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heartingw · 2 years ago

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If you're too shy (let me know) - Ellie Williams

Warning: adult content even if not explicit; pining!ellie and pining!reader; ellie being lowkey a tease; kind of invasion of privacy; praising; making out; dina being a good friend; jesse is reader's brother, but reader's physical characteristics is not implied (safe space for all women); ellie being so damn in love with reader; heavy petting; joel is not dead here; a little bit perverted, but mostly romantic; maybe typos and bad writing since i'm not an english speaker; both pov's, but you'll know; also me being fucking cheesy, so if you don't like it, don't read the final 'letter'. I'm a romantic, sorry.

Words: almost 3k.

A/N: I hope it's not bad and too rushed. If you see anything weird in the writing, please let me know and I'll fix it immediately. I don't have a beta reader, so…

♥ To be Ellie's patrol partner you had to know that she often went on patrol looking extremely tired from spending hours of the night strumming her guitar, drawing, or writing songs.

Jesse and Dina were already used to trying to hold some kind of conversation with her - or gossip, Ellie loved a good gossip - to keep her awake and alert all the way back to Jackson in those days. But it was a little hard to do that all the time, since most of the time they didn't have much knowledge about her personal hobbies. And neither of them were particularly good at drawing or creative enough to write song lyrics.

That's why Ellie ended up, somehow, getting close to you.

Since you're Jesse's sister, she's known you pretty much since when she arrived in Jackson years ago. A shy girl who only answered when you were spoken to or when Jesse forced it out of you. Ellie never minded. In fact, she hadn't even paid much attention to you at first. Living in Jackson, having a peaceful life after the hell she and Joel had gone through had left her a little bewildered for the first few months.

Honestly, she only started talking to people because Dina decided that they would become best friends whether she wanted to or not and started talking to the green eyed girl at any opportunity. And Jesse, as a good boyfriend, went along.

Ellie was 16 when you heard her playing guitar at dawn on the porch of her house.

Though still a little shy, you apologized and immediately recognized the song Ellie was playing, one Joel had just taught her. Smiling and singing the rest of the lyrics that you had interrupted. And even a little embarrassed to have been seen playing outside, Ellie couldn't help but be intrigued by you for the first time in two years.

Over the time, the friendship grew as well as an internal conflict within Ellie.

She found that you liked several different types of music and sometimes hummed the lyrics to her. That your brother had found a music player that still worked and that you were able to charge it and since then you always listened to music before bed. That you, just like her, liked to write, but you never showed anything you wrote. Ellie didn't mind that much, tho. After all, she never showed anyone her private notes either.

She had noticed that you always had a soft smile when she played any song for you. That you had the habit of biting your lower lip and that you lifted your eyebrows while talking to people, giving them full attention.

She noticed that you rejected all men who approached you with the intention of flirting. And that you never looked at any of them with any kind of desire. Ellie also noticed how much you liked her hands and that your eyes always went to her mouth when she wet her lips with her tongue.

When Ellie realized how much she paid attention to you, she understood how fucked she was.

Jesse's sister. The girl she knew who had grown into a fucking beautiful woman. Who had also become a close friend. Who liked music, liked to write (God knows what), and that seemed genuinely curious when Ellie spoke some random curiosity about space.

Suddenly you had become the reason Ellie wrote romantic lyrics and poems during the night.

On your 22nd birthday Ellie found out she wasn't exactly discreet about her feelings for you. Her eyes widened when Dina sat next to her in your small party and asked if it was that year she would finally take her chance and confess to you.

Ellie didn't even know if you were into women, she wasn't going to spoil your friendship like that.

After most of the people had left the party, Ellie approached you. You looked fucking pretty in a summer dress and Ellie was feeling like crap for having to force herself not to look at your legs and breasts.

"Hey, I have something for you."

You interrupted what you were saying to Jesse and turned fully to her, a cheerful smile on your face. "Oh, so that's why you brought your backpack. I was wondering why you came here with it."

"Did you really think I wasn't going to give you anything for your birthday?" Ellie asked you with a side smile and teasing voice. "So much faith on me, I see."

She pulled a notebook out of her backpack. The cover was adorned with constellations and symbols of zodiac signs - Ellie had told you how people used to relate the day they were born to personalities and you had become obsessed with it.

Your eyes widened, delighted with the gift and your hands slowly moved towards the notebook, picking up gently while whispering her name like you couldn't believe what you were seeing. In the blink of an eye you already had your arms around her neck, hugging her tight and putting your face on her neck.

"Fuck, Ellie, thank you so, so much! I've wanted a new one for so long and Jesse never brought me one from patrols." Your voice was charged with emotion as you thanked her in her ear. Ellie knew that writing was like therapy for you – you'd already mentioned this several times –, she also remembered when you complained to her you had already filled out all the pages of your notebook and Jesse never brought a new one, but always brought something to Dina.

"Maybe I didn't give you one so you wouldn't write those things anymore, can you imagine if our parents read that?" Ellie's eyes turned to Jesse, who was smiling and teasing his sister with no real malice involved. "I didn't even know you knew those things. So intense that I blushed."

Quickly you turned to slap your brother's arm, your ears and cheeks red, and mouth slightly open with shock. "You weren't even supposed to have touched that notebook, let alone read it!" Your voice sounded high-pitched.

"My little sister, now a woman. Writing p- ow!" Dina pulled on Jesse's ear, causing a groan of pain from the man who then burst out laughing and gave you a bear hug. "Chill out, I'm just joking."

Ellie watched as Jesse laughed and you tried to get out of his embrace still trying to slap his arm weakly. Dina also laughed as she told her boyfriend to leave his sister alone.

If there was one thing Ellie was very proud of about herself, it was that she always minded her own business and respected others' privacy. But what her friend said was like a vortex in her head. Jesse asking what you would do if your parents read what you wrote. You, all red and embarrassed.

What the fuck do you write in your notebooks? ♥

It was one of those days that Ellie went on patrol extremely sleepy.

It wasn't something she was proud of, but this time it wasn't her fault. It was yours. What do you usually write? She thought maybe it was something like horror, but Ellie knew you were fearful and didn't like to be scared. And horror wouldn't leave that fucking beautiful red color on your cheeks.

Could it be something naughty?

God, Ellie fucking knew you had a perverted side that you let slip once or twice, but you're not as open about it as her or Dina. Did you write dirty stuff in your notebook? What would you write about? About characters you created? About people you knew? About yourself? Ellie scolded herself at the thought you could write about her.

If you were to write about her, what would you write?

"I hope there won't be any infected today or we will die in less than 2 minutes," Dina said with a teasing voice. "What got you so distracted today?"

Letting out a sigh, Ellie decided to trust Dina. It's not like her friend is going to tell Jesse what she was going to say anyway. If there's one thing Dina believed in the 'chicks before dicks' code. Honestly, Ellie needed to unravel before she went crazy.

"It's just," she cleared her throat. "I can't fucking stop thinking about what Jesse said at the party. About the notebook."

"Oh, that," the brunette let out a low chuckle as she shook her head. "Well, I might know a thing or two, but I won't tell you."

"Are you fucking kidding me? Thought I was your best friend." Ellie's voice sounded playful. "C'mon, throw me a bone."

Dina felt bad she was having so much fun at Ellie's expense, but she couldn't help but find it funny how the auburn-haired girl wanted to know anything that was related to you. As she got older, Ellie had become a more closed off person and disinterested in other people outside her personal circle. Seeing her grow closer to you was impressive to say, at least. Dina liked you much better than Cat.

"Look, Jesse didn't give many details, but that day he seemed a little dumbfounded by what he read," Dina spoke as she led her horse to go slower. They were arriving at the patrol building. "He commented something about how he didn't imagine you'd write those things, but that he should have expected it by now, since you're an adult."

When they arrived at the building, Ellie and Dina got off the horses and grabbed their backpacks. As they walked up the stairs, Dina wondered if she was doing the right thing by telling her friend what she knew, but she was tired of seeing the two of you obviously crushing on each other without doing anything about it.

"Listen up, I didn't tell you anything. You don't know anything! But Jesse said you wrote about girls. Intimate letters about girls. Now can you stop making excuses for yourself and try to get your fucking dream girl?"

Ellie was not religious, but she thanked God at that moment for the opportunity. You liking girls was a victory. Now she needed to convince you that the two of you would be fucking awesome together.

♥

If Ellie thanked God earlier, now she was cursing him. If he really existed, he was doing some kind of cruel test on her.

A simple and very organized room. It was easy to see what you liked when she walked in. Your books, your posters, your desk with some pencils and pens lying around. The slightly open drawer that Ellie could see the notebook she had given you as a gift inside.

She couldn't hear you in the bathroom, since it was downstairs. She didn't even know if you would take a long time in the shower. But her eyes were glued to the drawer and her fingers were itching to pick up the notebook and read at least one page of what you wrote.

"Fuck," she whispered as she got closer to the drawer. "I'm such a fucking bad person."

And it was at that moment that she, without making a noise, opened the drawer.

♥

Even with the world pretty much ending, you loved the fact that Jackson allowed people to have a little bit of peace. This allowed you to dress more comfortably - you were not one of the people responsible for patrols - so wearing dresses, for example, wasn't a problem for you. And you liked it.

Which led you to wear a dress today. Today, the day Ellie had arranged to watch a movie with you. In her house.

With limited resources, you had to make do with the basics of personal hygiene. Soap and a simple shampoo did their best to keep you clean and smelling good. And you had to admit you used it a lot to always make a good impression on Ellie.

The girl with a freckled face and green eyes you've been in love with since you were 14 years old.

But today Ellie was acting differently. Ever since you came out of the bathroom, already dressed, she was acting weird. Not a bad weird, but weird all the same.

You could tell Ellie was touching you more than usual. Her hand guiding you by soft touches in you back while taking you to her house, sending shivers down your neck. Her whispering things in your ear as if she was telling you a secret and 'unintentionally' touching her lips to your ear while sitting on her couch during the movie. Her voice sounding hoarser than usual. Jesus Christ, you didn't even know someone's voice could sound so hot.

Ever since you met Ellie, she had never spoken or acted like this to you. Maybe it was because you were Jesse's sister or she wasn't attracted to you. The only thing you had was your imagination. And you imagined a lot of things with Ellie Williams.

Your notebooks were proof of that.

What you weren't expecting was a scene of a couple kissing deeply in the movie. It was a suspense movie you didn't even remember the title. The chances of those characters dying were high, but at that moment, the man was pulling the woman by her hair while devouring her mouth. Fuck, you could see their tongue inside each other's mouths.

With your body rigid with embarrassment and your throat dry, you could feel your face heat up as you took a deep breath. Then you felt Ellie's eyes on you. Her hand slowly reached yours while she got closer, her shoulders touching your when she slightly leaned forward staring into your eyes.

"Hey," her voice low, she was so close you could feel her breath hitting your cheeks. You didn't look in her direction. "You alright?"

The guy took off the woman's blouse while kissing her neck. The woman let out a moan as she tried to rip off his shirt. Your eyes turned to Ellie's and you gave her a faint smile. "Yeah, I'm good."

Emerald eyes stared at your mouth. Her face tilted slightly as she moved closer and closer. The hand that had previously touched yours was now holding your chin lightly not allowing you to move your face away from her. Not that you really wanted to. "Bet you are."

Her lips were like a phantom touch, making you crave for her. Her nose lightly caressing yours. Ellie could get you mesmerized easily. The moans became background noise. "Ellie..."

"Let me kiss you," she sounded almost desperate. You wondered if she wanted you as much as you wanted her. "I promise it'll be good. It's going to be so fucking good."

Kissing ellie was hot as lava.

♥

Kissing girls has always been good. They were soft everywhere, and it felt so good to feel every bit of them during the kiss. Their arms around her neck, the soft waist that Ellie loved to squeeze against her. Their weight on her lap and their breasts pressed against hers. The moans they let out against her mouth. Kissing women made perfect sense to Ellie.

But kissing you was a fucking whole new experience.

Maybe it was the feelings involved. Ellie remembers that Dina had mentioned how special it was to be with someone you really loved. Now she gets it. She understands the way you kiss her back so enthusiastically, as if you've been waiting for her all your life. She understands because she's been writing songs about what it would be like to feel your mouth against her.

Her hands ran down your back and arms until they stopped at your waist, pushing you against the couch. Your body didn't reject hers, you obeyed Ellie's silent commands without a second thought. Your hands went to her neck, pulling her against you. Your legs wrapped around her waist, making your pretty dress slip up to your hips.

Every piece of clothing that came out, Ellie was more sure that you were everything she ever wanted. Your fucking delicious moans, your warm skin against hers, your mouth demanding hers, your hands running possessively down her body, you whining her name. The way you fucking begged her.

The way you fucking tasted against her mouth.

You, with a thin blanket of sweat on your skin guiding her to the ground, climbing on top of her, kissing her body in every way. Using your tongue to send shivers down every part of Ellie's body. Calling her beautiful, while kissing her stomach and lightly squeezing her breasts.

"I've always dreamed of this." Your voice came out fluttered as you made your way between her legs.

Ellie fucking loved space. And she felt you show her the whole fucking universe with your tongue.

♥

"If your freckles spread over the rest of your body like on your face, I would kiss and caress each of her with my tongue. Did you know that? All I can think about at night is your husky voice saying my name as I imagine you lying next to me in bed. Your fingers dancing through my body and your mouth glued to mine as if you can't ever let me go. And I wouldn't. Not where you can't reach me. I wonder if I would ever have the courage to hand you these letters. If I'll be able to taste you one day as I always write on these pages. Holding you in my arms while I drink everything you can offer me between your legs. I wouldn't let you go until all you could think about was me.

I don't know if I'd be enough for you, Ellie.

But I would give everything for you to love me as I love you. To kiss me like you kiss me whenever I think of you while I make myself come in my own hands."

#ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie x you #ellie williams #tlou2 #my writing #tlou x reader #tlou2 x reader

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wasjustred · 2 years ago

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See Me After Class - NSFW Larissa Weems x f!Reader

Summary: Your new boss pays you a visit.

Pairing(s): Larissa Weems x femprof!Reader

Warnings: Smut, under-negotiated dynamic, Mommy kink at the very end if you squint, cunnilingus (reader giving), fingering, orgasm denial, dom!Larissa and sub!Reader

Word Count: ~3.4k

Author’s Note: My first reader insert as well as my first attempt at smut! I hope y’all enjoy - feedback is always welcome (and greatly appreciated, especially as this is an un-beta-ed work)! ♡ ╱ AO3

“You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”

You allow the air to settle before prodding your students, perched comfortably against the front edge of your desk. “Someone explain for us what Lord Henry meant by this.” The usual array of hands shoot up, eager and willing as they are, swaying discreetly in anticipation of being called upon. It’s everything you had hoped for before starting this job; you spent weeks prepping lesson plans and brushing up on Outcast literature before your official interview had even been scheduled, losing sleep and your appetite equally over the thought that you might not secure the position, and almost more so that if you did, the students wouldn’t take to you. But this sight… it is as reaffirming as any. With a modest hope of hearing from someone new, your eyes roam the rows and columns of seated students. But it’s an unexpected figure who draws your attention to the far back:

“Principal Weems.. Please, indulge us.” You gesture widely with an open palm. Your nonchalance frankly betrays the anxiety her presence brings. Another observation so soon after the first? And so early in the term? You have to wonder if one of your students has complained, or perhaps another professor. Were you doing a bad job? Were your lessons subpar?

It’s clear, though, that despite her authority Weems is embarrassed to have been caught, even more so to have been called out on it so unceremoniously. Perhaps you’re not as powerless here as you thought.

“Well,” The blonde pulls back her shoulders and levels her gaze on you. “It has been a minute, but if I’m not mistaken, I do believe Lord Henry was referring to Dorian’s seemingly virtuous nature in comparison to his own glaring hedonism. By all accounts, we desire and are captivated by the things we refuse ourselves.” She continues, arching a brow, “I believe Lord Henry also said that ‘the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself’. It is both a warning and a call to pleasure.”

Any surprise you might have felt at Larissa’s adeptness, any residual apprehension at her presence, is easily overpowered by the sudden and shameless wave of heat that comes to rest between your thighs. She must notice as she grins wickedly at your attempt to play it off, crossing one ankle over the other and lowering the open book in front of your lap.

“Very good. I’m glad to see your Nevermore education paid off.” Sparse chuckles crop up from your students as the final bell announces the official end of the school day. They waste no time in rushing past each other towards the door, and you’re glumly aware that your calls to read the next two chapters for class tomorrow fall on deaf ears.

“I didn’t realize Mr. Wilde was still part of the curriculum.” Larissa follows the steps down past your students’ desks and comes to rest in front of you, hands clasped behind her.

“And yet you’ve proven yourself to be a remarkably apt student. Impressive.” Your eyes twinkle. The degree at which you have to tilt your head back is not an unpleasant one, stretching muscles that had already been whining after the hour-long class session. You break eye contact briefly to reach behind you and toss the worn copy of today’s topic on your desk, and in that short timespan Larissa evidently decides to test your professional resolve.

“Remarkable students are rewarded for their diligence, are they not?” You swivel back to her, brows raised. … intriguing. Hot, even, you have to admit.

“Was it diligence, or pure luck?” Larissa scrunches her nose at this response, clearly - amusingly - displeased.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been reading at the pace of your lesson plans.”

“So you did know Mr. Wilde was ‘still part of the curriculum’?”

“... I don’t appreciate your tone, Ms. L/N.” Larissa looms over you, forcing you back against the edge of your desk. Your hands instinctively shoot out behind you, white-knuckling the oak in an attempt to keep yourself steady (both mentally and physically). Your brain rapidly ricochets between processing how little space remains between the two of you and the fact that the school’s headmistress, your boss, Larissa, has taken to following your lessons plans of her own volition.

“All due respect, you do pay me to read between the lines, Principal Weems,” you respond. She seems delighted with this, a puff of warm air landing against your lips as she chuckles. Your fingers twitch against your desk. If you stretched them out, there’s a chance you’d reach her, brushing against the clothed expanse of her thigh.

“You have a very interesting understanding of what you’ve been hired to do here.”

“Oh?”

“Mhmm.” Larissa closes the leftover distance, reaching long fingers up to grasp the tip of your chin. It feels like whatever air you can get here, eye-level with her chest, is trapped in your lungs. “.. look at me, darling.”

It takes everything within you not to moan once you meet her gaze and realize she looks absolutely ravenous: pupils blown, tongue running slowly along the length of her bottom lip as she watches you. Chest rising and falling in time with her rapid heartbeat.

“Oh.”

Your lips meet in a hot, desperate clash of tongue and teeth, no indication as to who’s moved first. You grasp wildly at her forearms, shoulders, neck - any stretch of skin you can dig your fingertips into, pushing yourself up as tall as you can to reach further into her. A phone rings somewhere off to your left and you grunt, shoving the contents of your desk off to the side in a clatter. Larissa laughs.

“Eager, are we?” Before you can form a coherent response she’s making a grab for your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the top of the desk and parting your legs as she comes to stand between them. A shiver rolls through you toe-to-spine as her fingernails drag tantalizingly - painstakingly - up your sides, rounding out at the tops of your shoulders and coming down so harsh along your back you’re positive she’s marked you through your blouse. You whimper despite a valiant effort not to, eliciting a devilish smirk from the blonde.

“Larissa, th-the door. Please.” She’s nothing if not sensible, immediately abandoning the space between your legs to switch the lock with a satisfying ‘thunk’. The less pronounced sound of a shade being drawn reaches you, as well, before the steady refrain of her high heels against linoleum. You keep your eyes trained on the climbing rows of seats before you, the anticipation of her sudden touch, unforeseen, curling deep within your stomach.

Her footfalls grow slower as she comes to stand behind you. Just over the sound of your own heavily beating heart can you hear her breathing, pitchy and shallow, in the expanse above your head. Neither of you budge. A tingle on your right tells you she’s on the move, hovering at your shoulder. The suspense tightens in your core as you imagine her phantom touch in the very places you ache for her–––and you tighten your grip on the desk’s edge in order to suppress the urge to spin around and jump her.

A passing group of muffled voices - students - evidently inspires Larissa to act first, however, as she clamps a hand over your mouth and pulls you flush against her, back-to-front. Her breath is hot on your neck.

“Shh, sh… Not .. a .. peep, Ms. L/N…” You nod against the force of her grip on your face, biting back the impulsive desire to take her fingers into your mouth. It’s only when her other hand sneaks around the softness of your waist, sinks down, down, and under the hem of your skirt that you realize exactly what she has planned for you. It’s bold, especially for someone like Larissa, whose dedication to this school and its students comes before all else–––which prompts you to wonder what kind of day she’s had and if she’ll be taking it out on you, one frustration at a time.

The thought makes you squirm. A pool of wet heat’s collecting between your legs at her touch and she finds it with a swiftness, applying a searching pressure along the entire length of your sex, humming against the shell of your ear when her fingertips meet the strip of dampness there.

“Such a slut,” she rumbles. Your teeth come down hard onto the inside of your cheek, eyelids fluttering on their own accord the moment Larissa nips at your earlobe. Christ, she’s already ruined you. She sweeps the satin of your panties aside and immediately presses a finger against your core without warning, and your entire body jerks at the feeling, hopelessly attempting to choose between pressing itself further back into her warmth or to thrust itself in the chase of her fingers. You’re left somewhere in the middle, head braced against her shoulder while your hips slide against the top of the desk towards her touch.

A flash of blonde and bright red swoops into your peripheral at the same time that her hand shifts to cup you: “I’m going to remove this hand now,” her nails dig sharp into your cheek, “but if you make so much as a whimper…” The threat tapers off but her meaning is clear: there’s a punishment lurking there that you won’t enjoy. You nod again, shakily this time as your chest heaves.

“That’s my darling girl.” At your assent her hand migrates from your mouth to the swell of a breast, kneading harshly in tandem with the rolling movements of her other hand, the heel of her palm pressed against your clit, fingertips resting just at your entrance. Any dignity you may have had is quickly fleeting; Larissa’s intoxicating, overwhelming, robbing you of all sense with just her fingers. You reach a hand behind you to grip the back of her neck, urgent as you search for some semblance of relief. The word ‘please’ balances precariously along your tongue.

It almost slips out when she sinks her teeth into your shoulder, hard, and simultaneously buries two fingers into your cunt. Every ounce of breath left in your lungs rushes from you at once as she sets a punishing pace. The distant thought that you’re both somehow still fully clothed echoes against the back of your skull, but it’s overrun by the sensation of her fingers tightly curled inside you, nearly rocking you with their force. Simultaneously, she presses absent, open-mouthed kisses to the skin almost broken by her teeth, drifting to the space where shoulder meets neck, below your ear, the edge of your jaw.

“You’re mine.” Larissa’s voice is coarse with desire. It’s a new declaration, tongue flicking out with her words as the taller woman twists a nipple between her fingers. She’s claiming you for herself, hardly a month into the term, and you’d be entirely out of your mind to complain. Suddenly the number of times your eyes have met during staff meetings, the lingering touches when she passed by or handed a paper off to you, her willingness to compliment your work at every turn has taken on new meaning.

Her thumb seeks out that little bundle of nerves, hitting each new wave of pleasure that the pumping of her fingers brings with excruciating accuracy. You’re so close, throbbing, and when her hips buck and collide with your back your breath hitches, indistinguishable from a squeak, … and it’s then that you realize you’ve ruined it.

Her fingers stall inside of you abruptly, the others that are clamped around your nipple finding a sudden homeostasis of pressure.

Shit, shit, shit.

“I’m s-sorry, I––” You’re on your back, no longer supported by her weight, her fingers roughly pulled from you.

“I gave you very clear instructions,” she all but growls, staring down at you now.

You swallow. Loudly. Your legs are shaking at the loss of her touch, teetering still on the edge of an explosive climax.

“If you’re not going to listen,” Larissa grits out, hiking her dress up over her thighs, “then you’re not going to cum. Now earn it.” Without another word she yanks you back by the shoulders and moves to straddle your face, hands planted at either side of your waist. It takes only a second to right yourself–––and then you’re wrapping your arms firm around her thighs, flattening your tongue along the slickness of her cunt.

No underwear.

She had every intention of being serviced when she came to your classroom unannounced, greeted your students, faked literary smalltalk. You’re a toy to her, a pet she knows with absolute certainty will kneel when called. Fuck. You could bring yourself over that edge with her taste alone. A natural tradeoff.

Larissa jolts above you and you lap at her with a renewed fervency, sliding the tip of your tongue between her folds, plunging into her as deep as you can from this position. The heat of her soaks your face: she’s sharp and metallic, a lingering note of something deliciously tangy. You’re going to taste her in your dreams for weeks after this. You’re vaguely aware of her hand on your chest as you alternate swirling your tongue along her, rolling in waves, and sucking her swollen clit into your mouth hungrily.

“Tch, right there, darling,” she murmurs, pitching her hips as she rides you. “That’s it.” Her voice trembles at the pace of her increasingly frantic rocking, breaths coming in heavier than before. Your smugness at unraveling her so quickly, so efficiently, is surpassed by the raw desire that rushes to your core when she weaves a hand through your hair and uses it to balance herself against your face, to more thoroughly fuck herself into reckless abandon.

One of your hands adjusts to squeeze a handful of ass, the other still fastened tightly around her thigh. The supple skin there twitches and you know she’s close, doubling-down on your devotion to her clit. You have a feeling you know what it’ll take, and with a gentle scrape of your teeth you’re rewarded, savoring the juices that flow from her as she clamps down on your face, quaking. She sounds heavenly as she cums: Larissa whines into the collar of her dress, breathing in short, sharp bursts that come in a heady mix of gasps and whimpers. There’s no disguising what’s happening to anyone on the outside; you entertain the bemused thought that in punishing you, Principal Weems has violated her own rules at least once over.

It takes her a moment to dismount but you pass the time in contentment, nipping at her inner thigh, tonguing the arousal there, gathering the residual cum in your mouth. Just like ambrosia, fucking nectar. When she does finally lift herself away from your mouth, she has to grip the desk with both hands.

You take it as a sign of a job well done.

Your eyes follow her, upside down still from your position, as she pulls her skirt back down over her ass and shimmies into place, smoothing her blouse down with it. When she meets your gaze, there’s a deepening blush spread across her cheeks.

“Well. You’ve certainly proven yourself capable of following directions. There’s no excuse as to why you can’t continue to adhere to any rules I provide, hm?” If it were that easy you wouldn’t have found yourself on your back in the first place, but there’s no doubt she’s fully - perhaps gleefully - aware of the fact. In an effort to abide by those rules you only nod in response, wary of what a verbalization will bring you–––but this rule is evidently a time-sensitive one, indicated by her bemused smirk.

“You may use your words now, pet.”

“I’ll follow directions.”

“I’ll follow directions what?” Larissa approaches again, a softer air about her now despite the firmness in her voice, and eases you up with her hands beneath your shoulders. She turns you to face her, guiding your legs up and over the top of the desk. When she looks at you expectantly, you respond with an honest hesitation.

“I–– I’m not sure what you like to be called.” You’re not sure what you’re expecting her response to be either, but what you’re met with is a dazzlingly grand smile.

“You’re such a good girl, aren’t you?” You suck in a sharp breath; that went straight to your cunt. You can feel the warmth unfurl across your face at the praise and purse your lips in a rare lapse of shyness. “Mistress or Mommy – whichever your preference.”

The instinct to whimper is an ardent one. You’re exceedingly aware of the backwards order of things, only now discussing titles and retroactively negotiating, no prior agreement on limits or safewords, but it’s too little too late to pretend you’re bothered by it. No one’s ever accused you of listening to your brain over your libido, and Larissa’s looking far too smitten with you to start changing that now.

“I’ll follow directions, Mommy.” Her hands come up to cradle both of your cheeks, thumbs working gently over the blush that still remains. You’re promptly reminded of how she felt straddling those very same cheeks and feel all the blood rush to your face once more.

“Thank you, darling.” Your hips wriggle in anticipation when Larissa leans in to brush her lips against yours––but she’s instead reaching around you to grab a tissue from your desk. “Here,” she says, rubbing at your chin with a delicateness only she could muster. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You watch as she works in silence, tilting your head to and fro with her prodding hands, studying the faint wrinkles beneath her eyes and along her forehead. The right corner of her lips draws downward as she focuses, tongue peeking out in concentration. Her brows raise, just minutely. There’s something of a twinkle in her eye when she wipes away your ruined lipstick.

She’s beautiful.

“What?”

“–––Hm?” You freeze at the same time her hand does, though Larissa proceeds within the matter of a second like she never stopped, a renewed smirk lined in crimson.

“Beautiful, is that so?” You imagine your face matches the color of her lipstick, and not due to a frenzied makeout session. She doesn’t seem perturbed by the admission, however … may in fact even enjoy your little slip-up, so you might as well own up.

“.. Yes. Is that alright?” She snorts but covers it just as quickly with the back of her hand.

“Of course,” which translates to: Do you really have to ask?

Larissa pulls away and tosses the tissue into a wastebasket beneath your desk, still smiling rather haughtily. Her hands clasp in front of her as the image of the consummate headmistress falls back into place. At this point you think she’s figured out that disregarding your own orgasm isn’t much of a punishment when you so thoroughly enjoyed ravishing her; no doubt she’ll have something far less agreeable lined up for the next time you disobey.

“I enjoyed this.. ‘private lesson’ on the nuances of literary hedonism. Perhaps we could schedule another? If you’d be amenable?” It’s largely symbolic––this will happen again. And again. And possibly again. But Larissa’s offering something valuable to you: The power to decide how, when, and where this will play, if at all. The gesture doesn’t escape you.

You slip off of the desk and take slow, measured steps towards her, coming to a rest with less than a foot between you. A hint of anxiety slips through her otherwise flawless mask and you reach up nearly on tiptoe to smooth it away. “I’d like that. Maybe a coffee date is in order first,” which translates to: God yes please, but we are going to have to discuss things before we make a habit of this. Larissa releases a relieved breath and nods, covering your hand with her own.

“The Weathervane? Thursday, during your lunch period?”

“Sounds perfect.”

She leaves soon after you schedule your next rendezvous, but not before settling you into a breathless haze with a series of intense, bruising kisses, her hands snugly fitted into your back pockets.

One orgasm that wasn’t even yours and you’re already whipped. God help you.

#apologies for any mistakes! i tried my best :')#larissa weems x reader #larissa weems x female reader #larissa weems imagine #larissa weems x y/n #larissa weems #principal weems x reader #principal weems imagine #larissa weems x f!reader #larissa weems smut #larissa weems reader insert #larissa weems x you

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morganas-pendragons · 1 year ago

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Fruits Of My Labor | Aemond Targaryen

I was blasting Fruits by Paris Paloma when I wrote this and came up with this idea in the shower. This will contain MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR SPOILERS FOR WHAT WILL HAPPEN IN HOUSE OF THE DRAGON. IF YOU DON’T WANT SPOILED, DO NOT READ IT. I did change two things in this as compared to Fire and Blood.

Enjoy! I’m excited to see what you guys think. This is my first time writing for this universe other than for Jaime Lannister!

Edit: This literally took me over a week because having a full time job is so time consuming lol

You should have known better. You were a true born Velaryon, a daughter of the sea and a fearsome dragon rider. You were smart. Fierce. Deadly.

But you were also a child. A child who had lost her older brother and sister and mother.

Your cousins. Your life.

Your family had been your livelihood for so long that you didn’t know how to live without them. Your mother’s comfort, your sisters compassion, your brothers steadfastness, your father’s loyalty.

You’d take them in all their faults for even a moment if it took your focus off of what fueled you when they were no longer around: Your anger.

And oh.. you were so prone to your anger.

***

Blood and Cheese

When word got back to you about the atrocities committed against Helaena Targaryen, you were furious. Fuming. It had been a long time since someone had been able to provoke you to such rage.

You understood, and yet you didn’t. A son for a son. Did Rhaenyra not give any considerations to her half-sister? Aegon may be the subject of her ire, but Helaena Targaryen had done nothing to provoke being witness and victim to such levels of cruelty.

You couldn’t imagine it. So you made Rhaenyra imagine it for you, while your mother stood in the back of the room and bore witness to the dragon fire that lay deep within you.

“The gall you have..” You murmur, drawing Rhaenyra and Daemon’s attention where they stand by the fireplace. “Do you realize what you just did?”

“They took my son.” Rhaenyra snaps, harsh and cold, the eyes of a grieving mother staring back at you. “Which is something you could not begin to fathom, seeing as how your betrothal ended so abruptly.”

Oh. That’s wonderful. So now she’s going to use Alicent breaking off your betrothal against you as well?

“No, no I didn’t. But at least my children would have been legitimate,” You snarl. Daemon steps forward to intervene, as he always does when it comes to Rhaenyra, but you slamming your fist against the painted table stops him in his tracks. “Did you even consider the ramifications of this, Rhaenyra? Jahaerys was innocent!”

“The Greens took Visenya and Lucerys from me. They killed my children. It is only fitting that retribution be paid through the loss of their own son!”

“Helaena will never be the same again because of what you took from her! You took your vengeance upon a girl who did not deserve it. She was sweet. Sweet, and good, and loved by the commoners. One of my dearest friends.” You jab your thumb at Rhaenyra angrily, eyes lit by the firelight of the candles around the painted table as the two of you stand off against one another. “You took her child away and ruined her. Whatever blood falls upon us now? That’s on you.”

Rhaenyra is left to hear one final curse before you flee the room, Daemon’s hand resting upon her shoulder to prevent her from following you.

Things are never quite the same after that. It’s only days later that Meleys is paraded through King’s Landing and your mother’s body lay broken and unmoving after the Battle of Rook’s Rest.

There’s no one left to temper your anger.

So, for the rest of the war, that is what fuels you. Your anger and your grief.

If it gets the job done, who cares what it does to you?

Anger always wins.

***

The last time you saw Rhaenys Targaryen, she’d bid you goodbye with a kiss to your forehead and tucked her favorite cloak around your shoulders. It had always been two sizes too big.

She’d whispered affirmations about your future and how proud she was of you in your ear before she walked out the main doors of Dragonstone to Meleys.

You never saw her again.

***

She died less then 24 hours later.

Rhaenyra was the one who told you about Aemond’s involvement in it.

He’d played a hand.

He’d killed your mother.

***

You spent the days following your mothers death weeping, clutching the fabrics of your favorite cloak she often wore when you were a child in trembling fingers. You mourned her presence. Her comfort. You often wished you could join her just to be free of the Dance.

To be free of him.

You were a child, and children are impressionable. That was why you loved him. Even when you truly, deeply loathed him for all the pain he caused you and your family.

“My Lady? Are you well?”

You don’t hear your Lady in Waiting call for you from across the room. There you sit beside the window, frail and well beyond your years, eyes cast upon the waters outside the castle while you linger inside the recesses of your own mind.

The Dance of the Dragons ended a long, long time ago.

You are the only living survivor.

Your memories are far more pleasant to live in because they are in all of them. Your family is not reduced to the ghosts you now know them as, but are flesh and blood and so very, very real.

“Forgive me, Theah... I was just remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

You smile sadly. Something lingers in your eyes as you meet her gaze - she’s so young and so eager to live a life she hasn’t had the opportunity to greet yet - and you see the same lingering within her own that calls to you. It’s familiar.

It was the same thing that drew you to Aemond. A desire for adventure, for freedom, for life.

And well... The Dance kept you confined to your duties and kept you from being able to pursue it.

“Remembering a better time, sweet girl.”

***

You remember it vividly. Watching from the scorched beaches while Daemon and Aemond take to the skies above Harrenhal, otherwise known as the God’s Eye, to engage in a fearsome battle neither will emerge from. You know it in your heart of hearts.

A more innocent part of you that still lingers deep inside aches to go to him. To make him see reason, to convince him to surrender to Daemon and Rhaenyra and just... stop.

To just let it go. The Green’s haven’t been able to do that once since the Dance started, to submit to the succession of Viserys the First would mean abdicating the throne.

Otto would never let it stand. His lust for power and influence over Alicent had gotten Aegon the throne and plunged the realm into war over the true successor of the Iron Throne.

The battle descending from the clouds above you is beautiful, in an incredibly tragic and devastating way.

Daemon and Aemond are locked in a terrifying battle as they plunge from the clouds, Caraxes and Vhagar desperate to bring the other down first. You watch the dragon’s stomach be torn open. The other ripped at the throat. You can’t bring yourself to look away. These two had been friends once.

You know there’s nothing you can do to prevent what is about to happen. They both brought it upon themselves. Aemond Targaryen brought this painful, agonizing end upon himself with his involvement in the Dance.

Your breath catches as Daemon rises from his saddle and lunges across the gap to drive Dark Sister into Aemond’s other eye. There’s nothing you can do. You weren’t even permitted the ability to take part.

The commoners had seen to that themselves. They'd mercilessly killed all the dragons who remained in the dragon pit. The numbers were dwindling, growing fewer and fewer as the Dance progressed. Four had fallen. Tyraxes, Morgul, Dreamfyre, and Nightshade.

When Rhaenyra wailed over the death of Joffery - barely a boy, thrown from Syrax for trying to flee to the dragon pit and rescue his birth right - you were simultaneously crying over the agonizing pain that seared through heart, body, and soul at the loss of your dragon.

By that time in the Dance, you’d lost nearly everyone within the Blacks. All that remained was your father and Rhaenyra, who were at odds anyway. They had been ever since Rook’s Rest.

Was this your curse? The last of your House, destined to outlive all the others? Is this what the fruits of your labor as the youngest child of House Velaryon had gotten you?

It’s over before you realize it.

This was where they fell.

***

“What time could have been better? You spent so much of your life engaging in war. You are practically a veteran to it,” Theah absently remarks from your bedside. “I do not envy you. War is-”

“Debilitating. Agonizing. Crippling.. suffocating. War tore my Houses apart at the seams and took away everything and everyone I loved,” You interject. “I was thinking about when I was barely a woman grown, not longer after being betrothed to Aemond Targaryen.”

“Anything specific?”

It’s always something specific with your memories with Aemond. They usually take you to the same two places: A little run down shack on the cliffs above the sea, not too far from Driftmark.

The other is a field of endless wildflowers.

“The first time Aemond ever took me away on dragon back was not long after he’d claimed Vhagar. We’d disappeared in the middle of the night from the guards posted outside my door, and I’d guided him back to Driftmark to this little house my mother spent a lot of time in before she married my father. It was very out of the way.” You twist the ring on your finger as you speak, the fading memory of your mother’s face flashing in front of you as you do so. The ring is the last thing you have of Rhaenys. “We spent the night there. I told him I wanted to do it forever. That I wanted to leave behind duties and obligations to experience something I never really got to have. Not like my sister and brother did. My mother doted over me far too much.”

“And what was the thing you never got to have?”

You smile wryly. “My freedom, sweet girl. As I am sure you well understand.”

Theah goes quiet for several minutes. She was brought to you by Aegon the Third not long after the two of you had met. Once he’d read his mother’s last testament - found in her former chambers in the Red Keep after her death - and found your name written within, he’d sought you out and gave you a Lady in Waiting. It had been freedom for Theah. Being your Lady had gotten her away from the brothels.

You’d thanked both Viserys and Aegon profusely after that. She may be the only soul left in this world sympathetic to your plight.

You’d never anticipate them traveling from King’s Landing to Driftmark to see you.

“Did you think it would last? Your betrothal?” Theah asks.

You did. Aemond didn't. He knew the Targaryen customs, he knew his duty. He knew Aegon didn’t want to marry Helaena.

Alicent had also seen how much you meant to her son.

And that could not stand.

“I would’ve burned down the world to hand its remains to Aemond Targaryen if he’d asked me to,” Something shifts in your gaze then, something cold and hard and unyielding that most have not seen in you before. It was something you’d only learned to embrace during the Dance of Dragons. “And then he betrayed me.”

Theah furrows her brow in confusion. “What did he do?”

Lucerys’ innocent face replaces that of your mother. Another soul lost to the war so many years ago, the first of many. Lucerys’ death had been what catalyzed the beginning of the Dance.

All at Aemond’s hand.

“He killed my sweet, innocent cousin. He killed him. Then he played a hand in killing my mother and I never forgave him for it.” You shrug. “That was the beginning of the end for something we’d never get to have anyway.”

***

The minute Rhaenyra received news about Lucerys, you were quick to have the Maesters write a note that you would be hand delivering to Aemond yourself. You would not give him the satisfaction of being able to speak to you in person after the atrocity he’d just committed.

Poor Luke. He was a boy. So good, so innocent, desperately trying to do his duty and do right by his mother.

He wasn’t a warrior. He was a child.

And Aemond had killed him anyway.

You leave the note pierced through the center by one of your daggers inside of the shack overlooking Driftmark. When Aemond bursts through the door several hours after fleeing Storm’s End, he finds it and frantically opens the letter to reads the words written upon.

Aemond,

You have brought what follows the death of Lucerys upon yourself.

Kesan ilimagho līr iksin dōrī āzma ezīmagon bisa vys. Se kesan daor ilimagho ao skori aōha hoskagon maghagon aōha ropagon.

He swallows the knot in his throat and presses his forehead to the paper.

I will not mourn that which was never born into this world. And I will not mourn you when your pride brings your fall.

Aemond wishes he was brave enough to tell you like he did in this little house on the cliffs all those years ago.

But just like the dreams of things that will never come to pass, his harbored desires for you die as he flees the cliffsides to Vhagar.

The house on the cliffs is never occupied again.

***

You know when you do find what little remains of him that this is what he wrought. There was nothing to be done.

Nothing, you think, as you remove Dark Sister from Aemond’s other eye and throw it into the water.

You don’t unchain him. His body will be found years later still confined to the chains that held him to Vhagar’s saddle.

It’s... quite fitting, really. Aemond Targaryen - the one who sought freedom - dying confined to both his physical and metaphorical chains made quite a lot of sense.

The thought of it almost made you smile, despite the tightness in your chest.

You had wept profusely for your mother. For Laenor, for Laena. You refuse to give Aemond that same satisfaction, despite that part of you from your childhood that still wants to chase him forever.

The childlike spirits of you and Aemond Targaryen run far away together in a field of wildflowers. Far away from war, from pain and suffering, and.. happy. You’re happy.

Oh how you wish you could be there.

You grimace and bend down to cup water in your hands. The air is thick with smoke and difficult to breathe in, but you’re more focused about keeping yourself together then falling apart as realization falls upon you.

Aemond is dead.

You should be fine with it. He hurt you irreparably.

So why does looking at him hurt? Why does thinking about all the things you should’ve gotten to do, to be - as his wife, Aemond would’ve let you be anything you wanted if it meant you were free of your duties and obligations as a Velaryon - cut deeper then the sharpest knife?

“I would’ve brought this entire country to its knees for you,” You murmur. The water at your feet is tinged red now. The dragons corpses had been settled in it long enough to stain it red. “But you never could have done the same thing for me.”

It will be quite some time before either is pulled from the water. You are quick to leave - unable to do so on dragon back, since almost all the dragons have been killed by now - by horseback to Driftmark. You and your father are the last Velaryons, and he had made it clear you were to not be directly involved on the fronts of the war anymore.

It didn’t mean you wouldn’t send Alicent a parting gift first.

***

“Were you there when the Dowager Queen died?”

“Oh no, but I sent my regards. She got what she deserved. You reap what you sow.”

The regard in question: Aemond’s sapphire eye, taken out with your own fingers, and his sword - both recovered from the body that you left chained to Vhagar.

You hadn’t been present for most of what happened after the God’s Eye. You’d gone straight back to your father in Driftmark, where he forced you to remain until the end of the war. Corlys was not about to let anything else happen to his family like it had Baela, Rhaena, Rhaenys, Laena and Laenor.

He’d pass peacefully in his sleep some years later.

When Alicent Hightower died around the same time, you lit a single candle and placed it in your window. You didn’t mourn her. You hoped she was suffering the same way she’d allowed you and your family to suffer.

The flame flickered out, and the last of House Velaryon stood.

***

Someone else has entered the room. You’re not sure who, given that your chambers are mostly off limits, and Driftmark is scarcely occupied these days. You pay no mind to it when Theah stands in the midst of your conversation to go and greet your guests. They must be important if your guards let them pass.

It was only recently that you’d been declared unfit to rule Driftmark. It was never supposed to be yours anyways, but with the lack of heirs and the death of your House, it had gone to you anyway.

With your passing would also be the end of House Velaryon, never to be remembered as anything other than the House dragged into the darkness with House Targaryen after effectively tearing each other apart.

“My dearest one,” Your eyes snap open. It’s been so long since you’ve heard that voice. “The years have been kind to you. You look peaceful.”

“The years kept me from you, Mother.” You whisper. “Especially when I needed you most.”

Rhaenys is the one you keep seeing, both in your waking and dreaming moments. It’s cruel. It’s cruel knowing she’s the only family member to appear to you when so many others could be the the ones to guide you home. Out of this darkness and into the waking light.

It would be so much better where you were going.

“I have waited so long for you to come home to your family.” Rhaenys murmurs, and you find yourself unintentionally leaning outward in search of her touch when her hands extends toward you. “I’m sorry to have left you behind.”

It didn’t matter. You had sought vengeance for your mother’s death once and for all when the list of living Targaryens dwindled and left so few alive.

No one ever did find out who poisoned Aegon the Usurper.

In the corner, Theah stands frozen at the sight of who lingers in the doorway. “Your Grace,” She murmurs in shock, clearly unsure of what to do. “This is a most unexpected surprise. For both Targaryen brothers to be here-”

Aegon the Younger holds up a hand. He’d only just recently been granted the time to read his mother’s last testament. After being present at the time of her death, it had taken decades for him to gather the courage to even go near the document she’d left behind for her sons.

That was why he’d let Viserys read it first. That was what led them here.

“My Hand and I have come to express our thanks to the last Lady of House Velaryon,” Aegon remarks. “As our mother had asked of us. According to her last testament, she is also the last survivor of the Dance of Dragons who fought on the front lines of the war. We wish to extend our gratitude for all she's done since.”

Behind her stands Rhaenyra. She’s the same age as she was when she was killed by Aegon, wearing your favorite hairstyle and dress that you’d thought always complimented her so well. You want to think her stare of longing is directed at you.

It’s not.

She’s looking at her sons.

“My boys. My beautiful boys,” She whispers, coming to stand beside Rhaenys. “Tell them I’m proud of them.”

So you do. You tell Viserys and Aegon that you can see their mother, as clear as the last time you ever saw her, and that she is sorry for all the suffering they endured during The Dance of Dragons. That she’s proud of who they became and how they honor their family.

You miss the single tear that falls down both faces at the confession.

***

“It’s coming.” Viserys the Second murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest as both he and Theah watch you from the side of the room. Aegon is quietly murmuring to you from your bedside. Ever since you’d told the brothers that their mother was proud of them, Viserys had known deep within him that you were not long for this world.

“What?”

“The end.”

Aegon feigns a warm smile as he squeezes your hand. “Our mother spoke highly of you, My Lady,” He whispers. “I hope now that you can find some peace of mind.”

You don’t answer him. You’re too busy reaching, reaching, reaching for your mother’s hand that you’ve so longed to ache for the last several decades that have passed since the end of the Dance.

“My love.” A whisper echoes in your ear as you sigh softly, the rise and fall of your chest slowing as Aemond slowly appears in your peripheral. He’s still the same age he was when he died. “Come home to us. Let me make it right.”

A single tear rolled down your cheek.

“Can we go to the wildflowers?” You whisper. “And the cliffside overlooking the ocean?”

“It’s beautiful here. There’s no pain. No pain, anger, no blood, no suffering... No obligations to our duties.” Aemond extends his hand. “Your mother is waiting for you in the house on the cliffside. A field of wildflowers awaits us. There’s so many to choose from. Come home.”

“Aemond...”

“I’m ready to love you the way you always desired. I just never knew how. I do now. And I regret every moment that has passed since I cast you aside.” His eye softens. There’s something about him that just seems... gentler. It’s an odd contrast to how you knew him when he was alive. “Come home.”

Hm. You’d thought that the fruits of your labors over the last decades had rotted and died, leaving you with nothing. No legacy, no heirs, no one left to remember your name. There had been no point to all the fighting for you because you’d lost anyway. There was never a war to be won because it was always going to be lost.

The Dance of Dragons had effectively torn apart House Targaryen at the seams.

Maybe your fruits were ripe and you just didn’t know it. You know that all the people you love are waiting for you. That the current king on the Iron Throne knows you well - because his mother had taken careful care to write about you in her last testament - and his brother holds you in high regard. That your Lady in Waiting knows your story and all the horrors that fall upon it. About how you endured and survived, how resilient you became, how you spent the rest of your days ensuring people would not forget the name Velaryon.

Your last wish for Westeros was to make sure people remembered. Not your name, but your mothers name. Your fathers name.

They deserved the credit and legacy far, far more than their headstrong daughter driven by the anger that came from duty.

“I’m coming, Mother.” You whisper once again, eyes falling closed. “I’m coming, My Love.”

Your hand falls limp in Aegon’s. No one will admit it, but something dies in both of Rhaenyra Targaryen’s sons that day. They’d had so much still to learn about the mother they barely remembered. To have someone who knew her first hand and had cared deeply for her had prompted them to pursue a relationship with the Heir to Driftmark.

You knew their story, their mother, better than they ever would.

“The Realm has lost quite a woman today,” Viserys murmurs, swallowing the knot in his throat as he presses his hands to Aegon’s shoulders. Theah can’t help but shift uncomfortably. She feels like she’s intruding on a private moment she cannot comprehend. “May the Seven bring her the peace she was never able to find in this world.”

When the Silent Sisters tend to your body, a single crown sits upon it at completion.

People would know the Heir of Driftmark died today.

And so the last of the Sea Snake’s line would cease.

#Aemond Targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x Reader #House of the Dragon #HOTD #GOT

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lees-chaotic-brain · 7 months ago

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blond o sonic shimmer trap by the arctic monkeys, geto, any sort you want, curious to see how you interpret the lyrics if you do pick my ask :3

WC: 1.7k

CW: suggestive, reader has female pronouns, reader is a bit unhinged, kinda stalkerish behavior from geto, nothing serious though

Notes: i'll admit i had a bit of trouble with this one, but i also had a lot of fun and liked how it turned out!! thanks for sending this in nonnie!! but let me know what you think of how i interpreted the lyrics!!

listen to this while reading

taglist: @arlerts-angel @ponderingmoonlight (lmk if you want to be added to the event taglist!)

Event Guide | Event Masterlist | JJK Masterlist | Blog Navigation

The first time he saw you you were dancing. The sparkling of your black dress had caught his attention, drawing his eyes past the flashing strobe lights and crowd of writhing bodies straight towards you. It was almost like you were calling out to him, telling him to watch.

And so he did. He watched as you twirled and swayed and moved with the music, dancing with wild abandon. Your dancing wasn’t particularly skilled, but there was something so raw, so real, about the way you moved. Something that compelled the viewer to want to get to know you.

Black as a beacon

In a river of shimmering fog

But Geto Suguru was not known for his forwardness when it came to interacting with women, particularly pretty women. So week after week he returned to watch you dance, always from a distance, never approaching you. In that time, he was only able to learn three things about you.

One: you were always wearing what he came to identify as your signature red lipstick. It was a unique shade, equal parts dark and bright that drew attention to the shape of your mouth. And he paid a lot of attention to your mouth.

Fighting back his intrusive thoughts and vivid imagination he watched your mouth move as you sang along to songs. He watched the way your lips parted when you threw your head back, exposing the long column of your throat when you were fully immersed in a song. He always watched you, entranced by your spirit.

Two: you went to the club to dance every Friday night. It took him a little while to figure that out, but once he did he made sure he was always free on Friday.

And finally, three: you were always alone. In the months he had spent watching you, he had never seen someone with you. You arrived alone, and you left alone. You didn’t seem like someone who would be hard pressed for friends, so this oddity only served to pique his interest more.

She was hard to ignore

Yes she was

He didn’t realize how much he had come to depend on his weekly sightings of you until you stopped showing up. For four weeks straight there was no sign of you, and it was unnerving. He immediately jumped to worst case scenarios and feared he would never see you again.

As soon as that thought entered his head, he immediately regretted not approaching you sooner. God he was such an idiot. He should have gotten to know you when he still had the chance, when you still showed up every week, instead of being such a goddamn coward. He promised himself that if he ever did see you again, he wouldn’t let his anxiety get the better of him. Next time he saw you he would say something.

So when he walked in the fifth week of you not being there and spotted you, he made a beeline straight towards where you were dancing, not allowing himself a chance to second-guess himself.

“Excuse me!” He has to shout to get your attention, and he taps you on the shoulder for good measure. You turn, and his breath catches in his chest when your eyes finally meet his. “U-uh hi.”

You squint at him, then your eyes light up in recognition. “It’s you!! Stalker guy! Finally grew some balls and approached me, huh?”

Stalker guy?!? You think he’s been stalking you? Well, technically he was, but he wasn’t trying to be creepy or anything. He just found you intriguing. He opens his mouth to say as much, but you cut him off with a laugh.

“Oh my god, the look on your face!!” You wheeze, folding over with the force of your mirth. Straightening you wipe a tear away and catch your breath. “Don’t worry. I didn’t think you were creepy or anything.”

You lean in, so close he can feel your breath hitting the shell of his ear, causing a full body shudder to run through him. “In fact, I was a little flattered that a man as attractive as you would go out of their way to watch little ol’ me.”

“Come outside with me.” He blurts before he can stop the words from leaving his mouth. Surprised, you jerk back a bit and peer into his face and he can tell your guard was up. “Why…?”

Realizing how it sounded, he immediately backtracked. “No no, I just mean I want to talk! To get to know you. I’ve regretted not getting your number for the last couple of weeks and you seem really interesting and I’m so sorry that is not how I meant it-”

“Okay.” Your simple reply cuts through his flustered rambling. “I’d like to get to know you too.”

And as you take his hand and lead him outside, a thrill runs through him, and he can’t help but wonder if every second with you was going to be this entertaining.

Well, time tastes bland

When she's not around

Stepping out into the cool night air, the two of you stand there for a moment taking in the refreshing feel of the breeze.

“So.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “I don’t know what you had in mind, but I’m in the mood for a drive. What do you say? I didn’t drink and my car is right over there.” You gesture towards the left, in the direction of a volkswagen beetle.

“Sure. Sounds good to me.” He smiles at you. He always takes a taxi to the club in case he has a drink, so it’s not like there’s anything keeping him there. “Shall we?”

You grin at him and skip off to your car. His heart skips a beat, and all he can think about is what he has to do to make you grin like that again. He could look at your smile all day. However, his internal simping was cut off by you yelling.

“Motherfucker!” You’re staring at the side of your car, then turn your furious gaze on the Cadillac parked haphazardly next to you. Hurrying over, he looks at what you’re looking at and understands why you’re upset. The car next to you had left a long scratch on the driver’s side of your car when pulling in, and instead of leaving their information, they had left a post-it. A post-it with a cheeky ‘sorry’ scrawled across it hastily.

“Sorry??!” You growl, rage radiating off you. “If you were sorry you would fucking pay for it!!!”

And before he can intervene, you let out a cry of rage and rip the side mirror of the offending car. For a moment all is silent and the two of you just stare at the mirror in your hands. You, with perplexed satisfaction, and him with shock.

Eventually you break the stunned silence. “Well, the asshole had it coming.” His eyes snap up to meet yours and the two of you dissolve into hysterical laughter.

Yep. Things were never boring when you were around.

And she snapped

Wing mirrors off of Cadillacs

The particularly pretty ones

He can tell you’re up to something when a flash of mischief crosses your face and you unlock your car. He watches with anticipation as you fish your tube of lipstick, a sticky note, and a ballpoint pen out of your glove compartment.

Quickly, you reapply your lipstick and kiss the mirror, leaving an imprint of your lips on it before balancing it on the windshield of the Cadillac. Then you spin around and write something on the sticky note, not letting him see what it says before slapping it on the car next to the mirror and getting into your own car. Gesturing for him to get in the passenger seat, you wait until he’s in and buckled before peeling out of the lot.

You glance over at him, and as soon as you make eye contact the two of you are howling with laughter again. Once he calmed down enough to speak, he asked what you wrote on the post it note between gasping peals of laughter.

“Oh, that?” You smirk. “So sorry about your car!! I didn’t want to have to bend down to reapply my lipstick.”

“No you didn’t.” You look at him solemnly. “I did.”

The two of you were sent into yet another fit of laughter, the sound ringing out from your car, filling the cool night air with your joy.

And that

Meant she never had to strain her back

When she was putting her lippy on

While that night had been the first you spent hanging out and driving around aimlessly, it certainly wasn’t the last. There was something addictive about you, from the way you simply didn’t care what others thought, to the sound of your laugh. God, he could spend the rest of his life listening to your laugh.

Throughout the course of the many nights spent causing mischief and laughing he got to see the different sides of you. Sure, he was first interested in you because of how carefree and wild you were, but as he got to know you better, he realized that that was but one facet of your incredibly complex personality.

You could be mischievous and wild and carefree, sure, but you were also immensely kind, as well as insanely smart and you had a melancholy side at times. But your complexity only added to his growing feelings towards you.

While it was your wild side that ensnared him at first, it was you as a complicated and messy whole that made him fall in love. And he couldn’t have been happier that you trapped his heart at first sight because if you hadn’t he wouldn’t have met the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

She floats like a niccy rush but she stings like a B-flat

The Blond-o-Sonic Shimmer Trap

#lee's brain writes #lee's brain writes: requests #lee's song fic event #geto x reader #suguru x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader #geto x you #suguru x you #geto x female reader #jjk x reader #jjk x female reader #jjk fanfic #jjk fanfiction #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #geto suguru fanfiction #geto suguru fluff

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mbti-notes · 4 months ago

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Anon wrote: Hi mbti-notes, thank you for replyimg to my previous question. I'm the person who asked you how to stand up for myself in the face of people humiliating me for how I look. After some reflectiom, I have some questions to ask with regards to this topic.

I showed a friend a picture of 12 year old me, when I was bullied. She was surprised and told me I seemed so carefree, cheerful, expressive and an exciting and fun person to have around. Never in a million years me or my 12 year old self would have imagined someone describing me with those terms. Altough I objectively agree with her assessment, as I didn't have any fear to be authentic and express my emotions back then, I was made to feel like the most unwanted piece of worthless dirt by my peer group, and that's what I believed my entire life.

Sometimes I would attract boys romantically, so I think it was because they were able to see what my friend saw recently. But I was still almost universally denigrated, so I am confused. I came to the realization that those kids (and these adults as of recently, but also people in general) wanted to control me through shaming. The question is why? Why do they want to control me? By putting me down and telling me I am not entitled to be respected because of my appearance (that's what a drunkhard middle aged man told me in front of a crowd of strangers) what do these people get out of it?

I realized those kids (some of them who are now adult males still attempted to do it after all these years) wanted to dim my light, but why? Anyway, I realized they succeeded. I became a shell of my former self. I completely lost that authenticity and spontaneity. It still exists within me but I am unable to bring it out anymore. I am very aloof, cold, emotionless, expressionless and rigid on the outside. That's what my friend tells me now. For a long time I've felt like I didn't have the “right to exist” or allowed to have human emotions, which brings me to the second question. How can I be authentic again? I forgot both how to do it and I am afraid of doing it. I realized my problem is cowardice. I know what if I dare to affirm my existence, “express myself” and claim my space in the world I would draw a lot of attention and a lot of enemies who would try to “put me in my place” again.

Truth to be told, deep inside I don't actually hate or dislike myself, I am just obeying the people who tell me I should to in order to keep peace and “belong”. But belong to what exactly? Nothing. This is not peace and this is not belonging, but I guess I instinctively make this reasoning to justify my cowardice. I avoid to do the activities I want in order not to be seen and shamed by people (for example, I think I am highly likely to be humiliated in environments such as nightclubs, so I avoid them, which makes me feel bad in turn because I am repressing myself and letting others dictate my actions and the way I live, and the thing I want the most is freedom to be myself and live however I want without fear of everybody's eyes on me).

I know that if I dare to be confident, self-assured and expect the the best out of things, people are gonna despise me and try their hardest to put me back in my place, so I hate myself to appease them, which makes no sense because I am despised both when I make myself small and make myself unimportant and when I act confident. I'm still paid dust when I put myself down for others' appeasement, yet I still do it. I don't know why. It must be mental laziness. I was raised to be passive and punished for advocating for myself so maybe I'm just sticking to an easy habit. People at large think “ugly people” deserve less, so it enrages them when they see someone breaking the social rules they abide to at their own detriment. That's the conclusion I reached. Am I missing something? How do I move from here? How do I find the courage to claim my place in the word and deal with conflit and opposition?

If this can help with your assessment, I also pondered an early childhood memory. I was in kindergarten and other children where organizing a “theatrical play”. I wanted the main character role. After fighting for it they gave it to me, but I was afraid of everybody looking at me and having their attention so I gave the role up to someome else. So I wanted the “main character” role and the attention but at the same time I was afraid of being the main character and getting the attention I desired. I don't know why exactly. I don't remember being shamed for my appearance back then (I didn't have the traits I would be later shamed on), but I remember feeling unseen and unwanted. Maybe it originated from an early memory in my life. I saw two little boys on a slide and I asked them if I could climb and play with them. They laughed at me and told me no, and I remember feeling rejected and shaken to the core by this.

About my other question, as I said, I used to be able to attract romance as an early teen. But after I “shut down” that hasn't happened ever since. I am no longer that person and right now I feel like I am incapable of attracting love. How can I attract love again in the current way that I am?

And lastly, I've never took care of my appearance (as in, dressing well), I would always wear the same 3 shirts and sweatpants because I thought it was useless for me to care about these things since I would get shamed anyway, but lately I've found that I want to start dressing well, do my hair, wear some accessories and a dress (feminine), so when I wore a good outfit my self-esteem instantly shot up, so I am worried about my self-esteem depending on what I wear. How do I prevent that from happening? Also, how do I know if I'm dressing well “for myself” or for social validation and as a cover up for low self-esteem? Because I don't want it to be for the latter reason, so how does one draw the line between these two aspects when it comes to this topic?

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

If you are referencing a previous post, please provide the post number from the url. If I have to dig for it, it takes time away from writing a response.

1) Distorted Cognition: You are wasting a lot of mental energy being preoccupied with how other people react to you. Why? With your past experience, you've convinced yourself that everyone in the world is a (potential) threat, which is simply untrue. No matter where you go in the world, there are kind people and there are mean people, and a very small minority of violent people. Unfortunately, you have been unlucky to encounter a lot of mean people.

However, what you don't realize is that your mind is now primed to pick out and remember mean people the most, which makes you a bit blind to the kind people around you. Living in fear means that you are always on the lookout for threats, and then that's all you ever see. Start looking for something else, such as the kind people, and you may find that your perception of the world shifts. Once you start to notice kind people more, you will be in a better position to surround yourself with them, which would dramatically change your social life. But first you have to recognize that not everyone is out to hurt you.

People who have experienced trauma such as bullying are often prone to emotional reasoning. Emotional reasoning is unhealthy because it distorts your perceptions, beliefs, judgments, and decision making. If this is not something you can stop on your own, then it is a good idea to work with a therapist.

2) Lack of Boundaries: You waste mental energy ruminating on why mean people are mean. By doing this, you are essentially taking on other people's baggage as your own. The way you live should be decided through the power of individual choice, but by fixating on others, you cede this power to them. Is someone forcing you to do this? No. You are volunteering time and effort that could otherwise be spent on living your life authentically.

Why are mean people mean? Frankly, it is irrelevant. You are making their meanness matter (and thus making jerks matter), probably because your thinking is unrealistic due to unhealthy Ni. If you're anything like other immature Fs, you walk around thinking that everyone "should" be nice and affirming. If you didn't have such an underlying belief or desire or fantasy, then you wouldn't react so badly when reality proves you wrong. Rather, you'd simply accept the fact that some people are nice and some people aren't, and then adapt accordingly in the moment.

What you haven't understood is that it doesn't matter how beautiful you are, how awesome your personality is, how much success or glory you achieve in life, there are always going to be people who dislike or even hate you for their own personal reasons. When you learn how to truly respect people's right to have their own thoughts rather than expecting them to have the thoughts you want them to have, then you'll understand that their thoughts don't have to be yours. You'll finally realize that what other people think, say, or do is really none of your business, and then you'll be able to focus on what's most important, which is living your life as well as you can.

Do what is best for your well-being. Wear whatever clothes you want to express who you are. Explore the world and learn more about yourself. If people don't like it, that's their business, but does it have to be your business? Their thoughts don't have to matter at all. It's simply a choice you make about where to focus your attention. The world is constantly bombarding us with all kinds of things, but not all of it requires a reaction or response, does it? Developing mature Ni requires you to learn how to tune out everything that doesn't relate directly to your main purpose.

Review my previous reply. I already brought up boundaries. Until you learn to create a healthy boundary between yourself and others, you will keep getting overrun or violated by others. If drawing healthy boundaries is something you aren't able to learn on your own, then it is a good idea to work with a therapist. You can also take workshops in assertiveness, communication skills, and conflict resolution skills to help improve your social confidence. There are lots of ways to improve your situation, but how are you going to take advantage of those opportunities when all of your attention is misspent on trying to make sense of the jerks in the world?

#infj #auxiliary fe #boundaries #ask

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drdtfuitgumies · 4 months ago

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answering asks #1

i (finally get around to) answer(ing) some actual questions directed towards me. these are mainly asks sent in the inbox, but i might answer reblogs and replies in other posts as well, since this acc can't reply for some reason.

reminder that if you want to ask me actual questions, i still recommend sending them to the inbox! if the inbox is closed, however, then you can reply to my pinned post

not a question, but i wanted to properly acknowledge this. i've seen this ask when it was just sent, and have been keeping an eye on the tags since. thank you kindly for the warning, anon! :>

this question was how i realized i never acknowledged crossovers and references to other series in the pinned post. i'll write my answer down there as well, but i've decided that;

1) crossovers/referring to other series can be requested, but are very unlikely to be actually drawn. for me to finish them, i'd need to know the other series (and possibly well enough if there's a punchline included)... personally i think it's best to save yourselves the hassle. However, if your request happens to be something along the lines of "[insert fuit gumy here] with [pokemon / digimon of choice]", I will absolutely not complain. I would be honored!!

...so i guess this note could be taken as "crossover requests including pokemon and/or digimon are allowed." i like drawing creachers.

2) i will not be accepting requests that involve canon danganronpas AND fanganronpas. this blog has always meant to be focused on drdt first and foremost, and i'm content to let it stay that way (for now). also, if i let people outright request characters from the canon games/fangans, even if i put in restrictions like "must include at least one drdt character as well", i feel like some people would find a way to work around these restrictions. i always assume the worst in any situation whatsoever, so i feel this'd be better for my long-term sanity. i'm sorry, and hope anyone reading this understands where i'm coming from! orz

however! while i've decided that canon danganronpa characters will not be appearing whatsoever (except MAYBE references to monokuma/junko/The Tragedy as a whole, though i'm not sure what Situation would need those...), characters from other fanganronpas may Very Rarely appear in Original Situations! this will only ever happen if i need some special guests for certain punchlines, probably once every three months or so.

something like this! (original post here)

i hurriedly made this for my commissions post back in main, so they'd definitely look better with a bit more time and care.

psst. my comms are open indefinitely, and there's still three* slots left. a quick look and a reblog would be appreciated!

i prefer j & nico platonically (i saw a post calling them Nonbinary Emo Siblings and i integrated that to my belief system), but otherwise none that really come to mind...? i've never really paid attention to romantic shipping in my [REDACTED] years of being sentient

this is definitely referring to romantic rarepairs; if referring to that, not really. see above question. if referring to platonic rarepairs, however, i can and will find common ground for any pair of drdt characters. before they murder each other they should be civil. they should partake in parallel play. they should be friends!!

...which brings me to my sidequest of drawing every possible pair of drdt characters at least once in this blog. i won't count posts with 3+ characters; i'll only be counting posts with 2 characters. when do you guys think i'll fill the entire thing out?

once again; reminder that if you want to ask me actual questions, i still recommend sending them to the inbox! if the inbox is closed, however, then you can reply to my pinned post

#answering asks

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goshdangronpa · 1 year ago

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I’m no mystery writer. I can’t promise airtight murder cases. Still, I have quite a lot of ideas for the first chapter of "I DISAGREE: An Ibuki Mioda SDR2 Protag Swap AU." Let me piece together something - or some of something, anyway - for our new protagonist to piece together in her first pitched battle against sheer despair. Strap in, cuz it’s a long one.

We've All Been Looking for the One: The First Trial

The Monokuma File only confirms the obvious. The victim: Chiaki Nanami, Ultimate Gamer. Time of death: when else but in the dead of night? Cause of death: impalement, as evidenced by the gushing tunnel connecting gut and back.

Ibuki screamed even louder than Hiyoko, drawing everyone - including the bear. Hajime vomited. Byakuya fell on his knees. Fuyuhiko bemoaned the bastard who did this. Mikan broke down. Monokuma cheered. Everyone else cried out. But with a limited window before the imminent trial, there was no time to grieve - only to investigate.

Let’s follow the investigation and trial through the main suspects:

Nagito finds the Ultimate Kendoka’s sword at the bottom of the swimming pool, definitely not where Byakuya had stowed it after confiscating it. Only this could be the murder weapon, and surely only its wielder could use it so effectively. Her do-nothing demeanor could be a put-on for all anyone knows, and her being barricaded like every other patient means nothing when Chiaki also somehow escaped.

Fuyuhiko vigorously defends her, leading everyone to question why he paid so much more attention to her than anyone else. Ibuki notes that before even knowing the girl was sick, he noticed that she wasn’t at the restaurant and rushed to find her. Peko says they should stop hiding their connection. That’s how everyone learns that the two have known each other practically since birth. The Ultimate Kendoka is the Ultimate Yakuza’s lifelong bodyguard and companion.

Ibuki thinks it’s adorable that he did so much to protect her. The others feel differently …

A few things become clear: the killer needed access to the sword, and they couldn’t have been stuck in a room. So, either a patient with help from staff (Fuyuhiko released Peko, who killed Chiaki) or a member of the staff on their own (Fuyuhiko did it himself to cure Peko). Fuyuhiko had already shown a willingness to kill before this sudden pivot to nursing. Maybe he volunteered specifically to become the blackened after all!

“No, that’s wrong!” Hajime’s been practically nonfunctional after seeing Chiaki’s corpse. Though he’ll never know it in this AU, her presence in the trials would’ve grounded him in a way no one else could, enabling him to suss out contradictions and find the truth. This is what allows another person to become the protagonist. With Fuyuhiko in the crosshairs, though, he’ll finally spring into action. “Peko would’ve died too,” he continues, “and he’d never let that happen.”

A few other clues will vindicate the pair. I like the idea that Hajime is Fuyuhiko’s alibi because they spent the whole night in bed together. Kuzuhina fans, rejoice! (Fuyuhiko, too straightedge to let the implications stand, insists they just watched samurai movies until they passed out.)

This is when Ibuki and Mikan realize something crucial. “She wasn’t acting like herself,” Fuyuhiko says about Peko’s recent behavior shift. He’s the only one who’d know what any patient was like before the island. It’s no coincidence that they started acting weird when they fell ill. The illness itself radically altered their personalities! “It’s like Opposite Day Disease,” Ibuki shouts, “or Being-Really-Different Disease!” (And this is why I chose Peko as one of the infected!)

Monokuma confirms their theory, but claims dibs on naming the malady he invented. He dubs it Despair Disease.

Up to this point, Ibuki’s mostly been little more than a contributor to the trial’s progress. Byakuya Togami dominates the conversation with his self-proclaimed leadership role. His keen observation skills and high intellect back him up. What he can’t quite manage is to piece together a clear narrative of the night’s events, though he still expects everyone to catch up with him.

Several things become clear:

The staff were around the contagious patients long enough that someone could’ve caught Despair Disease from them.

The symptoms of the infected cleared up after Chiaki’s murder, though the exact timeframe is unknown.

Hajime and Fuyuhiko are each other’s alibis.

Ibuki and Mikan, having also shared a bed (Hiyoko: “Hey, is that hotel a love hotel?”), are each other’s alibis.

(I've learned that two people can’t just be each other’s alibis. Just assume there was an awkward moment, very late at night, where Mikan and Fuyuhiko tried sneaking out of what they both know to be, respectively, Ibuki and Hajime’s rooms. They both ducked back in and apparently stayed.)

No one saw Byakuya after the group split and left Ibuki’s room.

Byakuya was the one who insisted on storing Peko’s sword.

He also insisted on keeping its location secret from everyone else.

The alleged leader and protector of the group doesn’t take the subsequent accusations well. (Being the only one on staff who slept alone that night doesn’t help.) Ibuki’s confident that he’d never murder someone in a million years, but vibes alone aren’t enough for others to drop their suspicions. This is her moment to shine as the protagonist! Her vivid imagination allows her to conceive possibilities that wouldn’t cross anyone else’s minds and devise creative solutions that most would immediately dismiss.

One funky idea I had for how his name gets cleared involves Chiaki’s nails. While examining her corpse, Ibuki notices dark marks beneath them - flesh, torn off when the victim fought back. Kitty had claws, but who bears the claw marks? Only one way to find out: “Quick! Take off your top!” With no choice but to remove his dinner jacket and undershirt, Byakuya shows no signs of that damage on his chest, arms, or back.

Pants are out of the question. At least, not until others expose their upper halves first. Despite Teruteru’s insistence, they start with the boys:

The slim Fuyuhiko is free of marks.

So is the surprisingly wide-chested Hajime … “but,” Ibuki teases, “you already knew that, didn’t you, Hiki-chan?”

Nagito has scars, but they’re old. Mikan correctly guesses they’re from past surgeries.

Kazuichi, who’s been near-catatonic since being discovered in his room, is reluctant to move, let alone strip. Ibuki recalls that his crazy pecs were exposed throughout his entire hospital stay. They thought that finding him with his jumpsuit zipped up was a sign of normalcy …

The others urge him to comply. With great reluctance, he unzips. This action reveals a bloodstained wifebeater.

More on the murder and execution, next week.

PREV: The Killing Game's First Victim

NEXT: The First Blackened

#I DISAGREE: An Ibuki Mioda SDR2 Protag Swap AU #danganronpa #super danganronpa 2 #sdr2 #goodbye despair #ibuki mioda #hajime hinata #nagito komaeda #fuyuhiko kuzuryu #peko pekoyama #kazuichi souda #byakuya togami #mikan tsumiki #tsumioda #kuzuhina #happy birthday Sonia (apparently)! my gift to you (apparently) is a promise to violently destroy Kazuichi #my tip to writers of serialized fiction: BACKLOG #I definitely touched up a few earlier posts as I wrote this one to insert hints and plant future evidence and stuff #didn't have to edit anything already published

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space-mermaid-writing · 1 year ago

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Stark Tailoring Inc. [IronStrange]

Summary: After his accident Stephen sold almost everything. But for his new job he needs a suit. So he goes to the place a friend recommended to him: Stark Tailoring.

Relationship: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange

Tags: IronStrange, Tailor AU, fluff, insecure Stephen Strange, no powers, just the regular flirting of Tony Stark, different first meetings

Chapter 3: Picking up the suit

They had an additional fitting for the shirt they ordered and that day Stephen also brought the first check to Tony.

The second followed two weeks later when he picked everything up. Tony sent him to the dressing room again and told him to change.

The tailor was waiting outside this time. He was bent over his tablet when he heard the rustling of the curtain. He looked up – and Stephen thought that this first glance alone was worth the money he paid for the suit.

Tony beamed at him, obviously pleased with his own work. He stepped closer and adjusted the collar of Stephen's shirt, with what would under other circumstances be an intimate gesture but was probably very common in the day of a tailor. At least that’s what Stephen told himself.

“Look at you all dressed up nicely!” Tony cooed at him, taking a step back.

Stephen immediately missed his warmth, but suppressed the urge to follow him. Instead, he stepped in front of the mirror.

He did look good (besides his face. He still didn’t dare to pick up a razor). The suit fitted perfectly and his butt looked nice when he turned around. Stephen hadn't felt this good since before his accident. With this realization, a part of his former self-confidence came back.

“It’s not bad,” he agreed nonchalantly.

“Not bad?” Tony puffed up. “It’s a masterpiece!” He noticed Stephen's teasing smile and rolled his eyes before mirroring the smile.

“You will be the best dressed person at your event. Unless another of my suits attends. Then it’s a tie.”

He probably wasn’t wrong about that.

Since there weren’t any alterations necessary, Stephen changed back into his clothes and Tony rang him up. Peter wasn't in the shop today to do that. Maybe the boy just worked part-time. Or maybe he was still at school.

Stephen's gaze fell on a flyer of New York fashion week that was only a few weeks away.

Of course, even the doctor, while not into fashion, had heard of the event. Every year the streets were full of fashion enthusiasts, a lot of them in questionable outfits.

“So, fashion week,” he said vaguely, because maybe he wanted to stall a bit without being too obvious about it. He would never admit it, but he strove for Tony’s attention. He grew to like the man and with no further appointments in sight he felt somewhat sad about it.

He banished the voice from his mind that told him he had a hopeless crush.

Tony followed his gaze and shrugged. “Yep.” He popped the p. “I don’t think I’ll go this year. I’ve got a lot of work to do here in the shop and I don’t really feel inspired.”

Besides that, organizing a runway show took months in advance. At least if he wanted a good venue and time slot.

Sure, Pepper took care about those details, but like he said: he wasn't inspired. And he rather attended as a VIP guest or even not at all before he threw together a half-hearted collection.

Tony didn’t rule out that he changed his mind – it wouldn’t be his first time pulling all-nighters on short notice. But he rather focused on just making suits for now.

What most people didn’t know was that fashion designer and tailor were two entirely different fields. It was one thing to have an idea and draw it on paper but another to bring it to life that it was actually wearable.

There was no shame in just designing. On the contrary, a lot of people didn’t realize how hard it was to think of something with the potential to be a hit. A designer had to be innovating, bold and predicting what people would want to wear next year.

A good designer followed the trends.

A great designer came up with the trends. He was a futurist.

Every designer had a team of seamstresses, dressmakers and tailors on his hand who helped to bring the designer’s vision to life. Stark Tailoring Inc in fact had its very own tailor department.

But Tony was also proud to call himself a tailor. He was proud to know how to wield and manipulate fabric to give it a certain look and bend it a certain way. He knew how to mix patterns and textures to create something extraordinary.

It was a form of art. To transform a flat piece of fabric into a three dimensional piece of clothing.

Tony loved it. That was why he still worked at the old tailor shop his father opened back in the late 30s. Or why he made the sample pieces for his runway shows himself.

Now, Tony didn’t tell Strange any of this because – to be honest – the doctor didn’t seem like the kind of person whose interest in fashion went further than the average suit. Which was a shame, really, since he was the most interesting customer Tony had in a long time.

He still wasn’t sure if Strange had the hots for him or was just super embarrassed by Tony’s flirting nature.

“I think those runway shows are overrated anyway,” Stephen said with such disdain in his voice that Tony almost burst out laughing.

“Yeah?” he asked, suddenly very interested in what else the man got to say about it.

“Yes.” Strange nodded. “I don’t understand why the media always reacts overly excited or shocked every time. It’s just clothes and from what I’ve seen so far, a lot of that stuff up there isn’t wearable anyway.”

Those were the most opinionated words Tony had heard from Strange all weeks.

“You know, you’re not wrong there,” he pointed out.

His agreement seemed to surprise Stephen, as if the doctor just remembered where he was. “You probably shouldn’t tell your boss I said this. You know since he’s…”

He trailed off but Tony echoed, “He’s what?” His eyes sparkling with amusement and anticipation. It was impossible to guess what Strange would say next.

Stephen thought for a moment about how best to describe it, before he simply said, “A designer.” As if it would explain everything. “If he even ever comes down here to the shop.”

Everybody knew the tower Stark Fashion owned. It was very central with big letters on the front.

Tony almost gave it away, but bit his tongue last second. He was not sure if he would ever see this strange man again, and he liked to remain just Tony the tailor for him. Also, his honest words were refreshing and Tony preferred them over the butt kissing folks he usually had to deal with.

“I won’t tell him you said that.” Tony winked. There was no need in telling something he already heard.

Stephen smiled somewhat awkwardly and grabbed his garment bag, sensing that it was time to finally go. He nodded a last time to Tony, before he turned to leave.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Tony called after him, because he couldn’t help it. He neither saw the small smile nor the faint blush on Stephen’s face since the doctor was already out of the door.

#ironstrange #Tony Stark / Stephen Strange #Tailor Tony Stark #Tony Stark x Doctor Strange #stephen strange #doctor strange #marvel #mcu #tony stark #space mermaid writing #Tony the tailor #Stark Tailoring Inc

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wonda-fhr · 1 year ago

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For the soft asks, 🥀 for a Step of ur choice (if any of them do notebook things!) and 💫 for each of them?

Thank you for your ask 💕 🥀 How would your OC decorate a notebook or journal? What kind of things are written in there? Could you give an example of a nice entry? I left this question to Justin (and Chen), he is the creative of the OC family.

----

"Oh, there it is."

"There's what?" The confusion on your face is real, because you're already scratching Spoon's head and haven't paid attention to other thoughts. Chen points to the bench next to you.

"This ominous little black book I keep hearing about. Ortega and Herald are already taking bets on what's in it."

"That's ridiculous."

"It is. But they say you always carry it with you. But I've never seen it. Either you're hiding it very well, or I'm losing my powers of observation."

"There is nothing wrong with your powers of observation. Little black books make people too nosy, so I always make it disappear quickly. Apparently not fast enough when they're around. And now? Are you also getting curious, Marshall? There it is. Take a look inside." You are a mystery to yourself as you utter these words. You have never let anyone look inside this book. Even your henchmen puzzle behind your back about the secrets it contains, but they would never dare touch it for fear of losing a hand. Around the marshall, you are somehow not yourself, becoming unreliable to your own principles.

You watch as he picks up the neutral black notebook and hesitates to open it. He is curious like everyone else, but he holds it out to you so that you can make it disappear again. But your mind is made up, you want him to see it. "Look inside, Chen. Please."

He still hesitates, you nod to confirm your decision and that's enough for him to open it. He flips through the first few pages and smiles at the sight of your little caricatures. He flips over flowers and animals, laughs at the grotesque figures that clearly show Ortega and Argent, and pauses at a picture of Spoon lying on his back with heart-shaped paws.

"Sometimes it helps me clear my head and focus." is your explanation, and it is the plain truth. Drawing the funny impressions helps you focus your brain, which is operating at high speed.

Chen keeps turning the pages and gets to the second half of the book, which is reserved for words, not pictures. Neatly separated from the funny stuff, he finds words that have more meaning than simple text. They have been lovingly combined into verses to give them symbolism and to make them flow in rhythms so that they are able to express feelings that you cannot feel otherwise.

You carefully touch his mind as he reads intently. He is touched, almost sad. On the next pages, anger takes over the sadness until the happy mood of the next lines catches him and he smiles again. When he closes the book at a point that made him smile, he hands it back to you and looks at you with different eyes, more curious than he was about the contents of the book.

"This is wonderful. Everything in it, but the poetry is incredible."

"Thank you. It was never meant to impress anyone. In fact, it was always meant for my eyes, but I'm glad you like it." He makes you say strange things, you have to stop letting him tempt you to express your true thoughts.

"You should decorate the book, make it glitter and shine colorfully, it's just too plain. Plain and black, it stands out in your hand like a beacon, that's what makes everyone so curious".

You look at your book, you like it just the way it is, so honest and real. But Chen is absolutely right, it stands out. Maybe you'll get a cover you can take off, like your makeup. Chen still looks at you, and suddenly you realize that he understands a lot more about the book than you were willing to reveal.

------

💫 What is your favourite fact about this character and why? I guess I'll have to answer that in my own words. :)

This question took me too far. I tried to write something, but I realized that I couldn't answer the question with a single fact. Lia, Luke, Justin, and David have been my companions for many years, and during that time you get so used to each of their characteristics that it is impossible to say which one you like best. Because all of them together make up the person you are talking about. I'll try to give you the basics.

Lia is protective, strong, determined, self-sacrificing. A bit too much of everything. She is a shield and a weapon for those she cares about. But she is so much better in those moments when she allows herself to let go, to be sensitive and to be loved.

Luke is always charming and in control. Real and honest. He speaks out what is otherwise unspoken, and his arm is ready for those for whom the truth is hard to bear. But when he loses his temper, he is magnificent, no one escalates as wonderfully irrational and emotional as he does.

Justin, my flamboyant disaster. My wonderfully erratic eye candy. He's always looking for stability, but can't stand to be restrained. Hard to reach, gone faster than a blink. But he is always there for everyone, caring and profound.

David remains, the weakest of the four? Maybe. Sensitive, emotional, fragile. The one who can show everyone how to enjoy life. The one who finds moments of true joy and shares them. The one who gives everyone strength. The driving force that holds everyone together.

This is a small declaration of love to my Oc family, they are perfect with all their good qualities and weaknesses.

#sidestep #justin rosedale #oc family

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stuckyfingers · 7 months ago

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Honestly speaking, I don't think Tony's actions were very OOC. He's always seemed kinda lax about killing people- and even when assuming HYDRA found a way to avoid discovery from him, Tony definitely didn't pick up on the fascist undertones of project insight, which he helped build.

And agreeing to the accords doesn't actually mean he trusts the authorities.

As you can see in the final act of CACW, he has no problem breaking them even after signing them. And that's because of his power as a billionaire and a weapons manufacturer.

Remember when someone said many crimes under law are just paid services for the ultra rich? Tony knows he can suck up to Ross, negotiate and throw his weight around. It's really just Tony who has one hand on the steering wheel. That's why Rhodey and Vision because of how close they are to him, see it as a satisfactory compromise.

However, even if the other Avengers depend on Tony's hand on the steering wheel, they're still signing away their rights to be controlled by him. That way, Tony gets even more power in his team and that allows him to make decisions more unilaterally.

Steve doesn't want that, especially because of Tony's tendency (inadvertent or not) to make weapons that end up wreaking havoc. With the accords, it becomes even harder to hold Tony back from decisions like Ultron.

Even if Tony is completely well meaning about it, he's missing the fact that his morals are shaped by spending his entire life in the setting of a multi billion dollar weapons industry. He has both the privilege of wealth and a tolerance for the notion of violence.

His decisions are going to reflect those years of conditioning, even if he's trying to do good. That's why his solution to bad guys with guns is good guys with guns: he's used to selling guns.

That's why the first time he's visually shown the consequences of his actions (Charlie Spencer), he's shocked. Because he's never had to think about that before.

Steve has been in war. He's walked through battlefields full of soldiers killed by explosives. He knows what it means to fire bombs at a city. So does Sam, who saw his friend getting killed by an RPG. Wanda has literally lost her entire family to firearms and bombs. They've all seen a dead teenager lying in rubble at some point. They know it happens.

Tony's been contributing to the deaths of people including children just like Spencer. His sympathy is triggered only when he realizes an American kid died. Like all the middle eastern and eastern european kids don't matter?

But after all, that just another facet of how Tony's grown up: American exceptionalism. It does make sense for his character.

The one part where I agree about the OOC part is... how did he not find out about his dad??? Why was it Steve's job to tell him when he just saw a 30 second retro aesthetic video essay version of a villain monologue that just mentions that Hydra in general killed Howard?

Maybe Steve put together that it could have been the Winter Soldier deployed the same way Nick Fury was meant to be assassinated- but he had no solid truth about that until CACW, the exact second Tony also found out about it. Hydra has an entire STRIKE team and all kinds of tech at their disposal- and a car crash can be simulated in any number of ways even if it didn't involve the WS.

Also, Steve was very much present when he saw Tony hacking into SHIELD files in 2012. He knows Tony is smart enough to find out on his own, and didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to Bucky in case he wasn't actually the killer.

So, yeah... how you see Steve also depends on your politics. If you're a billionaire sympathizer and believe in American exceptionalism- and if you don't see any problem with tagging a demographic of individuals (literally the plot of X men) to control them... yeah you're gonna side with Tony.

However,,, regardless of who you side with- Tony not finding out about his parents was weird af. He's smart. He's a tech genius. How- how? how.

The thing about Captain America: Civil War is that it’s part of a trilogy about one specific man named Steve Rogers. Therefore it is supposed to be about Steve Rogers and primarily from his perspective.

It’s the episode right after CATWS, and the story is supposed to directly tie in with the events of CATWS. It’s hilarious (= enraging) how people just seem to conveniently overlook that little detail while talking about (or rather, shitting on) Steve’s decisions and actions.

When you see him argue against the accords, you’re supposed to actually remember that the government was infiltrated in the previous Cap movie and it was only two years ago. And that Steve was right in the middle of the fray.

When you see him trying to save the other supersoldiers, you’re supposed to correlate that to him discovering the Winter Soldier and as shown in the last scene of CATWS, finding out everything Hydra did to Bucky.

When Steve says “He’s my friend,” you’re supposed to remember Bucky falling from the train in CATFA, and 2014!Steve saying “even when I had nothing, I had Bucky.” And you’re supposed to empathise with the scrawny kid from Brooklyn who had no one but James Bucky Barnes in his corner. You’re supposed to remember that Bucky would, and did follow this scrawny kid into the jaw of death.

Every single thing he does/says has a background in the previous two movies.

Now you might say “yeah but so does Tony-” yeah and tell me something, is it called “Iron Man: Civil War”? Or “Avengers: Civil War”?

Saying Steve’s the bad guy in his own fucking movie is you completely missing the entire point of all three of the movies with him in the title.

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wasjustred · 2 years ago

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See Me After Class (Excerpt)

Pairing(s): Larissa Weems x femprof!Reader

Warnings: Approaching smut territory but stops just before it gets explicit ;-) sowwy

Word Count: ~1k (unfinished, final total TBD)

Author’s Note: Wanted to post this excerpt from a one-shot I’m working on just to get a feel for the readership... Hopefully I’m on the right track. Let me know if you wanna see more ♡

Update: You can read the final version here!

“You will always be fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”

With a modest hope of hearing from someone new, your eyes roam the rows and columns of seated students. But it’s an unexpected figure who draws your attention to the far back:

“Headmistress Weems.. Please, indulge us.” You gesture widely with an open palm.

Your nonchalance frankly betrays the anxiety her presence brings. Another observation so soon after the first? And so early in the term? You have to wonder if one of your students has complained, or perhaps another professor. Were you doing a bad job? Were your lessons subpar?

The blonde pulls back her shoulders and levels her gaze on you. “Well. It has been a minute, but if I’m not mistaken, I do believe Lord Henry was referring to Dorian’s seemingly virtuous nature. By all accounts, we desire and are captivated by the things we refuse ourselves.” She continues, arching a brow, “I believe Lord Henry also said that ‘the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself’. It is both a warning and a call to pleasure.”

“I didn’t realize Mr. Wilde was still part of the curriculum.” Larissa follows the steps down past your students’ desks and comes to rest in front of you, hands clasped behind her.

“Remarkable students are rewarded for their diligence, are they not?” You swivel back to her, brows raised.

… intriguing. Hot, even, you have to admit.

“Was it diligence, or pure luck?” Larissa scrunches her nose at this response, clearly - amusingly - displeased.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been reading at the pace of your lesson plans.”

“So you did know Mr. Wilde was ‘still part of the curriculum’?”

“... I don’t appreciate your tone, Ms. L/N.” Larissa looms over you, forcing you back against the edge of your desk. Your hands instinctively shoot out behind you, white-knuckling the oak in an attempt to keep yourself steady (both mentally and physically). Your brain rapidly ricochets between processing how little space remains between the two of you and the fact that the school’s principal, your boss, Larissa, has taken to following your lessons plans of her own volition.

“All due respect, you do pay me to read between the lines, Headmistress Weems,” you respond. She seems pleased with this, a puff of warm air landing against your lips as she chuckles. Your fingers twitch against your desk. If you stretched them out, there’s a chance you’d reach her, brushing against the clothed expanse of her thigh.

“You have a very interesting understanding of what you’ve been hired to do here.”

“Oh?”

“Oh.”

Your lips meet in a hot, desperate clash of tongue and teeth, no indication as to who moved first. You grasp wildly at her forearms, shoulders, neck - any stretch of skin you can dig your fingertips into, pushing yourself up as tall as you can to reach further into her. A phone rings somewhere off to your left and you grunt, shoving the contents of your desk off to the side in a clatter. Larissa laughs.

#larissa weems x reader #larissa weems x y/n #larissa weems imagine #larissa weems #principal weems x reader #principal weems imagine #larissa weems x female reader #larissa weems x f!reader #larissa weems x you

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leviathans-watching · 3 years ago

Text

modeling with mammon pt 2

includes: mammon x/& gn!reader, lucifer & gn!reader (they/them pronouns used)

wc: .8k | rated t | m.list | pt 1

a/n: this is for @highly-functioning-mitochondria, who won one of the spots in my sequel lottery! she asked for a part 2 to modeling with mammon, with what happens after the shot + the brothers reactions to it + a blushy mc/mammon. congrats again and i hope you enjoy!!

warnings: light thirst, mild self-doubt for just a quick sec, teasing & embarrassment

please reblog 💕💕💕💕

“mc, our ad is being released today!” mammon exclaims, walking into the living room. you look up, cheeks warming slightly at the reminder. “let’s watch it on the tv!”

“if you want to,” you say, a bit nervous. what if it looks silly? or, oh god, what if it doesn’t? you hadn't wanted to see any of the in-progress work- watching the edited version was bad enough but the raw footage would no doubt be much, much worse.

“i want to see!” asmo chirps, sliding into the room. “i’ll bet mc made the cutest model!”

“what’s going on?” belphie asks, also joining you in the living room. with him, comes beel. soon enough, all of the brothers are there, ready to watch. just what you’d wanted, them all to see.

“let me pull it up,” mammon says, remote in hand. you stay where you are on the couch, watching him find the video. the time stamp on the clip says thirty seconds, so you mentally prepare yourself as mammon corrals the rest of his brothers into silence. once he’s sure he has everyone's attention, he presses play, and immediately, asmo whistles.

“damn, mc,” he declares, eyebrows raised. “you look hot!”

keeping your eyes on the screen, you find you agree, at least a little bit. the clothes and makeup you were in had done a good job transforming you. however, as good as you look, most of your attention is on mammon, who looks like pristine perfection. his hair is messy, and all of his attention is on you, who in return is completely enraptured by him.

hoots and hollers fill the room as advertisement-you run your hand up mammon’s abs, and you flush, still able to feel his smooth skin, burning hot beneath your palm. covering your face, you peek out from between your fingers as the ad continues.

you have to admit you and mammon made a very good team. you’re tempted to buy the product now, and you hadn’t even liked the cologne all that much.

you squeak as advertisement-mammon wraps his arm around your lower back, and once again, the room explodes into noise.

“hey!” levi says loudly, “you shouldn’t be touching them like that! it’s- it’s inappropriate!”

“we were just actin’,” mammon argues, shooting you a look, as if to say can you believe this guy? and you give him a wobbly smile back. this is officially the longest thirty seconds of your life. you like seeing your work, even though it's pretty surreal, but you really could have done without the peanut gallery. you should have expected it, really. the boys never could mind their own business.

finally, the ad draws to a close, the brand flashing across the screen, and mammon cheers.

“we did so great!” he says, holding his hand out for you to high five. pulling one of yours away from your face, you give him one, not prepared for him to catch your hand and keep it, grinning. “we should definitely do that again! and we got paid a pretty penny for it, didn’t we?”

“what?” asmo interjects, a whine in his voice. “no fair! i want to model with them next! they’re a natural!”

“mc, you should film a cosplay video with me,” levi says next, and again, the room is filled with lighthearted arguing and taunting. you almost feel like a product yourself, something to be won, but you know they’re not really seeing you like that so you don’t mind too much.

“you did very well,” lucifer says, leaning close to you in order to be heard. “it seems like you and mammon work very well together.” abruptly, you realize mammon still has your hand and pull it back gently. you’re sure most of the blood in your body is in your cheeks by now.

“thank you,” you manage. “i was pretty nervous but i’m glad that doesn’t really seem to be translating across.”

“not at all,” he says. “in fact, you almost seem a little… parched. we’re you given adequate refreshments on set?”

surprise rocks through you as you register his words, and you see the small quirk in his otherwise flat face that shows he’s teasing. “oh shut up,” you mutter. you cannot believe that lucifer, of all of them, called you out for your obvious desire. “i was just acting.” you shoot a look towards mammon, hoping he hadn't heard, but his ears are decidedly pinker than normal and he's looking anywhere but at you.

“sure,” lucifer says leaning back, though his tone tells you he clearly doesn’t buy it. “and i’m sure that’s just what mammon was doing as well.”

scrunching your face up at lucifer, you turn away from him, just in time to see mammon trying to replay the video. you groan; modeling had been great, and truly, it had been nice to be that close to him, but you’re not sure that it was worth all of the ribbing and embarrassment.

(though you knew if he asked you to do another gig with him, you’d say yes in a heartbeat. whatever. you’d never been one to deny yourself.)

leviathans-watching’s work - please do not repost, copy, or claim as your own

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the-lonelybarricade · 3 years ago

Note

Could you do a feysand sex pollen/aphrodisiac fic? Like set before Feyre knew about the mating bond

You asked for smut and I said: what was that? Did you say angst? Here’s some angst. (With a side of smut). Also you know that I’m procrastinating because I wrote TWO prompt fics in a row and did 0 work for uni or the actual uploads I have scheduled this week. But at least the brain worms liked this one!!

Word Count: 5269

CW: Dub-con in the way all sex pollen is dub-con. There is (obviously) smut in this.

Deviates from canon in the middle of acomaf Chapter 39 <33

The days spent waiting for a response from the Mortal Queens had been a blessing just as much as they’d been a curse.

Rhys should still be reeling from the disaster in the Summer Court. In the past it’d taken significantly less to spiral him into a foul mood for weeks, and yet he knew his willingness to shoulder the failure had nothing to do with personal growth. Feyre had flirted with him—had been flirting with him. Less and less was he believing that her draw to him was merely the result of the bond. She’d begun to care for him. He could still feel the lingering kiss she’d placed on his cheek like it were a brand, offered for no other reason than for his own comfort.

He had to tell her. Cauldron forsake him, he had to do it before things went too far. But she was only just moving on from Tamlin, was only just starting to walk with more life in her stride. He’d nearly seen her smile the other day and he could have sworn the whole world had paused in anticipation at the tilt of her lips. They were playing an extremely delicate balancing act, and he was terrified of doing anything that might sabotage her progress.

Feyre needed more time to heal and navigate the world before she learned that she was saddled indefinitely with him. And he might be a selfish bastard for it, but Rhys wanted her to have more time to warm to him, to realize that it might not be such a bad thing to be his mate. Otherwise it might be too much too fast, and he worried she would run away and never look back.

That didn’t stop him from relishing every scrap of attention she paid him. Azriel shot him a disapproving look as Rhys scrawled a note to Feyre against a pillar of the Cesere temple. Rhysand knew his brother stood in firm agreement with Mor, as he did in most things, about keeping the mating bond a secret. But they hadn’t watched Feyre destroy herself for another male, or seen the hatred in her eyes when she’d stared at him in her cell Under the Mountain. It’d been deserved, and he’d been grateful she was feeling anything for him at all.

Tell me about the painting.

The note and pen vanished, sent to Velaris where he could imagine those bright eyes sweeping over the parchment. How fitting, that he’d taught her to read so he could flirt with her this way.

Rhys and Azriel had barely made it a few steps in to meet the priestesses before the note returned. There’s not much to say.

Az sent him a long suffering look when Rhys paused to scrawl his response. He could admit, the bond was driving him insane enough that he had trouble focusing when he was away from Feyre. And his politics might have suffered for it, were it not for the endless patience of his family. The grace period was sure to expire soon, but he knew for the time being they were grateful enough to have him back that they were willing to shoulder more than their share of the weight.

Azriel went ahead as Rhys wrote back, tell me about it anyway.

The response took long enough that he was able to rejoin Az and spearhead the discussion with the priestesses about rebuilding. The conversation was enough to snap Rhys back to reality, and though it was maddening to imagine what Feyre was doing in the pause between responses, he diligently blocked off the bond. He saw enough of a mirror in the surviving priestesses that he didn’t want any of those drudged up memories to seep through to Feyre.

He still hadn’t gotten a response when they’d readied to leave, and he didn’t dare open the bond until he had a chance to taste the skies. The reminder of what the priestesses had gone through—what he’d gone through—had clung to him the same way splatters of blood would dry to his skin and leathers in battle. It was the kind of stain that needed to be washed away, and he wouldn’t seek Feyre out until he’d had a chance to shower and brood.

Except when he and Azriel landed on the roof of the House of Wind, Rhys sensed immediately that something was wrong. Az stiffened as Mor came running up the stairs, brown eyes wild and urgent.

She didn’t need to say a word. Rhys was moving instantly, rushing blindly into the house. Pure instinct had him tugging on the bond to find Feyre, and relief struck through his panic that at least there was something to tug on.

What happened? He demanded in an open channel to all of them, strung far too tightly to narrow his focus on one person.

They didn’t have a chance to answer before he’d thrown open Feyre’s door, finding her feverish and thrashing atop her bed. Madja was hovering over her, lips pressed into a straight line and brows furrowed. Cassian stood on the other side of the bed, one knee pressing into the mattress as he struggled to restrain Feyre.

“Rhys,” she gasped, and he was there immediately, pressing a shaky hand into the side of her head.

“I’m here, darling,” he said, urgently searching her face for any indication of what ailed her. Her face was flushed, gleaning with sweat, and she was panting as though her lungs were struggling to contain any air. Feyre whimpered as his hand made contact with her clammy skin, and she leaned into his touch with an openness that worried him.

No one had answered his question, so Rhys fixed his eyes desperately to Madja.

“Is she okay?”

He didn’t miss the glance that Cassian and Mor shared, and Rhysand’s heart sank into his stomach. There was something terribly, terribly wrong if his family was too frightened to tell him.

“A moment outside, High Lord?” Madja asked, and Rhys followed wordlessly. The healer shut the door behind them, leaving Cassian and Mor in the room.

Only Azriel stood beside his High Lord as Madja explained as calmly as possible, “Feyre has been exposed to a very powerful magical aphrodisiac.”

Rhys could have collapsed in relief. That was all? He’d thought she was dying.

“She’s in a great deal of pain,” Madja continued. “And I’m afraid there’s not much I can do to ease her symptoms, she will have to wait until the magic has run its course.”

An anguished shriek from the bedroom was effective in draining Rhys of all his color. His muscles sang with the reflex to go to his mate and ease her discomfort. He had a feeling that if he opened the bond, there was no force in existence that could have prevented him from going to her.

Fortunately he’d kept it shut, so that he could at least pretend to be a rational male as he asked, “There’s nothing we can do to help her?”

“There’s nothing I can do to help,” Madja said carefully. “Her mate, however…”

His blood turned to ice.

“The only way to ease the symptoms of a magic like this is through—”

“No.”

Madja flinched. Azriel did, too.

To the healer’s credit, she was brave enough to add, “she has been begging for you.”

Rhys wished Madja had decided to slide a knife into his gut instead. Of course Feyre had been calling for him. She was delirious and he was her mate, instinctively her body knew what she needed even if Feyre did not.

He swallowed in an effort to put moisture back into his bone-dry throat. “Would it still help if it was with… someone else?”

It had been one thing to feel her having sex with Tamlin—before she’d learned to create mental shields—knowing that she loved him, and hated Rhysand. Now the thought of letting someone else take her, in his own home… Rhys would sooner prefer to swallow shattered glass.

But Feyre was howling in pain, and he would do it, for her. It was better to let her take someone else than to blur those lines that were already so precarious.

“It would help,” was Madja’s answer. “But it would not be nearly so effective.”

“Rhysand,” Feyre screamed, the latter half of his name dissolving into a sob. The beast beneath his skin raged at the sound, and a growl escaped his throat before he could stop it.

Azriel’s placed a hand on his shoulder, jerking Rhysand’s attention away from the bedroom door. The Shadowsinger’s eyes were softened in a way Rhys was unused to seeing, but it was his brother’s stern expression that steadied him.

“You should ask her what she wants,” Az said.

Rhys couldn’t. He knew what her answer would be, and he knew it wouldn’t be Feyre speaking, but the magic that was twisting her instinct and desire. The symptoms would pass, and then Feyre would regret what happened.

Worse, she would feel taken advantage of. There was so much Rhys endured in his mate’s regard for him. He could handle her hatred, her rage, her spite. But for Feyre to look upon him and feel the very same he did for Amarantha… Rhys was going to be sick. He dropped to his knees and ducked his head into a nearby flower pot, gagging over the soil until the bout of nausea passed.

The sound of a door clicking drew his head back up. He met his cousin’s tight face, the pain and sorrow in her eyes an echo to his own.

“Rhys,” she said softly. “Feyre is asking for—”

“I know,” he snapped, more of a roar than he intended. That beast was breaking through, triggered by the sounds of his mate’s distress. “You think I can’t hear her screaming my name?”

Mor’s face went pale. It was unfair to yell at her, though he was tempted to demand how Feyre had been exposed to the aphrodisiac in the first place.

“She’s been trying to… grind on Cassian,” Mor added awkwardly, only fueling that fury that crawled in his bones. “If you’re not going to—we should find a better way to restrain her.”

He’d be damned if he let his mate be tied up and tortured for hours by her own desire. Slowly, he clambered to his feet. “Go to the pleasure house and find someone that will suit her tastes,” he said, the order bitter and foul on his tongue. Mor left without a second word.

“Any amount of contact with you will help, High Lord,” Madja implored, eyes sympathetic. “It need not be sexual. Even being held by her mate could reduce her pain significantly.”

Rhys nodded his thanks to the healer, jaw clenched so tight he half worried his teeth would shatter.

He walked back into the bedroom. Before he’d been too panicked to notice, but the scent of her arousal clung so heavily in the air that he nearly choked on it.

Cassian was on the bed, struggling to restrain Feyre while avoiding her attempts to kiss and nip at his skin. It was absurd, but Rhysand couldn’t help the snarl that escaped him at the sight. Both of them went still at the sound. Cassian snapped his head towards Rhys, expression a clear mixture between relief and concern.

Beneath him, Feyre was panting. “Rhys,” she pleaded.

Just like that, his defenses crumbled. Rhysand came to her side, and Cassian fled the second the opportunity presented itself. A primal part of him relaxed once the two of them were left alone.

He reached out to her, like Madja suggested, intending only to comfort. But Feyre was no longer restrained, allowing her to seize his body and crush their lips together like she were drowning and thought to borrow the air from his lungs.

A groan escaped him, entirely against his volition. Her lips were just as sweet as he remembered, but a part of him wanted to scream at knowing that now both their first and second kiss had been taken without Feyre’s willingness.

Though she certainly seemed willing, with the way she was clawing at the strings of his tunic, mouth darting from his lips to taste the skin along his neck. He shuddered as her tongue darted over his pulse, nipping him there as though she knew that his lifeblood called to her. Gods, she was going to be his undoing.

“Feyre,” Rhys murmured, grasping her shoulders to firmly push her away. “Do you understand what’s happened?”

“I don’t care,” she answered, eyes wild and unfocused. She pushed his hands away in an attempt to get closer to him. “Just let me touch you—please.”

Was The Mother trying to test him in some way? Or did she just have a sick sense of humor, deciding to give him the everything he’s longed for since the moment he left the Mountain, yet twisting it in such a way that it would destroy him in the process?

“I know that’s what you want, darling. Cause it will make you feel better, yeah? But it doesn’t have to be with me. It could be…” she managed to yank the neckline of his tunic with enough strength that the fabric ripped, and for a moment the feeling of her warm skin against his bare chest made him forget what he was saying. She crawled into his lap, and Rhys hissed as her hips deliberately slid against his. “Fuck—it could be with anyone, darling. Mor is going to go find you a nice male from the pleasure house, or… or I could even go get—”

He was cut off by Feyre grabbing his face, nothing gentle in the way she yanked him forward until their lips crashed together again. Rhys wouldn’t have minded the ferocity, would have reveled in it, if not for the fact that those beautiful blue eyes lacked any sort of clarity. There was none of the sharp cunning he was used to seeing in Feyre’s expression—this was not his Feyre. Not that his body seemed to care, with the way his erection strained against his trousers and his desire thrummed red-hot in his veins.

“I want it to be you,” Feyre whined in between feverish kisses, her tongue stroking against his mouth with a wildness that could have consumed him. “I want you so badly,” she gasped, breaking apart from him with reluctance that yielded only to the necessity of breath. “I ache for you.”

“I know, darling,” he whispered, the admission small and filled with his own sorrow. He knew too well, how badly someone could ache for their mate. He also knew that the way she ached was not the same—because tomorrow, she would wake up with it sated, whereas his ache would likely wear on him until he was nothing but dust.

If Feyre didn’t consume him whole, first. She shredded the rest of his tunic until it was nothing but strips of fabric draped across his body. Rhys let her lick a strip across his abdomen, groaning, before his control snapped in.

He grabbed her wrist, attempting to restrain her the same way Cassian had.

“You’re not in your right mind, Feyre,” he reasoned. ”You wouldn’t want this if it wasn’t for the magic.”

“Who wouldn’t want you!?” she snapped, and he could have laughed at the compliment if he wasn’t so focused on keeping her restrained. Unlike Cassian, he didn’t have an aversion to letting his body touch her. His hips straddled her own, and it was an immense effort to ignore the way she moaned at the contact. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit to the air that rushed through his own clenched teeth.

It was supposed to be like this, he reminded himself. Touching your mate was supposed to be addictive. Feyre began undulating her hips under him, and it was a test of resolve to stay still as she began tracing sweet kisses along his collarbone.

“Plenty of people,” he grunted, pretending this was a perfectly normal conversation. “Yourself included. I distinctly remember you calling me disgusting.”

“I wanted you,” she whispered in a voice that was seductive enough to rival even the lightsingers. “Even then.”

Every muscle in his body seemed to lock up, choosing a side in his internal battle of instinct versus reason. “Don’t say that,” he choked, mostly a plea. He pressed his hips into her, promising himself it was an attempt to still her movements.

Feyre whined, equal parts in protest and encouragement. “Why not?”

Rhysand was trembling as he ducked his head into her shoulder, trying to take a moment to breathe and reign himself back in. “Because—you’re trying to say anything you can to get me into bed.”

She wiggled her hips, causing him to gasp. “Is it working?”

Yes. “No.”

He raised his face so he could meet her eyes. She was still flushed, still panting, and tears were brimming beneath her lashes—with the way her eyes glimmered, he felt like he was staring at the Sidra on a cloudless day. She truly was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Do you not want me?” Feyre sniffed, shattering his heart. “Is that why you won’t help me?”

“I…” Rhys swallowed thickly, wishing for the wisdom to navigate this situation. Would Feyre even remember this conversation? “I want you so badly that I can’t concentrate half the time,” he admitted, the truth burning in his throat. “But you have been through enough, Feyre. The last thing I want to do is take advantage of you.”

Those tears were flowing freely now. “I want it to be you,” she whimpered, with enough conviction that he might have believed her.

Except when he released one of her wrists to wipe the tears away, Feyre seized the opportunity to roll him onto his back and pin him down with the strength of seven High Lords. Feeling desperate, Rhys opened the bond and reached his mental talons across the bridge between their minds.

There were no adamantite walls on Feyre’s side of the bond, no shields at all. Rhys was met instead with a dense fog. When he speared his talons through it, hoping to search for Feyre somewhere in the thick manifestation of desire, that fog chased him down the bond and flooded his own mind. His shields shot up quickly, but the damage had been done. Not only was he fighting against the mating bond, now he was fighting against the haze in his own mind. White hot static poured into his veins, circulating that scalding desire with every dreaded pump of his heart.

All this, while Feyre had him pinned to the mattress, grinding herself against his erection until he felt to the point of begging. Feyre seemed to sense something in him had tapered, because she let go of his wrists in favor of trailing her mouth down his body. He fisted his hands into the sheets as her lips traced the shape of his abdomen, uncertain if he was restraining himself from pushing her away or pulling her closer.

Rhys went rigid when she nuzzled his navel, her tongue following the thin wisps of hair until she came to the band of his trousers. His control was razor thin, and she knew it. Rhys could tell from the devilish smile she sent him, moments before her hands cupped the outline of his cock through the fabric.

His restraint snapped the same moment his hips did, bucking closer to her touch as a string of vulgarities fled his lips. Rhys used his last moment of clarity to muse how like Feyre it was, to satisfy his longing this way—she would never let things be easy for him, and he couldn’t begrudge her for it. Perhaps he deserved it.

Even those thoughts were lost the moment she untied his laces and he felt her soft hands touching him—skin to skin. It was like he was a fledgling Illyrian once more, shuddering at just the thought of a female’s touch. Rhys was convinced that Feyre could have continued holding him, motionless, and he still would have found completion.

Feyre had other ideas. This wasn’t for his benefit, he remembered helplessly, she was satisfying her own hunger. He clenched his teeth to stop himself from becoming a ridiculous, snarling mess once she began sliding her hand up and down his length. Yet nothing could have held back the roar that escaped him when Feyre leaned down to wrap her plush lips around the head of his cock.

The hands that found her hair were unintentional, and he couldn't even remember putting them there. Feyre paid him no mind at all as she licked at the glaze of precum, shutting her eyes contentedly at the taste. Primal, male satisfaction shocked his bones, and he could have died a happy male right then. He almost wanted to die right there, just so that he’d never live to see the end of this daydream come to life.

Rhys wanted to feel Feyre’s mouth around him—and he knew that’s very obviously what she was after—but he also selfishly wanted this to last. Feyre had a few hours to his months of craving her.

Ignoring her sound of protest, Rhys sat up and flipped them over. If he were feeling self-serving, he would have taken the time to remove her shirt and worship those breasts that had been torturing him for weeks in the training ring. An aphrodisiac was lessened with orgasm—he knew that much. So Rhys yanked off her trousers, resolved to spend as long as it took between her legs. He’d render her a trembling mess beneath him until she had enough clarity to push him away.

The sight of her naked sex, spread for him and glistening with arousal, was enough to bring him to his knees. His mouth watered, even as his entire body clenched at the enormity of what was about to happen. Condemned as he may be by the end of it, at least Rhys would spend these next hours in utter bliss.

Feyre shifted impatiently, fingers fisting into his hair to drag him forward. She was met with no amount of resistance. The mating bond shuddered the moment his tongue found her center, and the sound that came out of him was half feral as he lost himself to primal instinct entirely. This was his mate and she tasted like she’d been made for his tongue. Now it was Rhysand’s turn to shut his eyes and relish the flavor of her—musky and sweet, he could have drowned happily in it.

Paired with the soft moans above him, the way her nails scraped against his scalp in a silent begging of more, more, more, Rhys was certain he found his purpose in life. Not to rule, not to fight, just simply to bury his head between his mate’s thighs and bring her to an endless, shivering rapture.

“Rhys,” she panted sweetly. It was almost cruel, knowing he would never be able to forget the sound of Feyre moaning his name. And he was grateful that his mouth was occupied, lest he blurt out something he could never take back. That didn’t stop his mind from thinking it, with every lap of his tongue: I love you, I love you, I love you…

Rhys moved his attention to her clit, sucking it into his mouth in a way that earned him a delicious little mewl that he wanted to hear over and over again. He devoured her until those fingers in his hair clenched so tightly it was painful, and he groaned as he dipped his tongue into her and felt those muscles clench and release around him. His name was a chanted prayer on Feyre’s lips as he continued stroking his tongue until her breathing evened.

The grip of her fingers loosened, but Rhys didn’t stop.

“Rhys,” she complained, pushing lightly at his head. He spared a glance towards her face, measuring the glaze in her eyes.

“Again,” he rasped, unyielding. Her eyes were still ravaged with desire, and when his lips closed around that sensitive bundle of nerves she fell back onto the bed with a generous moan. It was music to his ears.

Feyre was less passive this time, undulating her hips indelicately against his mouth. Rhys was so enthralled that he nearly regretted how quickly her second orgasm came, though it was worth it for the scream that tore past her lips.

The entire house would know what he was doing. An absent, very distant, part of his mind wondered if Mor ever found a male at the pleasure house, or if they’d known all along that Rhysand would cave to his mate’s need.

Perhaps they knew him better than himself. There was not a single thing he could ever deny Feyre, even if it was at the expense of his own health and sanity.

By her third orgasm, Rhys could sense some of her desperation had lost its edge. She was shaking beneath him, pawing at his hair with less severity but still grinding her hips to meet his tongue stroke for stroke.

He lost track of time, measuring it only by the number of times he could bring her to release. It was the sixth orgasm that finally broke the spell. He could hear it in the way Feyre gasped instead of moaning his name. Rhysand broke away from her before she had a chance to do it herself, scrambling to sit up so that he could peer at her wide eyes, finally clean and clear.

“Rhys?” she asked, eyes roving over his very naked body and the erection that stood proudly between his legs.

He wondered what Feyre remembered—if she even understood how she’d come to be spread half naked before him on the bed. The evidence of it was certainly all over his face, likely gleaming in the dim faelight.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, after she’d spent a long moment without saying anything, merely staring at the space between his legs. “Do you… want me to go?”

Eventually those beautiful eyes flicked to his face, and stayed. He stared back, admiring the pink tinge of her cheeks that spread all the way to the collar of her shirt, the way her hair had loosened in her braid so that it looked as wild as he felt.

Mate, he thought, her taste still lingering on his tongue and he knew that even if she decided to kick him out, it would continue to linger for days, months. The sweetest, most exquisite torture.

The seconds that ticked by were painful, but eventually Feyre shook her head. “Stay,” she said, so quietly that he had to strain to hear it. Then, “did you mean what you said? About… how much you want me?”

He supposed she remembered perfectly well, then. Slowly, Rhys nodded, looking pointedly down so that she could see the evidence of just how much. He stood frozen where he kneeled before her, not daring to move until she gave him the go-ahead. His throat was dry, but he forced words through it anyway. “A thought for a thought, darling?”

Tears began brimming in her eyes, and this time Rhys knew sexual frustration was not the cause of them. His stomach twisted and he willed his nausea to stay down. Surely it wouldn’t do him any favors to hurl his guts onto the sheets.

“I’m thinking,” Feyre began, her voice cracking, “that you endured 50 years of being touched against your will, and because of my own stupidity, I’ve just done the very same by forcing myself on you.”

Rhys blew out a long breath. “I’m thinking that I was afraid you would think the same of me. I’m thinking that this was my every desire twisted, because I want you so badly I can’t breathe when I look at you and yet you only wanted me because of a spell.”

“That’s not true,” she whispered, tears spilling onto her flushed cheeks. “It wasn’t just the spell… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, Rhysand. Not for a long while. Even before…”

She trailed off with a wince, but Rhys knew what she was going to say. Even before she left the Spring Court. How much of her guilt could he relieve, by assuring her it was natural to feel that draw towards a mate? Could it counteract the dread that would surely follow? Today had been overwhelming enough, but maybe he would tell her tomorrow.

“Can I—is it okay if I touch you?”

Feyre thought for a long moment, once more taking stock of his fully exposed body, before she nodded. Rhys approached her slowly, with none of the consideration he’d ever been afforded Under the Mountain, and when he came to his mate he simply folded her into his arms.

“This wasn’t exactly what I envisioned.” Rhys arranged them so that they were both lying down, with Feyre tucked tightly against him. “When I thought about bedding you for the first time, it included a wall, or a table. Though I can’t say I didn’t enjoy myself.”

Perhaps it was too honest a thing to admit, but Feyre shuddered in a way that he deemed encouraging.

“How were you exposed to the magic, anyway?” he asked, the anger of the situation having now faded into gentle curiosity.

Feyre hid her face in his chest, in what he presumed to be shame. “Mor and I went into Velaris today, and there was a little potion shop.”

“Go on…”

“I thought I could get you back,” she admitted, “for the illusion the other day.” His lips twitched at the memory of Feyre so distracted by the vision of Rhys kissing her stomach that she walked straight into a pole. “The lady at the shop only said it would give a male an erection. She said to only use a few drops, so it wasn’t supposed to be so… potent. But then I spilled it all over myself opening the bottle, and here we are.”

To think this was all a prank gone awry. Rhys shook his head, thinking that Feyre truly would be the death of him.

“Here we are,” he repeated with a mild laugh. “Considering I just spent hours going down on you, I would wager you’ve been adequately compensated.”

“I think I’m the only one who should be the judge of that,” she whispered in a throaty voice that caused all of his blood to pool downward.

Rhys shifted so that he could see her face, gauging her sincerity as he asked, “are you saying you aren’t satisfied with my level of compensation?”

Her answering grin was exquisite. “Why don’t you go back down, and I’ll tell you when to stop?”

“Beautiful, wicked creature,” he responded, sinking back down her body with an obedience that felt liberating.

This time, when he dived back between her thighs, there was no doubt in his mind that Feyre was a willing recipient. And Rhys would have died right then an extraordinarily happy male.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡

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