been planted, a dragon’s seed, nonetheless.

The corners of your eyes stung with a fresh wave of hot tears. Aemond had caught them when they started to fall, planting his lips on your cheeks, his tongue darting out to taste the salty fluid. It was reverent, almost in adoration, and when he pulled away, you gave him your answer.

“I will marry you, my king.”

A wicked smile lifted the corners of his thin lips, his dimples making an appearance. Satisfaction painted his good eye, and you realized what you had done. You resigned yourself to your fate, and you could only pray he would be tender with you, like the kiss he planted on your hair when you shifted back to lay on his chest. Aemond let out a deep sigh, thoroughly pleased.

“Sleep, my queen, we shall make our plans for marriage known on the morrow.”

#bella writes ✍️#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #hotd x reader

2K notes · View notes

roosterforme · 8 months ago

Text

Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw Part 20 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley gets the update he's been waiting for. You get something you weren't expecting. Neither of you can tell the other how you're feeling.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, adult language, romantic Bradley, 18+

Length: 3700 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female teacher!Reader

Check out my masterlist for more! Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw masterlist

You drove Bradley's Bronco back to his house, dragged yourself back inside, and climbed back in bed. You cried so hard when you watched him carry his duffle bag into the airport, you had painful hiccups for twenty minutes afterwards. Now you were emotionally drained and on the cusp of a headache, and this was only the first day.

With your cheek on Bradley's pillow, you pulled the covers over your head and took a few deep breaths. He didn't know much about his deployment, but the communication blackout was designed to keep you from learning anything. If something happened to him, it might be weeks before you heard about it. Your heart ached as you thought about how lonely he was going to feel after he made it a point to tell you how much he loved getting mail from your class last time.

You felt your phone vibrate in your pocket, and you scrambled to get it out.

About to take off. I love you, Gorgeous. I'll let you know when I land.

Well, you had about six hours to kill until you would hear from him again, which felt bad enough. Then seven full weeks after that. You typed back to him with fresh tears in your eyes, and then you tried to sleep, but the hiccups came back. When you moved to the couch, it felt too cold. You were tempted to call Natasha, but if you couldn't even make it a handful of hours without Bradley, you didn't think she would be able to help you.

It would start to get better. It would have to. When your winter break ended, you'd be back in your classroom with your students. You could dive into your lesson plans for the new year. You could focus on teaching. You could do this. Because if you found out the hard way that you couldn't, then you had no business being with Bradley.

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

Bradley was given a tiny room in the barracks on base in Norfolk, and he spent the entire night talking to you on the phone. Literally six hours straight before he passed out, sound asleep, hanging halfway off the bed with his phone connected to the charger. One of the last things he remembered you saying was, "As soon as you know if it's San Diego or Norfolk, let me know. I love you."

The following morning, he was so exhausted, he was practically dizzy as he met with his commanding officer, Admiral Walker, for this new special deployment. Even his arm felt heavy as he saluted Walker in his office. It was barely seven o'clock which equated to four in the morning in San Diego, and he knew it would take him a few days to get caught back up on sleep at this point. But every second of talking to you was worth it.

"Lieutenant Bradshaw. Welcome back to the Atlantic Fleet," Walker told him, gesturing to the empty chair in the office.

"Thank you, Sir," he replied, even though he was far less than thrilled to be back in Virginia at all. The prospect of a change of station could not have come at a worse time when he spent the flight from California looking at engagement rings on his phone.

As Bradley sat down, the older man said, "We never wanted to lose you to the Pacific in the first place, so I'm sure you can understand why you'll be staying on the east coast after your seven weeks on the Gerald R. Ford is complete."

His heart sank to his feet, and he felt like he was going to throw up. "Sir?" Bradley asked. "That's it? There's no chance of me returning to North Island?"

When the response he got was a raised eyebrow, Bradley pressed his lips into a line. This man wasn't going to give a shit that he owned a house in Coronado or that he was in love with the most beautiful woman in the world who happened to work in Mira Mesa. Something told him that keeping his mouth shut was the better option right now, even though he felt like punching a hole in the wall and flipping the desk.

Walker shuffled some papers on his desk. "Plans still need to be finalized, but it is our goal, and the goal of the US Navy, to change your station to Norfolk."

The words echoed in Bradley's mind. He couldn't decide if he should tell you about this yet. It wasn't like he had signed paperwork in his hand. Until he did, as far as he was concerned, he was going back to Top Gun and the love of his life. He knew you were stressed and concerned enough as it was, and he didn't want you to have to dwell on this unless it was finalized.

"Once aboard the carrier, mission details will become available to you and the other aviators," Walker informed him. "I have a folder with your bunk assignment and some more information that you can take with you right now. You'll have access to your phone for about another hour, but as soon as you report to the carrier, it will need to be shut down and locked up. Are we clear, Lieutenant?"

Before Bradley could even respond, there was a sharp knock at the door. Walker heaved a weary sigh as his gaze left Bradley's face, and he barked, "Come in."

Of all the faces he knew from North Island, Bradley wasn't exactly sure if it was a friendly one, but when the door opened, Admiral Simpson came strolling inside in his service khakis. He couldn't fathom why his meeting was being interrupted by Cyclone, but he sat quietly with the folder in his hands.

"Admiral Walker," Beau Cyclone greeted, voice as stern as ever. "You never returned my calls, and red eye flights the week of Christmas are not something I find endearing."

Walker stood behind his desk with all of his accolades hanging on the wall behind him, and Bradley jumped to his feet as well. "Admiral Simpson," Walker replied, voice dripping with disdain. "There was no need for you to fly out in person to release your pilot to my fleet."

Bradley could hear Cyclone's knuckles crack as he watched his eye twitch. He was somehow caught in the middle of this, but it looked like the Top Gun admiral was in no mood to be outmaneuvered and lose a member of his team. Bradley silently goaded him on while he stood there completely still.

"I'm not releasing anyone to you. That's not how this works," Cyclone barked. "If you can't manage your fleet, you don't get to poach from mine."

The admirals seemed to be in a competition to see whose face could get redder. "Admiral Simpson, I'm sure you'll find my rank alone is reason enough for-"

"You do not outrank me," Cyclone interrupted, voice loud but calm. Then he turned toward Bradley with his jaw clenched and said, "Lieutenant Bradshaw. You are dismissed. Please board the USS Gerald R. Ford on time for your deployment."

"Yes, Sir," he replied, saluting both men before walking back out into the hallway on slightly unsteady legs. He paused, hoping to hear some more of their conversation or an outright blow up that would give him a clue as to what the fuck was going on, but instead he walked the rest of the way to the barracks to collect his duffle and head to the docks.

With his phone in his hand once again and his bag slung over his shoulder, Bradley called you. He knew it was early and he'd be waking you up, but time was tight now. And your voice was the only thing that would keep him sane at the moment.

"Bradley," you sighed a second later, and he pressed his phone tighter to his ear.

"Baby, I miss you so much," he promised, heart aching. He swallowed hard and decided not to bring up anything that was going on since he didn't have a completely clear understanding of it himself. "I'm about to board the carrier."

He could hear you crying, and he wanted to kick himself. "Just come back safely. That's all I want. As long as you're safe, that's all that matters to me, okay?"

He was having a hard time keeping his own tears at bay. "Me, too. We'll figure out the rest of it later, Gorgeous. Take care of yourself. Write in the journal. And don't forget to check the mail."

"I love you, Bradley!"

"I love you so much."

As soon as he ended the call and turned off his phone, he had to walk through a small building for security screening. It was there that his bag and phone were taken from him. When he exited the other side, his duffle was handed back to him, but his phone was not.

"Sorry, Lieutenant," the petty officer told him with a shrug when he glared. "I'll tag it for you and return it when you get back to Norfolk. At least it's not a long deployment."

Bradley couldn't even argue with that. It wasn't that long in the grand scheme of things. He'd been overseas for a full twelve months at a time when he was younger. This should have felt like nothing, but he knew it would feel like the worst one. He hefted his bag higher on his shoulder and started to head for the bunk that would be his for the duration. There was no sense in standing on deck when there was nobody who would be looking for him to see him off.

He made it down two hallways before a loud voice echoed off the walls around him. "Lieutenant Bradshaw." When he turned, Admiral Simpson was heading his way, face so red it was almost purple. Bradley's heart sank.

"Yes, sir?"

The other man pulled his composure together, sighing like an angry bull. "While you will be under the command of Admiral Walker for this deployment, you will fly directly back to San Diego when you return to port in Norfolk. You'll be presented with the paperwork today."

Bradley's jaw dropped open. "I'm returning to the Pacific Fleet, Sir?"

He got one firm nod in response. "I told you last week that I would do what I could to retain you."

This was honestly the best case scenario, and Bradley could feel some of his tension melt away. "You weren't kidding," he mumbled before clearing his throat. "Thank you, Sir. Being in San Diego is important to me."

"Fly safely, Lieutenant. See you in seven weeks," Cyclone barked before turning on his heel and walking toward the ramp back down to the dock.

Bradley pumped his fist in the air. "Fuck, yeah," he whispered, spinning on the spot. He would get to go back to the station he preferred in North Island as well as his friends, but most importantly, he would get to return to you. There would be no stress of packing and moving and hoping you were still willing to come with him. He could stay in Coronado.

When he slid his hand into his pocket to get his phone out to call you back, he froze. "God damn it."

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

If waiting for emails and letters was bad before, this was torture. The early days of getting to know Bradley through written notes left you with constant butterflies in your tummy, but now it felt like you were walking around with a lead weight instead. You constantly caught yourself reaching for your phone to text him before setting it back down in frustration.

You hadn't heard from him since before he stepped onto the aircraft carrier, and that was four days ago. Today was New Year's Eve, and at least you had the wine bar with Natasha to look forward to. While you got dressed and ready to go, you couldn't help but put in just the bare minimum amount of effort. What was the point when your boyfriend wasn't even here to give you kisses along your neck and call you Gorgeous? You pouted at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and put the cap on your lip gloss before even using it.

"You look nice," Nat said as you climbed in the front seat of her car. You turned to look at her with one eyebrow raised.

"I'm wearing Bradley's old sweatshirt with a pair of leggings that are starting to get a hole in the crotch."

She started cackling as she pulled away from the curb. "Well, you still look nice."

"Thanks," you said softly, watching the houses go by.

As Nat turned toward the highway to head up to Oceanside, she asked, "How are you making out?"

You pressed your lips together for a few seconds, trying to make sure you weren't going to cry. "I'm just having a hard time being off from work while he's gone. It's... harder than I thought it would be. I can't wait to return to my classroom in a few days."

"I'm sure that will make it easier," she agreed. "You'll be so busy, time will start to fly by. Oh, I forgot to ask if you got any interesting mail at Bradley's house since he left?"

You shook your head. "I barely remember to check the mailbox most days. Why?"

"Don't worry about it," she replied smoothly. "You'll be back to work in a few days, but in the meantime, we've got merlot and chardonnay to keep your mind occupied."

"Sounds like you're talking about two hot French men," you said with a laugh.

"I could be! You don't even know!"

Now both of you were laughing. And you were still laughing when you actually did order a glass of merlot and a glass of chardonnay. You and Nat enjoyed some wine flights and cheese platters, and she regaled you with stories about Bradley from flight school.

"When he was twenty-two, he probably weighed a hundred and twenty pounds," she said with a smirk. "He was such a nerd, too. God, it was so bad." You were trying to stifle your laughter as she added, "Once he really started working out and grew the mustache, he thought he was hot shit. He's still a fucking nerd."

"He kind of is," you agreed through your giggles.

"But he's a good one," she promised. "Wears his heart on his sleeve too often, but I don't think he has to worry about you breaking it."

You ran your hand along the sleeve of his sweatshirt. "Never."

Once the two of you were filled with cheese and sober enough to get back in the car, you paid for your adventure with the gift card Bradley gave you, only to find out it had five hundred dollars on it.

"Natasha! We need to come back like four more times," you said as you signed the slip.

"I don't see any issue with that," she muttered, leaving cash for a tip. "I think I'll write Bradley an email and thank him for funding girls' day so he can read it when he gets back to Norfolk."

"I think he'd like that."

You started thinking about the journal sitting on the nightstand in his bedroom. Every night before you fell asleep, you'd been pouring your heart and thoughts out into the thing, but even the mention of the word Norfolk had you fretting again. You managed to keep up the conversation with Bradley's best friend as she drove you back to Coronado, but perhaps you should keep most of your things packed after you moved your stuff to his house. What if you had to move to Virginia when the school year ended?

"Thanks for driving," you told her when she pulled up to Bradley's driveway to let you out.

"Anytime," she said, waving you off. "We'll go back up again soon." When you leaned in to give her a hug, she told you, "Don't forget to check the mail."

"Okay."

You weren't sure exactly what her deal was since Bradley couldn't send you anything, but if she wanted you to, then you would. You already promised your boyfriend you'd keep an eye on anything unusual that arrived, so as you walked up to the front door, you took a peek inside the mailbox. Empty. Just like the house. You curled up on the couch with the journal and started to write your daily entry.

I heard from a very reliable source (Natasha) that you were and still are a nerd. I'm going to need to see some pre-stache photos of you when you get home. Your best friend is a wealth of information when you get some wine in her, and I had a great time with her today.

But I miss you. So much. Sometimes it knocks the breath out of my lungs. Your house is too cold and quiet without you here, hogging the couch and eating snacks. I'm looking forward to school starting up in a few days. It'll be a little less lonely when I have eighteen kids telling me what they got for holiday gifts. Of course I'll have to tell them they won't get a visit from their favorite aviator for a while. We'll just be nineteen sad pen pals.

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

On January second, you were working on your lesson plans while wearing Bradley's gym shorts and eating potato chips. Tomorrow you'd get back into a routine with work, but first you were going to allow yourself one last day of being kind of pitiful. You bit off more than you could chew with Bradley, and now you were paying the price.

You sporadically started crying at random times throughout the day, and it was only made worse by the overwhelming feeling of being alone. If you could barely make it a week without hearing from him, how were you going to make random deployments with no communication your lifestyle? Why did you even think you could?

While you were crunching your way through some potato chips, you heard something thump on the front porch. The sound made you jump on the couch, and you set your snack down on the table and crept to the front door. When you peeked outside, there was nobody there, but when you cracked the door open, you saw a box. A fairly large box. Addressed to you.

"Oh my god," you gasped. It was from Bradley. According to the date stamped next to your name, he somehow sent a box from the post office in San Diego last week. "Oh my god!"

You grabbed it and kicked the door shut, almost tripping on your way back to the coffee table. When you tried to claw at the tape, you almost broke your nails. "Scissors," you shouted, running for the kitchen drawer by the sink where your boyfriend kept a random assortment of junk. Then you walked quickly back to the couch and started to cut into the box.

Natasha had to be behind the arrival of the box, but you couldn't fathom what could possibly be inside. If Bradley wanted you to have something, he could have simply given it to you before he left. Your heart was pounding as you set the scissors down and looked inside.

"Bradley," you gasped, tears filling your eyes as those familiar butterflies zoomed and swooped around in your belly. You'd been so upset about missing out on his letters, he sent you a whole box of them. There were dozens of envelopes and little treats filling the box nearly to the top, but a neon orange envelope with OPEN ME FIRST written on it caught your eye. You pulled it out of the box and tore into it.

Hey, Gorgeous,

I'm thinking about you right now. Guaranteed. It doesn't matter when you get this box or when you read this note, I'm thinking about how much I love you. And if I'm asleep, I'm dreaming about us eating Thai food on the beach in front of a sunset that is nowhere near as beautiful as you.

I hope you realize there was no way you weren't going to get some letters from me while I'm deployed. I would never let that happen. Somehow, you fell in love with me this way in the first place, and more than anything, I want you to feel as loved as I do. So I filled this box with little notes and long, rambling love letters and things I thought you might like. When you read the individual envelopes, you'll know what to do.

Please fill that journal up for me. I can't wait to read it in seven weeks. I'm missing you like crazy, and I selfishly hope you're missing me just as much. I love you.

Yours Truly,

Bradley

With shaking hands, you set the note down on the orange envelope and swiped at your tears. You never dreamed you would meet a man this romantic, but somehow you did, and he became your boyfriend. "Oh, Bradley," you whispered, picking up a stack of envelopes and reading what was written on each one.

Open me when you've had a bad day

Open me when you really want some coffee

Open me when you need a laugh

Open me when you're in bed

Open me when you need a girls' night

Open me with your class

You flopped down onto the couch and kicked your feet in the air. "Bradley!" you shrieked, voice breaking as you started to cry. You hugged the letters to your chest and let the warm feeling of being loved wash over you and fill your heart. He was unbelievable. He was perfect. He was everything you wanted. And somehow you loved him a little more and missed him a little less with this box on the coffee table.

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

He's so romantic. He's taking care of Gorgeous from afar! He's coming home to San Diego, but she doesn't even know it! Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls and @daggerspare-standingby

PART 21

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@solacestyles

@daisyhollyxox

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@shanimallina87

@ccbb2222

@xoxabs88xox

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@fanboyswhore9

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@desert-fern

@horseslovers2016

@mattyskies

@hookslove1592

@blahehblah

@sadpetalsstuff

@local-spidey

@schoollover

@lex-winchester

@nicole01-23

@jessicab1991

@happyrebelruins

@samsgoddess

@bellaireland1981

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@mygyn

@yuckosworld

@nessjo

@trickphotography2

@lyn-js

@furiousladyking

@godsfavoritebabe

@bethabear12

@halo-mystic

@sherlockstrangewolf

@theamuz

@khaylin27

765 notes · View notes

dntaed · 1 month ago

Text

chapter one ── welcome mat

oh, my clumsy heart: a roommate jason series.

♥︎ roommate!jason ✗ gn!reader

SYNOPSIS: A man, an expert in every unsavory action of his less-than-legal occupation, like Jason, shouldn't be so nervous about meeting a roommate. Yet here he is—his nails digging crescents into his palm as his eyes lock onto your nervous smile.

TAGS: roommate au, friends to lovers, tooth-rotting fluff, awkward flirting, mutual pining, emotional intimacy, eventual romance, AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES!! canon-typical violence.

CHAPTER SYNOPSIS: Jason follows you back down the hall, the strange tension between you both melting away. This might not be so bad after all. He could get used to this—whatever this was.

✹ ꕀ SERIES M.LIST ; NEXT ; SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

The kaleidoscopic colors of this evening dance across concrete streets. It paints a striking contrast on the canvas. Neon signs flicker and hum, beckoning you inside the markets that are tucked between towering brick apartments, their garish lights bleeding into the surrounding shadows. The air is thick with the smell of street food, rainwater mixing with exhaust fumes, and the subtle scent of asphalt. People move across the slick pavement, their hurried footsteps tapping out an almost rhythmic pattern. They slide between the occasional car like busy bees, all lost in their own heads, each one with a mission of their own deep in their determined minds.

It’s all strangely calming to see. As if Gotham itself is just a backdrop to the urgent lives of the people that live within it. If you only forget the dim alleyways beside those cozy markets—places that hide secrets not meant for curious eyes. The ones that ooze dark promises, whispering of things better left unseen.

The dichotomy of Gotham City.

Jason leans against his motorcycle, eyes tracing the chaotic beauty of it all. He’s been here long enough to know that Gotham’s pulse is erratic, its rhythm always just a little off. He runs a hand over the leather of his jacket, the material clinging uncomfortably to his skin. The heat of the jacket presses into his shoulders, far too warm for the damp night air, but it’s a comfort nonetheless. A familiar weight. The soft, persistent drizzle makes the jacket feel even heavier, and yet, it’s the only thing that grounds him in this mess of neon lights and cold streets.

With a deep breath, Jason reaches into his pocket, fingers brushing over the crumpled edges of the paper he’s been carrying for days. A small, almost ridiculous thing, but it’s his lifeline now. His thumb presses into the creases of the paper, smoothing it out just enough to read it again, even though he’s already memorized the words.

DESPERATE NEED OF ROOMMATE! $600 // East End // Thompson Apartments // 2BD!

Gender doesn't matter. Just pay rent on time. The apartment is "vintage," not old. Two bedrooms, a functioning kitchen and bathroom.

CONTACT FOR MORE: (555) 123-1443!!

Jason’s eyes linger on the number for a moment, tracing the digits with his mind. He called it a few days ago, desperate like the ad claimed. His situation demanded urgency, just like your voice on the other end of the line. The surprise in your tone when he explained why he was calling made him hesitate for just a second, but then he remembered: Gotham didn’t care about how people got by. It only cared about getting by. And he needed something in the East End, something that wasn’t going to make him stand out too much.

The whole thing was a gamble. He’d told you he was just a student, trying to save some cash, and that was the truth… at least the version of it he could afford to tell. The truth, in his world, was always a little murky. You didn’t ask questions, and maybe that was why he agreed. Maybe it was the way you sounded—genuine, in a way he wasn’t used to. The thought had stuck with him.

East End apartments weren’t the stuff of dreams, but they were affordable. They were quiet, in a way. Too quiet sometimes.

As he waits, Jason wonders—did you even believe him?

Was he really just some lost student? Or was he something else entirely? Someone you’d let into your life, someone you’d risk the quiet life of your apartment with?

His nails dig into his palm, the tightness of his grip a quiet manifestation of his nerves. There’s a strange tension in the air, but it’s not just the apartment he’s here for—it’s the uncertainty of it all. What’s the chance you think he's a serial killer? He wonders briefly.

Fifty? Thirty, if he doesn’t completely blow his first impression.

The shuffle of footsteps behind the door jolts him back to reality. He can almost picture you, wearily moving down the hallway toward him, hesitating for just a moment before reaching for the door. A brief moment of expectation passes before the door creaks open. Jason’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t let it show.

He can’t—he won’t let it show.

And then there you are, standing in the doorway. Your nervous smile hits him like a wave. The way your lips pull up just slightly, your eyes flickering with a mix of uncertainty and curiosity. You’re the kind of person who’s been worn down by Gotham, but not yet broken by it, and for a moment, Jason wonders how long that will last.

"Jason, right?" Your voice is soft, but not shy. It’s curious, but not probing. Your gaze flicks down, taking in his figure with a casual assessment, as if you’re already trying to figure out if this stranger is going to be worth the risk.

Jason stands frozen for a beat, before he finds his voice. "Yeah, that’s me." His words are a little rough around the edges, but they come out more steady than he feels. "I, uh... I called about the apartment."

For the briefest moment, your smile falters, the weight of the decision settling in your shoulders. But you push through it, stepping back from the doorway with a small gesture. "Come on in. Welcome to your new place—or at least, part of it."

And just like that, the door swings open.

You stand in front of him, blocking the way into the apartment. Jason shifts awkwardly, eyes flicking to the side, not entirely sure if he should even be here. His words tumble out in a clumsy attempt at being casual.

"Yeah," he mutters, a little too quickly, "2BD, right?"

You pause for a moment, looking at him with an amused glint in your eye. Jason mentally kicks himself for even asking. Of course it’s 2BD. The sharp click of the door opening behind him only makes his discomfort grow.

It’s quiet for a second as he waits for you to respond, but you don’t seem to mind at all. A small, genuine smile breaks out across your face, your cheeks rising slightly, your nose scrunching as you fight back a laugh. It’s the kind of smile that seems to warm the entire room, and Jason can’t help but notice how it shifts your entire demeanor. He forgets for a moment what he was even thinking.

With a soft laugh, you gesture to the open doorway. "Come in," you say, your voice light and inviting, like there’s nothing more normal than him being here. It pulls him out of his thoughts, and without thinking too much, he steps inside.

He follows you through the apartment, the faint smell of coffee and something vaguely floral lingering in the air. His eyes drift around, taking in the space: the mismatched furniture, the little trinkets scattered about that seem so personal. It’s cozy in an unexpected way. A coat rack by the door is crowded with jackets and hats—yours, he assumes. The mirror next to it reflects the two of you, and for a second, he pauses, not sure if he’s looking at the reflection of two strangers or something more familiar.

You continue talking, not missing a beat. "So, this is the living room," you explain, waving a hand to the center of the room where the couch sits. It's worn, a little tattered, but there's a kind of charm to it, like it’s seen a lot of life. " The landlord upstairs calls it 'vintage. ' I call it 'good enough to survive.'"

Jason smirks, the corners of his mouth quirking up. He can’t help but picture the landlord as some old guy with too many opinions and a wardrobe that probably includes some out-of-date tweed. "He gives you trouble?" Jason asks, his curiosity piqued more than he intends. The instinct to size up the situation—just in case—kicks in, and he mentally bristles.

You shrug as you look around the room, your hands resting on your hips. "Trouble? Probably. But we’ll share the burden." Your smirk is sly, a glint in your eye as you look over at him. "Perks of a roommate, right?"

Jason can’t help but laugh at that. It’s not a joyful laugh but one laced with sarcasm. "Yeah, perks. Just what I needed."

You quirk an eyebrow, clearly amused by his reaction. “You put up the ad just to 'share the burden,' huh?"

"Yep," you answer matter-of-factually, a hint of mischief in your voice. "I figure there’s a sea of desperate students in Gotham, all waiting for a chance to be this lucky."

Jason chuckles dryly. "And I’m the lucky winner, huh?"

He can’t tell if it’s the way you talk or the subtle shift in your tone, but something about it strikes him. The way you linger on certain words, like you're testing it, or maybe just savoring the sound. It makes him feel odd, in a way he can’t quite place. But it’s a feeling that pulls him out of his usual guarded state, just a little.

Jason falls into step behind you, still lost in thought. The way you speak, the way you carry yourself—it's not like anyone he’s ever met. It’s easy to forget how much time he’s spent alone, only surrounded by people who treat him like an object or a tool or even a bomb about to go off that they try to soothe with sickly soft words that are too soft for his liking. You act like he’s just a guy—no judgment, no pity, just a weird stranger showing up in your life, as normal as it can get. Just two very normal roommates, nothing more. He doesn't know how to feel about that yet, but it pulls at him more than it should.

“So, tell me," he says, eyes scanning the hallway now, “What's the catch here? There’s got to be one, right?”

You turn back toward him, the corners of your mouth twitching upward. "The catch?" You raise an eyebrow. "Oh, you’ll see. There’s always a catch in Gotham, Jason. Always."

Jason feels a little shiver crawl up his spine. Gotham. Yeah. He knows all too well about catches in this city.

His usual self-consciousness is creeping back up. But then he notices the way you look at the space, the way your voice flows as you explain the apartment to him, and for some reason, he feels a bit more at ease.

You give him a teasing glance, one that feels almost like a challenge. “Don’t sound so disappointed, Jason,” you reply, your voice light, almost sing-song. “Is Jason okay?”

It’s a simple question, but it catches him off guard—he's not used to people just asking. He doesn’t even realize it, but he’s been holding his breath for a second. Jason swallows, trying to brush off the sudden wave of discomfort that floods over him. It’s like you’ve peeled back a layer, even if just for a moment.

“Yeah,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair, trying to play it off. “It's fine.”

You look at him for a moment longer, studying him as though you're trying to decide if he’s being truthful or not. There’s a softness in your gaze now, a sort of warmth that feels unexpected. Finally, you nod, as though satisfied with his answer.

“Good,” you say, your voice lowering slightly. “Well, if you're going to be living here, you should probably know that the kitchen is... charming.”

Jason laughs, the sound a little more genuine this time. “Charming? What, like ‘charming’ the way Gotham is charming, or charming the way an old car is charming?”

You give him a quick, amused glance before leading him toward the kitchen. "A little of both, honestly. But if you’re expecting anything gourmet, you’re going to be sorely disappointed."

The kitchen is small but functional, with a modest fridge and a few dishes cluttered around the sink. There's an old-school stovetop, the kind that looks like it could use a little love, and a countertop covered in mismatched mugs. The place feels real. It’s not pristine or overly decorated, but there’s something oddly comforting about it.

“Let me guess,” Jason says, leaning against the door frame with a smirk, “The fridge is a disaster, right?”

You chuckle softly as you pull the door open to reveal the inside. "Only if you’re picky about food that’s almost safe to eat.

Jason peers inside, trying to stifle a grin. "Ah, looks like exactly what I expected."

The fridge is stocked with a variety of takeout containers and what Jason can only assume is a collection of leftover meals—some with more questionable smells than others. It's a far cry from any kind of organization, but it feels comfortable. Like it belongs here.

"So," Jason says, crossing his arms, "What’s the deal with this place? How long have you been here?"

You turn to face him, leaning against the counter with a casual ease that suggests you’ve been in this exact situation before. "A year," you say, shrugging. "It’s not much, but it’s home. You learn to make do with the weird stuff."

Jason nods, looking around the kitchen. "Seems like a good deal for Gotham. Nice and cheap, right?"

"Exactly. And you don’t have to worry about too much. It’s quiet, for the most part. Except for the landlord, of course," you add with a wink, "But that’s just part of the fun."

Jason chuckles, feeling a bit lighter than before. There’s something about the way you talk, something that puts him at ease. He’s used to walls—metaphorical ones—but in this moment, he feels like you’re letting him in just enough to make him comfortable.

“Guess I’ll be sticking around then,” he says, his voice lowering into something that’s more teasing than serious.

“Better get used to it,” you reply, your tone matching his as you throw him a sly grin. “We’ve got a lot more to share.”

Jason raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll hold you to that.”

You laugh softly, pushing off the counter as you gesture toward the living room. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest of the place. If you think this is interesting, just wait until you see the bathroom.”

Jason follows you back down the hall, the strange tension between you both melting away. This might not be so bad after all. He could get used to this—whatever this was.

#jason todd #*dc #j. todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd fic #jason todd imagines #jason todd imagine #jason todd fluff #red hood #red hood fluff #red hood x reader #red hood x you #dc x reader #dc red hood #dc #dcu #﹅ oh my clumsy heart; j. todd

335 notes · View notes

skitzrep · 6 days ago

Text

i should be doing homework right now but instead i'm thinking about dante

Here's an extension of half-angel x dante: enzo hires them for a job (warning: aura farming)

"So what's the job again?" you ask, glancing at the back of Dante's head. He always walked ahead on a job.

"Enzo said there's a demon here. A few lucky lives got away to spread the news." He didn't look back, sending alarms off in your head.

"Why are you acting weird? You've been quiet since we left the apartment." You step forward to match his step,

"I don't know what you mean." Dante smirks, nudging you off balance with his hip, causing you to stumble out of pace.

You scoff because of course he wouldn't admit he's worried again. It's your first job since he refused to let you join after the incident. He was ready to leave you behind again, but you were practically on his heels as he was leaving.

You unlatch the whip from your hip and lob it around Dante's waist, using your superhuman strength against his, to pull him to a stop.

"Oh~ Lovely," Dante murmurs smugly, allowing you to drag him closer before leaning down to give you a kiss. You welcome his lips and loving caresses before cutting it short. "What?" Dante groans, bending down for more.

"There'll be more later," you promise. So stop worrying. "We should split up to get this over with."

"Huh? Not one of your better ideas." Dante frowns. "It's safer if we stay together."

"We've split up before," you remind him, pushing against his chest. "Let's just get this over with so we can get home faster."

Dante's teeth gleam as his grin widens, pulling you against him again. "I like the sound of that-"

"Perfect," you say with a disarming smile, pinching his side to make him jump off of you. "I'll take the west side, you'll take the east. Give me the signal if you find it before me."

Dante watches you with a gloomy expression as you send him a wave before turning around the corner.

The west side of the building was quiet. Usually, you can feel a demon's sinister energy—a shiver running down the back of your neck—but so far, nothing.

And then—

It was behind you, peaking around the corner and looking at you. You stop walking and hone in on its location, sensing it's about to attack.

"Well, come on then," you call out, turning on your heel and cracking your whip. "I need you to send my man a signal."

A bird-like monster crept into view, screeching dreadfully and flexing it's claws and wings.

The demon roared at you as you flicked your whip, striking it in the face. As it was disoriented, you wrap the whip around the monster's leg.

Yanking on your leather, the demon flies foward, over your shoulder, and into the opposite wall of the hall. The building shivered from the commotion.

And there's the signal. As the demon picked itself up against the wall, you sent a barrage of strikes against its torso and limbs, keeping it discombobulated until Dante arrives.

The demon's wing folded in front of your attacks, shielding it's body. Gritting your teeth, you aim for it's open areas, but it advances with it's wing protecting it.

"Shit," you curse, leaping out of the way before it could barrel through you. Your ankle is suddenly grabbed and you're swinging in the opposite direction, bracing for the impact against the ground. You release a guttural laugh before the demon throws you up again.

Wrapping your whip around the demon's beak, you pull yourself in and land your foot into it's skull. Falling on it's shoulders, you move your weapon around it's neck and squeeze with one hand. Your other hand grabs the demon's face.

"Die, asshole!" Your hand on it's face glowed bright as the demon screamed under you. In the next second, it withered away to ash.

You were left kneeling in the ash pile, holding your side and catching your breath. Maybe Dante was right and you should have stayed together for the first job back. You were a little out of practice.

A disruptive crash rang out somewhere in the building, close to your location considering how violently the floor shook beneath her feet.

The wall down the corridor caved in, revealing Dante riding another demon through the construct.

"Hey sweetheart, look what I found on my way to you." His smile is wide until he recognizes the state you're in. "You doing alright?"

"I'm fine," you assure him, holding your hand up. "Waiting on you, slow-poke."

"I guess it's time to stop messing around," Dante tells the demon, drawing his broad sword. "My lady's waiting for me." It screams at him, but it's soon permanently silenced.

"You think there are more of them?" You ask, staggering to your feet as Dante paces over to you.

"Nah," Dante says aloof, scooping you into his arms before you could even stand straight. "They've been taken care of."

"When did you-"

"I know how to keep a fight tidy and quiet," he tells you, knocking his forehead against yours, giving you a cheeky wink. He kept you in his arms as he walked you both out of the building. "Wasn't expecting the patrol though. Your signal caught me off-guard."

With your arms wrapped around Dante's neck, you drop your head against his shoulder. "Yeah, maybe you were right."

"Me? About what?"

"We should've stayed together." You ignore how Dante tries to look down at you, but your head is too close to his neck. His hands tighten around you, pulling you closer to his body.

"We'll stick together on jobs from here on out, alright?" Dante says it with no room for discussion, not that you would argue against it. "It's a lot more fun when I can keep my eye on you anyways."

"I was going to say the same thing."

note: i have so much more tropes for this man but the half-angel sweetheart that indulges in Dante's wild/aura-farming side is so cute to me

#dante sparda x reader #dmc dante x reader #dmc dante #devil may cry anime #devil may cry

349 notes · View notes

meadow-of-daisies-and-lavender · 7 months ago

Text

Summary: When the god of the Winter needed a messenger, he had chosen you. Yet your elders wanted you dead. But John Price, the god of the Winter, had other plans for his devotee. Eventual Poly 141.

A/N: Leaving this here, then backing away slowly. If you like, please comment and reblog. Special thanks to @itsagrimm for editing, even though you aren't into the type of writing. Thank you to @ethereal-night-fairy and @wildflower-and-honey for feeding my brain worms. I love you three and cannot thank y'all enough <3 Thank you, @saradika, for your beautiful dividers that I use in literally everything.

CW: (18+) Children begone! PIV smut, swearing, a Dyslexic wrote this, Religious Kinks, brief mention of suicide, brief mention of hypothetical pregnancy because what is John Price without a breeding kink? Voyeurism, exhibitionism, praise kink, elements of paranoia, and mindreader elements.

NO AI

Leave a comment and reblog!

You had been abandoned. Sent aimlessly into the east by your deceiving elders to find the oh-so-benevolent god of Winter. Your people had discarded you, and perhaps, you had now been forsaken by the Holy One. Under the new winter moon, you had no bearing in these strange woods. You were lost and without hope. Stumbling into a thicket, you paused, catching your breath. Once your village elders cut your binds and removed the blade from your still bleeding throat, you ran. You had three options now: find the Winter God John Price and beg for mercy, return home to your village to die by your elder’s blade, or finally, die by a frozen death.

Yanking down the sleeves of your dress, you shivered. Only a fool would think the thin lace would be enough to fight the cold. You hadn’t bothered to ask for a cape when you would be dead come dawn by the blade of your elders or the mercy of winter’s chill. Besides, if the elders thought it could help entice the winter god closer to you, you welcomed the possibility. The god liked fine things- the fragility of ice coating sleeping trees, the nuanced tendrils that composed a snowflake, the finespun embroidery on an altar cloth. Perhaps the gossamer lace of your gown would make you look as alluring as snow?

Your village worshiped the god of the East along with his three other seasonal counterparts. In the winter, the altar faced east for John. In the spring, it faced north for Kyle. In the summer, the altar faced west for Johnny, followed by facing south in the Autumn for the one they called Ghost. You traversed the mezzanine of the aged temple as if it was your birthing ground, dedicating yourself to the unknown and to what divine vexed within.

A creature howled in the far distance, three more joining in the call. You wished you had a blade for protection, but the foolish elders would not allow it after the last messenger sent to find the God of Winter killed himself. He died from fear of the gods with his body left for the animals starved for winter scraps according to the elders. The collapsed skull and bloodied rock meant otherwise. You would become like the warrior- murdered- if you didn’t keep moving.

At least you’d be dead if you stopped moving, and wasn’t that something to rejoice over for the elders? They wanted you gone the moment you opened your mouth, defending the holy temples in a burning righteousness against their infidelity. The elders mocked your faith, staging a spectacle to rejoice in their perceived standings with the holy gods, to enshroud their continued greed of village resources, and holy temple offerings while preventing you from stepping foot inside the sacred temple.

All you wanted was to worship your gods in peace and for your village to know that peace.

A branch snapped in the distance. Setting your foot down ever so quietly, you glared into the darkness of the night. In your chest, your lungs froze as if a tiny breath could lead starving beasts toward you, but your heart tapped a wild rhythm against your bones like a war drum urging warriors forward in battle. Between the bones of the trees, a figure raised from the ground. Dirt quaked in its path, fearing the disturbance as flashes of odd whites and black wove into a tall, hulking beast emerging like smoke. The vaporous monster inhaled. It was as if he sucked the forest in with his expanding breath, the conductor of the skeletal structure of the land. The one who assembled appendages of bone like armor and crown, marking his distinct otherness to any creature known before. Opening his eyes, bright gold light flared from its eye sockets, a perpetual fire, locked on burning you alive.

You ran. Barreling through the underbrush, thorns cut and tore at your dress, slowing you down. Pushing deeper into the woods, you dared not glimpse back at the monstrous shape. The gods, you prayed, would give one last indulgence by sparing your life. Dodging fallen trees and saplings, you heaved for a breath. Your toe caught on something sending you tumbling forward, down the hill, to be stopped by a mangled stump. There was little to be felt from the roar in your mind and blood careening to endure, to run, to survive.

Looking up, the terrifying haint peered down at you with its head tilted to the side, lazily biding his time hunting you. Fleeing, you made way towards the river that supplied the village with water. The monsters couldn’t cross the running water at the bottom of the ravine. Everybody knew that. Your breath created puffs of smoke with each gasp of air, streaming from your lips like a dragon’s purr.

Down at the river, you paused, cursing at your luck. The river was frozen over, but how deep the ice went was beyond you. You had to cross, fighting for a chance at life and to find John Price to appeal for assistance proving your claims. Taking a deep breath, you ventured on the ice, straining your ears for cracking and shifting sounds. Freedom sang like a siren from the other side of the waters with the promise of faith delivering you into her hands. On the other side was an assurance of one more day in your beloved temples with the beloved gods, of life, and of being free from the elders.

Without the freedom to roam the holy grounds of faith, what would be left for you?

You slipped with a screech, flailing until you caught your balance. Your hands trembled as breath fogged the air. Crossing was the only option, regardless of death prowling down to find you. The thought of the being sent shivers down your spine, and you squeezed your eyes shut as if it would banish the evil and push you across the waters.

“Stop!” A man bellowed like thunder echoing in the ravine. You jumped, slipping on the ice. With an assured crack, the ice broke, plunging you into the icy waters.

You gasped, choking on river water. Kicking to the surface, you were met with a ceiling of ice. You hit the ice with your hand to no prevail until the bubbles from your nose dissipated and a film of darkness descended upon your peripherals. In the gloom, eyes of golden fire shimmered at you, refracted by the ice, illuminated by the flash of lightning.

It smelled like oak and spices as you inhaled. The bed you laid in was spacious, a soft luxury you sunk greedily into. Moments of time slowly returned to you as you stirred, until a tapestry unfolded, painting what had occurred in the woods to you. How you had survived drowning or hypothermia was beyond you, feeling none of it, now. Cocooned tightly in thick blankets, albeit naked as the day you were born, sleep still called in the comfort of the home. A warm crackle of a fireplace and the deep mutterings of men speaking filled your ears as you blinked. In your nest, you buried further in, savoring the needed heat with a sigh with your eyes peeking over the cover.

The two men, seated in the corner, had stopped conversing to stare at you. One was slim but muscular, with dark skin and shining brown eyes. He wore a grin both authentic and sly as if mischief personified, waiting for his time to strike and laugh at your mild misfortune.

The other man was a bear. Thick, burly, legs with sizable thighs spread to consume room; it seemed all he did was call attention to himself. The cocky spread of his legs to the icy blues of his eyes; your neck burned as he smirked, having caught you staring.

“Hello, Fawn,” The bear rumbled, intentionally softening his voice and leaning down as if afraid to spook you like the little deer.

“Ghost found you,” injected the younger one. “It took him and Soap to pull you from the ice and bring you home. That was pretty stupid; getting on the ice like that. Haven’t people told you not to do that?”

Getting on the ice was stupid, but letting yourself get consumed and murdered by a beast was even worse. You had half a mind to tell the younger man your thoughts on the matter, but here you were, naked in a stranger's bed… alive. While grateful, you needed to leave. The task to find John and plead for his assistance in clearing the village of your awful elders still loomed, as did the precarious nature of being nude in a room of two strong men.

“I’m looking for someone,” You mumbled. “I had no choice.”

“I know,” The older man hummed before speaking your name like a whisper of wind on your ear.

The God of Winter . Your spine went straight before you bolted upright, clinging the blankets to your chest. These men were not men at all but your four holy gods. There was half a mind to shuck off the blankets and fall to your knees in reverence. You had offered prayers while bathing before; was this any different? As you shifted, apologized, and begged for pardons on the tip of your lips, John shook his head and stood.

“Gaz, go let Soap and Ghost know our fawn is all right,” John said, clasping Gaz on the shoulder. Gaz promptly left the room, closing the wooden door behind him, not before offering you one final comforting grin.

“I am sorry. I had to find you. The elders sent me to the woods to murder me. And… I didn’t know what else to do but to seek your help. I’m so sorry, please forgive me. The elders are murdering anyone who dares question them. Nobody believes me even though I have proof! The village will not survive the winter because of our elder’s theft from them and of the temple and I need your help. I have done nothing wrong except be loyal to you, John,” You rushed out in a single breath. “Please, help me. Help us .”

John set his hand on your cheek, running his thumb over your warming cheeks. A violent shiver sprung through your body, encouraging you closer to the god. You closed your eyes and nuzzled into his palm, lulled by the smell of spices and the alluringness of being physically held by him. Finally, you had removed the burden of secrecy and responsibility and John took it lightly with his hands soothing the ache from your skin with the glide of his fingers.

“Love, you’re being too harsh. There is no reason to apologize,” He reassured you with a kiss on your forehead. “The fault lies with your elders. You have done all I have asked of you and more. Do not agonize yourself over the stubbornness of others. It will get you nowhere.”

You closed your mouth and held his wrist, keeping him to you. You thought of all your nights spent praying to the god of Winter when sleep evaded you. When you screamed or cried your prayers in agony, begging the divine god of winter to make himself known to you so that your faith was not in vain and your people could be free from the elders.

But what of your people? What choice would they make? The old gods were worshiped only in tradition and the elders had slowly pushed your people further from the gods as the temple began to deteriorate.

You were always dedicated to the divine in odd ways. Observant gifts of John’s favorite flowers and drinks were left on your homemade altar—prayers written on little papers in a box. Spare time spent tending to the aged temple and cleaning it, preparing it for worship. Devotion in wearing John’s favorite color as a ribbon around your wrist, bearing his color like a mark of ownership over you.

It was… your stomach clenched as you remembered bathing in his favorite fragrances, the soap trailing between your breasts, water falling as gracefully as the curves of your skin, for his solstice day. Later that night, deciding to offer John an orgasm on a lust-induced whim. When you came down from your high, you swore you could feel the divine by your knees, looking down at the mess you had made, dribbling into the sheets. The idea of him voyeuring into your bedroom made you leak, reaching a bold hand down to part your lips for him to see your swollen clit.

“What you want from us, little Fawn,” John tilted his chin to look you in the eyes as his warm toned voice dipped between your thighs to make them clench. “Comes at a high cost for you.”

“And let my people suffer from the elder’s greed? Surely, you understand how harsh winter can be! And to let the gods lay waste when this is proof you still are near has to be blasphemy. I don’t want to die, but I’d rather try dying than be left bystanding in silence, rotting away-”

John took your neck in hand and hulled you to your feet. Your words died on your tongue as his nose pressed into your cheek. Chests pressed together, his human form radiated heat and softness protecting layers of muscle and power. You wondered briefly if his divine form would look more bear or beast, unleashing the thrum of calculated energy pulsing inside the god.

“Fawn, martyrdom is for suicidal fools. Not even the martyrs ask for their portion, they stumble upon it trying to uphold the will of the gods which threatens the portions and powers that be in your mortal world,” John shook your head ever so slightly, pressing closer until you gasped, looking up at him with wide eyes. Dark as ice, they pierced into you flickering from your eyes to your mouth, the urgency he held you with inching into territories you were unsure of but eager to explore. His eyes flickered down for a moment, and you shivered at your exposure, pressing your face into his neck as if to hide. “You will stay the night but come dawn, you must return home to live for us.” John instructed, pushing your hair from your neck. Leaning down, he nipped the bottom of your ear playfully, kissing along your neck.

You hummed, offering your neck to his lips. It didn’t matter if you had laid with a million other people before or none at all. You yearned for the assured solidity of the gods, and now you had it. They could have your body, the works of your hands, the words of your mouth, the paths of your feet. You only wanted to be near John, safe, nestled into his side, even if for a little while. To be welcomed into the god of winter’s bed for even a night? The idea made your thighs slickened with want, heat pooling in your stomach.

Everything in your bones wanted to please him, to let him have his fill of you, to honor him with the best of your skin and body. You’d get on your knees for him. Suck his cock until you are panting, with his cum on your tongue. You wanted to be good . You let out a little whine, a soft vibration in your throat. John chuckled, coming up from your throat to kiss you properly, all while moving you on the bed.

He kissed down your throat, gently touching your chest with the hints of friction making you squirm, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I want you to soak my fingers and cock with this pretty cunt tonight, Fawn” John decidedly spoke. You eagerly nodded, humming as his hand squeezed the fat of your stomach.

You opened your thighs as he descended between them, grinning as he knelt before you. You could have laughed at his eagerness if it wasn’t for the gentle, inquiring sweep of his finger through your folds, collecting your wetness. A sigh fell from your lips as he played with your cunt, a pleasant warmth filling your mind as your legs found a home on his shoulders, your hand on the back of his neck, scratching the short hairs there.

“Been thinkin’ about this pretty pussy since you showed her to me,” John growled, thumb swirling on your clit just as you had when you played yourself for him. Your knees bent, pushing your pelvis to catch the angle just right . “Offered me use of your body, a delicacy, to use as I please. Perfect little human for me to fuck whenever,” He growled before putting his mouth to work, sucking on your clit.

You keened, bucking your cunt into his face. John devoured you whole, feasted on you, your head in the clouds, floating with nothing to tether you but his mouth. The god of winter’s fingers prodded your entrance, slipping in with a slight stretch. His fucking hands, reaching depths you could never achieve on your own, made you moan, opening your eyes to watch him. From below your stomach, John was fully committed, eyes closed, grunting against your cunt.

John fought against your legs, drawing out the pulsing waves of pleasure until your ears were ringing, vision white, cresting into a beautiful brainless hum as your body went limp.

“Fuck, John, I can’t,” You whimpered, pushing his forehead back. Your chest heaved, hands grasping for anything you could reach until he slid his hand in yours, anchoring you to him. He moved, and you closed your sticky thighs, clenching at the slick dribbling down. John reverently kissed your collarbone, hands brushing over your scalp, lulling you from the cloudy space.

His lips kissed along your neck and chest as his hands wandered along your hips and thighs, rough fingers tickling the sensitive skin of your ass. Your eyes opened, greeted by his gentle gaze as he hovered over you. His mouth had been pinkened by your cunt, hair mused by your thighs and hands.

Grabbing his hand, you kissed his palm before licking the fingers that had been inside of you moments before. Something was intoxicating about the way you tasted, strong and delicious. Taking his fingers in your mouth, you hummed, thinking about how much thicker his cock would feel. John swore, pushing his fingers against your tongue, stilling your control. You moaned, letting your eyes close and legs fall open. Holding his arm, you could feel how your tits were pressed together by your biceps, making you not only a sight but a spectacle .

“Want my cock that bad, little fawn?” John teased. Opening your eyes, you nodded, nudging him closer with your foot. Removing his fingers, he drug his hand down your centerline, leaving a cold trail of your spit down your body. He slowly entered you, grunting with his eyes glued to the way you sucked him in.

“Fuck, John,” You whimpered, panting at the fullness pressing you open. His thumb rubbed your clit, lulling you back to another orgasm. Spreading your legs, he placed a knee on the bed as he began to thrust, covering his cock in your frothy slick.

It was hot and so, so full as he reached parts of you that had you gasping for air and tearing up. There was no pinch, only a subtle burn from the stretch, soothed by his cooing in your ear and thumb working wonders on your clit. Shifting his hips, he fed you more of his cock, making your vision go frayed around the edges. If your brain could leak away, it would slowly leak out with the wetness of your cunt.

“Just like that, fawn,” John encouraged, making you clench around him. “My little offering to take as I want, letting me use you like a good girl,” John grunted as you clenched around him, his hands falling to your stomach and hip, selfishly grasping at the plush skin to pull and drag you off his cock with.

“I’m,” You whined, clawing at the god’s massive arms, rippling with movement. “Please, John! Feels so good, filled up,” You babbled, trying to run closer and further with each thrust.

His other hand laid over the base of your throat, curling possessively around, forcing your eyes to his, forehead to forehead, as he pressed and pressed into your cunt, stretching you wide and filling you perfectly.

“Pretty wet cunt, dripping for me,” John’s lips brushed your ear, moaning into it. He reached a hand to gently pinch your nipple, making you gasp. “Rub yourself for me. Let me see you soak my cock.”

You slid a hand between your thighs and rubbed your clit, spreading your lips wider, feeling fully exposed, unable to help the moan and the chasing buck of your hips, humping the tight heat pooling in your stomach.

“Cum, love. Cum for me.”

You listened, you always did, a perfect little offering for him to use. You fought to keep your eyes open as you came, body convulsing, to show him what he had made you into. But when your fingers became too sharp, the pleasant hum of blood in your head turning into a sharp ringing, you went limp, thighs covered in slick cum as John took his final thrusts. Ropes filled you as his hand lovingly smoothed over your lower stomach. He rested his forehead on yours, panting as he lazily kissed you, his cock twitching as you warmed him.

“You okay?” John whispered from his place between your breasts as you scratched the back of his head.

“Sore,” You hissed as he slipped from you but was quickly scooped into his arms and laid across his chest. “M’tired,” You confessed, closing your eyes with a soft sigh.

You would be content to lie on his chest for the rest of time, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, wrapped in the warmth of his broad arms. Everything about you felt small compared to him; the way his hands engulfed yours, the way your calves had laid over his shoulder, the ripple of muscles and fat as he had fucked you.

“I need to clean up,” You mumbled, fingers following the lines of his pectorals.

“In a moment, darling. We’ll both clean up.” John kissed the top of your head, reaching for a glass of water for you to drink from before he took a few sips.

The god of Winter leaned down and kissed you so gently, soothing the aches with gentle hands against your thighs. Though, you felt it was more an excuse to touch your thighs more, but you didn’t mind. After cleaning up, you fell asleep swiftly, draped over his chest as his fingers traced dainty traces of snowflakes along your spine, tended to and protected.

In the morning, you woke in your own bed, dressed in the robes of a high priestess, as someone pounded on your door. As you rose, you felt the phantom aches of the previous night between your thighs. Quickly hiding the robes, you caught the white scars of John’s handprint over your womb, etched like silver ice into your skin.

“One second!” You yelled, dressing. Once you were decent, you threw open your door and gawked.

“There’s been a war party! They burnt the elder’s homes and the wheat stores! We need help!” The man took you by the arm and pulled you into the fray of dark smoke against the blooming pink winter sky. It was snowing, melting into water that slid down your arm and into the frosted grounds.

427 notes · View notes

rangers-arecool · 1 month ago

Text

Bifur gave them a few minutes to get their worlds straightened out again, watching and listening for danger. Assured temporarily that nothing was coming their way, he turned and scanned over Kili and Fili to check for any visible injuries that needed dealing with immediately. Although there was nothing he could see, it didn't mean that they were completely in the clear though.

§ "He did. I sent Dwalin off tae catch up with him though an' came lookin' fer ye both. Azog pulled y'all into a near perfect trap. Kili, can ye move on that leg?" §

He asked, focusing on the youngest Durin briefly. Despite the clamour of the battle below them, it wasn't hard as a Stone-singer to listen to the rocks above. Old ruins, especially those of Dwarven made, had a lot of stones and the information received could be used if one knew how to.

He didn't feel very alive but Kili would just have to take the elder's word for it. The Khuzdul took a moment to register, as if he hadn't learned it as his first language, Bifur's face taking even longer to stop blurring. Red smeared the snowy rock under his boots, mixed with viscera that he was only mostly sure wasn't his. It most likely belonged to the massive body that had broken the dwarves fall - partially into the orc's ribcage. Which would be somewhat funny if he could think straight through what was probably several not insignificant injuries besides his still searing leg. Bifur's appearance at least gave them some breathing room to recover for a moment. "Yeah. Yeah. That's...probably a good idea. I thought he left Dwalin behind in...over there."

#aithynne :: kili #~/ beneath rock & stone of old / the song sings loud \~ :: bifur #you are very welcome to throw Kili at all & any of my muses!#he isn't troublesome! that's me lol #*|* should Erebor fall / the East will soon follow *|* :: battle of five armies #*|* when a hobbit goes a walkin' with 13 dwarves & a wizard *|* :: the hobbit #*|* far over the misty mountains cold *|* :: erebor #*|* got lost along the old forest road *|* :: queue

3 notes · View notes

astraystayyh · 10 months ago

Text

Starry night.

in which you and hyune fall in love through paintings.

idol!hyunjin x museum guide!reader. love at first sight, kinda. both mc and hyune are romantics.. lots of art analysis and conversations. very fluffy and soft. like so soft i hurt myself with this you guys.

all the info about Vincent Van Gogh’s life and works are from the Van Gogh Museum. the interpretations are my own but im not an art critic, obvi, just a yearner 💔 please enjoy, feedback is highly appreciated 💞

thank you to the lovely reader who commissioned me!!!! the money went to our stayblr fundraiser for palestine. please consider donating if you are able too as well <3333

“You’ll be able to do it, right?” Your manager Martin looks at you expectantly, and you blink slowly in response. It, referring to leading a private tour of the Van Gogh exhibition.

You’ve been a museum guide in New York for four months now. When you’re not painting, you’re here, amidst the array of artworks nestled in a quaint street near East River. You’ve led group tours before, always under the watchful eye of Martin, a middle-aged man who never forgets to bring you a vanilla bourbon macaron every morning.

However, you’ve never handled a private tour before. You see the desperation in Martin’s eyes as he awaits your answer—he’s the one who usually handles these tours, but he has urgent family matters to suddenly attend to.

You blink again, your tongue unknotting in a split second. “I’d be happy to,” you beam. The exhibition feels like a second home to you; you’ve visited it countless times long before you started working here.

Martin heaves a sigh of relief, smiling back at you. “I believe in you,” he reassures, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Remember why I chose you.”

You grin at his words, nodding vigorously. Your love for art brought you here; your very being seems molded to breathe in paintings and live among them. It’s as sweet a life as it can get.

“You’ll find all the details about our guest in our log. He’s famous, so he’ll be a bit discreet. He’ll expect you to be too,” he explains, hurriedly packing his things. You nod, taking the keys to the art gallery from his hand.

“Don’t worry, the gallery is safe in my hands.”

“I know,” he says with a comforting smile, before finally waving goodbye. You take a deep breath and check the booking for tonight’s exhibition—Hwang Hyunjin.

The name is unfamiliar to you, and so is the face that greets you at 8 p.m. sharp—at least, what you can see of it. He’s wearing a navy cap and a face mask, with a varsity jacket sitting perfectly atop his broad shoulders. He looks young, roughly your age.

“Hi, welcome to our Van Gogh exhibition,” you greet him with a grin. He bows slightly in response.

“No one’s here, so you can remove your mask if you wish. I can take your bag as well,” you offer with a smile. He nods and hands you his black duffel bag, which you quickly pass to the security guard, who places it inside a safe cabinet.

Hyunjin removes his Versace cap, running a hand through his silky black hair. There is an aura of assurance around him, as if he’s poised before a camera in a professional photoshoot. But then, a shy smile appears on his face as he finally removes his face mask, his eyes glinting beneath the golden lighting.

You feel your breath catch in your throat; for a split second, the world around you seems to still, the paintings dimming before the beautiful face in front of you.

“Right,” you clear your throat, “shall we?”

Hyunjin nods, falling easily into step with you. You pause before the first painting, ‘Woman with a Child on her Lap’, 1883.

“This is rumored to be about Sien Hoornik, who became both Vincent’s lover and model. She was a former prostitute, pregnant at the time, and had a five-year-old daughter. Vincent was determined to help her through her hardships, and they dated for a year and a half. But then, he broke it off because he said she was too far gone to be saved.”

Hyunjin nods, his eyes fixated on the painting, his head tilted slightly to the side. “The eyes are telling,” he speaks for the first time, and his voice floods your being like dewdrops reviving flowers at dawn. It is smooth and soft, the end of his words getting lost in the air and caught by your heart.

“The way the mother and daughter look at each other, I mean.” He clarifies, stealing a fleeting glance at you. “There is disdain on the mother’s face, but more toward herself, I think. Maybe because she sees her reflection in her daughter.”

Groups usually scurry past this painting, eager to see Vincent’s more renowned works. You feel your heart soften at how much he seems to be thinking about it, lost in his own world. You’re not even sure he remembers you’re there.

“Vincent was really determined to help her, although his brother Theo disapproved. His parents did too.”

“Isn’t that what love is? To hold someone’s hand even if everyone tells you to let go,” he mutters quietly, his eyes still lost in the painting. A hue of vulnerability colors his words before he clears his throat, as if unwittingly revealing his inner thoughts.

“That’s a beautiful way to view it,” you smile, and he nods, shyly biting his lower lip. For some odd reason, his timidity stirs something unfamiliarly tender within your heart.

You walk over to the next set of paintings. “When Vincent moved to Paris, you can see how his style developed. He let go of the darker tones he used in his infamous ‘The Potato Eaters’ and began using lighter colors, like here,” you explain, pointing to ‘The Hill of Montmartre with Stone Quarry’.

“Do you think it’s because he was happier?” he suddenly asks, and you frown slightly. “Pardon?”

“The shift to lighter colors. ‘The Potato Eaters’ is so sorrowful and shrouded in darkness. ‘The Hill’ is much more colorful, lighter, you know?” His eyes glide to yours, a twinkle of curiosity glimmering in them.

“Vincent did flourish in Paris. For once, he was in the same city as his brother Theo, whom he loved dearly. But he was mainly influenced by modern art, which uses much lighter colors than his previous works. Art critics usually attribute this change in the influence of his contemporaries, such as—”

“But what do you think?” he interrupts softly, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are penetrating, and you find yourself lost in the seas of emotion they contain.

You quiet down, licking your lips tentatively. No one has ever asked for your opinion on these tours before.

“Well,” you begin slowly, “I think it’s possible. Being around his brother and other artists who embraced brighter palettes could have uplifted his spirit. But also, maybe the light colors were his way of reaching for happiness, even if he didn’t always feel it. Art often mirrors our hopes as much as our realities.”

Hyunjin listens intently, a thoughtful look on his face. “I agree,” he finally says, smiling sincerely. You don’t know why the sight of his grin renders your brain putty, like melted ice cream under the kind sunrays.

“His use of lighter colors continued when he moved to the south of France. He was delighted with the bright colors in Arles, painting orchards in blossom and workers gathering the harvest,” you explain, pointing to the respective paintings.

“That’s when he told his brother that he wanted to open a studio for fellow painters. He wrote in a letter the following: 'you always lose when you’re isolated.' He sent out many invitations, but only one painter agreed to come.”

“Paul Gauguin,” Hyunjin swiftly replies.

“Exactly. He was the first and last painter to move in with Vincent.”

“It seemed like the more he tried to escape loneliness, the more it found him,” Hyunjin muses, his eyes fixed on ‘Portrait of Gauguin’ by Vincent. The bright colors he asked you about earlier make you wonder if, beneath the spotlight, Hyunjin too feels lonely.

“Sometimes loneliness becomes a friend. You have to make room for it to allow other things to come in,” you say softly.

“It’s sad how nothing good came out of that roommate situation, though” he frowns, and you nod in agreement.

“Paul and Vincent were very different. They had a lot of eclectic views that often led to disagreements. I assume you know their most prominent one.”

“Yes, when Vincent cut off his ear.”

“Correct, he then wrapped it in newspaper and presented it to a prostitute in the nearby red-light district.”

“A prostitute…” Hyunjin muses, his thumb swiping slightly across his lower lip. “It seems like phantoms of his first love found him again. Even in his most disoriented state, he somehow remembered her.”

“You speak of love beautifully,” you suddenly say, before biting your tongue harshly, instantly regretting your words. But Hyunjin’s eyes seem to soften as he gazes at you, the warm light dancing across his pupils.

“It is a beautiful feeling.”

“Only to those who have beautiful souls,” you speak earnestly, and your words seem to morph into brushstrokes, painting the gallery in hues of red. Intimate, soft, too intimate all of the sudden.

“Vincent’s mental health rapidly declined, and he put himself back into the mental asylum,” you quickly clear your throat, though you can still feel Hyunjin’s eyes on you, not the painting. “Still, that’s when he created some of his most famous artworks, like ‘The Starry Night’. He was inspired by the view from the asylum’s window. It’s dominated by vivid yellow and blue, and the colors and paint seem to describe a world outside the artwork itself.”

“It’s breathtaking,” Hyunjin marvels, lost in the painting, leaning in until his nose almost brushes the canvas.

You suppress a giggle, but your laughter fades as you take in the mole right by his jaw, then the one by his neck. The delicateness of his face, the plumpness of his lips, and the curve of his lashes.

He’s beautiful. The painting could seep him in and he’d fit right in with the silver stars. Outshining them too, surely.

“I really liked the tour,” he smiles, nearly two hours of lazy strolls later. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” you grin back, grabbing his outstretched hand. His fingers wrap around yours slowly, deliberately, as if on a mission to ignite your nerve endings. To set your soul ablaze with his palm alone.

His hand holds yours for a few seconds longer than necessary. Your blush mirrors his when he finally lets go.

He quickly bows again, grabbing his bag from his manager, who was waiting by the door. He almost bumps into the handle on his way out, and you let out an endeared chuckle, your eyes lingering on his figure until he disappears into his black van.

You think you'll never see him again, two lines crossing serendipitously at one point, never to cross paths once more. The thought sends a pang of sorrow latching onto your heart, before you quickly brush it away.

But then you do see him again, the very following night, at that.

It is near nine p.m. when Martin exclaims suddenly, “Mr. Hwang!” and you freeze in your place, book guide in hand.

It has been exactly twenty-four hours since you last saw Hyunjin, but when his voice softly echoes through the art gallery, it feels like a lifelong ache finally soothed.

“Please, call me Hyunjin,” he says, shaking Martin’s hand, though his eyes quickly find yours. They stay on you, unmoving yet tender, like a cotton blanket draped over your being.

“How was the tour with Miss Yn?”

“Ah—“ his gaze finally drifts away from yours. “Yes, it was really nice. That's why I came again,” he explains, a touch sheepishly, and your quizzical eyes meet Martin’s.

“Hyunjin booked another private tour. He specifically requested you to be his guide,” Martin explains, and your eyes widen in shock. You don’t have time to reply because your manager quickly scurries away. “I’ll leave you two then. Have fun!”

You wait until Martin disappears into his office before turning to Hyunjin, who avoids your gaze, one hand deep in his pocket, moving side to side. You remain silent for a few moments, simply admiring the side of his face. You’ve always had a deep appreciation for art running through your veins, after all.

“Hi,” he finally says, his eyes quickly meeting yours. You can’t stop the smile that floods your face, coating every nook and cranny of your features.

“You came back,” you say with a breathy giggle.

“Mm,” he instantly grins. “I don’t know when I’ll be back in New York, so I wanted to truly memorize the art here.”

“When are you going home?” you ask as you take his bag again, your eyes taking in his outfit—a green cap this time, a knit vest over a white shirt, and a silver teddy bear necklace nestled perfectly against it. Pretty.

“Tomorrow. We had a tour stop here, and we’ll go back to Seoul now.”

“And you’ll be spending your final night in the city here?” you chuckle slightly, and he shrugs as if it’s the most obvious decision he ever had to make.

“Why not? I think it’s beautiful here.” though his eyes never move to look onto the paintings, gliding across your face instead.

“And I forgot to take pictures yesterday,” he quickly adds, pointing to the camera in his hands.

“I’ll help you then,” you offer, and he smiles so brightly that it renders you speechless, suddenly wondering if the first person who ever drew a portrait had a similar thought—that they saw a smile so beautiful they just needed to immortalize it.

Hyunjin is at ease before the camera. You can tell by the way he almost pretends the device isn’t there, his eyes fixed on the paintings, mere centimeters away from the canvas. He’s whisked away into another world. You see your love for art mirrored in his soul as well.

“Do you paint, by any chance?” you ask between pictures, and he nods.

“Whenever I have free time. And you?”

“I do. I can show you later, if you’d like.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he says, pointing his finger at you, before looking directly into the camera this time. “I’ve been painting magnolias lately.”

“Really? Why magnolias specifically?”

“I read a poem about them. It said that when magnolias wither, they aren’t considered beautiful anymore. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t at one point. It really moved me.”

“You have to be very optimistic to view it that way,” you say as you finally hand him the camera, satisfied with your pictures. You are both standing in front of ‘Almond Blossom,’ the pastel colors drawing you in.

“Withering flowers mean that at one point they were in full bloom. Grief means that at one point you did love,” you muse. “It takes a lot of gentleness to find beauty in endings, to celebrate them as proof of what once was. Don’t you think so?”

You turn to look at him when the flash of a camera catches you off guard.

Hyunjin looks at your picture, a soft smile on his face. “You fit right in with the flowers,” he compliments, though it does not feel superfluous or bearing a hidden intent. It’s a simple observation he wished to share.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, a blush sprouting from your very veins. You quickly fix your posture, pointing to the painting. “I told you yesterday that Vincent painted this for his brother Theo, to celebrate his newborn, whom he named after Vincent.”

“Yes, I remember,” he nods, slinging the camera over his neck and taking a picture of the painting up close. “It seemed to bring Vincent a lot of solace in his final days.”

“I’ve been thinking about your question, whether Vincent was happy. I think he was hopeful more than anything. He had hoped his works would be recognized, he had hoped he wouldn’t be as lonely anymore. Sometimes hope keeps you going much more than happiness.”

“Because happiness will eventually wear off?”

“Right, it’s only natural. But hope… it’s like a flame that never goes out. It might flicker and dim, but it will still be there on your darkest nights.” You bite your lip slightly, your thumb digging into your palm.

“I hope you’ll always have hope in your life, Hyunjin. You’ve been my favorite person to talk about Vincent with,” you say sincerely, your eyes unwavering from his.

You imprint the way his gaze softens into your mind, the slight blush that powders his cheeks, the way his teeth peek behind his smile. You memorize his velvety voice in your mind, the way he accentuates certain letters and how it pulls at the strings of your heart when he says—“I’m very happy I met you, Yn.”

May is gone, and with it Hyunjin, and you think you are a fool for thinking of him as often as you do after only five hours in his presence. You don’t know why your mind is permeated with his essence. But why wouldn’t it be? is the better question. When he’s beautiful, truly, body and soul.

You feel slightly less foolish when a postcard is delivered to your exhibition on a sunny Saturday, one month later. It depicts the front entrance of the Museum of Modern Art in Seoul.

June 13.

“yn,

i saw Vincent’s works once again in this month’s exhibition. somehow they seem less beautiful without our conversations.

i hope you’re surrounded by art, too.

hyunjin.”

June 23.

“hyunjin,

i visited claude monet’s immersive exhibition, you have to visit it as well, once you’re back in new york.

i am still surrounded by art, as always. i don’t think i could ever part from it.

did you finish your magnolias? i hope you’re seeing beauty in them even after they wither.

yn.”

July 5.

“yn,

claude’s works are so different from vincent’s... don’t you think it's beautiful that they lived at the same time yet depicted their world so differently?

my magnolias are finished. i’ve been drawing scenes from your exhibition lately, the picture i took of you is particularly inspiring. i hope you don’t mind.

hyunjin.”

september 26.

“hyunjin,

leaves are falling all over new york. new beginnings are upon us. i hope this view of my window inspires you too.

i wish you happiness no matter the season.

yn.”

october 7.

“yn,

i just saw the first snow at dawn, it was such a pretty view! i’m happy i’m alive today.

i hope snow reaches you fast enough, too.

stay warm.

with love,

hyunjin.”

october 23.

“hyunjin,

i’ve always preferred spring, but snow brought me such a happy opportunity. i’m invited to an exhibition in seoul, next month!

i’ll enjoy it well and think of our conversations.

with love,

yn.”

october 5.

“yn,

the weather is beautiful in seoul lately. i’m happy you’ll be here to see it.

it is late at night, and the moon is shining brightly. i hope it’ll shine as brightly for you too, in new york.

with love,

yours.”

The click of your black heels against the marble floors echoes through the museum, a comforting sound as you stroll through the immersive Vincent exhibition; now gracing Seoul. The colors wash over you, reflecting off your skin, swirling around you until you feel as though you’re being drawn into the very heart of the paintings.

“Enjoying the art, Yn?” a voice like honey drips across your being. Your heart skips a beat, plummets to your knees and races back to its place once again. You feel an ache inside you unfold. memories of Hyunjin’s voice rewriting themselves, perfecting your recollection of his accent and the tender way in which he spoke your name.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, though you refuse to turn around and meet his eyes. Not yet. The scent of his rose perfume is enough to have your heart rattling against your ribcage— a bird wishing to escape its cage and deliver your love letter to its rightful owner.

“Isn’t it an amazing coincidence we met here? In Seoul, no less,” he says, his voice airy as he inches closer.

“I know you’re the one who invited me,” you giggle, finally turning to meet his gaze. His eyes widen slightly before morphing into crescents, as if lifted from Vincent’s Starry Night.

“How did you know? I thought I kept it a secret in our postcards,” he grins sheepishly.

“I kept pestering Mr. Martin about why the museum invited me specifically until he finally told me you were behind it.”

“Well,” he licks his lips, his eyes roaming over your face. “I admit, I missed you. I wanted to see you again. And I happen to be a major contributor to the museum.”

“Fancy,” you beam, before your grin morphs to something much softer, as you realize that you are away from your work, and that the Hyunjin of your postcards is finally before you.

“I missed you too. Show me around?”

“Am I your guide now?”

“Mm. I expect you to be an expert.”

“Oh, I am.”

Hyunjin speaks of the paintings as if it’s his first time seeing them, finding new things to admire, new details to point out to you. You find it hard to keep up, only because your eyes seem more interested in observing him. You’ll tell him later that you were right in thinking he’d make every painting more mesmerizing.

But for now, you stroll together, his hand brushing against yours every now and then. Before long, you’re far from the museum, walking into the chilly Seoul night, his jacket draped over your shoulders.

And you talk, you talk about every painting you’ve seen since his departure, the flowers you’ve picked, and the strawberry field you visited at the end of June. He shares stories of his favorite painters and his beloved dog, Kkami, whom he misses dearly. He speaks of the moon and how your postcards lessened his loneliness. You tell him you’ve kept every card by your bedside, the first and last thing you see each day.

Suddenly your pinky is entwined with his, your cheeks ache from how much you’ve spoken and laughed, your heart lighter than it had ever been.

“Thank you for walking me to my hotel,” you smile softly.

He nods, his thumb swiping across your palm tenderly. It’s only after a while that he speaks again. “I know you said that happiness wears off eventually. But right now, the happiness i feel… I think it will last me for the next four months, at least.”

“Just four months?” you tease, and he giggles, tipping his head back. You wish you had your paintbrushes, your camera, a simple pen, anything to commit his laugh into something tangible.

“For a long time,” he finally says, quietly, resigned. Tomorrow’s flight ticket makes your heart ache, all of the sudden.

“I… I’ll get going. Thank you for inviting me,” you smile, dropping his hand. You know it’ll hurt the more you hold it, the easier it’d be for you to remember the softness of his hand.

So you walk back, you’re near the hotel door, a hand suddenly wraps around your wrist, the security guards both discreetly look away.

“Yn,” Hyunjin turns you around, his eyes are as wide as the full moon hanging close to earth, listening in to your conversation.

“You didn’t- you didn’t show me your paintings.” he says a bit too quickly, desperately.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“Back in New York, you promised to show me your paintings. You didn’t.”

“You remember?”

Hyunjin's chest heaves in response, his warm palms cradle your cheeks, his eyes speak of a yearning you haven’t thought existed. When his lips crash upon yours, fervently, passionately, like the collision of all stars in Starry Night, you have your answer.

He remembered. He remembered as much as you.

Epilogue— seven months later.

“Now… next question,” Hyunjin grins as he takes out a folded paper from a glass jar, five sets of camera’s all pointed at him in the shooting set of Elle Korea.

“If you could feel only one emotion for the rest of your life, what would you choose?”

Hyunjin puts the paper down, adjusts the sleeves of his Versace blue silk shirt. He doesn’t need to think too much to answer— he already has his reply.

“Someone told me, a long time ago, that hope keeps you going longer than happiness. Because happiness wears off eventually. But hope doesn’t. hope is like a flickering flame, it surges and it dims, but it doesn’t go out, so I choose hope.” he smiles suddenly, eyes looking into those of the staff behind the camera.

“That got deep all of the sudden, right? Done worry, Stay, I have hope, happiness and love, all at once.”

He chuckles quietly, picking up the last piece of paper.

“Finally… who’s your favorite painter? Ah, easy, it’s Vincent Van Gogh.”

“What's your favorite painting by him?” the shooting director asks behind the camera, his eyes fixate on the lens. He knows his love will be watching.

“A woman with a child on her lap. It’s not very known, but… if you look into it closely, beautiful things might come into your life and change it forever.”

from left to right, Woman with a Child on her Lap, 1883 — Portrait of Gauguin, 1888— The Potato Eaters, 1885—The Hill of Montmartre with Stone Quarry, 1886— Almond Blossom, 1890— The Starry Night, 1889.

#stray kids x reader #skz x reader #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #skz fluff #stray kids fluff #skz imagines #stray kids imagine #stray kids imagines #skz scenarios #stray kids scenarios #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin fluff #hyunjin fanfic #hyunjin imagines

758 notes · View notes

xfgpng · 11 months ago

Text

𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞

— : [ nsfw ] smut, pet names, unprotected sex, teasing (pov changes from 1st person to 3rd so just be prepared for that but it’s nothing too crazy)

— wc : 1.7k

your entire household was in a frenzy the minute the knews of ciel phantomhive’s arrival came. you didn’t understand what the fuss was about, having met the young earl just a few months ago at a charity fundraiser for the queen.

“hana would you please relax” you say dryly, “if you break another vase, father is going to fire you and this time i’m not going to speak up in your defence”

and it wasn’t like that was your first official meeting. you’re a writer and a journalist. it’s not as if your talents aren’t recognised by even the likes of the queen and you do find yourself in strange places more than you’d like to admit.

“but my lady” your maid sighs, “your father requested the place to be spotless and you know he checks twice”

“oh please” you roll your eyes, “father is just being ridiculous, prepare my bath, i’ll speak with the old man”

“yes my lady” she bows and hurries off in the direction of your private quarters just east of the house. you supposed your father wanted to make up for his absence with all the lavish gifts and the overly priced mansion. it would have to do, you weren’t really up for all the unnecessary bonding. you were far too old for that now.

“father..” you sigh, “is all this necessary?”

“of course it is!” your father frowns, “it’s very important to make a good first impression and then keep it that way”

you refrain from refrain your eyes.

“i’m surprised the earl didn’t ask to stay in a private hotel” you scoff, “is our home open to just anyone now?”

“y/n dear, go and get ready and stop being a pain in my ass” he shakes his head, “you’re more than welcome not to join us for the evening or tomorrow’s outing but remember, you’ll be disappointing me in the process”

“how very manipulative of you” you deadpan, “whatever, i’ll be down before dinner”

“that’s my girl” your father grins and this time you do roll your eyes.

if you take extra time getting ready, it’s not because you care about making an impression. you’ve met the young earl and his rather … interesting.. butler on multiple occasions. you’re an investigator yourself and often find yourself at the same scenes as them.

you do your best to avoid them as much as you can but you’re quite popular yourself. you have run ins more often than not, not that you’d share these things with your father.

“my lady” hana calls, knocking twice and waiting a moment before entering, “the guests have arrived”

“thank you hana” you sigh, “i’ll only be a moment”

“my lady would you like me to assist with your attire for this evening?” she asks, “your father thinks a dress would be lovely—”

“i’m wearing the pretty silver grey suit i bought last week at the boutique” you cut her off smiling, “the one you insisted i get 4 other colours to go”

hana smiles excitedly before collecting herself.

“well that’s a lovely choice” hana bows, ignoring the way you frown at her formality when it’s just the two of you so the other maids your father likes to order around must be just outside.

“ridiculous” you mutter before turning back to your vanity to finish off your makeup.

“she’s just get— ah, there she is!” your father says, “y/n dear, come down”

you keep the fake smile as you make your way down the stairs. you can feel eyes on you but you don’t give them any attention until you’re standing beside your father.

“miss y/n, how lovely to see you again” sebastian says

“ciel… sebastian” you say, “welcome to our home, father seems to have a thing for inviting guests to stay over like we’re a hotel so i do hope you enjoy your stay”

you can almost feel your fathers eye twitch but he doesn’t say anything.

“always a pleasure” sebastian chuckles

“dinner will be served in just a moment so please make yourself comfortable in the dining room” your father says and you know that’s his way of breaking the awkward tension or he’s just worried you’re going to embarrass him.

dinner is less awkward than you thought it would be. they discuss their business in town and why they’re here. you already know it’s because of the random elderly women in the area going missing.

your father works close with the mayor of your town as well as the police so it works in ciel’s favour.

bored?

you jump, almost dropping your fork. your father hardly notices but ciel looks over at sebastian.

“get out my head!” y/n glares at sebastian. the demon liked to mess with her any chance he could get because her reactions were always his favourite.

he smirks and makes a show of licking his lips when they make eye contact. she squeezes her thighs underneath the table but refuses to give him the satisfaction.

 it didn’t matter how attracted she was to him. he was trouble.

the first brush of sebastian’s tongue against her own sent a shiver up her spine. as if they had minds of their own, her arms reached up and wound around his neck and his hands slip up her dress and squeezed her ass.

she moaned into his mouth and she could feel him smirking into the kiss. he was so cocky but it didn’t do anything but turn her on even more.

“i want to be inside you” he whispered, “right here”

they were between two abandoned buildings and she could still here people walking around and talking. they had been on a case and the police weren’t far from where they stood.

“let me” he kissed her softly, “i want to feel you”

“yes.. okay” she nodded, pressing up against him, “but we have to be quick”

“i’ve never been one to be quick darling” he chuckles, “but we have time”

“sebastian, please” she whined, “touch me”

“i am touching you” he grinned, slipping his hand inside her panties, “is this what you need?”

“you know what i need” she frowns, “unless you’re all bark and no bite?”

 she smirks when she sees his eyes turn a darker red and he stops smirking.

“mark your fucking words sweetheart” he grips her neck, “i’ll make sure you never forget me”

and he wasn’t joking. it had taken weeks, if not months, to stop thinking about him and his stupidly long tongue or how big his—

“y/n, is everything alright dear?” her father asked

“yes” she lied, “i’m fine, please continue”

she could feel his eyes on her again only this time he was smirking. it’s like he knew exactly what she was thinking about and he was so good at getting under her skin even if they hadn’t seen each other for a while.

his long fingers slid inside of her as he watched her face carefully. he never took his eyes off her and as she moaned, biting her lip to keep her voice down, he knew he’d never get enough.

he needed to possess all of her. he wanted to hurt her so good that she’d never want anyone else but him. no human would ever compare to what he could give her.

she stands to excuse herself once the table has been cleared. she still had things to do and being around him would only distract her.

she wanted to get ahead of it so they’d leave sooner.

her body tenses when she felt someone following close behind her. from the dining hall, she could still hear her father talking and laughing and it was clear the elderly man was intoxicated. she would feel sorry for ciel but then again, he chose to stay.

“going to bed so soon?” sebastian asks, “you barely had any dessert”

“i’m not hungry” she says, not looking back but she knows he’s still following her up to her bedroom.

“that’s a shame” he sighs, “i quite liked the creamy texture”

“go have some more” she says dryly, finally facing him, “your rooms aren’t on this floor”

“i’m aware” he tilts his head sideways, “are you not happy with this arrangement?”

“.. it’s my fathers house” she tells him, ignoring the tiny little voice in her head telling her off for being so rude in the first place, “i have no say”

“i suppose” he shrugs

“do you.. want to come inside?” she asks once they’re outside her bedroom and she sees the maids hurry off somewhere else. it was going to be a long night, her father was a heavy drinker when he wanted to be and he could talk for hours.

“the pleasure is all mine miss y/n” he bows, hiding his grin, “thank you”

she expects it so she’s not surprised when he grabs her wrist and pins her against the wall beside her bedroom door.

“i’ve been thinking about all the ways i want to have you” he whispers, leaning closer to kiss her cheek but keeping his hands firmly on her waist.

“is that so?” she laughs softly, “that’s too bad, I barely thought about you”

“what a liar” he chuckles, “you can’t hide from me even if you tried to darling”

“you think too highly of yourself sebastian” she sighs, “it’s a shame really, the way you—”

she never gets to finish her sentence when he presses up against her body and grips her jaw. she’s a pretty thing, with her wide and curious eyes.

if he could, he would devour all of her but that would be boring and sebastian wasn’t a boring kind of demon.

certainly not when it came to his prey.

“tell me sweetheart, what is it that you really want?” he asks, “and don’t lie to me, i’ll know”

“if you already know so much, why ask” she whispers, “just do whatever you want with me”

“careful” he warns, “you might regret those words”

“then make sure i won’t be able to speak” she smirks and he would definitely enjoy wiping that grin off her face.

 he just hoped ciel would keep the older man busy for the evening until he was done.

#[ 🪼 ] xfg writes #sebastian x reader #black butler sebastian smut #black butler sebastian x reader #sebastian michaelis x you #sebastian michaelis x reader #sebastian michaelis smut #kuroshitsuji sebastian michaelis #black butler sebastian #kuroshitsuji sebastian #sebastian michaelis

987 notes · View notes

sporesgalaxy · 2 months ago

Text

hey I updated the Pierre Document. The document with all the information about which version of events I consider canon to Pierre. the Pierre document where i write down random shit all the time. that document.

posting this as im on the verge of passing out so i dont have time ti regret it yayyyyyyy

•••

Pierra's family are avid travelers, possible for mild-mannered citizens like them due to their home island Old Tool's status as a travel hub and their family history of working in the Marine shipbuilding and sailing industry. Thus, Pierra being taken along on a pleasure cruise with the rest of her family would be an unheard of luxury in most of the world, but it wasn't originally all that big a deal to Pierra.

Things took an unexpected turn after the cruise ship Pierra was on had already crossed the Grand Line (using sea prism stone technology) and entered the East Blue.

Since the East is supposedly the safest of the four blues, the hired Marine guards were lazy in their security measures, drinking and partying to congratulate themselves on crossing the Grand Line without incident.

Therefore the ship's protectors were woefully unprepared when the Buggy Pirates suddenly attacked! The Pirates were on their way to Reverse Mountain, and energized after reuniting with their captain and escaping Marine custody!

The pirate attack happened while Pierra was avoiding her family (and especially her mother) on a quiet part of the ship and quietlt spiralling into despair about how she has no idea what to do with her life. The terrifying pirate attack was almost a welcome distraction.

With no one she knew close at hand to worry about the safety of, Pierra's first instinct was to hide, and she was scared enough to employ the devil fruit powers she swore never to use in order to hide in an impossibly small space! This gambit backfired however, and to Pierra's acute horror, her hiding spot inside a crate of alcohol was taken aboard the Big Top as loot.

Pierra managed to stay hidden as a stowaway on the Bigtop for at least a couple of weeks. Then, the Buggy Pirates met Portugaz D. Ace, who managed to be the first person to notice the giant red centipede sneaking around the ship. Luckily for Pierra (who spur-of-the-moment decided to go by Pierre and "pretend" to be a guy), Ace is nice and believes Pierre when he says that he never meant to cause any trouble. And luckily for the Buggy Pirates, Pierre is down to his very core desperate for approval and has a lot of chitinous helping hands he's delighted to lend as long as you tell him he did a good job.

--------

Tiny Pierra lets ants crawl all over her. She watches them tear apart a dying grasshopper in the garden, piece by piece.

Pierra looks with wonder in her eyes at a rotting fish covered with maggots. At a dead baby bird that fell from its nest too soon. At a bag full of bloody ducks her father shot.

Pierra gets too upset sometimes, and too frightened frequently.

Pierra hides as often as possible.

When Pierra starts getting big, she wishes she was still small. She used to like squeezing into tight spaces; inside a box, under a small desk, under a bed. She doesn't fit anymore. Sometimes she feels like she's stopped fitting anywhere at all.

Pierra sneaks into other people's rooms when she's alone in the house, just to look around without disturbing anything. Just to hear the silence.

Pierra takes food she is not supposed to eat, just to get away with it. Just to test how far she can go without being noticed. Just to be unnoticed and forgotten on purpose, instead of as a reflex.

When Pierra is 16, she goes to the market with her mother. While her mother speaks to someone, Pierra breaks off a tiny piece of the most interesting fruit at the stand. No one notices her do it this time. Pierra chews and swallows the piece of fruit, and it tastes bad, but Pierra is pleased to have learned what it tastes like without permission.

Later that evening, alone in her room, Pierra thinks she is dreaming, or maybe losing her mind. She wonders half-heartedly if the fruit was poisonous and she is dying-- but she doesn't want to disturb anyone if she's wrong again.

So, she does what she always does when she thinks she is losing her mind: distracts herself and waits for it to pass.

It passes, eventually, but this won't be the last time. She learns that it's not madness, but the curse of a Devil. She learns she can't swim anymore. She prays for forgiveness. She tells nobody.

When Pierra gets too upset and admits it her mother a year later, she is begged never to transform again. To hide it forever, for her own safety. Human traffickers could be anywhere, her mother says, and Devil Fruit users fetch a high price. Pierra promises to keep hiding. Pierra wonders if it will be easier now, having someone who understands.

Pierra's mother goes back to acting like nothing ever happened. It doesn't get much easier.

---

"It'll be okay," says Pierra's mother gently, drawing her daughter into her arms. Pierra wraps her arms around her mother as well, because she is supposed to.

"We'll figure this out..." her mother continues, "...we can fix this."

Pierra stares over her mother's shoulder as she feels the last remains of her hope crumble away in silence.

That's it, then. Despite everything, despite so many years of cyclical disappointment and pain... Pierra's mother would not give up on "fixing" her.

She and her mother had been repeating this painful exercise for Pierra's entire life. Over and over, every year, every month, every week, for as long as Pierra could remember.

Pierra is so tired of trying to be fixed. She is tired of trying to be something she isn't. She is tired, so so tired, of letting down people who see something in her.

She had hoped that after such a spectacular failure as this one, her mother might finally give up on fixing her. She had hoped that her mother might start trying to learn how to forgive her, instead.

That hope was gone now.

Now, Pierra can see that her mother will never stop waiting for someone less disappointing to take Pierra's place. Pierra can see that her mother's pity will always be directed at the less disappointing person Pierra is certain she can never be.

Wrapped in her mother's arms, Pierra has never felt more alone.

"We'll figure it out together," her mother adds, squeezing Pierra's shoulders tighter.

----

Humans have to be taught everything. We're very good at learning. It's what we evolved to do.

Some animals have to be taught how to do things. How to hunt, where to go.

But many animals exhibit behaviors that are never taught to them.

Humans have a precious few. Holding our breath underwater, hanging on with our arms.

The less social the animal, the less learning it tends to do.

The more its behavior is ruled by instinct.

-----

Most Observation Haki users learn to tune out the auras of nonaggressive bugs, consciously or unconsciously.

Otherwise, their senses would be overwhelmed by spiritual "noise" from hundreds of tiny auras. The glut of information can make it harder to notice actual threats, and the easiest solution is to ignore typically irrelevant details-- i.e., bugs.

It's something like mentally tuning out the sound of cicadas in a forest when you are listening for a distinctive bird call.

In his centipede form, because of his skittish nature and typical lack of malicious intent paired with centipede instincts from his Zoan abilities, Pierre's aura usually registers as a genuine nonaggressive bug aura. It can therefore go easily overlooked, despite Pierre's large size.

Like if our proverbial birder was listening for bird calls, but Pierre was a bird whose call almost perfectly mimicked a cicada.

It takes a very skilled Observation Haki user and a very sharp mind to take in ALL auras in an area without tuning out small details like harmless bugs. To these sort of people, centipede Pierre can be detected just as well as anything else, and his large size will even cause him to stick out.

In the cicada metaphor, these people are sharp enough to identify any bird calls and count the number of cicadas calling at the same time. And Pierre sounds like a cicada...but not a species of cicada the expert listening recognizes. Thus, Pierre sticks out.

Pierre's attitude can also ruin his bug aura camoflauge. If he is too focused on anything besides his own survival, his aura ceases to be nonthreatening or buglike enough and he will no longer go overlooked.

For bird-Pierre, this would be like accidentally letting out a distinctly bird-ish squawk rather than the mimic-cicada call.

-------

B: [unlocking a chest] This poster better be the best thing since sliced bread or I am completely SCREW--

[Pierre is revealed to be inside the chest. Buggy gawks at him.]

P: I- I know how this looks!

P: But it's not the same as last time!! I'll leave as soon as I--!

B: [snotty, sobbing, frantically grabbing Pierre's shoulders] NO!!!!!! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!!!!

P: !!!! [Pierre is wide-eyed and speechless]

B: [stops sobbing] wait a second.

B: [shaking Pierre by his lapels, angry now] Where the HELL have you been, Chucklehead?!!!

P: [being comically shaken around too much to form a response]

B: I haven't seen you since we got arrested on--!!!

B: [stops shaking Pierre, squints at him] .....OHHHHH.

[Pierre has no idea whats going on, is still being grabbed by the lapels]

B: [angry smile] [lets go of P and crosses arms] I see what happened!!!!

B: [vindictive] The government took back your pardon because they abolished Warlords!

B: [pokes Pierre in the chest] So after two years of thinking you're BETTER than me,

[Pierre's eyes widen]

B: You had no choice but to come crawling back!!! [flicks Pierre's nose] GYAHAHAHAA!!!

B: [patting Pierre's head condescendingly] Don't worry Chucklehead, I won't make you grovel. Much. [mean grin]

P: Wait, what?! [earnest] I-I'm not-- I don't think I'm above you, Buggy!! That would be crazy!!

B: [smug aura cracks slightly] Eh?

P: [sheepish] I'm surprised you even remember my name! A famous pirate like you must meet so many amazing people, I didn't think I'd stick out at all...

[Buggy gets smug again, and a bit flustered]

B: Well, heh heh...

B: [remembers he's mad] Then why'd you ditch me?!!

P: I-I didn't ditch you!

B: Like hell!!! All the Buggy Pirates got pardoned when I became a warlord, but YOU never came back!!

P: Because I'm not a Buggy Pirate?! I was a stowaway!

B: [gawks again, like "are you serious??"]

P: ...you...wanted me to come back??

B: [dodging the question] YOU'RE DODGING THE QUESTION!!!

B: What were you even doing for th last two years that was so much better than ME-- MY CREW!!!!!!

[FLASHBACK PANEL: Pierre on the Snail. He is saying "No, Mom-- I-- I DO want to be here. The science is really interesting, I just--"]

P: ...Well, keheh... [drags hands down face] ...Ugh. Trust me, I did NOT wanna be there.

P: So, when the navy caught the Buggy Pirates, they saw my Devil Fruit power.

P: [before Buggy can ask] I know I told you I've had this since I was a kid, but I never used it before I was with you. It was always this big secret.

P: Anyways, I was really afraid that I'd get in trouble for hiding it, so I told them I got the Devil Fruit on your ship and that I was a hostage.

[Buggy squints at Pierre. It's a good thing Buggy likes him and is exactly as cowardly]

P: They believed it, and I was hoping they would just let me go home, but they really wanted my Zoan powers, so I ended up stuck with the Marines...

[FLASHBACK PANEL: Marine representative says "You've got a unique ability, Ms. Pierra. Opportunities like this shouldn't be wasted! Please, consider our offer, at least--" Pierre interrupts: "I'll do it." He looks terrified and miserable as he says it. What's his problem?]

P: And that's where I've been for...two whole years.

[FLASHBACK PANELS: Pierre thinking "I have to get out of here." "I hate this." "I can't do this anymore." Pierre talking on the snail again, "Yeah, I'll look into research positions." "No, I haven't looked yet." "I've been really busy..." "I just haven't gotten around to it." "I still wanna do something different."]

B: Okay. So how the hell did you end up in my closet???

P: Uh.

P: They sent me with the guys who were supposed to arrest you, actually, but I ditched them.

[FLASHBACK PANEL: Pierre is on a Marine ship looking miserable and indecisive. Suddenly it is chopped in half by Crocodile. Pierre survives by hiding in a barrel & manages to paddle ashore.]

B: And you snuck all the way in here? On an island full of bounty hunters??

P: [manic grin] ...I guess!

P: I'm kind of just trying to not die right now!

P: Thanks for not killing me, by the way! Kehaha!

B: Kill you?? Of COUUURSE not, Pierro-chan!!!

B: [claps Pierre on the back] Why would I kill my own PERSONAL bodyguard!!!

P: ........HUH?

#1pc #centipierre #op oc

174 notes · View notes