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kabuki-writes · 3 days ago

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And All Eyes Were Set On Brutus

chapter: 3 chapter 1 | 2

pairing: emperor geta/emperor caracalla x acacius' daughter!reader

summary: After their visit of the Colosseum, Marcus Acacius worries even more about his beloved daughter. Meanwhile a dangerous rumor finds its way into the Emperor's ears.

Note: Thank you all for your ongoing support and your comments on my previous chapters✨🙇‍♀️! I really enjoy to write this fic as a Geta and Cara stan myself and it honors me that you continue to share your love for these two and this fic. I really hope you like this chapter as well, because this time it gets a little more... spicy.🌶️

word count: 3.6k

Rome was becoming nothing more than a painful cage for General Acacius. From the very first day he had to wear the white armor of victory, he felt like a slave with no other choices than to watch how everything he had known changed for the worse. He despised himself for not being able to protect his own daughter from the eyes of the Emperors, that were now set on her. He should've never taken her with him, he should've sticked with his principles. But then again, what choice did he even have, when he faced an order by the most powerful men in the world.

There was no chance to defy them openly, speaking up now would bring danger to his whole family as they would have to face the consequences of Marcus Acacius' actions. He wasn't so delusional and naive to think that the anger of the Emperors would only befall him alone, no, they weren't like that. So when the day came and a senator stepped forward to the General, he hesitated. Geta and Caracalla were beloved by the people as they gave them victories, bread and games - as long as the plebs had that, no one gave a damn about who sat on top. For them it was all the same, but the senate was different.

After the death of Emperor Commodus, the senate reestablished the Roman Republic, but wasn't able to secure their power. Many cities and regions took their chance to rebel against Rome as most of the generals refused to serve the new order - that included Marcus Acacius as well, who quickly sided with his old friend and brother-in-arms Septimius Severus, the father of the now ruling Emperors Geta and Caracalla. They took their legions and marched on Rome, where Severus took the power from the senate again only one year after the rebirth of the Republic. Acacius did believe in Severus, he did believe in the vision his friend had for Rome as well as his strength and wisdom as Emperor. Nearly two decades he was not disappointed while he served his old friend as a close advisor and his first general.

The senate got reduced to nothing more than a theater stage, with no real power or influence. And Acacius was sure that they would forever hate him for the service he did to Severus. Yet men like Gracchus must've sensed that the general was getting more and more delusional given the current reign of the twins. So the politicians approached him carefully and together they formed an alliance in the shadows. Their plan: Overthrowing the two Emperors and install the Republic again. Acacius stood never on the side of the senate... but nothing was as terrible as Geta's and Caracalla's tyranny. And if that is a way to protect his daughter and his family from them, he happily claimed himself a Roman Republican now.

Coming from one of his nightly visits at senator Gracchus' home, Acacius noticed that there was someone still sitting in the inner garden of his Roman city residence. He took off his cloak and approached you slowly as you watched the turtles in the small pond between the plants and flowers, while the water of a small fountain rippled in the silence. "Your mother told me, that you were sitting here the whole day", he said with a low tone, careful not to scare you with his sudden appearence, before he took a seat right next to you on the stone bench. When he watched your face, he saw all the thoughts that were probably going through your head after the situation in the Collosseum yesterday. For a long moment, the two of you simply sat in silence, while one of the turtles walked along a mosaic before it fell into the water.

"I am not a child anymore, i don't want you or mother to protect me any longer", you suddenly whispered, before your head turned to your father. In your eyes he saw how you struggled to maintain your neutrality as you faced the danger that may come over you, if you'd accept this new attention further. "And yet i don't know how to deal with... them? I suppose i cannot refuse any of this?" Your question carried a sense of pain, because you already knew the answer and it was equally as hard for your father to shake his head in response.

"I thought so...", you mumbled and leaned forward give one of the turtles a leaf of salad you had snached from the dinner table earlier. Acacius had seen many battles and many terrible things, but nothing was harder than to see you like this. And nothing was harder than to feel helpless. All he could do was laying his hand softly and reassuring on your shoulder.

„You’re my daughter, y/n. And you’re right, even if I want it to, I can not protect you anymore… all I can promise you, that it is going to be alright."

He searched for a way to fix all of this, even though he couldn't tell you how. It was better this way as it would only drag you deeper into the dead end that your own father had already set up. The mere thought about it made his heart grow even more painful.

"Do you regret it sometimes?", you suddenly asked, looking at the vibrant clear water of the pond. "What do you mean?"

"That you marched with Emperor Severus back then?"

This question wasn't easy to answer, it was written on Acacius face, as he turned his face to the turtles and sighed.

"I did believe in Severus... i still do. Under him, Rome was able to secure itself and become strong again. What comes after that now - only time will tell. But what i know is that i have to leave in a few weeks with my troups again. An order of the Emperors."

It wasn't a particular surprising news, but nonetheless your fingers digged themselves into the fabric of your toga-like blue dress, while you still hept your head high. Despair was no useful emotion and not a good thought right now. You needed to stay calm, stick to yourself and find a way on how to deal with all of the things that were happening. As you'd said you were no child anymore - you will find a way out if this, even without your father.

You didn't say a word in response, however you closed your arms around him as the fear that with him being gone it could get even worse, lingered on your mind. Little did you know that the world you had known was already on the brink of falling apart.

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The smell of incence, wine, sweet perfume and sweat filled the rooms of Emperor Caracalla's chambers, while naked bodies moved themselves to the rythm of a small group of musicians. The melodies of their instruments mixed themselves with the moans of the men and women in ecstacy, the worshippers of Bacchus - god of wine, euphoria and madness. Drinking and making love was the way they prayed nearly every night as Caracalla found in it a way to escape the reality that almost drove him crazy. Here in his chambers, the only Emperor that mattered was him, the only word that was heard was his own. At least one small realm for himself, while he had to share the rest of the world with his twin brother.

But it was different this time, when he stared at the scenery with a mind clouded in intoxication. His breaths went ragged, while he sat on a bed decorated with velvet cushions, a young man kneeled between his legs and sent him to elysium with his tongue, while he was surrounded by beautiful slaves, women with golden chains, that decorated their naked breasts and hips. And yet even in a scenery like this, where he usually found a way to calm his restless mind, he was still thinking about her. Not only her, sadly - that goddamn General was another thought. The hero of Rome was no pleasant figure for him anymore, he was nothing more than a Brutus, but Caracalla was not the one to end up like Julius Caesar.

The mere thought of killing this treacherous son of a whore hit Caracalla's brain and made him cum into the mouth of the slave that had his dick deep in his throat. This peak of his pleasure would've helped him to relax if not one of the praetorian guards stepped in and walked with his black and lilac amror through the voyeristic scenery like it was a halluzination in front of the Emperor's eyes. Without a second thought, Caracalla simply pushed the young slave, who was still sitting at his feet, to the side and stood up. His hand quickly grabbed the white toga that layed on the floor which he threw over his own naked, pale body. "Why do you disturb me!?", he hissed, as if he wasn't already expecting him.

The soldier ignored the music, the slaves that layed on the ground and fucked each other, just as he ignored the half-naked Emperor right in front of him, who still wore his golden laurel crown and his jewelries. "Emperor Geta waits for you."

For a moment, the young man with the gingerblonde hair stared at his guard, before he nodded quickly, as if it got him out of a daydream. "Yes, yes i will come to him, i am right there, tell him that. And get that slave Marcellus here," he answered, hand waving him away before his tone shifted and he screamed at his 'guests'. "Get out, GET OUT OF MY SIGHT! NOW!" The music stopped immediately and all eyes were set on Caracalla, while the first slaves already got to their feet again. „NOW,“ he repeated in a louder and added in a hissing tone „…or I will claim your tongue with a dagger!“

Caracalla was impossible to read fully, just as he was impulsive. It would’ve not been the first time one participant of this nightly debaucheries had lost his tongue or another part of his body.

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Emperor Geta waited in his embroidered night robe, which was half open, exposing his bare and pale chest. Sitting on a cushioned wooden chair, he stared with tired eyes out the window of the balcony, the darkness of Rome in front of him. Just as his brother he had someone in his chambers, but instead of a whole horde of slaves he had chosen one good whore with hairs that reminded him of you. It was just a dull replacement, he knew that, yet it was enough for a good fuck before he would’ve went to sleep.

If there was not his twin brother, who‘d call for him in the middle of the goddamn night. By the gods he hated to be disturbed like that, especially after countless of times his brother got him here only to share uninteresting - sometimes even paranoid - gossip with him, which Caracalla had heard from the mouth of one of his slaves.

When the curtains of the attached room opened and Geta saw his brother entering with his wild hair and only with a toga over his bare body, his nose twitched in anger. ��Don‘t tell me you disturbed my sleep and called for my immediate coming while you were fucking whores at your damn orgy!? When you’re telling me that your problem is, that you can’t sleep now, I will cross you myself!“ Yes, it wasn’t the first time Caracalla had called him for such nonesense. And usually Geta had a lot of patience with him, given his psychological condition, but not tonight.

Caracalla stopped in an instant and looked at his brother with big eyes as if he tries to convince him that he wasn’t guilty of anything. „Yes, but- I had a reason for that!“ he insisted, which only fueled Geta's anger. „Lucinius, bring us the slave!“ Caracalla quickly said and the Praetorian guard who just had informed him about his brother came in with a skinny, yet tall young man. He was a slave but given the clothes he wore, it was clear that he had a higher rank within the household he was serving in.

„Who is that, one of your toy boys?“ Geta asked, eying the stranger he‘d never seen before. But Caracalla shook his head and stepped forth to place his hand on the shoulder of that slave.

„No! He is a slave from the household of senator Gracchus,“ he explained and couldn’t hide an almost devilish smile as this said slave was here for one reason alone - to tell them everything. „Marcellus, tell him,“ he ordered and whispered into his ear. „I promised you your freedom and a good amount of gold, to return to your family. You want to see your daughter again, right? So don’t disappoint me now.“ With those words he stepped back for a moment, giving the slave a moment to breath as he seemingly tried to find the right words. He was nervous, the way his fingers twitched and his eyes were glued to the marble ground under his feet.

"I... i am a servant in the household of senator Gracchus for nearly a decade now", Marcellus began and forced himself to look up into the testing eyes of Geta, who was growing more impatient with each second passing. "The General... General Acacius as well as a couple of other senators visit my master regularly in the middle of the night and they always retreat into a secret room in the cellar of his villa."

With an amused whistle Geta interrupted him. "Why should we care for the sexual escapades of a group of old men?", he hissed, but Caracalla threw in with a darkened shimmer in his eyes. "Wait for it, you will be furious, trust me! Continue."

Marcellus needed a second to calm himself down and stop to shake as he formed his next words. "When i brought them wine once, they stopped with their conversation as long as i stayed in the room, but when i was in the corridor, they spoke again. They didn't know that i was still there, so i just listened and- it was clear that they questioned you, my Emperors. They questioned your leadership and the general - i wouldn't dare to speak out loud such a blasphemy against your rule, if it was not what i've heard with my own ears."

Geta's face darkened with every new information Marcellus was telling him and slowly he realized why his brother was so eager to get him here. The laugh of his twin filled the room, which turned hysterical. "Tell him, Marcellus!"

"General Acacius and the senators Gracchus, Livinidus, Galba and Erebus plan to overthrow you with the legions that are under Acacius' command," he said and had to force every word out of his mouth, afraid of the anger that cooked like a vulcano in Geta. His hands formed fists and he bit his tongue. All this time, Acacius - the hero - was a traitor, a Brutus. And now he connected the dots, thinking about every time this General wined about going off to war. This maggot.

"And this is true!?", he asked in a loud, demanding tone. "If that is a lie, we will punish you in the most terrible ways you could imagine and feed you to the lions in the Colosseum!" Marcellus eyes were filled with tears of fear, yet he shook his head heavily.

"No, please! I speak the truth, i swear it! I swear it in front of Jupiter himself, please, you must believe me! I came to Emperor Caracalla, who promised me my freedom if i tell it here again. It is no lie!"

"Kill him", Geta ordered in a cold tone and before Marcellus could even scream, it was the blade of the Praetorial Guard that cut his head off from behind, making it fall to the ground like a ball of bones and meat, followed by his body. Under the resounding laugh of Caracalla, Geta ordered the Guard to leave them so that he could speak to his brother in private.

"You just read my mind, dear brother! I wouldn't have let him go either", Caracalla sang. "We should kill them all, that bastard Acacius and his old senate sluts! Let's cut off their heads and spike them on the Palatin for all to see!"

But Geta was already two steps ahead when he closed the distance between him and his twin. Yes, he was furious, it took him all restraints to not give in the urge of ordering their murder. "No," he said, which drew a questioning look on his brothers face.

"What no?! Those are traitors, TRAITORS! You've heard the same things i did!?"

"I did, but the senators are no danger. These old men talk about the republic which is nothing more than dust and ashes! A faded dream and without any backing, they just continue to shit themselves in the senate. When our father took Rome, the people cheered to him, because they didn't want a Republic but a strong Emperor to guide them, remember? The head of the snake is Acacius! He must die, and he will die, but not yet!", Geta started and turned to the balcony, leaving his brother for a moment as he stood in the darkness with his his white toga. "We need his legion, and we will make him our fucking dog, who has no chance to ever decline any order of us, if we have his beloved daughter. If he doesn't do as we say, then she will die."

But he will, Geta knew that. Nothing seemed to be more precious in Acacius' life than his family and especially his dear daughter. And this whole situation had a bonus for Geta, because when he turned to face Caracalla again, he announced. "I will force him with an order to marry his daughter to me!"

Caracalla froze in place, his eyes staring at his brother as if he just had a bad dream. "What?", he simply asked again, while his brother's anger turned into anticipation. "With a marriage we bind her to our reign and therefore we will bind the General. Acacius delivers us his own daughter and his own head on a silver tablet with his treacherous nonsense!"

Geta wanted to place his hands on his twin's shoulders, but Caracalla slapped them out of his way. "I don't accept this! NO! I DON'T ACCEPT THIS!", he screamed at him, which really irritated his twin. "Why can't I be the One to marry her!?"

There it was. For the first time, the twins revealed in front of each other that they longed for the same girl. And that made it complicated. Nonetheless Geta was still confused, why his brother reacted like that, so he reminded him of what Caracalla said all those years.

"You never wanted to marry? How many times did you told our father before he died? Every time he said to us, that we would need to find ourselves someone to take as a wife, you refused. You were too busy indulging in your late night activities and Bacchus rituals."

He stepped forward with an intense glaze in his eyes. This way of being instructive, while Caracalla was still his twin and technically even older than him, made his brother's mouth twitch in response to his next words. "May i remind you about the fact that i am the one of us dealing with most of the political responsibilities, because you always wanted to stick to your fun."

Those words were indeed true, as Caracalla hated those senate discussions, which lead to nothing and were only for show - an illusion for both the plebs and the upper-classes. Geta continued, but not without making clear that he saw himself worthier of you being his wife, bound in front of the gods. "All of that is fine, brother. I've always protected you from the boring senators and hypocrites of the Roman elite, while you collected the most beautiful slaves and enjoyed yourself. You have no duties, as long as i take them off your shoulders and finally shut up all the people, finally demanding a royal marriage after all those years. And given all of that, i do think i deserve to marry before you to present Rome an Empress."

Caracalla stared at him, straight into the eyes of his twin Geta and his fingers twitched. If he would just have a dagger now? But he had none right here and given the fact that his brother was always taller and stronger with his statue, it wouldn't make sense to start a fight. In fact he couldn't even argue against him, as it was true, he was never an Emperor that bothered himself with any political nonesense. Yet he couldn't shake off the urge to kill Geta for this. Again, he took a thing from him he wanted to own for himself - only for himself. Even though his twin showed his goodwill, as he always did. His hands layed itself on Caracalla's cheeks and he gave him a brotherly kiss on the forehead. "Don't worry, dear brother. I am not above sharing her divine presence with you. But she will always be my wife," he whispered, followed by a smile on his lips.

With those words he simply turned and left the room, leaving Caracalla, who was still wearing his white toga over his naked body, as well as the body of Marcellus alone in the dark. His mind got corrupted with so many thoughts in this very moment, but the most prominentely thought was anger. So he screamed hysterically and grabbed the table that stood at the side to throw it down, taking the vase on top and hurled it straight through the room, followed by the head of that damn slave. He hated Geta. He hated him so much and still they had shared the whomb of their mother, which made them share the same blood.

How long would he be able to hold the urge to murder his own brother - especially now as Geta claimed you?

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Tags:

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#gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #emperor caracalla #emperor geta #general acacius #geta x reader #caracalla x reader #joseph quinn #pedro pascal #fred hechinger #gladiator ii fic #kabuki writes

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paxtito · 2 days ago

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and they were roommates

pairings: tara x reader (g!p)

word count: 2717

warnings: smut 18+, masturbating, oral (r receiving), p in v, swearing

summary: tara is out running errands, she’d be gone for hours- or so you thought

a/n: i’m working on multiple request atm— wenclair x reader one and the radiohead song (i’m just listening and reading the song to get an idea atm) also thank you to the anon for requesting this and their kind words!

The dorm is quiet, unusually so, and it’s kind of nice. Tara had mentioned heading out for the day—something about running errands and meeting up with Sam—and while you’re used to the hum of her presence, the silence isn’t unwelcome.

You glance around the shared space. It’s small but cozy, a mix of her personality and yours crammed into every corner. Her side of the room is meticulously organized—her books stacked neatly, her bed made with precision. In contrast, your side looks… well, lived-in. A pile of clothes rests precariously on your desk chair, and your bed is a haphazard mess of blankets and pillows.

You plop onto your bed, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly through social media. Without Tara around, you’re left to your own devices—literally. You snort at a meme, sending it to her out of habit.

“That’s stupid,” she’d probably reply, but there’d be a hint of fondness in it.

After a while, you glance at the clock. Noon. The day stretches ahead, and you find yourself feeling restless. You could clean up your side of the room, but… nah. Instead, you wander over to Tara’s desk.

Her books catch your eye first—old classics mixed with crime thrillers and a few surprisingly heartfelt poetry collections. You pick one up, flipping through the pages idly. A note scribbled in the margin catches your attention, her handwriting sharp and deliberate: “This makes no sense. Why didn’t he just leave?”

You chuckle softly. Even in her annotations, Tara’s blunt honesty shines through.

Your gaze drifts to her bulletin board. It’s a mix of pinned photos, ticket stubs, and little reminders. One of the pictures is of the two of you, taken on move-in day. You’re grinning like an idiot, throwing up a peace sign, while she’s glaring at the camera, her arms crossed—but there’s a subtle upturn to her lips that gives her away.

You flop onto your bed, the old springs creaking under your weight. The small TV in the corner flickers to life as you jab at the remote, the sound of canned laughter filling the room. It's some trashy reality show, but it's mindless and distracting—just what you need right now.

As you settle in, your gaze drifts around the room. Tara's side is always so pristine, everything in its place. It's annoying how tidy she is. You, on the other hand... well, your side looks like a bomb went off in a thrift store.

You reach for the bag of chips on your nightstand, tearing it open with a loud rip. The salty scent mingles with the faint smell of Tara's lavender body spray, creating a strange but not unpleasant odor.

You munch away, eyes glued to the screen, as snippets of conversation from the show drift through your thoughts.

"I think I'm going to kill her," one of the contestants is saying, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

You snort. Yeah, right. They're all too busy primping and preening to actually do anything. Unlike the Ghostface killers, they've got no balls.

You check the time again, just to be sure. Tara won't be back for at least a couple of hours. With the coast clear, a mischievous grin spreads across your face. Time to take advantage of the privacy.

You reach over to your bedside table, fishing around in the drawer until your fingers close around the cool, smooth bottle of lotion. You pop the cap open with practiced ease, squirting a generous amount into your palm. The slick, slightly cold sensation sends a shiver down your spine as you rub your hands together, warming the lotion.

With your other hand, you unlock your phone and pull up your favorite porn site. Your fingers fly over the screen as you type in your search, already feeling the familiar stirrings of arousal. A few taps later, and a video starts playing, the sounds of moaning and grunting filling the now-silent room.

You settle back against your pillow, one hand already slipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants. Your cock is already half-hard, twitching in anticipation. You wrap your fingers around it, giving it a slow stroke as you watch the scene unfold on your screen.

You stroke your cock slowly, teasingly, savoring the building pleasure. Your other hand roams over your chest, pinching and tweaking a nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt. The dual sensations send sparks of electricity shooting through your body, making your hips buck up into your touch.

On screen, the actress lets out a particularly loud moan, and you match it with a groan of your own. Fuck, that's hot.

Just as you're getting into a rhythm, the door to your dorm swings open without warning. You freeze, your hand still wrapped around your throbbing cock, as Tara steps inside.

"Shit!" she exclaims, her eyes widening as she takes in the scene before her. You're sprawled on your bed, pants pulled down, phone in hand, and a sticky puddle of lube on your stomach.

Mortification floods through you, and you frantically try to cover yourself, grabbing a pillow and pressing it over your lap. Your face burns with embarrassment, and you can't meet Tara's gaze.

"I-I thought you said you'd be gone for hours!" you stammer, trying to come up with some excuse. But there's no hiding what you were doing.

Tara stands in the doorway, frozen in shock. Her eyes dart between your flushed face and the pillow. After a moment, she seems to shake herself out of her stupor.

Tara's eyes flick down to the pillow, then back up to your face. Her expression is unreadable, but there's a glint in her eye that makes your stomach flutter with nerves and excitement.

She steps further into the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. The sound seems to echo in the tense silence.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," she says, her voice low and teasing. She saunters over to your bed, the mattress dipping under her weight as she sits on the edge.

Your breath hitches as she reaches out, her fingers brushing against the pillow in your lap. Slowly, she pulls it away, revealing your straining erection. You whimper at the sudden exposure, the cool air hitting your overheated skin.

Tara's gaze rakes over your cock, and you feel yourself grow even harder under her scrutiny. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips, and your hips twitch involuntarily.

"Looks like you were in the middle of something," she purrs, her hand resting lightly on your thigh. Her touch is electric, sending shivers racing up your spine.

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd be back so soon," you manage to say, your voice coming out breathier than you intended.

Tara leans in closer, her breath ghosting over your ear. "Don't apologize," she whispers, her lips brushing against your skin. "I think I can help with that."

And then, before you can process what's happening, she's sliding down your body, her hands pushing your legs apart. You gasp as her mouth hovers over your cock, her hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin.

"Fuck, Tara," you groan, your fingers tangling in her hair as she takes you into her mouth. The wet heat of her tongue is almost too much to bear, and you buck your hips, desperate for more.

Tara hums around you, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through your body. She bobs her head, taking you deeper each time, her hand wrapping around the base of your cock.

Your head falls back against the pillows as Tara works her magic. Her mouth is a wonder, hot and wet and so damn perfect. You can feel every ridge and valley of her tongue as it glides along your shaft, tracing the veins and swirling around the head.

"Fuck, your mouth feels so good," you groan, your hips rocking up to meet her movements. Your fingers tighten in her hair, gently guiding her pace.

Tara hums in response, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. She takes you deeper, her nose brushing against your pubic bone as she swallows around you.

The sight of her, head bobbing in your lap, lips stretched obscenely around your cock, is almost too much to handle. You feel yourself getting close, your balls tightening and your stomach muscles clenching.

"Tara, I'm gonna..." you warn, your voice strained and breathless.

But she doesn't pull away. Instead, she doubles down, her head moving faster, her hand pumping in tandem. She looks up at you through her lashes, her eyes dark with lust and something else, something intense and hungry.

It's too much. With a guttural groan, you explode in her mouth, your cock pulsing as you spill your seed down her throat. She swallows it all, not spilling a single drop, and continues to suck and lick until you're spent.

Finally, she releases you with a lewd pop, sitting back on her heels and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looks immensely pleased with herself, a satisfied smirk on her kiss-swollen lips.

You collapse back onto the bed, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Your whole body feels like jelly, boneless and sated.

"Holy shit," you breathe, running a hand through your sweat-dampened hair. "That was... wow."

Tara giggles, the sound low and sultry. She crawls up your body, straddling your hips and leaning down to capture your lips in a searing kiss.

You roll over, pinning Tara beneath you on the bed. She looks up at you, her eyes dark and hooded with desire. You capture her lips in another heated kiss, your tongue delving into her mouth to taste yourself on her tongue.

Your hands roam her body, slipping beneath the hem of her shirt to caress the smooth skin of her stomach. She arches into your touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Breaking the kiss, you sit up and pull her shirt over her head, tossing it carelessly aside. Your eyes drink in the sight of her, clad only in a lacy bra. You lean down, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the swell of her cleavage.

Tara's fingers thread through your hair, tugging gently as she holds you to her. "More," she breathes, her voice husky with need.

You oblige, reaching behind her to unclasp her bra. It falls away, freeing her breasts to your hungry gaze. You take a moment to admire them, full and perfect, before lowering your head to take one pebbled nipple into your mouth.

Tara gasps, her back arching off the bed. You lavish attention on her breast, sucking and nibbling until she's writhing beneath you. Your hand slides down her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her jeans.

"These need to go," you murmur against her skin, hooking your fingers in the denim and pulling it down her legs. She lifts her hips to help, kicking the jeans off and leaving her in just a pair of matching lace panties.

You sit back on your heels, taking in the sight of her laid out before you, flushed and wanting. Your cock twitches, already hardening again. You reach down to push your own pants fully off, kicking them away.

Tara's eyes widen as she takes in your naked form, her gaze zeroing in on your erection. "Fuck, you're so hot," she breathes, her hand reaching out to wrap around you.

You grind your cock against her, feeling the heat of her through the thin lace. Tara gasps, her hips lifting to meet yours, seeking more friction. The rough drag of your hard length against her clothed clit sends sparks of pleasure shooting through you both.

"Please," she whimpers, her fingers digging into your shoulders. "I need you inside me."

You don't make her wait any longer. Hooking your fingers in her panties, you yank them down her legs, tossing them aside carelessly. Tara spreads her legs wider, inviting you in.

You position yourself at her entrance, the head of your cock nudging against her slick folds. Tara's breath hitches, her eyes fluttering closed as you press forward.

You sink into her inch by delicious inch, groaning at the tight, wet heat enveloping you. Tara is so fucking perfect, her walls gripping you like a vice. You bottom out, your hips flush against hers, buried to the hilt inside her.

"Fuck, you feel so good," you pant, fighting the urge to just start pounding into her. Instead, you hold still, letting her adjust to the stretch.

Tara rolls her hips, urging you on. "Move," she demands, her nails raking down your back.

You don't need to be told twice. You start to thrust, setting a steady rhythm that has you both gasping and moaning. The room fills with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin and the creaking of the bed.

Tara wraps her legs around your waist, using the leverage to meet your thrusts. Her tits bounce with every snap of your hips, and you lean down to capture a nipple in your mouth, sucking hard.

"Yes, just like that," Tara hisses, her head thrashing on the pillow. "Don't stop."

You have no intention of stopping. You fuck her hard and fast, chasing your pleasure and hers. The coil of heat in your belly winds tighter and tighter, signaling your impending release.

You can feel your orgasm building, your balls tightening and your thrusts becoming erratic. But you force yourself to slow down, to focus on Tara's pleasure instead of your own.

Tara's nails dig into your shoulders, her teeth sinking into your neck as she holds on for dear life. Her walls flutter around you, tightening and releasing in a rhythm that tells you she's close.

You redouble your efforts, angling your hips to hit that spot inside her that makes her see stars. Tara keens, her body tensing beneath you.

You reach between your bodies, finding her clit with your fingers. Tara bucks against your hand, her hips moving in frantic circles as you rub tight circles over the sensitive nub. You can feel her getting closer, her inner walls starting to flutter around your cock.

"Come on, baby," you urge, your voice low and rough. "Come for me."

Tara's body goes rigid, her back arching off the bed as her orgasm crashes over her. She cries out, her pussy clamping down on you like a vice as she comes undone.

The feeling of her coming around your cock is too much. With a guttural groan, you pull out, your hand flying over your shaft as you stroke yourself to completion. Your cum spurts out, painting Tara's stomach in thick, white ropes.

You collapse beside her, both of you panting and sweaty. Tara turns her head to look at you, a lazy, satisfied smile on her face.

"That was intense," she murmurs, reaching out to brush a sweat-dampened lock of hair from your forehead.

You grab some tissues from the box on your nightstand, quickly wiping the cum from Tara's stomach. She sighs contentedly as you clean her, her body still tingling from the aftershocks of her orgasm.

As you toss the used tissues aside, you can't help but let your gaze wander over her naked form. Tara is a vision, her skin flushed and glowing, her hair splayed out on the pillow like a halo. She looks thoroughly debauched, and the sight sends a fresh wave of desire coursing through you.

But then reality starts to set in. You just had sex with your roommate. Your best friend. What does this mean for your relationship? Will things be awkward now?

Tara seems to sense your thoughts. She sits up, pulling the sheet around her naked body. "Hey," she says softly, reaching out to cup your cheek. "We okay?"

You nod, not quite trusting yourself to speak. Tara smiles, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

"Good," she murmurs against your mouth. "Because I want to do that again. Soon."

With that, she hops off the bed, completely unselfconscious in her nudity. She pads over to her closet, rummaging around for something to wear.

You watch her, your mind still reeling. What have you gotten yourself into?

—

request: where reader and Tara are roommates and reader thinks Tara is out so reader starts to masturbate but Tara comes home early and walks in on reader so she gives a helping hand (a blow job) then they do it yk?

#jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #x reader #tara carpenter x g!p reader #tara x you #tara carpenter x you #tara carpenter x y/n #tara carpenter fanfic #tara carpenter smut #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #jenna ortega x g!p reader #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega smut #x g!p reader

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makeitmingi · 1 day ago

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When Flowers Bloom In The Dark [Chapter 8]

Genre: Romance, Mafia!AU, Violence, Angst, Slow burn

Pairing: Hongjoong x Reader (y/n)

Characters: Florist!Reader, Mafioso!Hongjoong, Mafioso!Seonghwa, Mafioso!Yunho, Mafioso!Yeosang, Mafioso!San, Mafioso!Mingi, Mafioso!Wooyoung, Mafioso!Jongho

Summary: When you appeared and wept at his mother's funeral, Hongjoong found himself wanting to find out more about you. A regular girl, who owns a flower shop in his territory and has a relationship with the mother that he hasn't spoken to in years, why hasn't he ever noticed you before?

[Warning(s): 18+ for violence, use of weapons, smoking, alcohol consumption, slight gore, gang affiliation, tattoos and character deaths. Minors DNI. This is a work of fiction and does not represent the Ateez members in real life.]

Word count: 3.2K

"You can add a layer of natural compost to provide the plant with the nutrients its missing. Then add a layer of this mulch right at the top, it'll help keep the moisture in. Your plant should be fine right after." You smiled, handing the bag of mulch and natural compost to the customer after she paid.

"Okay, I'll go home and repot it properly. Do I stick to my regular watering schedule?" She asked.

"Water it every alternate day instead. Since we're retaining moisture, there's no need to water it every day now. Or it might drown the plant." You informed.

"Ah, I don't want that to happen." She giggled and you nodded with a laugh.

"Come back if you need any other help." You told her, walking her to the door. She bowed her head and left your store.

Once she left, you went back to working on online order pick ups. You recently received a big order for a huge event so you were trying to clear orders and you were not able to take in anymore new orders.

"Excuse me. Are you open?" The door opened.

"Yes, I am. How can I help you?" You wiped your hands and went out to greet the customer.

"I need a bouquet for a friend in the hospital. Do you do that? Maybe a small teddy bear, I don't know..." She smiled in embarrassment. But you knew what she meant and what she wanted so you waved her further into the store.

"Do you know the person's favourite flower? If not, there are sunflower bouquets, those are popular because of how bright they are." You chuckled.

"She doesn't have a favourite flower... Let's just go with the sunflowers. I know she likes blue, can that be added?" She asked.

"Of course. I'll wrap the flowers in baby blue tissue, there'll make it really pretty." You smiled.

"Thanks." She sighed and sat down to wait. You hummed softly to yourself as you picked out the sunflowers and began to trim the stems, remove the excess leaves and arrange them.

"I'll add some extra flowers on the side if that's okay, just to bulk up the bouquet." You checked with the customer.

"Sure." You nodded.

She watched as you laid everything out in a bouquet arrangement and tied the stems together with a rubber band first. Then you wrapped the bottoms with wet tissues and began to wrap the whole thing in decorative tissues. The girl watched you as you worked, securing the bouquet together with a ribbon.

"These are the designs of small animal plushes we have. You can pick one and I'll add it to the bouquet. Also, you can write the card." You placed the box on the counter for her to pick.

"This one. She likes cats." The girl explained. You placed a holder and positioned the flowers while she wrote the card.

"All done. Is there anything else I can do for you?" You asked as you walked her to the counter.

"No, that's all. Thanks for all your help, the bouquet is beautiful. I don't know anything about flowers. I just know you get it for people when they're sick." She shrugged.

"Of course, happy to help." You showed her the bill and processed the payment on her card.

"Thanks again." She bowed and walked out of your store.

"Now, where were we?" You continued to work on your online orders. Suddenly, someone tapped you on the shoulder, making you flinch and jump, letting out a small yelp in surprise.

"Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you, I forgot to ask for a name card." The girl from earlier asked.

"Sure, sorry about that. I overreacted." You tried your best to maintain composure as you went to retrieve a name card for her before she left again. Your heart was racing, you didn't know why you reacted so badly to someone touching your shoulder.

Who were you kidding? Of course you knew. Because it was like the guy that was at the club. You shivered as a flash of what happened passed in your head.

And at the same time, you wondered if the guy would come back and sought revenge against you. Or was he even alive?

"Don't think about that." You scolded yourself with a frown. You didn't know the state Hongjoong left the guy in, he could be dead or alive.

"Focus on work." You let out a long, shaky exhale and proceeded to throw yourself back into your work. Hopefully, that will be the last that you encounter Hongjoong.

You didn't know what he did and what he was but at this point, you'd rather not find out.

"Hi. I'm here to pick up order #2140?" A male came in.

"Yes, sure. Let me help you get that. Can I see the order confirmation? Just to be sure." You wiped your hands against your apron. He nodded and showed you in email.

"That's great. Here it is, order #2140. You can check that everything is to your liking. Then you can pay." You told the customer. He scanned the bouquet and nodded in approval, going to settle the payment. It was a standard bouquet that you had on the website, an anniversary bouquet that was quite popular.

"Have a nice day." You wished as he left. Since there was a little bit of lull time, you stopped working on orders and worked on your botany.

"Tincture." You opened your botany book. Tinctures were made of dried and/or fresh plants and herbs, steeped in either vinegar or alcohol to extract their properties.

"This, this and this." You sought through your collection to find what you needed.

Following the recipe, you picked out the herbs that you needed and placed them into a glass jar then added concentrated alcohol.

"Ready in 4 weeks? Wow." You wrote the date and type of tincture on a piece of tape and taped it to the jar. Then you placed the jar on the shelf to let it mature.

"Hi (y/n). Here for today's pick ups." The delivery man came through the back door like always.

"Hey, Mr Kim. Let me see which orders are for delivery." You went to the area where all the prepared flower orders were.

"Looks like it's all these here." You gestured. He nodded and began to bring the flower boxes out to where his truck was parked in the alley. You helped him carry the bouquets while he picked up more of the wreaths and flower boxes.

"You've got the addresses already right?" You confirmed. He hummed and scanned all the barcodes on the order invoices against his checklist to make sure everything was there.

"There's a bouquet missing it seems. Order #418?" He showed you the screen.

"Hmm. Let me check, it could be mixed up with the pick up orders." You went back into the store and looked for it.

"Roses bouquet with black and grey tissue." You checked the description on your order list. Maybe you had missed out on the order while wrapping the flowers.

"Sorry, Mr Kim. Let me quickly put that bouquet together." You bowed and apologised.

"No worries. It happens." He waved you off.

"Feel free to have some tea while you wait." You gestured to the pot of tea that you always brewed in the shop, it's usually for yourself or familiar visitors like delivery men. You quickly picked out the flowers that you needed and made the bouquet. It was a standard rose bouquet with baby's breath surrounding the red roses.

"There, sorry again for delaying you." You handed him the bouquet once it was done, all wrapped in the layered tissue and secured with a thick, silver ribbon.

"No need to apologise, (y/n). Thanks for the tea. Have a nice day." He patted your shoulder and left to make the deliveries.

"You too!" You waved as the truck drove off. After that, you went back to getting orders sorted.

Finally when you sat down, you winced as you lifted your leg. It was a sprained ankle, nothing too major but you've been hiding the bandage under pants and the pain with a smile.

"Hello~" Jihoon entered through the back door and you quickly put your leg down, making sure your pant leg covered the bandage.

"Jihoon, what are you doing here?" You blinked in surprise.

"Well, hello to you too, neighbour. I'm here to deliver you a warm lunch! You're welcome." He held up the paper bag and the iced drink that he was holding.

"Thanks, Jihoon. Let me know how much everything is and I'll wire it over." You smiled gratefully as you stood up. At your words, Jihoon shot you a flat look. He knew you would insist on paying but he didn't want you too.

"Hush, just eat. Don't worry about paying." He sat you back down and cleared your table so he could put the sandwich and drink down.

"Hmm..." You shot him a look but sighed in defeat and patted the seat beside you. Before sitting down, Jihoon poured himself a cup of tea from your warmed tea pot.

"This is nice. What is this?" He pointed, taking a sip.

"Mixed dried berries with raspberry leaf." You replied, taking a bite of the warm sandwich.

"Isn't that what pregnant women drink?" He raised an eyebrow. You shot him a surprised look but nodded in confirmation.

"Yeah, my mom gave a lot to my cousin when she was pregnant with my nephew. Supposed to make birth easy or something. I swear she even bathed in it once." Jihoon scoffed.

"It'll help with muscle cramps too, it's an anti inflammatory and anti oxidant." You explained.

"Hopefully it'll get rid of my calf muscle pain then." Jihoon chuckled and took another sip. You laughed and continued to eat your sandwich, enjoying your chat with Jihoon. Mrs Kim was always your lunch time companion, Jihoon must know that you would feel the absence of her presence and come.

"Do you miss her?" Jihoon asked. Your hands stopped and you paused your chewing before nodding your head with a hum, knowing he was referring to Mrs Kim.

"You know that she was the closest thing to a mother figure that I have ever had." You replied.

"Mhmm. I also know you didn't even give yourself a break." Jihoon stated.

"I don't need a break, Jihoon. Continuing and distracting myself with work is what helps me, not sitting at home and crying." You shrugged, standing up and going to toss the trash.

"Don't you have a cafe that needs running?" You chuckled, changing the subject so you wouldn't harp on that topic for too long.

"They'll survive without me." Jihoon waved you off. You laughed and shook your head.

You and Jihoon continued to chat until your lunch break was over and you chased him out. No doubt his workers were good but you didn't want to be the reason why their boss slacks. So after giving him a bouquet of flowers to decorate his shop with, he left.

"Welc- Hongjoong sshi." You blinked, stopping in your tracks. Having heard the bell, you thought that there was a new customer. You didn't expect Hongjoong to come in.

"Good afternoon." Hongjoong bowed his head as he entered your shop.

"W-What can I help you with?" You blinked.

"I... wanted to make sure you got your ankle looked at." Hongjoong cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Oh! I'm fine, it's just a sprain. Nothing big. Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable." You forced a small smile and gestured to the seats by your work table.

"I'm glad. Thanks." He unbuttoned his jacket and sat down on the stool. You poured him a cup of tea and offered it to him.

"Please, don't let me stop you from your work." He gestured to the materials that were scattered around.

"So, how have you been Hongjoong sshi?" You asked to try and prevent an awkward silence from falling down on the both of you. You kept your head down, focusing on the bouquets you were preparing to put in the display and fridges for walk in customers. Hongjoong watched you, sipping his tea.

"Same as always. What about you?" He asked back. You had stated clearly the last time you met that you didn't want the incident to be brought up again but Hongjoong couldn't help it.

"Fine. Same as always, too. Just here, running the shop, fixing orders, you know..." You shrugged.

"Hongjoong sshi, I don't mean this in any way at all but what's the real reason you came here?" You finally asked him.

"(y/n) sshi, I feel like I owe you yet another apology." He confessed with an honest look on his face. The way he looked at you, it just reminded you of Mrs Kim.

"If it's about what happened last week-"

"No, I mean, yes. Partly. I... I know we're practically strangers but I've been treating you unfairly." Hongjoong sighed

"Okay, now you've lost me." You chuckled. Hongjoong was relieved that you laughed, making this conversation a whole more lighthearted than he thought it would be.

"Like I said when we first met here... Whatever my relationship with my mother was shouldn't have clouded my view or attitude towards you. It's just... I don't know... It seems like we knew her as a different person entirely." He rubbed his temples.

"I get it..." You nodded your head with a hum.

"But that shouldn't excuse how I've been towards you. I have to deal with my demons myself." He confessed.

"It's okay, Hongjoong sshi. I know it can't be easy with everything that's been happening. And honestly, it's conflicting to me too." You empathised with him.

"So I'm not crazy." He cracked a smile.

"Far from." You giggled, fixing up the bouquet. You momentarily left the conversation to put the bouquets in the fridge.

"But still, I apologise." He insisted.

"There's no need to but if you insist, apology accepted. And I think at this point, we can drop the formalities." You turned your head to say to him as you arranged the bouquets.

"I'd like that." He smiled kindly as you returned to the work bench. You noticed his ears turning a light shade of pink. Dropping formalities didn't immediately mean a friendship but at least you two were no longer just strangers. Whether you liked it or not, the universe keeps making your paths cross.

"(y/n), I have another request, if it's okay with you." Hongjoon gulped as he mentioned. You nodded.

"I'm not ready to talk about my mother. My relationship with her, your relationship with her. I'm not ready... But when I am, I hope you'll help me." He looked at you with desperate eyes.

"Of course, Hongjoong. Any time. Whenever you're ready." You smiled softly.

RINGGGG

"Ah, hang on." Hongjoong clicked his tongue, annoyed that his phone broke that moment you were having. He looked at his phone to see Yunho calling.

"What?" He hissed, turning away slightly. You weren't gonna eavesdrop so you just continued your work.

"Look, Yunho. Just... hire another gardener, you don't need to tell me this! You make decisions too, all 8 of us do. If you need some sort of approval, ask Hwa." Hongjoong threw his head back with a groan.

"Fine, fine... Yeah, sure. I'm not sure why you want to add to my workload with this but I'll look when I get home later... Yeah, whatever. Goodbye." Hongjoong hung up with a grumble, glaring at his phone as he did.

"Everything okay?" You stifled a laugh.

"Oh, yeah. It's nothing. One of my brothers can't seem to hire a gardener himself all of a sudden." Hongjoong clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes.

"Well, if it's not too much. If you're too busy to find a gardener now, I could help you in the mean time." You offered.

"What? Really? I don't want to make you busier, I'm sure you have a lot to do with the shop." Hongjoong shook his head.

"I wouldn't have offered if I couldn't. My shop is closed Sundays and Thursdays anyway, I could go once a week on those days to tend to the plants." You shrugged.

"Just until I have the time to find a gardener." Hongjoong said.

"Sure, whatever you're comfortable with. Do you have a picture of your backyard?" You asked.

"Oh, let me see. Although, I don't know what plants we have." Hongjoong took his phone out and scrolled through his pictures, trying to find the last time he took a picture of the backyard garden. When he finally found one, he showed it to you. Your eyes widened at the huge backyard. The fenced garden only took a portion of it.

"Wow... That's a big garden..." You couldn't help but be in awe.

"It is. But you'll just need to tend to the fenced area. The rest of the field behind it is not necessary." Hongjoong informed. That was where they killed or practiced weapons sometimes.

"Sure, I'll be there on Monday." You smiled, excited to be working in such a big garden space.

"Here's the address." Hongjoong took the small piece of paper from the table and scribbled it down for you.

"Thank you." You took the paper and tucked it into your pocket.

"When I came in here, I didn't think I would leave after having offered you a job." Hongjoong admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. You nodded in agreement.

"You never know what the universe has in store for you." You chuckled and cleared your work table.

"Thank you, (y/n). I have to return to work now but I'll see you soon." Hongjoong slid off the stool.

"You're welcome, Hongjoong. Thank you for stopping by. I'll see you Monday." You walked him to the door. He nodded and bowed politely before exiting the shop. You watched as a chauffeur opened the door for him to enter a luxury car before returning to drive off.

"What just happened?" You asked yourself in disbelief as you walked back to your shop counter. You told yourself you should steer clear but here you were, offering to work for him.

But it was too late to regret now, what's done is done. You knew you couldn't go back on your word.

You'll just go, tend to plants and leave. Simple.

"I'm not ready to talk about my mother. My relationship with her, your relationship with her. I'm not ready... But when I am, I hope you'll help me."

Hongjoong's words from earlier replayed in your head. It was so different, he looked and sounded so involuntarily vulnerable.

To be frank, you were not ready too. You were fond of Mrs Kim, she took care of you, cared for you.

But were you ready to hear how sour Hongjoong's relationship with her was? No, you were not ready to hear any of that. Especially since that wound still felt so fresh.

"I hope I don't regret this." You muttered to yourself.

Series masterlist

116 notes · View notes

hwaslayer · 3 days ago

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wildfire (cs) | 7.5

—spotify playlist | series masterlist

—summary: assistant professor in bioengineering, incredibly attractive, lonely and divorced; that’s how most people describe san. but despite the events that have happened in his life, san has a lot going for himself. he’s a successful, sought out professor due to his brilliant contributions to science at just an early age of 32. he worked hard to get where he was now; head deep into his research, his publications, building his lab and creating a name for himself. everything was good and smooth sailing— until it wasn’t. because when he meets you, a bioengineering grad student interested in rotating in his lab, he finds himself ready to risk all the blood, sweat and tears he put in throughout the years just to keep you close— his need for you spiraling out of control like a wildfire.

—pairing: asst. professor!choi san x grad student!f. reader

—genre: (18+ - minors dni) strangers to lovers, grad school au | fluff, angst, smut

—word count: 1.2k

—chapter content/warnings: not much here!!, cussing, mature language/sexually implied content, subtle flirting (in san's and oc's terms lmfao)

—a/n: hi! just a friendly lil reminder that these half chapters are random scenes/bits that couldn't really fit into a chapter or stand-alone as one. they're mostly in the past and will not always follow the exact timeline of the previous or upcoming chapter!

San booked off most of his day to help Christopher with this symposium. Well, actually, most of the group has [minus a select few others] in order to make room for the quick tech rehearsal and run through before its official start time in the next half hour or so. The staff is now bringing in the fruit, cheese and other pastries, along with coffee, tea and juice— setting them outside of the conference room on a long table. The symposium is supposed to be 5 hours, being that everyone keeps to their 20-min presentation + 10-min Q&A times. San is off to the side speaking with Jongho and Chris, while Mingi and Zara are fiddling with the AV system to test their own presentations for the final time. Even though this is the one time most of their schedules worked, Yeosang had to skip out due to heading overseas for a conference. As San sips on his coffee, Yunho and Iseul walk in alongside of Namjoon. Per usual, he keeps greetings to a bare minimum:

AKA, a very subtle smile and nod to both. One that Yunho reciprocates, one that Iseul doesn't like to acknowledge.

But, whatever.

"Did you guys tell your labs about this?" Chris nervously wipes his hands on his dress pants, nervous about how his first symposium is gonna turn out.

"Dude." Jongho laughs and pokes fun at him. "Relax."

"I bragged about it way too much, I don't even know if people wanna come anymore." San teases, making Chris shake him by the shoulders. "Relax! They'll come!"

"What if no one shows up? We'll be giving presentations to each other—" Chris laughs, but a few people start trickling into the conference room; providing him with a sense of relief. "Oh, thank god." The three start giving small nods to the students and other faculty dipping in, greeting them just as they set their things down and grab some food.

"Can't believe you actually thought people wouldn't come. Think you might need extra chairs." San points out as more people flood in.

"Shit, I did it." Chris beams from ear to ear, shifting his attention to two more familiar faces. "Oh! Hey Y/N, Jiung!" He says as the two of you walk towards their group, giving them very curt bows.

"Hi." You smile at all, especially San. He bites onto his straw, trying his hardest to hold back his smile.

"Thanks for coming."

"Of course! Got a good lineup, excited to hear all the presentations!" Jiung tugs on his backpack straps.

"In that case, send me a full report on it tomorrow." Jongho jokes, making Jiung playfully roll his eyes.

"Do you see how he treats me?" Chris and Jongho laugh.

"Nah, he's been talking a lot about the work you've been doing and how you're probably the best person to help get the rig together for our optical electrophysiology project."

"Aw, really?" Jiung looks at Jongho. "You mean it?" Jiung has stars in his eyes and Jongho can't help but deny the allegations. He has said it time and time again; Jiung is definitely doing great work and Jongho doesn't want him to go anywhere. If he could keep him for good, he would. He hopes he can.

He'd just never say it out loud cause he's like that.

"Hey now." He shakes his head. "I never said anything, I don't know what he's talking about."

"We have a few minutes actually, let's talk about that real quick and follow up in another meeting later on." Chris looks at you. "Sorry to have to pull him away from you, Y/N. Professor Choi #2 can keep you company?"

"All good."

"Be back." Jiung looks at you. "I'll save us those chairs." He points towards two end spots near the middle section. You awkwardly watch as Chris, Jongho and Jiung approach another professor to talk about said project, leaving you with San.

"Hi." He says shyly. You've never seen him this way, and he's too fucking cute, too fucking charming. It makes you replay the dinner events in your head, only pushing your curiosity of what he'd be like if you two were completely alone.

"Hi. Is that your nervous face poking out? Are you nervous?" You tease a bit.

"Me?" He playfully scoffs. "No. Dinner was more nerve-racking than this."

"What, why?" You giggle.

"Because it's you. I have to be extra careful with you, remember?"

"Right." You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, heat rising to your cheeks as your eyes glaze over his figure; he's dressed nicely in a white button up, tie and grey vest. They're all dressed nicely for the occasion, but it's definitely an extra weakness for you seeing San like this.

"You're cute." He mutters as he bites his straw again and takes a sip of his iced coffee, eyes looking around the room to make his flirting not so obvious. And it isn't, except Yunho has been watching from the side while he waits for Iseul to finish up working through some presentation issues with IT. He didn't mean to, but his eyes gradually glazed over to the two of you smiling and laughing.

He can't help it, but the interaction feels different. The only time he's ever seen San that shy and flustered is when he was courting Iseul. It almost feels like he's watching something unfold all over again.

"All good!" Iseul says, knitting her brows together when Yunho seems to be preoccupied. "You okay?" She asks, Yunho finally returning his attention to her.

"Yeah, sorry. Was just people-watching." Iseul looks over, eyes also falling on San but she doesn't necessarily get a chance to think much about it before Yunho is chiming in again. "Let's go grab some food before it starts." He laces his hand with hers and leads her to the end, front row seats.

Meanwhile, you've been too busy keeping your attention on San to care about everyone else. You're so tempted to nudge him, be a little affectionate with him. And it's taking everything in you to remind yourself who you are and where you are at.

"Stop it."

"Glad you actually made it, though."

"I told you I'd come."

"And I'm glad it wasn't just something you said to brush me off in the hallway." You laugh.

"No, never." Jiung wraps up his talk with the other professors, his eyes meeting yours with a small nod towards the seats he sat his bag down at. "Well, guess they're done. I'll see you later? Goodluck on your talk, Professor Choi." He smiles toothlessly at you.

"Thank you, Y/N." He watches as you walk off and meet Jiung, plopping down onto the seat as he debriefs you on his impromptu meeting.

"Hm." Jongho hums and clears his throat, slowly walking over to his bestfriend while sipping his coffee.

"Yes?"

"Nothing." Jongho squints his eyes at him, a small chuckle leaving his lips. "Productive conversations going around, I see."

"Mhm." San chuckles, knowing exactly what Jongho's hinting at.

"Hey!" Zara comes over with a bright smile on her face. "We saved you some seats." She points at the front row on the left side, waving them over. "Come."

"Sweet, thanks." Jongho leads the way while Zara tucks her hair behind her ear and walks alongside of San.

"Ready?" San shrugs as he looks at her.

"As can be."

"I'm sure it'll be great like always." He smiles.

"Thanks." He lets her slip into the seat next to Jongho before sliding into the end seat, eyes quickly glancing over at you before he gets situated and switches modes for the symposium.

Though, you are incredibly distracting, and he can only hope he can get you alone sometime soon just to show you exactly how he feels.

—taglist: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @persphonesorchid @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @vcutparis @chngbnwf @struggling101 @sanhwalvr @angelqueendom @barbielibra @brown88 @choisansplushie @yunhoswrldddd @hyukssunflower @vickykazuya @lucid-galaxys-world @jaytheatiny @pommelex @thespiffynerd @vixensss @santineez @nopension @domfikeluva @in-somnias-world @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @mountiiny

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painted-flag · 2 days ago

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OF FLOWERS AND DEATH - aemond targaryen

Epilogue: An Elf's Devotion

☾⋆⁺₊✧ dark elf!Aemond Targaryen x f!human!reader series. ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series masterlist. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ word count: 11.2k (ye have to suffer for yer smut) ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series warnings: 18+ Smut, Oral (f!receiving), PinV, nipple play, praise kink, creampie. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ Healing, acceptance, and the start of a new life.

You sat in one of the castle's many courtyards at a circular table under a stone gazebo. The day was still young and you could hear the birds chirping as they flew from tree to tree. The lanterns strung under the roof of the gazebo illuminated the space you were in. The elder trees, in their great beauty, shrouded all light. It was surprising how easily you had adjusted to the perpetual darkness.

A near-empty teacup was balanced in your lap. Your forefinger tapped rhythmically against the rim as you stared out at the plants surrounding you. It had been odd for you to be sitting and resting. All you had done for nearly two weeks was work in your laboratory. The healers, Daeron, and you, had been working tirelessly in brewing large portions of the cure.

While unable to participate in the blood part of the brews, you had been preparing all the ingredients and orchestrating all of the shipments that were being sent to the far reaches of the kingdom. Reports were sent back that showed that the potion was working on swaths of land, restoring what had once been dead.

It was only yesterday that the last of the sick hall patients were released. It had been emotional, seeing all the beds empty and knowing they were not dead but now free to live the rest of their lives in comfort. After that, Daeron practically pushed you out of the laboratory to take some time off. You did not like it but decided to listen to him lest you incur his brotherly wrath.

Now, you were eating lunch with Helaena. On the table sat empty dishes, with only a few scraps of food left. The large teapot was empty and the remnants left in your cup had gone cold. On the table in front of Helaena were dragonflies in their cages. They were the ones you had gifted her when you first met. She stared intently at them, occasionally brushing the wooden cage with her finger.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you,” You spoke. Helaena raised her gaze to meet yours with furrowed brows.

“For what?” She asked.

Your finger continued its relentless drumming against the porcelain cup, “For coming back after we met. If it weren't for you, all of this… well, none of this would have happened.”

“Yes, the world works in mysterious ways,” She wore a small smile as if she was thinking about something nobody else knew.

“Thank you, truly, for allowing me to be here. I would have never been able to make a cure, or have met the people I now know.” You picked up your cup and placed it on the table. A small breeze rushed through the courtyard, eliciting a small chill. The once vibrant days of summer were coming to a close and the icy hold of winter began to creep into the passing days.

“Then I should thank you as well. How is everything with the potions?” Helaena asked.

“It’s good,” You paused for a moment, “It has been a busy two weeks. Everything is a chaotic mess and I’m not sure how long it will be until it all calms.”

“I can only imagine. And Aemond, how is he handling the hunt for Cole’s spies?” Helaena leaned back into her chair.

You let out an awkward cough, “I wouldn’t know… We, uh, have not had any time to speak since the uprising.” It was true. You had been so busy with creating more potions, you had even spent nights in the lab. Your guest room had been long abandoned and exchanged for a cot in the corner of the laboratory. Hours spent hunkered over the pots and ingredients, overseeing it all.

Aemond had been working non-stop in hunting down any conspirer that colluded with Cole. He had been busy in his own right, as had you, but you would be lying if you said it did not hurt. There were brief moments when you would see one another in the halls, but there was never any time to stop and talk. Nothing but longing glances thrown across corridors.

“My brother hasn’t been a good husband?” Helaena said. You shook your head at her words and shifted in your seat. The firefly lanterns above you glinted.

“We are married, but we are not together.” You clarified. It was simply a union to save him from the brink of death.

“Has marriage been given a different definition since I last checked?” She asked you. You wanted to laugh, perhaps match a jest to her words, but nothing could escape your throat. Aemond and your relationship had hit some kind of barrier. You were married, souls bonded, but there was an underlying issue. Distance had been given, and you could only assume it was Aemond’s attempts at keeping you at arm's length. He does not want you to get the wrong idea – that this union means anything beyond convenience.

The crunching of feet on the ground and clanging of armour interrupted your tea time. At the entrance of the courtyard stood two guards who had opened the latticed doors to let in their king. Aemond stood a few paces away from the gazebo. His gaze was trained directly on you, a look of compassion across his features. You remembered just what kind of day this was.

Today was not a day you had been looking forward to. The black dress that clung to your frame felt nearly suffocating. While only black in colour, it held a mix of stitched details and threaded patterns that were heavily nature-centric. It was beautiful and if it had been another reason for wearing it, you would have loved it. Facing the truth of your father’s death had been a path largely consumed by denial. One thing that made it hurt the most was no recovery of his body, not that there would be much given the years since his murder. You just wanted something tangible to mark his passing.

Aemond had decided to hold a small funeral service with a marked grave in the royal cemetery. His plan was entirely unprompted, as you had never even indicated your feelings. He could have understood because of the union of your souls and how your emotions were fairly intertwined. Apparently for elves, sensing their bond's emotion was as easy as breathing. Unfortunately, because of your humanness, you did not exactly feel his emotions as an elf would. It only came with great concentration, something of which you had no time for.

Perhaps, a better explanation for why he came up with this funeral was the simple fact of shared experience. He too shared the burden, grief, and inexplicable loss of a father, thus understanding that you may need certain things provided to journey through the grieving process.

You took in a breath and got up from your chair. The wooden poles scraped against the stone flooring. Your feet took you to the stone steps of the gazebo and you proceeded to take a step. Aemond had moved forward and held out his hand for you to take. You hesitated for a moment, but gently rested your hand on his palm. It was warm and calloused, but inexplicably comforting. A surge of energy shot through your body. The hands that had joined were the ones cut in the marriage ceremony.

He escorted you through the courtyard and down a few flights of stairs outside of the castle. Helaena followed, soon joined by Aegon, Daeron, Amara, and Liriel. You did not want to make a spectacle of it, choosing to only have those close to you attend.

The royal graveyard was located just beside the giant elder tree that made up the castle. Graveyards had always felt weird to you. Tombstones and monuments were permanent markers of the impermanent. They represented, in some capacity, the inability to move on; yet all must one day. It was more odd, that despite the elvish customs of being so in tune with nature, they did not allow their bodies to return to nature after death – instead enshrining their bodies in stone.

Your group stopped, coming in front of the stone for your father. It had his name, along with the years he lived and died. The stone was granite, reflecting a speckled mess of white, black, and gray. The sight of it caused tears to brim your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Aemond’s grip on your hand squeezed a few beets in succession in a rhythm similar to the beating of a heart. He stood to your right.

Aegon walked out from behind you and Aemond. He carried a bouquet of white roses in his hands and crouched to gently place it at the base of the stone. You remember learning white roses signify peace and hope, which caused the edges of your lips to curl up just slightly. Aegon was silent for a moment before he stood up and walked back towards you. He stopped to face you on your left side. Aegon’s arm reached out, placed itself on your shoulder, and then gave it a gentle squeeze. You looked at him and he gave you a comforting smile. You nodded, grateful for his support but unable to vocalize it.

After he went to stand at your side, Daeron came forward and repeated the same process. He placed a bouquet of daises beside Aegons, paused for a moment of silence, moved towards you and gave your shoulder a small squeeze before joining beside his brother. Next was Helaena, who placed lavender on the tombstone. She repeated the same process as her brothers and gave you a squeeze of comfort. Amara and Liriel both had their bouquets; tulips and orchids. They gave a moment of silence and then each squeezed your shoulder and offered small smiles.

By then, you were overwhelmed with the support. Aemond brushed his thumb over the knuckles of the hand he had gripped and brought a bouquet of elf azures from behind his back. He held them to you and you grabbed them with him. The two of you carried the flowers to be placed at the centre of the grave. You took a moment of silence and thought of the words you would want to tell him if he were here.

You could speak to him about all the breakthroughs you had made in your research. Detail the extensive and life-changing move from the capital to a village on the outskirts.

You would tell him of your chance meeting with Helaena and how that one choice to help someone in need radically changed your life. Meeting everyone after, Daeron, Aegon, Amara, and Liriel. You could look him in the eyes and tell him all those scary stories about Aemond were false; that he saved your life in more ways than one. Your father could know that you were safe now, cared for and happy.

Most of all, you wished you could tell him you loved him one last time. So, muttering with the quietest whisper, you spoke, “I love you, father.”

Aemond and you stood up and moved back to stand in your previous positions. Aemond brought your hand up to place a comforting kiss on your hand. The action caused your cheeks to heat up and turn a bright shade of red. Your heart thumped faster.

One by one, your friends each said goodbye and left you to have your moment at the grave. Aemond was the only one who stayed standing by your side as you stared at the stone. He kept his one hand locked with yours but used the other to reach up and brush some hair behind your ear.

“Are you alright?” He asked you.

Your gaze was locked on the stone, “I had mourned him long ago.” Aemond nodded at your words.

“There is something else, rūklon.” He spoke.

You angled your head to look at him and furrowed your brows. He tugged one of your hands and gently led you a short walk away from the gravestone. You walked amidst the burials of all the royal family members that came before. At the edge of the yard was a young tree, newly planted by the looks of the recently tilled earth around it. Young and just beginning to leave its years of adolescence.

Another granite grave was placed just by the tree. It stood straight and gleaming in the light of the lit lanterns strung about. The two of you got closer and you could finally see the inscription on the stone surface.

Aemond had given Lyra a place of rest in the royal cemetery.

You sucked in a sharp breath at the sight. Your grip on his hand tightened as you looked between him and the gravestone. To be placed in the royal cemetery despite not being a member of the family was a great honour not afforded to most. Aemond had given it to two important people in your life.

“An elder tree sapling has been planted over her body. Soon, she’ll be as tall as the other elder trees with time. Big enough to join the ancestors and protect us all.” Aemond spoke softly. His words seemed to break the damn that you had built up to keep the emotions in. The water pooling in your eyes sprung forth as a sob ripped its way out your throat. Aemond moved quickly to pull you into a hug. One arm wrapped around your waist while the other cradled the back of your head and pulled your face in to rest on his chest.

The two of you stood there while you cried in his arms. There was so much you wished you could change. You wanted to apologize to Lyra for how long it took you to find a cure. Aemond’s grip tightened as your sobs came out harder. You wanted your father, you wanted your mother. Aemond’s hand on the small part of your back moved rhythmically up and down while his fingers cradled your head and carted through your hair.

There was no way to track the time that had passed as you cried. It had finally been a moment where you could just let it all go. The build-up of days, weeks, months, and years swept over you like a storm; destroying the fortresses you had built in your mind to protect yourself. With careful grace, you pulled away. You sniffled a few times and then looked back to the grave.

“Thank you, Aemond.” You said between tears. He shook his head and moved his hands to cup your face. There was unspeakable warmth in his touch.

“You need not thank me, ‘tis only an honour both deserve.” His thumbs swiped at the salty trails of water on your face. Your eyes traced the stone and for a moment you thought of the image of the sweet little elf girl who always smiled in spite of the pain. The strength Lyra carried, without ever truly acknowledging it herself, inspired you.

“Amara and Liriel should be waiting in your room soon to ready you for tonight,” Aemond spoke, “But if you truly do not wish to attend I can move it to another day.”

It was unfortunate that the first day you had off, the day of your father's funeral, fell on the same day the weekly celebration the elves held. You had wanted to delay the funeral at first, but could not stand being stuck in limbo any longer. You needed to process and move on. There was no way you would be the cause of a delay in the elves' tradition – it had been that way for multiple millennia. You felt you had disrupted their lives enough simply by being there. Now that you were the wife to the king, it would be best to tread your case lightly.

You did not think you could ever get over the simple fact that you were married. However, you did speak to Daeron about the contingencies of your marriage. It had been a long day of brewing and you were more delirious than conscious. He was in the laboratory with you after all the elf healers had left. You had confessed your worries about being stuck in a loveless relationship, but he had simply shook his head with a small smile on his face and told you to sleep.

You had a strong urge then to chuck a glass pitcher at his head.

“No, everyone deserves to celebrate this victory.” You paused a moment and then looked towards him. However, you could not meet his eye and instead looked at his forehead, “Could I be alone for a moment?”

Aemond’s jaw tensed at your standoffish attitude but gave you a curt nod, “As you wish.” His body turned, but he halted for a moment and looked at you. His mouth opened as if to say something, but he choked it down and stalked out of the cemetery.

When he was gone, it felt like your ability to breathe went with him. You wondered how long it would take for you to spill your guts to the king. Would this be your life from now on? Where you would be attached at the hip to the person you loved, but unable to act on your feelings because of your fear. It was nothing but the truth.

You were terrified.

If you chose to act on your feelings and confess to him, what if he did not feel the same? All Aemond had given you since you arrived were mixed signals. One moment he is saving your life and the next insulting you. At the time, you did not understand why he had acted that way. Now, as you came to truly see him, you understood that he was grappling with his past and trying to balance the kingdom in the midst of the spreading taint.

In some odd way, your presence in the kingdom had reminded him of the prince that took his eye. His on-and-off attitude was nothing but his inner child and leftover naivety clawing for a moment to be seen. War-torn and violent, under it all was a child facing the death of his parents, protecting a kingdom, and dealing with a betrayal like no other.

He wanted to be your friend. He wanted to run back to the comfort of a human like he had long ago but was left paralyzed by his past.

Yet, his actions towards you have changed dramatically as of late. Aemond was kinder, tender even. He had shown you patience and understanding, guarding you with his life when Cole revealed his falsehood. Aemond had agreed to marry you and while it was to save his life, he could not have made that decision entirely on that. He was your friend and you could only hope it could stay that way.

Perhaps, in time, he could look at you the way you do to him.

You fiddled with the jewelry on your wrist as you walked the halls of the castle. It had been hours since the funeral and you had spent that time in your room. You had left the graveyard shortly after Aemond and were greeted by Amara and Liriel. Despite becoming your friends, they still acted as handmaids to you. You wanted them to stop, for it felt weird to make them serve you, but they adored dressing you up so you let them.

When you had gotten to your room, they had already laid out a multitude of dresses and jewelry. You were undressed from your black mourning dress and immediately ushered into the adjoining room to bathe in a myriad of oils. Amara insisted on some of her lilac-scented oils, but you opted for the azure scent. She left you to have some privacy and you slowly cleaned yourself.

Over the next couple of hours, the two elves dressed you up in various dresses and colours, until finally picking one that suited you the most. Now that you were a part of the elven kingdom, you thought it only fitting if you dressed in the kingdom's colours. The dark emerald green dress you wore was light and flowy, the dyed linen freely brushing the floor. Careful and detailed embroidered patterns lined the ends of your sleeves, skirt, and around your waist. The same pattern of stitched flowery imagery outlined your neckline, which plunged in a v formation.

Amara and Liriel had spent another large portion of time getting your hair ready and sorting through the polished jewels and metals that would adorn your wrists, fingers, and neck. You were glad they had not brought up the funeral and chose to distract you by other means.

They left you to go to the celebration, but you stayed behind for a few moments to collect yourself. Now, you were walking through the halls of the castle towards the grand hall. As you approached the large oak doors, taller than your lofted old cottage was, two guards noticed you coming. They immediately got out of their standing positions and each grabbed a large wrought iron handle. They leaned back to pull the doors open, as the weight of the wood was heavy.

Upon entering the grand hall, the band halted their music and the elves turned to look at you. Suddenly, you felt hot under their intense gazes. This amount of attention was uncomfortable and reminded you of your first few weeks in the kingdom; when they would look at you with curiosity. Now, the intensity of their gaze had changed to something different, better even.

You could spot Daeron as he made his way through the crowd. When he broke from them and approached, he smiled widely at you and clapped. Like a tidal wave, all of the other elves began to clap as well. You heard a sharp whistle and spotted Aegon over by your friends sporting a wolfish grin.

“I was wondering when our star would show up.” Daeron jested as he took your arm in his to escort you to your friends. The clapping began to cease and the band went back to their jovial tunes. The tunes of their flutes, fiddles, and lutes echoed across the hall as the elves resumed dancing and mingling.

“Star?” Your voice wavered. The celebration had been held to commemorate the cure and the missed war.

“This would not be possible without you,” Daeron spoke like his words were an obvious observation.

“Without all of the healers,” You interjected, “Do not forget you and your workers' sacrifices.”

Daeron nodded at your words, but kept his cheeky grin, “Of course, my queen.” The way he addressed you felt like a bucket of ice water had been poured over your body. The elf healers had used such a title to address you, but you quickly put an end to it. It felt like theft to take up such a role. By now, you had neared your friend group where Aegon, Amara, and Liriel waited. Helaena was perched in the back, having made the effort to come for just a moment despite disliking such large gatherings.

“Do not address me as such until I have spoken to Aemond. We may be married, but it is not appropriate to seize such a title.” You reprimanded. Daeron released you from his hold and held up his hands in defence, but only returned with a quiet hum.

“There she is!” Aegon placed his chalice down at a nearby long table, covered in large amounts of food for the feast, “Might I so humbly request a dance with her grace?” Aegon bowed and held out his hand, but his actions still held this joking manner that was refreshing to see. You disliked how he used your royal rank but nodded gratefully and took his arm. You waved goodbye to your friends as he escorted you to the dance floor.

“Lovely night. I have ordered some of the oldest wine barrels to be brought out. It is high time they were used.” Aegon spoke as he placed one hand on your waist and held your hand in the other. It was a quick waltz, with rushed movements and interspersed twirls.

“Like you needed such an excuse to drink them,” You teased, “Though, I must thank you properly. Everything that you have done for me, agreeing to help me with my father… truly Aegon, it helped immensely.” During your noon tea time with Helaena, you finally found the opportunity to thank her. Now, you felt it was only necessary to begin thanking everyone else. Aegon looked appreciative of your thanks but was uncomfortable with the praise he was receiving having not been too used to it.

“Truthfully I had been waiting for a moment to strike at…” Aegon paused, unwilling to speak Cole’s name, “We were close, for a time. He wasn’t always so, well,” His lips moved to a frown, unsure how to continue speaking.

Aegon shook his head and gave you a gentle smile, “I am just grateful I can go back to what matters most, drinking. Staying sober during all of this was the hardest part.” Aegon joked. You could tell, deep underneath, that he used humour to cope with his struggles. He was skilled at deflecting. It reminded you of that glimpse you saw many weeks ago. How you escorted him to his room after a night of drinking and he confessed his feelings of inadequacy compared to his siblings. You had given him advice then. Did he even remember your words?

Just as you wanted to bring it up again, Aegon spotted something from behind you and a wicked smirk plastered itself on his face. He spun you around one last time as the song came to a close. The two of you backed away and bowed.

“Might I cut in?” Aemond’s voice was calm and you could feel his breath brushing against your neck as he stood behind you. You turned to see him standing before you, dressed in finer clothes than he normally would wear. These ones fit the occasion of celebration but were still dark in colour. This might have been the only time you saw him without his longsword strapped to his side. There was no need for him to display such defence anymore.

“Of course, brother.” Aegon then looked at you, gave a quick almost imperceptible wink and walked away. The band began to play a slower, more calm song. Aemond placed both of his hands along your waist, his fingers brushing your sides soothingly. You rested your hands on his chest and felt the warmth emanating from him.

“I feel as though I owe you an explanation,” Aemond spoke as the two of you began to waltz across the floor with the other dancing elves.

“An explanation?” You questioned. Aemond’s eye was scanning the room. You could see it in his stance, he wanted to talk about something. Deeply. However, his posture held hints of nervousness.

“I know our union may have been done in haste, but I need you to know that,” Aemond licked his lips, took a deep breath in, and locked his eye on you, “I–” He huffed. You could feel his fingers tighten just slightly as his gaze swept to the floor. You were unsure of how to proceed. You had never seen him in this state.

“I’m not good at speaking about all of this.” He muttered with frustration.

“You don’t have to be.” You gave him a gentle smile, “Aemond, king or not, you don’t have to always be perfect at everything.”

His eye trailed back to you, scanning over your face. The shine of the blue reflected the gold light of the lanterns strung from the high vaulted roof of the hall. There was something almost unreadable on his face, but a moment of clarity washed over his features.

“You’re beautiful,” He blurted out. You sucked in a breath at his compliment. Heat flushed over your face and your hands gripped the fabric of his doublet. Your heartbeat picked up.

Aemond pulled you closer and spun you two, “I wish I could see you, truly.” You could see his cheek with the scar twitch, causing you to be more aware of his eyepatch. In all honesty, it was not something you noticed anymore.

“You already do, Aemond, more than anyone else has.” You gave him a reassuring smile. At this point, your heart was bleeding on your sleeve. You did not care to hide your affection anymore. You did not wish to hide a part of yourself from the person your soul was intertwined with. Aemond stopped dancing and the two of you stood amongst dancing elves. The song was in full swing, the elegant tune flitting about the room.

“Come with me,” Aemond grabbed a hold of your hand, “We need to talk.” He tugged you through the crowd, expertly weaving his way so you would not bump into anyone. He was on a mission, his shoulders squared with determination. Aemond paid no attention to the elves in the hall who sent causal glances his way, watching on as their king and queen left the hall. It was slightly disappointing to leave the party early, but you knew there would be plenty more to attend over the course of your life here.

He guided you through the dimly lit stone halls and up a flight of stairs. It was a repetitive process. You two would move down a hallway and then walk up a bunch of stairs. It repeated multiple times and you had begun to get a little tired. You were unfamiliar with this part of the castle. Your legs ached just slightly, but Aemond continued. You could feel the elevation increase. Finally, you came across the spiralling steps of a tower and Aemond walked up. His grip on your hand tightened to guide you up the stairs and make sure you did not slip.

You happened across double doors. Aemond pushed one open and guided you into a large room. Quickly scanning the area, you came to see that it was one of the exact rooms you saw when you were in that unconscious state; Aemond’s room. The stone walls were adorned with tapestries, making it feel warm. Countless bookshelves lined the room, filled to the brim with various tomes. There were multiple areas with lounge furniture. On one end of the room was a raised section that held a hearth, a four-poster canopy bed, and doors that opened to a balcony. Rich fabrics and furs covered the bed and floors, adding touches of luxury amid the fortress-like surroundings.

He guided you up the raised steps and out onto the balcony. There, you could see the dark shapes of the tops of the elder trees. Above you, as far as your eyes could see, spanned a starry night sky. The stars looked like different sizes of salt grains spilled across a dark-stained wood table. They sparkled like the jewels that adorned your neck. You were struck by the sight and slowly walked to the end of the balcony. You leaned against the stone railing and watched with revered awe.

Aemond moved to stand beside you. Unlike other times in the past, he stood on your left, so his good eye was on your side. Your hands traced the rough grooves of the stone. You glanced towards Aemond and found him already looking at you. For a brief moment, you felt as though you were transported back to that night at Lake Rosmagne when you and Aemond were sat around the campfire. The night he had opened up to you, and you to him.

“Our union,” You spoke, “I know it was not a choice and I am sorry for taking it from you. But since then, it feels like there is a crack in our friendship. I’m sorry if it broke your trust.”

“Why would it have broken my trust?” Aemond turned so his hip rested against the railing and focused his form on you.

“It is a bond forged out of desperation. You had no option other than death. It was cruel to suggest it and even crueller to make you go through with it.” You reasoned. It was all out in the open now. The thing that had been bugging you for many days now, something that had kept you up most nights.

“Did you hold a knife against my throat? Bind my hands and tie me to a chair?” Aemond questioned.

You shook your head, “Well no, but-”

“I could have chosen to die on that field, like a king, a warrior, but I did not.” He interrupted you. You thought about his words for a moment. It still did not entirely make sense to you. In your kingdom, anything would have been done to save a king from death. Though, because of that, the king typically never fought on the field. Yet here, it was seen as dishonourable to make your people fight without joining. His death in battle would have been seen as a tragic, but kingly end.

“I apologize if any of my actions have given you the wrong impression. This is not my area of expertise.” He reached out with his arm and grabbed your hand and his thumb swiped over your knuckles. You welcomed the warmth his touch brought.

“Rūklon, why do you think I planned to go to war?” He questioned, his voice soft and comforting. The area between your brows wrinkled. It was such an obvious answer so why would he be asking that question?

“Because you believed my kind broke the treaty and attacked your castle. They destroyed part of the research, so you were bound by duty to retaliate.” You answered. Aemond looked at you with a small smile, his eye shining. His head tilted down due to the height difference. It was like he found amusement in your answer.

He slowly shook his head back and forth, “No,” Aemond spoke with gentleness, “I declared war because I thought their spies killed you. I didn’t give a damn about the rest. You did not force me into this union, I welcome it gladly.” His words were like a jolt of lighting that had hit your body, electrifying your limbs and shocking your brain.

Your fingers tightened against the stone of the railing, “But you had no other choice. What I did…”

“There is nothing you could ever do to hurt me or make me detest you. Rūklon, you could cut out my other eye and I would still only see you. You could cut off my ears, yet only your voice would remain in my head. You could run to the far corners of the earth and my heart would still call to you, guide me to you.” Aemond used the hand that cradled yours to pull you closer to him. He brought it up and opened your closed fist to lay on his chest, right where his heart was. You could feel the gentle thrum of the beats, picking up just slightly at your proximity.

His eye looked into yours and with an overwhelming glint of pure devotion, he whispered, “You have conquered me. Wholly and truly.” His hand cradled yours delicately and he moved closer to you, nearly chest to chest. Your breath got caught in your throat. Your hands moved to rest on his forearms and you could feel tears brimming in your eyes.

This was all you had wanted and more. You needed to mend the weird rift that had been created between you. You had thought, due to the circumstances of your union, that Aemond did not want to be that close to you. How stupid this had all been. Both of you were unsure and scared to proceed further as you both did not want to push the other. Your souls had intertwined, going so far as to share trepidation in confessing those feelings.

You took a moment to reach up and cup his face, tracing the line of his scar. Your fingers reached his eyepatch. You halted your movement and hovered over the leather, waiting for his permission. Aemond tilted his head down in a curt nod. With his permission, you gently pulled it off and rested the leather on the stone railing. Looking back up, you saw the sapphire stone that sat in his socket. In the past, all you had seen was a storm of blue. Angry waves that crashed against the dark stone of his iris. Now, that had changed. With the sapphire, you could see the iridescent deep blue that reflected the glittering light of the stars. In it, you could see the universe.

It was then that you understood what people meant when they said that eyes are windows to a person's soul.

“I love you, Aemond.” You whispered delicately. Those simple words caused the elf in front of you to almost crumble. His one eye, brimming with unshed tears, closed and you watched a streak of saltwater come down his cheek and rest at his sharp jaw. His lips trembled almost imperceptibly. You wanted to cry with him, suddenly feeling all of his emotions through your bond.

Slowly, Aemond’s arms wrapped around your waist, his fingers brushing the small of your back. Your hands that were tracing his cheeks dropped to his chest. He carefully moved forward and leaned in. Under your hands, you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Aemond’s face got closer and you felt his breath brush your face. Both of your foreheads connected and your eyes fluttered close to savour the tender moment.

“Avy jorrāelan,” Aemond spoke softly. You did not need to know his language to understand he had said it back to you. The delicate nature of his voice and the emotion in the words were all you needed to know. Even if the world plunged into darkness you would be able to find him anywhere.

There, in the midst of your comfort, you felt his lips brush yours. Despite the skin being slightly chapped, it felt soft and warm. Your skin was flushed with heat and it spread throughout your body. Aemond's lips began to move with yours, slowly and gently. The action came as naturally as walking, as breathing. There was nothing else that mattered but that moment.

His grip moved to your waist, tightening as he pulled you closer to him. The movement caused you to let out a hum and that spurred him on. His nose brushed your cheek as he turned his head to get a better angle and he became starved for you. It was like the wall that separated you two crumbled in an instant. All pieces of inhibitions were disregarded as you sunk into it, into him. A grumble made its way out of his throat and the vibrations were passed on to you.

Your heart was pounding and your hands were sweaty. You were nervous. This was not an area you had experience in and you suddenly felt like that would be a negative for him. You did not want to disappoint Aemond.

The two of you pulled away, only slightly. Your noses were still touching. His eye opened and you looked into it. The blue had darkened significantly and with your hands on his chest, you could feel it rising and falling with slow, deep breaths. You moved your hands and the touch made him shudder. That alone sparked an unknown heat you had never felt before that budded in your lower stomach. You needed him, carnally.

For a moment, all you two did was look at one another, eyes tracing every inch; learning, memorizing.

“I need you, Aemond.” You could barely recognize your voice. Your body was overcome with instinct over mind, but you did not care. There must have been something in your words because it caused his breath to hitch and hold on you tighten.

“Do you want this?” While his words were coated in arousal, you could still sense some insecurity. He needed your permission as much as he needed reassurance.

You nodded, “Please, Aemond, touch me.” He wasted no time in connecting your lips again. Except this time it was not soft but desperate. Every emotion you had struggled with melted away as you succumbed to his fervour. Your hands could no longer stay still and so could his. They moved up to his hair and tangled themselves in the silk strands. You had always wanted to know what his hair felt like. Aemond’s own hands ran over the outline your your form, up and down. It was like he was trying to map out your body in his head – a way to permanently memorize every inch.

Every moment, every interaction, each sliver of attention you both gave one another in the past culminated to this. Full, complete, and unencumbered trust in the throes of pleasure.

Your back dug into the high stone railing as he pushed into you further. A small bit of frustration began to bud in you. No matter how close he was, it did not feel like enough. Your brain could not think of much else, other than the complete need for more. One of his hands trailed over your ass and stopped at the back of your thigh. His fingers dug into the plush fabric of your dress as he lifted your leg. You caught on instantly and wrapped it around his waist.

There were little moments when you two of you would pull away to breathe, but they only lasted less than a second before you reunited again – a mess of wet lips and unquenchable fire. With your leg hiked up, he was able to press his crotch against your core. It lit up something in your lower stomach. His hand that held your thigh moved to grab the hem of your dress and hiked it up further. The crisp and cool night air hit your skin and it was then that you were able to truly feel how much your body had heated up in this moment. Aemond’s hands were not the only wandering thing. His lips trailed from yours and landed repeatedly against the flush skin of your face.

It was like Aemond was gone, replaced with a starving devout worshipper pleading for any ounce of reprieve. His opened-mouthed kisses moved further towards your neck, nipping and licking at the skin. All you could do was release short bursts of breaths, where you could see the small puffs in the cool air. The dress had a low neckline, exposing a good portion of the skin. The movement caused your breasts to heave against the fabric and Aemond wasted no time in moving his attention to your chest.

His hand that pushed back the fabric on your leg trailed the skin and moved closer to your core. He hesitated for a moment and pulled away, finally making eye contact with you. He gave you a moment to catch your breath from the intensity, resting his forehead against yours. Aemond was asking for permission and you shook your head in agreement.

“Words, rūklon. I need to hear it. What do you want?” His words erupted some frustration from you.

“Gods damn it, Aemond, please I’ve already said it. Touch me, please.” Your voice was horse with desperation. All he did was let out a small chuckle and smile.

He leaned in so his breath brushed your ear and whispered, “I know, but you’re so easy to rile up.” Aemond picked up your other leg and hoisted you up. You let out a squeal of surprise. He was an elite fighter, training for centuries, but it still shocked you just how strong he was. Your hands rested on his shoulders and he wasted no time in kissing you again. With each step he took, your core rubbed against his. You could feel the hardness of his length brush a particularly sensitive spot through the fabric and let out a moan.

As quickly as you were carried, was as quickly as you found yourself being tossed against the plush warmth of his bed, amidst furs and quilted fabric. Your hips hung near the edge of the bed. You sat up immediately, wanting to chase after Aemond’s lips, but he kneeled in front of you. His head was tilted upwards to watch you as his hands went to unlace your turn shoes. He carefully took them off, his hands caressing your ankles, but his gaze remained on you, wanting to drink up each time you squirmed at his touch.

It was almost painful the way he took his slow time in untying the ribbons that held up your stockings and pulled the embroidered fabric down. Whenever he would expose more skin, his hands would trail over and massage it gently in worshipping movements.

His hands hiked up, and up, and up; pulling the fabric to bunch at your waist. You watched him visibly swallow as he took you in. Because you had believed you would be dancing for most of the night, you prepared for the inevitable heat you would be facing – by only wearing a light undergarment under your dress with no covering over your core. You reasoned that if you were going to be moving a lot, you would need the least amount of clothes to keep cool.

Now, in the heat of this moment, you knew that even if you were wearing nothing, it would not keep you cool from feeling like the fire that roared in the hearth next to the bed.

Aemond grabbed your hips to hang over the edge of the bed as he moved closer in his kneeling position. He manoeuvred your thighs to rest on both of his shoulders as he began to kiss and lick the inside of them, brushing so carefully against the soft skin. He moved up further to kiss the juncture between your leg and hip.

He then moved his care to your lower stomach – what little of it was exposed due to the bunched-up dress. Aemond’s lips trailed the area that had lit up with heat since the moment he kissed you on the balcony. You could feel his lips form a smile as he moved further, so dangerously close to your core that had become dripping with want.

Aemond hovered above you, looked up into your eyes, and whispered, “Let me take care of you.” Your breath caught in your throat as his hot breath brushed against your most sensitive spot. There was no time to react when you felt his tongue lick a strip along the length of your slit. The feeling, so sudden and new, had you fall to lay back with your elbows supporting your upper body. Short, quick gasps left your mouth.

His demeanour changed completely, getting lost in his movements as he lapped at your juices. Aemond’s hands rubbed up and down your thighs. One moved up and under your dress, trailing across your heaving stomach and making a home at your breasts. The swipe of his finger against your nipple and the quickening of his tongue’s pace caused a surge of energy to shoot through your body and your arms could no longer support yourself. You fell back fully on the bed with your back arching. Your arms, which had once held strength, fell limp.

Aemond seemed quite content to stay between your thighs. With what little control you had left, you managed to move your hands to his hair, tugging at the strands. That movement spurred Aemond further and he let out a low groan into your flesh. Still fondling your breasts, his other hand moved to your clit and began a steady circular motion. Your gasps turned to wanton moans. Thankfully, Aemond’s room was so far from the others you were glad, for surely with the balcony doors open someone would have heard. His tongue entered you, meticulously caressing your walls.

Your body began to tremble as the pressure in your lower abdomen began to intensify. Your thighs jerked to his motions, nearly grinding on his face.

“A-” You could barely speak and huffed to get the words out, “Aemond I-” He had you on the verge of being undone and knew it. Each movement of his hands and tongue was carefully calculated as he quickly picked up on all the little motions that made you squirm.

“So good,” Between the moments when he would take a second to breathe, he muttered against your skin, “You’re so good f’me.”

It was inescapable now, the buildup. You were lost in the feeling of pleasure that hit you to a degree you had yet to experience. With a final gasp and loud moan, you felt the damn break. It was like falling despite being on a solid surface. Your eyes closed and your fingers tightened in Aemond’s hair as you were overcome with every sensation but somehow none at the same time. You shuddered, but he paid no mind as he continued his movements to help you ride out your high.

Your skin felt warm and feverish. All of this was foreign to you, but you welcomed it. You understood why some people were so hooked on the feeling. If you could experience this with Aemond every day, you would stake your life on it and forgo the rest of the world.

Aemond pulled away, though reluctantly. He grabbed your thighs that rested on his shoulders and gave them a quick squeeze before lifting them off and pushing you further onto the bed. Your knees still hung off, but it did not matter as you could barely feel your legs. He stood up and bent to hover over you, his looming presence making you ache for more.

As if he did not just finish feverishly eating you out, he gave you a quick, chaste kiss on the lips with utmost care. While he did so, his hands went to your back and began to untie the dress. Thankfully, it was a light and easy-to-remove one. You watched the darkened expression of his heated gaze as the top layer of your dress was pulled away and exposed the thin see-through white chemise you wore underneath.

It did not exactly leave anything to the imagination. You could hear Aemond’s breath hitch at the sight of you and when you reached up to cup his face his body shuddered as his eye closed for a moment. He grabbed your hand and kissed the inside of your wrist, feeling the pulse point thump faster at his actions.

As soon as his comforting touch met you was as quickly as it left when he pulled back. He worked quickly and diligently, unfastening his doublet and pulling it off with record speed. All you could do was watch on as he undressed himself. You were too stuck in the trance of his form. He kicked off his boots and was then left in nothing but his pants and a thin white loose shirt that tightened at his mid-forearms. You could see the small scars that littered his arms, the same pattern seen in the small area of the exposed part of his chest.

You shuffled forward to plant your feet on the floor but still sat down on the bed. Aemond moved instantly to you, his hands hovering on the short hemline of your chemise. While maintaining eye contact, he pulled up your last layer and up over your head. He tossed it to the side, its existence quickly forgotten and not cared for. You were now completely bare in front of him and suddenly more self-conscious than ever. An uncontrollable feeling to cover yourself began to gnaw at your brain but was quickly quelled by the low groan that came from Aemond.

“So beautiful, ñuha ābrazȳrys.” He whispered as if caught in a trance.

He moved to shed his layers as well, but you quickly covered his hands with your own. You wanted to help him as he did for you. It was a moment indescribable between you two. It was tender and calm but underlined with an intense feeling of desire that only grew with each passing second. You took his shirt off and observed the sight of his lean muscles. His arms, which you had quickly grown to love when they were wrapped around you, were composed of lithe muscle built over centuries of training that matched the composition of his torso.

Since that first day in the throne room when you saw him perched upon his throne of tree roots and swords, you had seen him as nothing short of an ethereal vision. A haunting, striking beauty. Before you now, was the same person, but now softer and comforting.

You could not help but get antsy and reached out to pull him to your level. Your arms wrapped around his neck, being engulfed by his free-flowing silk hair. Aemond seemed caught off guard by your sudden dominant movements but melted into your embrace. You met his lips in another hot, searing kiss that reignited the tense fire within your stomach.

As soon as he latched onto you, your hands trailed down the front of his chest. Your fingers felt the rise and fall of his breathing and traced the taught muscled skin further down. When you brushed his stomach, you felt him shudder. He started to plant open-mouthed kisses on your cheek and moved to your neck as your hands quickly moved to make work of the tie for his pants. Everything you did was heated and desperate but met with the same fervour as Aemond.

Once you untied the pants, Aemond quickly shrugged them off. It looked like it pained him to separate from you for only a few seconds. You did not have time to look, for Aemond picked you up from the edge of your bed and tossed you back. Your body fell against the lush bed coverings and your head hit the soft, plush pillows. Now further away, you could take in the full sight of Aemond.

The image of him there, unclothed and waiting for you, was enough to make you feel as though you had died.

He got onto the bed, crawling until he was over you. Being caged in his arms was the safest you had ever felt. Just him and you in the warmth of his chambers high in the sky with nothing but the stars outside.

One of Aemond’s hands trailed to your core, rubbing circular motions over your bud. You bit your lip to hold back the moans, but he instantly stopped after your reaction. His hand hovered over the area, so close you could almost feel it brushing you. Your hips moved up to chase that feeling, but he only pushed you back.

“Don’t bite your lip. Let me hear you, my love.” Aemond’s husky breath was enough to make you melt. You nodded obediently and he resumed his movements. You hummed with content, but was quickly ended when he stopped.

You watched as his hand then drifted to his cock, gripping the base. It was already fully erect and you struggled to comprehend how it would fit. Surely, he did not plan on it all fitting, did he?

Aemond guided his cock down to drag the head between your folds to gather the slick there before settling just outside your entrance. You sucked in a breath at the feeling, desperately waiting for him to move. One of his hands was still gripping your hip while his other forearm rested by your head.

He slowly slid into you, gradually pushing forward. You let out a shuddered gasp and your fingers gripped the sheets below you. He did not rush, nor move with the frantic nature he had previously. Aemond was content where he was, enjoying that his slow pace made you come undone and desperate for more. He let out a low groan as he bottomed out. The intensity of the feeling, of being so full, had you squirming for more movement. You craved friction, really anything, that would send you into another spiralling frenzy.

Aemond kissed your chest softly a few times, “So fucking beautiful.” His silver hair fell like a curtain around you as he lifted his head to kiss you. It was a possessive, protective kiss. You ached for more, but he remained still in you, letting you adjust to his size.

In an act of defiance against him, you move your hips up, chasing some sense of friction. Aemond hissed at that, his grip on your waist tightening.

“Words, baby, tell me what you want.” His kisses that he left on your chest morphed into hot ones as he paid particular attention to one of your nipples. The new sensation had you gasp in surprise.

“Aemond…” You huffed, “Please move.”

He let out a short laugh at your pleading, “As you wish.” Aemond took his time in pulling out, dragging to the very last moment. He then pushed back in and set a steady pace of thrusts. You quickly became a mess of moans at the feeling of being so full of him. His kisses burned into your skin. Your arms wrapped around his lithe figure, trailing nails down his back. The scratching elicited a low groan from the back of his throat and his hips snapped faster.

While his pace had increased, it still did not feel enough. You were not sure you could ever have enough of him. The stretch that his cock gave you was a good ache, one that spread out from your core. You could hear the low sounds that emanated from Aemond as he too chased the high he was feeling. You began to match his pace, moving your hips in rhythm with his.

It was not intended, but you could not resist reaching out to cup his face and moan out, “So beautiful.”

Aemond faltered at our words, his hips going still as he arched his head up from kissing your neck to look into your eyes. It was like he was searching for the truth, that you really meant the words you said.

“Say that again, rūklon, and I won’t be able to hold back.” He rasped. You wanted to meet his challenge. You had a habit of not obeying his authority, ever since your first days here.

One of your hands moved up to tug at the base of his hair. The action caused something in Aemond’s eye to flicker with a mix of emotions – mischief, lust, and unadulterated love.

“Then don’t.” Something in Aemond snapped. He dropped his hand that was holding your waist and moved the forearms to rest beside your head. He now fully caged you beneath him and something about that dominating move blew more life into the fire within you.

He gave you no warning when he lost it, thrusting into you with relentless speed. Your back arched at the change of pace. Air caught in your lungs and you could barely make any noise. Aemond was the opposite. He buried his head in your neck, kissing and nipping at the skin as he started to babble incoherent words in his language.

The once stable movement he held began to unwind as he moved with reckless abandon. No longer did Aemond care for the perfect posture, but his brain chased any and every ounce of pleasure he could find. You could feel his emotions and it was all overwhelming. You could feel the care, the love, and the hunger he had for you. You were glad to know he could feel the same from you. Your cunt squeezed around him as the build-up in your stomach started to increase.

Aemond could sense it and he moved a hand carefully down your stomach and towards your bud, moving his fingers with the pace he was going. His calloused fingers added another texture and sensation that had you moaning with every inhale and exhale. You were careening over the edge of bliss.

“You feel so fucking good. Gods-” Aemond moaned. His other hand connected with yours. They were both the cut hands from your ceremony. Something about the physical remains of your joined souls stimulated a sensation that overcame you both. You recklessly moved your hips up to chase more of it.

“Aemond I-” You bit down hard on your lip, but that did nothing to conceal the sweet noises that left them. Tears pooled in your eyes from the pleasure. Aemond moved his head up to kiss you on the lips, both becoming swollen from the day's events. His thrusts felt better than anything and you wished to indulge in this for eternity.

“Don’t fight it, my love, let go,” Aemond murmured between kissing you. You bit his bottom lip and it made him growl. Somehow, in a way that struck you as impossible, Aemond thrust faster. It was enough to send you toppling over the precipice. Your mouth opened wide as your head pushed back into the plush pillows. Aemond continued his pace, but it soon became a mix of fast and slow movement as he came.

The two of you were lost in it all, each accepting the shattering moment. You both rode out your highs, moaning a mix of curses and each other's names. Everything mixed into a muted mess of sensations and sounds. You felt his body drop onto yours, sweaty and hot just like you. You clung to him, wishing to continue to feel that sense of closeness.

Minutes of silence passed. Aemond breathed deeply to catch himself and you rubbed up and down his back gently, your fingers trailing over the battle scars and marks your very nails just made. It was almost beautiful to feel marks made out of love cover the ones from hate and aggression. If you had voiced that, Aemond would have likely said you applied that sentiment to all aspects of his life.

He pulled off of you and moved to your side. You laid on your back, slightly angled to look at him as he propped himself on his side. You felt his arm wrap around your waist to pull you closer to him. The skin-on-skin contact was something you wished to never end. There, with the sounds of the crackling fire and the gentle breeze from the open balcony doors cooling your skin off, you felt like you were home.

You surveyed his form next to you. The muscular stature had some patches of scars from various training blunders and moments of futility on the battlefield. There, next to the abs on his stomach, was the scar that he had received from Cole. Your hand moved to trace it, suddenly caught in the memories of how close he was to death.

“It does not hurt anymore. Just another mark from my life.” Aemond dismissed your worry and wished to provide comfort. He kissed your temple, letting his lips linger for a moment. He too moved his hand to your side, where the scar you had received from Cole was. For you, this was the first one you got.

It was at that moment that something odd struck you, causing you to laugh gently. Aemond’s face scrunched up at your sudden outburst.

“We have two sets of matching scars.” It was both funny but also upsetting. Only one of those sets, the marriage cuts, were welcomed. The other, you could do without. But, without such hurt, you were not sure you and Aemond would be where you were in your relationship then.

“That we do,” Aemond responded. His eye was trained on your face, unwilling to look away. You shivered, either from his touch or the cool breeze coming in from the outside. Aemond then grabbed the sheets from around you, pulling on the thin silk sheet and adding some plush furs on top. You hardly felt the need for them when his warm body next to yours was enough.

Aemond shifted onto his back and let you rest your head on his chest. You used your fingers to trace patterns on his skin, relishing in the closeness of the moment. He stroked your hair, placing a kiss on the side of your head every few minutes. The two of you basked in the comfort of silence.

For so long each of your lives had been nothing but chaos. Barrier after barrier flung in your way. It was good and rewarding to know there was nothing imminent. No need to rush and get something done, or sleep whenever you can for just a little moment of rest.

Nothing existed outside the door of this chamber. No one but you two.

Aemond interrupted the silence, “I’m afraid I will have to spend the rest of eternity between your thighs.” Despite the recent indulgence of your growing desire, his comment caused your cheeks to heat up. You were so flustered by his words as if he had not just made you see stars a few minutes prior.

“And neglect your kingdom? Surely at some point, your guards would pull you away so you could serve.” You angled your head to look at him, poking fun at his words. Aemond rubbed your side, his hand trailing to the back of your thigh and dragging your leg to rest across his waist. He could not get enough of feeling you close to him.

“I serve my wife before all.” Aemond spoke, “Every guard in this damn castle could try and pull me away.” You could hear the joking lilt in his voice and it was comforting to know how far you had come with him. Never in any possible time would you have guessed you would be close enough with him to jest.

“You think you’re a jester, my king?” You challenged. Aemoned licked his lips and you could see his eye darken with a familiar feeling of lust.

“Only for you, my queen.” He muttered before lifting his head to kiss you. It was slow and patient, indulging in every emotion you felt for one another. You let out a low, pleased moan. Taking advantage of your position, you moved your legs to rest on either side of his hips and sat on top of him. You could feel him smile into the kiss at your eagerness to be with him again. Your hands pinned his above his head and you deepened the kiss, urging for more.

Aemond was your everything. Your king, your friend, your lover, your husband.

Perhaps, now, you did not mind the title of queen, because it meant that you were his and he was yours.

And that's a wrap on book one!

Since the early phases of planning, I have always intended to write two books. Now, this was written in a way that you could stop at the first one if you wished, but there are still some unanswered questions that will be addressed in the next book. (Such as Cole’s mysterious last words…)

The next one is an Aegon and OC centred book that I am super excited about! There will be moments with Aemond and the new Queen, but ultimately it will revolve around Aegon. It has been extremely hard to resist from immediately releasing it.

As always, thank you all so much for the support. I did not expect to see so many people supporting it and for that, I am eternally grateful. If you choose to stick around, I’ll see you in the next book! <3

BOOK TWO MASTERLIST HERE.

#hotd imagine #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader #dark elf #elf #aemond one eye #prince aemond targaryen #prince aemond

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thisismeracing · 3 days ago

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I lost the ask's request, but here you go, honey! <3

requests are CLOSED

CARLOS DATING AN INDIAN GIRL | CS55

Warnings: mentions of food; tooth-rotting fluff; mentions of family members; not proofread.

A/n: Just a quick reminder that there are many shades, experiences, and backgrounds when it comes to Indians and their culture, what I am writing does not resume everything, but rather brings a piece of it to the table. <3

▸ my masterlist | my taglist | patreon guide ▸ support my writing by reblogging, leaving a comment (don’t forget to follow me if you like the piece), or buying me a coffee)

This man will start to tell India's story, location, and importance in the political context to everyone who dares to act uneducated around him!!! Most of what he knew he got from you, but the other half he got curious and just went on his own treasure hunt on the internet and, yes, shockingly, bookstores - he ordered online, but it still counts (those were his words);

Let's say he has never been to India outside the context of racing, so going with you for the first time makes it even more special (he will spend a few hours of the vacation telling you about the old Indian GP);

Carlos loved eating a traditional meal with your family, and he loved it even more because your grandpa taught him about the history behind eating with your hands and suggested he tried it if he wanted to (he had never felt the texture of food or appreciated its flavor quite like the way he did when he gave the tradition a chance);

You told him the story of the Taj Mahal while you walked there, and, of course, he got into a rabbit hole of questions and Google searches and even a book recommendation from a family member of yours (he told them about the experience, just like he told in the group chat of drivers he was part of);

The man bought just about everything in Chandni Chowk! You touched it, he bought it, and even when you didn't, he would point at a colorful fabric and say that the color suited you - but then again, in Carlos' eyes everything suited you, and you looked even more stunning when proudly displaying your heritage;

Pakora's probably his favorite snack, and, for now, his favorite dish is Dal Makhani (you still introducing him to the cuisine);

He'll love your family, and probably be added to the family group chat where he'll dutifully answer every message your parents, cousins, and so on send;

Carlos will casually ask if you would want two weddings or just one in India (yeah, his research took him to the wedding traditions, and he saw a few TikTok videos - he loved the energy and the colors, and of course, the story behind everything);

Looks even more handsome wearing a bandhgala!!!!

#millies inbox #anon #cs55 #carlos sainz #op: headcanons #f1 fandom #f1 x reader #carlos sainz x reader #indian!reader #carlos sainz headcanon #carlos sainz imagine #f1 imagines #f1 headcanons

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zuzuelectricbugaloo · 2 days ago

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Hold Me When I Stand

Pairing: Cross/Epic

Rating: Teen

Synopsis: Inspired by the Drabble idea I wrote a while back and the GORGEOUS art @toffeebrews made, Epic finally reveals why Cross had never seen his hands bare before, until now.

CW: None I can think of, but do let me know if there should be one

Part 1 of 3: Wuh Oh, Trauma

Word Count: 5, 490

Best friends notice everything about each other.

Everything, from blatant details like disliking ketchup (except when mixed with chocolate)--

Cross’s face scrunched up as Delta and Color knocked their bottles of ketchup together before they tilted their skulls back and chugged. “You guys are gross.” They laughed at his “skrunkly” expression, as Epic called it.

–to bright, bubbly laughter tumbling out in jubilant “mwehs” when truly relaxed.

Epic watched as Cross laughed, breath catching in his throat as Cross laughed so hard he cried, mirthful tears welling in the edges of his sockets and mana painted his cheekbones like lilac flower kisses.

To preferring bandanas over ascots because bandanas “are cooler ‘cause they’re like badass mini scarves”.

Epic kept track of it all. Whenever he discovered chocolate with a(n) unusual ingredient(s), a delighted smile on a cherished face would enter his mind, and the now unimportant cost was promptly brushed aside. That bright laughter his friend was ashamed of made Epic swear he glowed with the light of his Soul. And occasionally, he’d sew matching bandanas that Cross would wear on his neck while Epic adorned his own atop his skull.

But Epic was not the only one who adored his best friend.

Along with observing and noting the more obvious details, there were also more subtle nuances, like despising grass stains due to constant difficulty with clothes–

Epic holds up a pair of tan lace up boots now decorated in murky green splotches. “Look Color, I like hangin’ with ya, but if I gotta get a new pair of boots from one more hike I’m gonna lose it man.”

–and channeling that annoyance into an insult.

“Delta you grass stain you keep that battery acid out of my cookie dough right the flip now or I’m gonna snick snack paddywhack kick yo’ sorry sunny d ass!” Epic warned. He kept the bowl of his precious cookie dough out of reach from his friend with one hand and smacking Delta’s offending claw with the other.

Or always wearing gloves no matter the occasion.

Were his hands covered in nicks and scars like Cross’s claws? Did he simply enjoy the feeling of smooth leather on his bones? Was it a comfort like his bandanas were for him?

Or staring at mirrors with phalanges gripping the socket edges of a rarely opened scarred left eye, expression so dark and twisted and in startlingly contrast to the usual bright and playful grin that adorned those pretty bones.

Best friends notice everything about each other.

Cross watches as Epic rubs his eyes when he thinks Cross isn’t looking. His hands fall from his exhausted face, tired shadows painting his hooded eyes mauve, adding an alluring, faux smokey look that makes his snow white and electric violet eyelights pop.

Epic makes crippling exhaustion look hauntingly beautiful, like the ghost of sleep is forever trying to sink its claws in, success held so high out of reach the spirit never managed to grasp it. The way the shadows dance and light cradles Epic’s face, draping themselves over the contours of smooth ivory bone is like he's a painting come to life, of exhausted reverie so beautiful Cross knows without doubt the sight will haunt him for all the nights to come.

And when Epic glances over at him and his scarred Eye closes but his smile brightens, Cross’s chest floods with affectionate warmth as his best friend’s eyes glitter, terribly fond and enviably beautiful in its endearing glow. Cross quickly turns away, his smile strangely quirked at the corners and Soulbeat just a little faster to have been caught staring.

It’s only a matter of time before they learn everything about each other, too.

“Ah shit,” Epic cursed. He turned off the stove and glared at the offending sauce pan that had the audacity of bubbling and splattering itself, now coating the countertop, his sweater, and leather gloves in a greasy disaster zone of oil. “That was my last clean pair…”

“Here,” Cross picked up the towel and started to scrub the mess on the counter. “I can clean up while you change.”

“Alright, thanks bruh.” Epic was about to offer his fist for a bump before he reconsidered and sheepishly tilted his head to the side instead. Luckily Cross understood and leaned forward to softly bonk their skulls together.

“No worries dude.”

While Epic changed, Cross went ahead and threw out the oil. He’d burned his cooking enough times to realize that it had been burned beyond salvation and tossed it out. Scrubbing the pan and letting it soak while he wiped down the countertop was menial, almost relaxing as he methodically wiped and washed off the sullied kitchen area.

By the time Epic returned Cross was scrubbing his claws dry. He leaned back on the counter behind him while he waited for him to finish. “Ty man, oil spills are so annoying to clean up.”

Eh, not really. Out of all the things he’s had to clean, oil splatters on a countertop was nothing, in his opinion. Nowhere near as difficult as, say, getting chocolate stains or gunpowder out of his clothes. “De nada.”

Epic made a little noise of protest and reached out to him.

“Here lemme get that.” He held out his hand.

Cross handed him the towel. “Thanks. By the way, do you wanna go out later and–” he trailed off, noticing that Epic was wearing the same leather gloves.

As Epic put the towel in the laundry, Cross gave his best friend a quick, perplexed once-over. He’d changed out of his cable-knit sweater and now wore a new, form-fitting turtleneck that hugged his lush curves. He had the hood up (as usual) but now wore his long-sleeved jacket instead of trenchcoat. His lovely friend was dressed as pleasingly as ever, nothing odd there.

What was odd was that Epic still had on the same pair of leather gloves. That covered the leather in greasy splotches that made Cross’s own claws itch in sympathy.

Cross quirked a brow. “Forget something parce?”

“Uh,” Epic tilted his skull to the side. “Oh!”

He leaned forward suddenly, but Cross is used to them sharing each other’s personal bubbles and doesn’t react. It’s only when Epic’s throat vibrates in a low, rising hum and he presses a quick, appreciative peck on Cross’s cheek that the soldier shivers while his cheekbones burn with lilac mana and his Soul flutters.

“Mmmmwah!” Epic pulled back with cheeks dusted indigo. His unscarred eye crinkles into an upturned crescent when he smiles. “Thanks for cleaning.”

“¿Qué estás haciendo—” Cross sputtered “—your gloves, dude!”

“What about ‘em?”

“What about — they're dirty!”

“Yuh, an’ I’ll change ‘em later, no worries,” Epic dismissed. “I need to do laundry so I’ll change ‘em later.”

“Okay?” Epic was no slob. He showered daily, always used those scented soaps that made Cross forcibly resist the urge to noticeably inhale his scent, usually wore some kind of floral perfume or cologne, and always changed his gloves whenever they were dirty. Sure Cross never saw him do that, but he’d always seen Epic return with a new pair. So, why was he being so hesitant now?

…Come to think of it, had Cross ever seen Epic take his gloves off?

“You’re not gonna change them?”

“Naaaah.”

Flummoxed, Cross watched Epic step pass him and wash his hands, gloves and all, in the sink. Epic shook his hands off and patted them dry on a new towel. “See? All clean now.”

Epic popped the fridge door open and rummaged through it. Cross stood beside him, increasingly confused as Epic planned aloud. “I messed up the sauce and haveta start from scratch but I’m still cravin’ souped up ramen. How ‘bout you?”

“Yeah sure whichever — what’re you doing dude?”

Cradling bundles of food Epic deposited them down on the kitchen counter. Cross shut the door behind him and followed closely as Epic started to prep. His soaked gloves glistened.

“Well I burned the OG so now I gotta make another—”

Cross put his hand over Epic’s, stopping him from peeling the garlic. Epic lets go of the peeler to hold Cross’s hand in his, and Cross warms at how readily Epic dismisses his previous task in favor of Cross holding him.

“Here,” Cross curls his distal phalanx in to catch at the end of the glove. “Let’s take this—” the moment his phalanx caught on the leather rim Epic jolted, roughly yanking his hand away like Cross had burned him.

Cross’s chest grew tight and his hand felt empty but Epic ignored the flash of hurt that flew across his face and kept his face hidden so Cross couldn’t see the guilt and regret and fear. Avoiding his gaze, he kept his back turned to Cross as he resumed his meal prep.

“I told you it’s fine. It’ll dry off in no time.”

What the hell?

The rejection stung. Epic might as well have stabbed him in the chest, his Soul ached like he had.

Frustration bubbles amid the hurt he hates that his first response when he’s hurt is to be angry, he’s never liked it especially when he knows he wasn’t always an angry man and Cross’s previously soft eyelights narrow into sharp slits.

“Come on dude just take it off.”

Epic’s shoulders were hunched as he chopped the garlic and ginger. His magic illuminated the kettle, setting the water to boil with a flick.

“No, I don’t want to. It’s fine.” Cross tried to reach for his hand but Epic side-stepped him, gracefully dodging just out of reach as he reached for the soy sauce. “Don’t stress it.”

But Cross was a persistent bastard. “Dude, come on.”

This time when Epic started to pour the boiling water he glared at Cross’s missed swipe, beginning to feel irritated himself.

“Again, just drop it.”

Cross grabbed the instant noodles before Epic could. His best friend stared, unimpressed, with a pursed frown. “Really?”

“Yes really,” Cross’s frown deepened.

“Brah, it’s fine. I’ll change ‘em later, okay?” Epic poked Cross right where he knew the other was ticklish, surprising him enough to snatch the noodles back and add them to the broth. “Jus’ not now.”

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not!” Epic protested.

Cross quirked a brow. “You’re being weird right now,” he retorted.

The two locked gazes. Epic’s phalanges drummed against the countertop. Cross held the block of cheddar he needed to shred within his crossed arms. The soldier counted on time; Epic needed to get the cheese in before the noodles softened or else they would be too mushy (Epic taught him that).

Like Cross expected, Epic relented first. He sighed and closed his eye. “OK, fine. I’ll go change them.”

He could just do it here? But at least it was something.

Pleased, Cross nodded, uncrossing his arms to swiftly shred the cheese and throw it into the pan. “Thank you.”

“Keep an eye on the broth?”

“And I’ll throw in the seasonings too, I got it.” Cross opened the packets. Epic nodded gratefully.

He vanished in a spark of magic.

Cross cracked a couple eggs to add to the broth and closed the lid, setting it to a medium low slimmer to slow cook the eggs. He didn’t mind if it was overcooked or not, but he remembered that Epic’s favorite way to eat them was when the yolks were runny. When Epic returned a few minutes later, this time wearing long, rubber gloves that he often wore for washing the dishes, Cross contemplated whacking him with the pan.

“¿Hablas en serio?”

“Sinabi ko na sayo,” Epic chirped, his smug little grin annoyingly charming. He set out two bowls for them both, carefully pouring the ramen into each, the eggs jiggling but remaining unbroken atop the noodles. “It’s not a big deal, I just like wearing gloves.”

Cross knew his best friend. There was something more to this. His Soul could feel it. He accepted the chopsticks Epic handed him to softly set them down. “Epic,” his best friend pauses mid-scoop of his dish, “seriously, why are you being so cagey about this?”

A horrible, gnawing thought. “Did I make you uncomfortable?”

There. Right there.

Epic’s face was the same, he’d always had an impeccable poker face, but it was his eye. The beautiful glow of that ivory orb dimmed.

Epic fidgeted. Slowly taking a single, small bite and chewing without reaching for more.

“Are you okay? Did you hurt your hands or something?”

“No, no,” Epic murmured, “I’m not hurt.”

Okay, good. He was being more open.

Cross continued his gentle questioning. “Is it a tattoo?”

That got a little snort out of Epic. He covered his mouth to hide it, but Cross had heard the bubbly laugh and his own chest felt lighter. “Cross, come on. Y’know the only tats I’ve gotten are the silly temp ones.”

Delighted that his dear friend was cheering up, the soldier persisted. “It can’t be that bad.” Cross hummed in thought. “What? You got drunk and got a tramp stamp but it’s in your hand? Wait…” Cross paused. “Do you have a tramp stamp?”

Epic guffawed. “Stars, no. Maybe a temp one as a joke but nah. Definitely no tats on this guy, sorry bud.”

A smile quirked at Cross’s mouth. He was glad Epic had relaxed. But he knew he had to keep trying. Softly, he keeps his voice as neutral but gentle as he can when he inquires “Is it a scar?”

“I,” Epic faltered. “Huh. IDK, actually,” he admitted. He sets the chopsticks down and sighs, wiping his mouth off with a napkin. Finally, he meets Cross’s eyes. Carefully, he murmured, “Technically, might be more of a mutilation than a scar.”

“Okay?” Epic wasn’t missing any digits and his hands looked intact. “Anything like my gaps from my scars? Those aren’t that bad,” Cross reassured.

Epic smiled, but it was sad and empty.

Cross wanted to cradle his face and hold him until the light returned to his eye.

“I think you’d hate it if you saw it.”

Finally, things started to make a little more sense. “And that’s why you won’t take off your gloves in front of people? In front of me?” Cross guessed. “Because you think it’s something horrible enough to be hated?”

Epic winced. “Especially if you saw, yeah, man, and I don’t—” he stopped, a flicker of fear passing in his eye before he turned away. “I don’t want you to see me differently. T-to hate me,” he confessed, his voice silencing to a whisper at the end.

At once, Cross felt himself soften, his Soul impossibly warm and affectionate. “Oh, mi mejor amigo,” Cross placed his claw over Epic’s hand. “I could never hate you.”

Epic slowly lifts his gaze. “...”

“You don’t have to show me, or say why.” He squeezed his hand before he let go, missing how Epic curled the touched hand inward into the wooden table when he picked up his chopsticks. “It’s deep personal stuff. You don’t have to talk about any of that, I get it. I was just worried about you, but I get it now. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Epic stared at his ramen, expression indecipherable while his thoughts warred inside his mind. “Thanks.”

Epic was unnaturally quiet for the duration of their meal. They sat in companionable silence and enjoyed their comfort food. While Epic mulled over his thoughts, his gloved hand idly rubbing over the other, Cross was grateful his best friend had opened up to him, and kept his word, letting Epic have his space.

When they finished, Epic’s body moved on autopilot and followed Cross to the sink. There, he washed the dishes for the day—he had on the rubber gloves for it anyway, heh—and Cross washed his claws before taking the place on his other side with a towel in hand. Epic would scrub them clean, then rinse off the soap, and hand off the wet dish to Cross, who’d dry them off and put them back in their place.

There wasn’t a lot to go through, and in hardly any time at all, there’s only one plate left. Epic stares at it, gaze far off and distant. After a few moments have passed, Cross is about to regain Epic’s attention and ask for the plate. Only for Epic to speak and inquire something at the same time.

“Hey, do you want me to get tha—”

“Do you still wanna see?”

They both stare. Heh, whoops.

Cross cleared his false throat. “Sorry, what was that?”

Epic handed him the plate. He dried it off. As his back is turned while he sets it back in the cupboard, Epic repeats his earlier question.

“I asked if you still wanna see.”

“Oh,” Cross closes the cabinet door and turns to look at him. “I am curious,” he professed, “but you’re not obligated to tell me or show me anything, man.”

“Samesies, bruh, but I,” Epic wished he had some gum or jolly rancher or something to chew on. His Soul beat quicker as his eye darted away from Cross’s face and back. “I…if anyone ever saw, or, or knew…I’d want it to be you, Cross.”

He…doesn’t know how to react to that, really, what could he say? What should he say?

All he can do is stare at an unusually demure Epic, the way Epic looked at him, eyelight soft with ardor and glittering pearlescent under the phosphorescent light.

It wasn’t uncommon that he found himself like this because of Epic: breathless and lost while his Soul batted insistently beneath his ribs.

Tongue-tied, he nods. “Oh, thanks. You too.”

Stars, he was such a dumbass.

Glancing at the front door, Epic squeezed his hand over the other. “Is it okay if we do this in my room? I don’t want Delta or Color or someone ‘porting in and seeing. Or hearing,” he added.

Cross nodded in understanding. “Yeah dude, whatever’s more comfy for you.”

He followed Epic up the familiar path of stairs to his room. Everything is mostly clean and tidy from when they last hung out here, and he settled comfortably atop the bed. He’d always appreciated how Epic kept his bedroom neat for his sake, especially the bed.

One of his pet peeves was untidy beds, but Epic’s blankets and pillows — along with a few plushies — were arranged in an aesthetic way, pleasantly scratching that itch of despising unkempt habitude.

After double checking to make sure the door was shut and locked, Epic soon joined him, plopping down beside him with a sigh. He leaned back to rest his skull and back against the wall.

“‘Kay. So, uh,” Epic fiddled with his rubber covered digits. “I guess I ought just get it outta the way, yeah?” Cross’s eyelights flit from the rubber material to his tired eye as he spoke. “…Promise you’ll try not to hate me?”

Slowly, digits curled around the top of the glove.

Exasperated and a little irked that Epix would think Cross would ever hate his best friend, he opened his mouth to reply—

—only to freeze when the glove is peeled back and Cross sees Epic’s uncovered palms for the first time.

He was expecting a gash or two, maybe something long and big since most people disliked scars, but he dumbly realized Epic had been right to describe it as a ‘mutilation’. There, in the center, it was just…gone.

The other glove came off, joining the other somewhere off to the side of the bed. Cross paid it no mind, gaze zeroed in on the holes.

His palms were hollowed. But how could it have happened? The circles were too neat, too precise to have been accidental.

The only other skeleton he’d known with holes in their palms was Gaster, and it was because of his experiments—oh.

With increasing clarity, Cross’s eyes trailed up Epic’s hands to his face. His expression was carefully blank as he waited, observing Cross’s reaction with fearful intensity.

“Did he?” He can’t bring himself to say it.

A slow nod. “Yeah. Both of ‘em.” His hands rubbed over the other, fist clenching and unclenching as Epic glanced away. “First time was to make the—make something. Second time was to try to get the first failure to work better. It didn’t. So, now I’ve got these two “donut holes”, but all hole and no donut.”

Cross missed his joke, too focused on his hands. “Do they hurt?” Epic shook his head.

“Nah, I don’t feel anything. Kinda sensitive if they’re touched but otherwise I try to ignore them if I can.”

Cross holds out his claws. “Can I?”

His friend stared at his claws, then him. After a pause, Epic slowly blinked, and then he nodded. “Okay.”

Cross gently takes Epic’s hand in his. Ungloved, it feels strange to hold him but not unwelcome. There’s a hum of magic around the cored palm. Not unwelcome, per say, but it made it easier to feel Epic’s Intent. More concentrated maybe? He circled the rim with a claw and Epic shuddered, mouth parting in a low gasp.

“Does it hurt?”

He shook his head. His cheekbones were dusted indigo. “It’s just…strange? Touch and Intent is uh. More potent around it, I guess?” Epic’s brows furrowed in thought. “Huh. Like, just that feels like you’re hugging me.”

“Really?” Intrigued, Cross pressed more firmly on the rim, pressing into the textured but no less smooth bone, purposefully pouring in more of his Intent in the fond touch.

Okay?/Okay?/Feel okay/You’re still the same/Still mine/Okay?

His hand jolted within Cross’s grasp, Epic’s breath stuttered and ragged, the small, surprised noise he made caught in his throat. Cross looked up, worried he’d hurt him, and Epic’s eye was wide with unshed tears.

He immediately pulled away from the hole to lace their fingers together instead. A comforting handhold to hopefully soothe and amend his misstep. “Shit, I’m sorry, are you alright?”

“Y-yeah, I’m good, I’m good. It’s just so…intense,” Epic husks, “That time it. Uh, maybe leave ‘em alone, I think. ‘s not bad,” he quickly reassured. “Just a lot.”

Hearing Epic’s deep voice so utterly breathless and dazed sends a thrill down his spine and he shoves that feeling deep down and refuses to acknowledge it maybe later when he’s alone he can process how and why he feels like that.

“O-okay. Like what?”

His hand absentmindedly squeezes Cross’s as he thought. “I guess them being exposed is like, hmm.” Epic paused. “Okay, you ever summoned your body?”

He often did it for training, fighting, whatever. Cross nodded. “Yeah?”

“Right, and you know when the magic is still connected to the inner mana networks on the inside, but is also starting to form and spread from that mainframe to your external body?”

“Uh huh.”

“It feels like you're touching that.”

“Oh.” He slowly nodded, trying to imagine experiencing it himself. “Okay.”

Epic’s voice gentles into something unbearably soft that it coaxes his own mana out to burn lilac on his zygomas. “And you put your kind Intent in that, might as well have been sent right to my Soul.”

“Oh. Well, I meant it, and you feel what I mean, right?” Epic nods, and Cross—

“Yeah, I get it. I’m always gonna be your best friend too, Cross.” His thumb caressed the back of his claw. “I feel and know it.”

Lungs without function shudder around an unnecessary breath.

It's impossible to ever tire of hearing those words. That he’d always be Epic’s best friend, that Epic would always care for him no matter what. Despite everything that had happened, despite losing his memories and rebuilding their friendship anew, Epic never once stopped caring, never once gave up on Cross.

All his life, he’d been a failure. A disappointment. Never something worth carrying for because he didn’t live up to whatever expectation or use someone had for him.

Not as a son, not as an older brother, not as a friend, and not even as a weapon.

Always, Epic was exactly what he needed and wanted and he wanted to pull him close and taste—

Cross cleared his throat. “Same, dude.” He bonked his skull with Epic’s. “Always.”

Epic seemed to be ruminating on something else, the hand not held by Cross’s was stroking his scarred eye, distal phalanges trailing the line.

“There’s probably one more thing you oughta know, Cross.”

The soldier nodded. “Whatever it is, it changes nothing between us,” determined, his hold tightened on Epic. “I promise,” he vowed.

Epic stared at him, his carpals and metacarpals covering his scarred eye. He took a deep, slow breath. “Stars, I hope so,” he murmured so quietly he almost missed it.

When Epic’s hand left his face, both his eyes were open.

White and violet orbs stared into Cross’s own orbs.

“You’ve seen me open it when I fight,” Cross nodded silently, “but otherwise I try to keep it hidden.”

Why? He still looked fine as ever to Cross.

“That’s why I always keep it closed if I can or never let anyone see me without gloves. ‘Cause everytime I see this Eye, see my hands,” his best friend’s face contorts, burning with a hatred so cold and dark that a shiver travels down his spine. “I’m reminded of that, that putang ina,” Epic cursed. Everytime I look at myself or look at my stupid hands, all I see is him.”

“Epic, you—”

“You don’t get it. He ruined me, Cross.”

He'd always been a failure. But he made him into an abomination.

Tears well in Epic’s sockets and Cross was certain he must have a physical heart because he could feel it break. “I can’t sleep. No, literally. I literally don’t sleep.”

His bed was always so neat and tidy…

Like it was hardly (or never) used.

Epic trembles, his voice shaking but now that he’s started he can’t stop. “Every single damn time I fall unconscious, the Eye channels magic from the Void and creates these creatures, horrible demons that if I don’t kill them first they kill me. Every. Single. Time.”

But then, that would mean… “Is that how you have LV?” Epic nods, his shadowed face riddled with exhaustion.

“Yeah. But if I don’t do it, I die. And dying doesn’t even take me out of that place. My body has to wake up.”

“I’ve gotten better at it,” he admitted. “I hardly die anymore, now. But I’m always tired, and there’s nothing I can do to feel totally good and awake. But I’m so done,” the tears finally fall, glistening as they travel down porcelain bone. “I’m so, so tired, Cross. Sometimes,” Epic falters. “Sometimes…I just want it to end. And just lay down and never wake up again, if it meant it would finally stop.”

There are too many times where he said the wrong thing or did the wrong thing even when he had the best intentions at heart.

Always Sometimes, it feels like all Cross is good at is hurting.

His friends.

“Frisk! What have you done, you idiot?!”

“I’ll Reset the world and make things right.”

His family.

“B-Brother…”

“My name is Cross!"

The ones he loved.

“Long time no see bruh! I barely recognized you in that weird outfit!”

“BACK OFF!”

If he wasn’t used for someone else’s convenience, all he could do was hurt.

But this time,

Epic lifts his head up when Cross gently pulls the hand tugging at his scarred socket out.

He won’t.

He was full of DETERMINATION.

“Dying’s easy for us, huh?” Epic laughed bitterly.

“I’ll say.”

“It’d be so easy,” Cross continued. “To kill for you, to die for you.”

Epic’s hand is cold in his burning claws. But together they are warm.

“In a Soulbeat.” Epic agreed.

“But I want to live for you, too.”

“Living is grief, and we die anyway,” Epic pointed out. His lovely eyes are dim, glow duller than their usual brilliant light.

He didn’t disagree. “Always mourning what could’ve been, what won’t be, what we can’t save.”

“It’ll never stop.” Epic closed his eyes. “No matter how hard we try or want it to.”

But there were so many reasons to keep trying anyway, so many little reasons to keep going.

“At the very least,” Epic sighed. “I’ve got used to dealing with it after two decades.” He glared down at his hollowed palms. “I just wish I didn’t look like him, too.” He seemed to deflate, shoulders hunching in as he’s unable to meet Cross’s gaze. “It’s why I thought you’d freak out or hate m—hate it, ‘cause it looks like Gaster and I know he was just as shitty to you, too, a-and I didn’t want you to see him when you look at me—”

His self-depreciative tirade slows when Cross gently takes his hands in his and turns them over, slowly running his phalanges around and over his cored palms phalanges while Epic anxiously waits for his reaction.

And Cross just looks at him, soft and sweet, humming as he replies. “I don’t see Gaster. I only see you.” And he lances their hands together and brings Epic’s palm to his mouth.

His eyes watch Epic’s as he purposefully presses the tip of the hollowed crevice to his teeth in a gentle kiss, mindful of his Intent and force of his touch. “And my best friend is beautiful.”

“Even my Eye?” Cross nods, reaching out to cup his face and stroke his zygomatic arch with his thumb.

“Did I ever tell you, purple’s my favorite color?” Epic shakes his head. “It’s because of you.”

Epic stared at him in disbelief. “No, really. I used to hate it, hate my ecto, because it was always red until XGaster overwrote me, and it never went back.”

But now he matches his best friend, who to him, has the loveliest shade of purple he’s ever seen. A vibrant, vivacious violet, glittering like a twilight sky and brighter than all the cosmos.

“I’m your favorite?” Epic softly bumped his head with his, and Cross nuzzled him back, smiling softly into his eyes.

“Always. Like cookies and chocolate.”

“Sugar and spice.”

“Peanut butter and jelly.”

“Sushi and soy sauce.”

“Heheh,” he chuckles under his breath. “Just two peas in a pod,” Epic quips. His grin falls slightly at the corner. “But you mean it? I don’t look like him?”

“I only see you, Epic.” He promised. “Mi mejor amigo.”

The tired but dazzling smile that flutters then blooms across Epic’s expression reminds him of the field of lilacs from his AU, of the savory sweet taste of pimplom pie baked with love, of violet butterflies' graceful wings unfurling above the flowers like paint across a canvas. The picture it paints is bright and beautiful, of home and safety and peace so deep that he yearns with all his heart and Soul. A true work of art, it brightens the room and melts his fluttering Soul that blooms with warmth, like blooming flowers and fluttering butterflies.

They’re so close that Epic had only to tilt his skull to the side and gently press closer to set Cross ablaze, the point of contact sparking and shooting out through his body with electric bursts of magic.

The kiss was brief, only a tiny moment of time where Epic had nuzzled against him, but it was a euphoric eternity to his jubilant Soul.

When Epic broke away to rest into the crook of his neck, his arms wrapping around him, Cross was grateful he couldn’t see the way his entire skull flushed soft, luminous lilac.

“Thank you.” It’s whispered like a secret. And Cross knows he’s been entrusted with more than a secret.

For once, he didn’t hurt.

For once, he lov—cared for someone, and he didn’t hurt them.

When he returned his embrace, it was with the comfort that he held his world in his arms, safe and adored.

It’s gradual, but Cross noticed when Epic began to keep his gloves off. Whenever they were alone, he’d take them off without a word. Only reaching out for Cross’s hand and finding his unanswered plea accepted without a moment of hesitance. And soon it grew from an occasional happenstance to a daily occurrence.

It won’t be until several weeks later that Epic would feel safe and comfortable enough to do the same around Delta and Color.

And he would’ve never been able to without the courage all of Cross’s love and support had given him.

Cross watched Epic chat with Color, animatedly waving the hand not laced with the soldier’s in the air as he emphasized his point. The conversation went unheard, lost to him, as he focused only on a bright smile and hands openly displaying hollowed palms.

One down, he thought, unaware of the besotted smile he wore as he stared at Epic’s closed, scarred Eye. One to go.

Shoutout to my lovely moot @sirsquidsalot for help writing how hauntingly beautiful Epic is! I just couldn't phrase the paragraph quite right and they were so helpful to get that final revision. Please check out their lovely writing!

Translations:

De nada -- Spanish for "no problem"/"you're welcome"

parce -- Spanish for "buddy"/"friend"

Mi mejor amigo -- Spanish for "My best friend"

¿Qué estás haciendo -- Spanish for "What are you doing?"

“¿Hablas en serio?” -- Spanish for "Are you serious?"

Sinabi ko na sayo — Tagalog for “I already told you”

Putang ina — Tagalog for “Son of a bitch/bastard”

#crepic #cross sans #epic sans #my writing

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synthetickitsune · 2 days ago

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To Save The World ✧ h.js

Pairing: Joshua Hong x gn!reader Genre: angst Summary: Joshua made his choice. Now he has to commit to it. The world must go on. And for that, he has to make you go. Word count: 1.6k Warnings: blood, knives, reader dies A/N: inspired by @chugging-antiseptic-dye's post here bcs you can't say "joshua slitting your throat" and expect me to be normal, and also it's highly recommended to read this as well

The night falls. The stars twinkle above, yet the light seems dimmed. The world must be asleep. Perhaps it might be as kind as to close its eyes to what he’s about to do. If there’s one thing the world’s always been good at, afterall, it’s turning away from those who need its help the most. There's a duty to them that he always carried on his shoulders. He’s always tried to make up for what the universe couldn’t do. Now that he’s in need of help, however, who will save him?

He never thought that burden would eventually end up being his own demise.

Joshua’s breath comes out as thin clouds that soon evaporate into nothingness. Just the same as him. Every breath is a thought, a memory, a part of him. He wills them to be. He needs to send them all off, so that he can at least hope to be saved one day. He hopes the wind can carry all of him far enough that he won’t be tainted.

He spent what felt like hours standing under scalding water. As if filth can be washed ahead of time.

Anyway.

Washed as best as he could make it and free of all scent, he feels naked. A blank sheet. Now all that’s left is to cleanse himself of himself. Not a man, but a hero. A fragile puppet dancing however fate and duty pull its strings. Empty. To be filled again with a different substance. Transformed. A copy of himself only on the outside.

The cold makes him feel frozen in time. If it doesn’t start ticking again soon, he will surely lose his mind. But perhaps that’s an option he’d gladly take. There is little chance of that happening soon enough, though. No, it’s not going to happen until it’s too late.

He hears lone footsteps slowly approaching. Bile rises up his throat. He closes his eyes and takes a couple of long, deep breaths. He tries to keep them even. To keep the tremors out of his breathing at least. He can’t be heard. He has to keep standing but his knees can barely support him. If only the darkness of the alley could swallow him. If only the wall behind his back could turn into goo. Trap him like an insect in tree sap. Keep him trapped in amber so that everyone could witness his cowardice that even outweighs the sin he’s about to commit.

‘Hero’ is a funny world. A joke.

In the end, he couldn’t save everyone. Forget everyone. Just one person.

The sound gets closer. Have you always walked with a skip in your step when you were rushing home to him? The bile again. His stomach twists. He has to force himself to swallow. The street remains empty. Everything else aside, Joshua can’t let anyone see his face ever again. He won’t ever look at his face again. His hands feel clammy. He can’t breathe. He can’t—

The knife almost slips from his hand. He only sees your side profile for a split second. He can’t double over. Not now. He’s already a coward hiding in the shadows. So it feels like a cruel joke, the sight that his eyes let him see. It’s like the clouds part and you’re suddenly bathed in moonlight. Are the stars taking you before he can? He only has fractions of a second to pray it is so. To hope his hands will pass right through you. That the moon saves you and cradles you in its cold silver arms.

It’s with practiced ease that he reaches from his hiding spot. It’s with hard-earned skill and speed that he grabs you and pulls you back into the shadows, away from the light that exposes his weakness. He ensnares you in the darkness with him before you can make a sound or register what’s happening.

With tender strength he holds you against his chest. His arm wraps around your waist perfectly, pinning your arms to your sides. It should be like this. You belong with him. He should always hold you. What does heaven have that lying with you, your head above his heart and his arms around you doesn’t provide? Your body fits against his like you were made for him. And lately he believes you were, just to make your fate that much crueler. To start his punishment long before he knew he’s going to be punished.

You can’t make a sound with his hand covering your mouth. He wishes you could. Blame him. Hate him. (Love him.) Your struggling is useless. He’s always been stronger than you. Could always easily pin you down. Why can’t you pout about it now? (Please hit his chest. Please call him mean. Please laugh and pull him down for a kiss.)

Your efforts double when the glint of the blade catches your eye. He has already messed up. He shouldn’t have held you one last time. It comes so naturally to him, though. Instincts can’t be overridden. He had to. He tries to make his voice deeper, unrecognizable. To his own ears he doesn’t sound like himself when he shushes you. You sound every bit like yourself when you whimper. (Can’t he hold you tighter? Can’t he pull the blanket over you like he’s always done and shield you from the rest of the world?)

In his memories, it’s always your hair, your cheeks that he caresses. Your lip under his thumb. As he moves his hand lower though, he discovers that the skin on the vulnerable column of your throat is surprisingly soft too. (Did he not explore your body enough? Will this be one more regret to haunt him day and night?) Your breathing, your heartbeat, he can feel it all with his touch. It’s so fast. Like the little bunny’s that you promised to adopt with him. The one you won’t make a half-orphan because you never brought it home. Your eyes look like prey animal’s caught in a trap too.

His thumb strokes over your windpipe. You deserve that. You deserve something more intimate. You deserve something warmer than the cold steel of the knife. You deserve him. Not a stranger.

But he can’t. He’s a coward. His strength isn’t as tender now. It’s desperate. He doesn’t want to let go. You don’t make a sound.

(Please whine. Please tell him to let go. Please call him clingy. Please tell him to let you hug him too.)

His hand stops before it can dip under your shirt. His fingertips barely brush against your collarbone. How selfish he can be. You must be so scared - a stranger holding you, a stranger touching you. Joshua knows if it was him you saw holding a knife so close to your face, you wouldn’t be scared at all.

(Smile at him. See him.)

As if sensing his hesitation, you move. Just one lone, weak attempt to break free. Just a jolt of an animal that doesn’t wish to be pet.

He leans his head against yours. (Hurt him. Do it. Please.) You stay still. For a blink of an eye that lasts an eternity, you settle and relax. Like he’s holding you while you cook dinner. Like he’s comforting you after a long day. Like you’re watching the storm outside from the warmth of your home. Like he’s saying goodbye.

Like you know what’s coming.

It’s with an order, an impulse to his nerves that doesn’t, that can’t have, come from his own brain and free will that the knife in his sweaty palm turns. Your breathing picks up more. The blade presses against the side of your throat and he—

Joshua!

The shriek pierces the silence of the night.

It rains. Crimson splatters on the ground.

But all he hears is your voice.

Did you recognize him and called his name in shock? Betrayal? Understanding?

Were you calling him for help?

Did you want his name to be your last word?

The knife clatters on the ground with echoes of his name, of your voice. Nothing else is real.

His hand clutches your throat and presses against it with force. He’s trying to pull the split tissue together but it won’t listen and the blood keeps pouring.

The warmth encompassing his hands must be your hands grabbing his. Slipping your fingers between his.

You’re just standing in the shower. It’s hot water rolling down your bodies. You’ll laugh. You’ll scold him for simply holding you instead of washing up.

What’s the point if his hands are forever dyed red.

No shower will ever be enough.

And your life keeps trickling down his fingers and pooling under his feet.

He collapses with you.

His head falls, forehead resting against yours.

(Look at him.)

He holds you like you’re dancing. Your silly wish to look at him after he twirls you. To lean back into his arms and look up at him.

So look at him.

There’s nothing interesting to see at the back of your skull.

He sobs, but he only hears your voice. Only feels the claws of guilt and pain tearing at his throat from the inside.

Did you know? Could you tell he held you? Did you know you’re not alone? That you don’t have to be scared?

Look at him.

Tell him.

The world did not end with a bang. Nor with a whimper. The world did not end at all that night.

But there, in a dark alley where blood pools on the cobblestone, a life and a soul were crushed to save it.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #joshua x reader #joshua scenario #svthub #seventeen imagines #seventeen angst #joshua angst #svt angst #svt x reader

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keepingupwithzaynmalik · 1 day ago

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Zayn Malik’s eventim Apollo Show Is An Emotional Triumph

The second of his sold out London shows…

Zayn Malik isn’t particularly fond of touring. It’s the word on the lips of everyone in the scrum outside the eventim Apollo tonight, an expectant London crowd awaiting the return of a generational pop icon. Since the closure of One Direction, Zayn’s solo career has been stop-start, as he navigated personal issues in the process. He remains, however, Zayn Malik – and the tension, excitement, and longing in the air is palpable.

Squeezing past some disappointed punters left outside, CLASH retrieves its ticket from the booth, only to discover that we’ve been handed a second ticket, too. Spotting a mother and daughter looking confused at the ticket desk, we do a swap-around with the kind man behind the desk, and suddenly we’re in a different seat, and the parental duo are joyously climbing the steps into the Apollo.

With good karma under our wings, we trot down to our seat, slightly bemused by the looks we’re getting from the crowd. They’re young. Sometimes very young. We are… maybe not? Upon finding our seat we’re immediately cross-examined by the pair of Zayn stans placed next to us.

“Are you REALLY a Directioner? Really?” they ask.

“Oh, obviously,” CLASH responds, in a tone so flatly assuring that not even the FBI could crack it. Sensing an awkwardness, we offer: “Are you a big Zayn fan, then?”

It’s then that she fixes her eyes mid-distance with a burning intensity, and answers with the kind of explosive assurance that only youth can offer: “He is the most beautiful man in the world.”

It’s the screams that get you. When the curtain falls and Zayn emerges the voices are deafening, almost beyond belief. It’s a wall of noise, a shuddering screech of pent-up desperation – joy and lust, longing and relief, all fused into one titanic tidal wave of sound. For his part, Zayn is bashful – shy, even. The voice is pristine, the band are exceptional – it’s a tight sound that blends R&B, pop and (especially) Americana, reflective of the journey he’s been on.

For someone who seemingly doesn’t enjoy touring, and the pressure of live performance, Zayn doesn’t hold back. It’s an 18-strong set list, delivered succinctly, with the minimum of fuss – all music, no hype. He’s clad in a Nirvana t-shirt and a loose top, a porkpie hat annointed on his head. Every detail, every hand gesture counts – when Zayn opts to remove his top, the screams reach new, almighty levels.

At times, he’s semi-stunned, not sure how to respond. “Fuck yeah, you guys are loud!” he offers, laughing self-consciously in the process. It’s been a long road to get here – at one point, fans could be forgiven for feeling that Zayn was lost to music. The gospel touches in opening song ‘My Woman’ offer something soothing, while ‘Dreamin’ and ‘Lied To’ are early highlights. The pacing is patient, the band behind him immaculately well-rehearsed.

It’s never marbled, or overly professional. There’s a humanity to Zayn Malik that he can’t hide – the Yorkshire twang is still there, and for all his evident shy reserve there’s also a quiet joy at being onstage. Repeatedly thanking the crowd – “you guys are sooooo loud!” – there’s a sense of genuine relief onstage. ‘Ignorance Ain’t Bliss’ is a wonderful mid-set vignette, ‘Sweat’ is packed with the lust, while ‘iT’s YoU’ is a deft duet between vocalist and piano.

There’s a couple of surprises, too. ‘Last Request’ honours Paolo Nutini, and serves as a great vessel for the soulful aspects of Zayn’s own voice. There’s a revealing introduction to ‘PILLOWTALK’: “The reason – one reason – I didn’t tour for so long was that I was afraid to sing this song…”

Zayn needn’t have worried. The audience acts as a cushion underneath him, their love and support pushing him up when needed. ‘PILLOWTALK’ is gorgeous, rapturously received, while a home run of ‘Alienated’ and ‘Gates Of Hell’ ties up a punctual performance that offers everything fans could have wanted – and more.

There’s a sense of quiet exhaustion at the end, when a tribute to Liam Payne flashes up onscreen. ‘Stardust’ plays, and there’s a moment of pause as the crowd engages in mutual reflection. One Direction helped to frame the coming-of-age experiences of a generation, their music bringing incalculable joy to millions across the globe. It’s a true sin, then, that the intense experiences of fame brought so much pressure and pain to the young men who powered that phenomenon. Zayn Malik is a wonderful vocalist, someone with fantastic pop songs in his solo canon – he’s also, as the girl next to us so succinctly put it, one of the most beautiful men we’ve ever seen onstage. He may not tour that often, but we wish him nothing but happiness.

ROBIN MURRAY FOR CLASH

#zayn malik #stairway to the sky tour #review

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sweets-library · 3 days ago

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care and consequence

Shouta Aizawa/reader. hurt/comfort. wc: 7.9k.

READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. DO NOT READ THIS IF THEY DO NOT APPEAL TO YOU. 18+ content warnings: spanking, improper use of a hairbrush, punishment, heavy use of daddy as a title, heavy themes of discipline and D/S dynamics

a/n: holy shit guys, the reception on that last one was actually insane, thank you all so much! i hope you guys like this one too, I'm sorry it took so long! i have a lot of personal life drama going on rn, plus I'm sick again :/ anyways, enjoy and strap in, its a long one! ao3

You had regretted coming to the bar about an hour ago, though you’d never admit it. The music thrummed in your chest, matching the relentless pounding in your head. Around you, people were dancing, drinking, and laughing, lost in their own worlds. As much as you wanted to join in, your body felt like it was rebelling against you. Still, you clung to the idea that one more drink might just do the trick.

Navigating through the chaotic sea of heroes, you pushed your way to the bar and ordered a vodka cranberry with a shot on the side. Your last drink had taken a while to finish, but this one? This one needed to count. The bartender turned away, and just as you started to feel the room sway, the door flew open with a booming, "WHAT IS UP, PARTY PEOPLEEEEE!"

Ah, Mic made it!. He had been unsure if he could, with the radio show’s schedule, but he must’ve handed the reins to someone else to show up fashionably late. You watched as he carved a path through the crowd, greeting everyone with that infectious energy, before you turned your attention back to your drinks. Downing the shot in one swift motion, you grabbed your cocktail, setting your sights on Nemuri.

You found her in conversation with Kamui Woods and Mount Lady, her laughter carrying over the din. Sliding up beside her, you felt the brush of her nails as she pinched your side with a knowing grin. Without missing a beat, she continued chatting, but you knew she had clocked you. You were happy to wait, sipping your drink and letting its warmth spread through you, barely tuning into the conversation until Nemuri said her goodbyes.

She grabbed your hand, giggling as she pulled you onto the dance floor, and you let her lead—hoping the music might drown out how unwell you felt.

As the tequila and vodka settled into your veins, the world around you softened into a hazy blur of neon lights and pulsing bass. The club was packed, bodies moving in sync with the heavy beat that rattled the floor beneath your feet. Strobe lights flickered overhead, casting quick flashes of colour across the writhing crowd, while smoke machines filled the air with a thin mist that clung to your skin. The music was loud, so loud that it vibrated through your chest, matching the heat rising in your cheeks.

You finally started to feel it, the carefree buzz you’d been chasing all night. The alcohol loosened your limbs, and you let yourself get lost in whatever dirty, hypnotic rhythm Nemuri was dragging you into. Around you, people shouted over the music, laughed too loudly, and clinked glasses at the bar. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, spilled drinks, and the faint hint of perfume mingling with something more electric. It was the kind of energy that pulled you in deeper, making everything else fade away.

A few songs passed in a blur of flashing lights and sweaty bodies. You floated from partner to partner, dancing with Thirteen, Snipe, and Nemuri again, before you found yourself twirled straight into the arms of Present Mic.

“Zashi! Hi!” you practically shouted, grinning at him with the same excitement that buzzed through the room. It felt like he was the only one who hadn’t made it to the party yet, and now, everything was perfect. You could imagine him being stopped by every person on the way in, catching up and spreading his contagious energy.

“Heya, baby, how’s it hangin’?” he grinned, pulling you in so close you could feel the bass rumbling through his chest. But even here, his voice cut through the noise effortlessly.

“Soooo good! I love dancing, I’m so happy you came! Thought you’d get stuck at the station,” you gushed, letting the sway of the music carry you from foot to foot.

He laughed and gave you a playful dip, sending you squealing in delight as the room spun for a brief moment. But when he pulled you back up, his smile faltered as you coughed into your arm, the noise cutting through the music like a reminder that not everything was as smooth as the party felt.

“Gave one of the interns the mic for the night. She was over the moon to take it,” Hizashi said with a chuckle, leaning in closer to cut through the pounding music. His usual energy seemed slightly tempered, though his voice still carried effortlessly. He lowered his tone as he added, “Didn’t think you’d make it out tonight. Shouta told me earlier you weren’t feeling so hot.”

At the mention of your boyfriend, you scanned the room out of habit, already knowing he wasn’t there. This kind of scene was never his thing; too loud, too crowded. Besides, he had patrol tonight.

“Sho’s just paranoid. I’m fine, see?” you replied, brushing off the comment with a lighthearted twirl under Hizashi’s arm. The movement made your head spin a bit, but you ignored it, flashing him a grin as you let go of his hand, intent on heading back to the bar for another drink. Before you could get far, his arm looped around your waist, pulling you back gently but firmly.

“Hey, you trying to leave me all alone out here? This party’s not even close to over,” Hizashi laughed, his voice rising just above the thrum of the bass. You joined in his laughter, not noticing how, with each song, he subtly steered you away from the bar. The colours around you swirled in a kaleidoscope of neon lights, flickering across faces and catching in the smoke-filled air. Every beat seemed to vibrate through your body, keeping you in a daze of music, movement, and heat.

As the hours blurred, so did the people. Dance partners came and went, their faces brief ly illuminated by strobe lights before they disappeared back into the crowd. But through it all, Hizashi never left your side, keeping a playful hand on your shoulder or at your waist as if he were your lifeline in the chaotic sea of bodies.

Then, a slower song melted into the speakers, and the mood shifted. The lights dimmed to soft blues and purples, and the frenetic energy on the dance floor calmed. Hizashi took the opportunity to pull you close, his arm wrapping around you with a gentleness that felt comforting against the heat of the room. Your head fell naturally onto his shoulder as the world seemed to slow down for the first time that night. The sway of the music was soothing now, and the chatter around you dropped to a murmur.

Couples paired off, holding each other close, moving in time to the slow beat, while others used the moment to catch their breath. The heavy scent of spilled drinks, sweat, and perfume lingered in the air, but here, in Hizashi’s arms, you felt an odd sense of calm. You giggled softly as he whispered in your ear, making quiet jokes about the unlikely pairings that had formed on the dance floor. His voice was steady and warm, grounding you.

But then, he stopped abruptly. The sway of his body stilled, and you blinked, the moment interrupted. Confused, you lifted your head to look at him, but his attention was no longer on the dance floor.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I think your song’s been played out,” Hizashi said softly, his voice taking on a tone that felt more final than playful. You lifted your head to question him, confusion crossing your face, but before you could get a word out, he spun you around; right into the arms of someone new.

Or rather, someone far more familiar than you would have preferred.

“Shouta!” you gasped, looking up to find him staring down at you, his dark eyes narrowed in that way that instantly made you feel small. His gaze wasn’t angry, exactly, but there was a sharpness in it that cut through the fog of your drunken haze. You straightened up, biting your lip as emotions flashed across your face, impossible to hide in your current state.

“I thought you had patrol?” you asked, voice tinged with uncertainty.

“I finished early,” he said, his tone even but firm as he wrapped an arm around your waist. His grip was gentle, but the intention was clear as he began guiding you through the crowd and toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“Wait, wait, I gotta-” you started to protest, trying to twist out of his hold. But Shouta cut you off before you could finish, his voice leaving no room for argument.

“I paid your tab. You can see everyone another time,” Shouta said curtly, his voice as firm as his grip around your waist. The finality in his words made your chest tighten, but you huffed anyway, stubbornly digging in your heels.

“I promised Nemuri another dance, and I was gonna get another drink!” you protested, though the moment the words were out, you knew they were a mistake. Shouta’s gaze sharpened, his eyes darkening as they bore into you. It was a look that made your heart skip a beat and sent a nervous tremor down your spine. Your feet shuffled on instinct, your earlier defiance wilting under the heat of his stare.

“We are leaving right now, little girl,” he said, his tone low and deliberate. The words slid over you like a command, impossible to ignore. His hand drifted down to your ass, the touch firm and possessive, sending a shiver through your body. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he continued, “Unless you’d like to get a head start on your punishment in the bathroom. Here. And. Now.”

Your pulse quickened at his words, your breath catching in your throat. The heavy atmosphere of the club seemed to fade, the sound of the crowd growing distant. All that remained was the heat of his presence and the weight of his words. The tension coiled in your stomach, leaving you unsure whether to push back or submit.

“No… m’sorry. Let’s go,” you mumbled, your voice barely rising above the pulsing music, but your regretful look and the way you let him pull you along seemed to say enough. Once outside, the sudden quiet enveloped you, your ears ringing from the absence of sound. The contrast was jarring, but it was nothing compared to the weight of Shouta’s disappointment radiating off him like an invisible force.

He guided you to the car, and without even a hint of protest, you slid into the back seat. The cool leather felt grounding against your skin as he buckled you in silently, his focus unwavering. You could feel the tension in the air, thick and palpable, as he leaned in, resting his hand on the headrest. His expression softened slightly, a hint of concern breaking through his earlier sternness.

“Do you feel like you’re gonna be sick?” he inquired, his voice steady yet laced with a quiet urgency. You shook your head, trying to muster a reassuring smile, though the flutter of anxiety in your stomach made it hard.

“Okay,” he replied, his gaze steady on yours. “Start drinking this.” He handed you a bottle of water, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I want at least half of it gone by the time we get home. And if you think you’re feeling sick, just tell me, and I’ll pull over.”

The seriousness in his voice made your heart race. You nodded, taking the bottle from him, the cool plastic a small comfort in the heated moment. As you unscrewed the cap, you could sense the shift in his demeanour. He was looking out for you, but there was a firmness in his words that reminded you of the line you’d crossed.

“Okay.” you mumble, staring at his chin to avoid the intensity of his eyes. He sighed and closed the door before climbing into the driver's seat and starting the journey home. The ride wasn't long but it was dead silent and it gave you enough time for some of the alcohol to wear off and the reminders that you were sick to kick in.

Shouta, of course, knew you at the very least, had a bad cold. That morning, he had taken charge, insisting you call off work and ordering you to stay in bed. He had been so sweetly concerned and caring. He had meticulously arranged everything, ensuring you had enough food and medicine at hand. You could still picture him moving around the kitchen, checking in on you with a watchful eye, his brow slightly furrowed in that familiar expression of worry.

Throughout the afternoon, he had kept in touch, sending periodic texts to check on your well-being. Each notification was a reminder of how deeply he cared. The messages were gentle nudges, urging you to rest and take care of yourself. You could almost feel his presence with each ping, as if he were there beside you, coaxing you to indulge in soup and reminding you when to take the next dose of cold and flu medicine.

But as the hours slipped by and daylight faded into evening, the excitement of your friends celebrating the end of the semester began to tug at you. The allure of laughter and music beckoned from the outside world, tempting you to leave the cocoon of blankets and soothing remedies he had encouraged you to embrace. You hadn’t mentioned your plans to Shouta, knowing full well the firm stance he had taken. He had told you when he left for his night patrol that you were to be doing nothing for the rest of the night but resting and getting better.

In a moment of weakness, you had chosen to ignore his guidance, allowing the crippling fear of missing out to get to you. Now, as the consequences of your decision loomed large, you felt a heavy weight settle in your chest, a blend of regret and dread creating a terrible cocktail with how awful you were already feeling physically.

As Shouta pulled into the driveway, the rush of emotions overwhelmed you. The tears welled up, unbidden and hot, as the guilt of your choices crashed over you like a wave. You hiccuped, desperately trying to swallow back the sobs, but it was futile. When he parked the car and came around to your door, you barely registered his movements, lost in your own turmoil. As soon as he opened the door, he unbuckled you and gathered you into his arms, cradling you against him.

“Fuck, baby, you’re okay,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, as he felt you trembling against him. “I know you’re not feeling too hot. Come on, let’s get you inside and into some comfy clothes. Does that sound good?”

You nodded against his shoulder, the gesture almost instinctual as the weight of your exhaustion settled in. With a gentle yet firm motion, he hoisted you out of the car, his strength reassuring. You instinctively wrapped your limbs around him like a koala, seeking the comfort of his embrace. He adjusted his hold, securing you against him effortlessly as he maneuvered to get the door open with one arm, not even considering putting you down for a moment. The night air was cool against your skin, but Shouta's warmth kept the chill at bay. As he carried you inside, you buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.

He took care of you mostly in silence, his hands moving with a practiced ease as he guided your movements. Gently, he slipped off your heels, his touch tender against your tired feet. Without a word, he helped you out of your dress, replacing the once-glamorous outfit with the softness of your favourite pajamas. His fingers were careful as he wiped away the makeup you'd used to hide the ruddiness in your cheeks and the shadows beneath your eyes, his brow creasing slightly as he worked, focused but gentle.

When he pressed the cool glass of water into your hands, you drank obediently, the quiet rustle of him preparing the medicine a comforting sound in the background. As he handed you the pills, his eyes softened, a silent reminder that he was looking out for you. After you’d swallowed them, he guided you to sit down at your vanity, still working methodically, brushing away the remnants of the night.

The makeup wipe brushed over your nose, tickling slightly, and despite the exhaustion and the lingering tipsiness, a small giggle escaped your lips. You leaned up, catching his eyes in the mirror, and smiled mischievously, asking for a kiss. He indulged you, pressing a brief, soft kiss to your lips before continuing, his attention shifting to your hair. The tender motions of his hands as he brushed it through were almost hypnotic, lulling you into a sense of calm as he completed your nighttime routine for you.

A thought bubbled up, slipping out before you could stop it. “How did you know where I was? Thought patrol didn’t end till 4?” you whispered, your voice barely above a murmur as he turned you to face the mirror. Catching his eyes in the reflection, you saw a flicker of irritation still lingering there, and the weight of it made you shy away. You broke eye contact, your gaze dropping to the clutter of items strewn across the vanity from earlier in the night.

“Hizashi texted me when he got there,” he replied quietly, his voice steady but tinged with that edge of disappointment. You couldn't help but pout at the mention of it, feeling the sting of being caught, of letting him down. The weight of his gaze lingered on you, but you felt his concern just as deeply, even in the silence between you.

“Tattle-tale,” you mumbled under your breath, but before you could sink too far into your pout, Shouta’s fingers tipped under your chin, gently but firmly, guiding you to meet his eyes in the mirror.

“He wouldn’t have to tattle if you hadn’t been misbehaving, would he?” His voice held that familiar grumble, a mix of irritation and concern that made your heart skip. You swallowed, feeling the weight of his gaze and the undeniable truth behind his words.

“No, sir,” you murmured, looking as contrite as you felt. His expression softened slightly, and he let out a quiet puff of air, almost a sigh, before pulling you up from the vanity.

With his hand steadying you, he guided you toward the bed, but your legs still wobbled beneath you. Dizzy, you tumbled onto the mattress, a soft giggle escaping your lips as you sank into the plush blankets. Shouta rolled his eyes, but there was a tenderness behind it, and with practiced care, he shifted you to the other side and tucked you in properly, smoothing the covers over you.

“Wait, Sho... you’re not... are you mad at me?” you asked, your voice suddenly small and sincere, cutting through the haze of your tipsiness. His brow furrowed at the question, and for a moment, you held your breath, waiting for his answer.

“No, baby, I’m not mad. We’ll talk tomorrow,” he assured you, his voice softer now. He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, the warmth of his lips lingering for a moment before he straightened up. Rounding the bed, he moved to his side, slipping in beside you.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew that conversation tomorrow wasn’t going to be a pleasant one. But as Shouta’s strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you close against his chest, the heaviness of the night melted away. His familiar scent, the steady beat of his heart, and the warmth of his body drowned out any lingering bad feelings. For now, wrapped up in him, everything felt right, and you let yourself drift into the comfort of sleep.

The morning greeted you with a vengeance, leaving you feeling every bit as awful as you feared. Your head throbbed with a dull, relentless ache, your sinuses were stuffed to the brim, and your body felt clammy and weak, so much more wrung out than you had been jus the day before. Groaning, you burrowed deeper into the blankets, hiding from the sunlight streaming through the windows. Despite the warmth of the covers, a bone-deep chill had taken root, making you shiver as you curled in on yourself.

“Wake up, baby. You have to take some medicine.” Shouta’s voice, calm and resolute, pierced your cocoon of self-pity. You whined in response, a pitiful sound muffled by the blankets.

“M’sleeping. No thanks,” you muttered petulantly, half-hoping he’d let it slide. Usually, this was when you’d hear him chuckle softly, maybe feel the comforting weight of his hand on your thigh as he gave you a few more moments to stir.

Instead, the covers were suddenly pulled back from your face, exposing you to the cool morning air and making you gasp at the loss of warmth. The sudden brightness forced your eyes to flutter open, though they quickly squinted against the light. Before you could protest, Shouta’s hand was on your face, gentle and deliberate, as he smoothed the strands of damp hair plastered to your clammy skin. The touch sent a shiver through you, the tenderness soothing away your irritation.

His expression hovered between stern and soft, his dark eyes scanning your flushed, pale face with an almost clinical precision. You could feel the weight of his worry as he brushed his thumb over your temple. Despite your exhaustion, guilt pooled in your chest, mingling with the sickness that had you pinned to the bed.

“It wasn’t really a request. Come on, sit up.” His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the firmness behind it. Before you could muster a protest, his strong hands slipped under your back and shoulders, lifting you with ease. The sudden shift left you disoriented, and before you knew it, you were propped up against the headboard.

Two pills rested on the palm he held in front of your face, his dark eyes steady and expectant. “Open,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. Something in the commanding gentleness of his voice had you obeying instinctively, parting your lips without hesitation. He placed the pills on your tongue, and you grimaced as you swallowed them with a few sips of the water he pressed to your lips.

Just as you moved to push the glass away, his hand caught yours, steadying it. “Finish this,” he said firmly, guiding it back toward your mouth. The weight of his worry lingered in the way his fingers stayed wrapped around yours, ensuring you drank more.

You managed another sip, your movements sluggish and reluctant, before he spoke again, his voice softening. “Are you hungry?”

You shook your head, too weary to form words, and he nodded in quiet acceptance. “Okay,” he murmured, taking the now half-empty glass from your hands and setting it on the bedside table. His fingers brushed against your knuckles briefly, grounding you in the moment. “You can sleep a little longer until the meds kick in. We’ll talk when you’re feeling a bit better.”

You gulped and cast your eyes downward, unable to meet his steady gaze. The words he didn’t say lingered in the air, unspoken but heavy, a reminder of the talk you’d hoped that you might avoid. Shouta, ever composed, didn’t press. Instead, his hand smoothed over your hair, the motion tender and familiar, as if to reassure you that his frustration didn’t mean he cared any less.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss between your brows, a soft, lingering gesture that made your chest tighten. It wasn’t fair how easily he could dissolve your guilt and stubbornness in a single moment of care. You couldn’t even summon the faintest trace of upset, not when his touch was so gentle, so grounding. Instead, your eyelids grew heavier, the pull of exhaustion impossible to resist. With a quiet sigh, you let yourself drift, surrendering to the lull of warmth and safety he left behind.

Time passed in a haze, unmeasured and weightless. When you woke again, the pounding in your head had dulled to a faint, manageable throb, and though your limbs still felt heavy, they no longer ached with the same intensity. The room was empty now, sunlight spilling through the windows in soft golden streaks that painted the walls and the rumpled sheets beside you. If Shouta hadn't insisted on taking some medicine earlier, the light would probably be giving you the worst of headaches, but instead, you were able to enjoy the warmth. Of course, Shouta was right, as always. It was no wonder you let him take the reins so often; he had a knack for knowing exactly what you needed, even when you couldn’t see it yourself. It went beyond simple intuition, it was deliberate and unwavering care. It was why you trusted him so deeply.

If you didn’t know that, if you couldn’t feel it in the way he cared for you, you wouldn’t be in this dynamic with him in the first place. You wouldn’t be sitting here now, heart pounding in the quiet aftermath, debating whether pretending to sleep a little longer might save you from the punishment just a little longer, or if it would only make things worse.

But even as your thoughts tangled with uncertainty, you knew you wouldn’t trade this for anything. For all the moments like these, where guilt and the weight of your mistakes pressed down on you, there was always the unwavering reassurance that Shouta would steady you. He’d take you in hand, reminding you in no uncertain terms just how much you mattered to him.

He wouldn’t tolerate behaviour that diminished your worth, not in his eyes, and not in your own. It wasn’t just discipline; it was care, deeply rooted and uncompromising. And when all was said and done, forgiveness would follow, that was never an uncertainty. With Shouta, there was no lingering doubt, no unspoken resentment, only the quiet, steady rhythm of love in its most honest form.

It was about more than letting go; it was about giving that trust to someone who cherished it, someone who didn’t just take care of you but found joy in doing so. And in turn, you found joy in being cared for. It could be terrifying sometimes, to put that kind of trust in someone, but with Shouta it had always felt worth it.

You sigh and slide out of bed, resigned to your fate. The chill in the air bites at your skin, and the sickness still clings to you making you shiver. You rummage through the closet until your fingers find the familiar softness of one of Shouta’s sweaters. It’s an old crew neck, worn and slightly stretched out, big even on him and perfect for wrapping yourself in his warmth.

Pulling it over your head, you pad out to the living room on bare feet. The sight that greets you stops you in your tracks, drawing a soft, dreamy sigh from your lips.

Shouta is perched on the couch, papers spread across the coffee table in neat stacks. A faint furrow creases his brow as he grades with careful precision, the rhythmic scratch of his pen the only sound in the room. One of the cats is curled in his lap snoring, and a ray of sunlight streams through the window, bathing the scene in a golden glow that feels almost unreal. For a moment, you wonder if you’re still dreaming.

His sharp eyes flick up, catching yours as you linger in the doorway. Before he can say a word, you shuffle over and flop down beside him, burying yourself against his shoulder and letting your eyes drift closed again. The familiar scent of him wraps around you, as grounding as the weight of his presence.

“G’morning baby.” you sigh, and his arm curls around you to tug you to his side properly.

“Good morning, my love. Feeling a little better?” he murmurs, his voice soft and low, vibrating gently against your ear. You nod, nestling closer into his shoulder, letting the comforting rhythm of his breathing soothe your lingering unease.

The two of you sit in companionable silence, the occasional scratch of his pen the only sound in the room. He finishes grading the last test on his stack, and you catch a glimpse of his expression as he marks something on the page. Oof. Poor kid.

You might have dozed off again if not for the fluttering unease in your stomach, a familiar mix of guilt and anticipation. The thought of the looming punishment makes it impossible to relax entirely, though Shouta’s calm presence keeps you from fully spiralling.

And then, as if he could read your mind, he sets the papers aside with a quiet sigh. The finality of it settles in your chest like a stone. He turns his face into your hair, his lips brushing against your temple as he speaks softly, a warmth and firmness interwoven in his tone.

“We need to have a talk, little girl.”

You bite your lip, the weight of his gaze settling heavily over you. A sigh escapes your lips as you try to find the right words. “I know. I’m sorry,” you murmur, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

Shouta doesn’t immediately respond. He pulls back slightly, his eyes scanning your face, assessing. The silence stretches just long enough to make you squirm.

Finally, he exhales deeply, sitting back and crossing his arms. His posture is relaxed, but the intensity in his eyes keeps you rooted in place.

“Why?” he asks, his voice calm but piercing.

Your stomach churns. You know the answer, of course, you do, but the way he asks makes your guilt multiply. He doesn’t raise his voice; he doesn’t need to. You glance down at your lap, your fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on your pajama pants, anything to avoid the weight of his disappointment.

“For… for not listening,” you whisper, each word sticking in your throat. “And going out when you told me not to.”

“That’s correct,” he says, his tone steady but no less cutting. “But more broadly, I’m extremely not thrilled with your complete disregard for your own health and well-being.”

The words land with a precision that makes your chest ache.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his voice softening but still firm. “I love taking care of you. But part of that is making sure you take care of yourself when I’m not there. I need to trust that when I tell you to rest and recover, you’ll actually listen. Instead, you put yourself in harm’s way, and for what? A few hours of fun?”

His gaze locks onto yours, and the weight of his disappointment has you nodding mutely.

“And,” he continues, his voice sharpening, “I have never, and will never, tolerate you lying to me.”

Your head snaps up, a reflexive protest bubbling to the surface. “I didn’t lie—”

The glare he fixes you with stops the words dead in their tracks. It’s a look that leaves no room for negotiation.

“What did you say,” he asks, his voice low and measured, “when I told you to spend the night resting and recovering before I left for work?”

Your cheeks burn as you break eye contact. His stare feels like a spotlight, illuminating every guilty thought you’re trying to suppress. You shift uncomfortably, your voice trembling as you admit, “I… I said, ‘Yes, Daddy.’”

The silence that follows feels deafening. You dare a glance up at him, but his expression is unreadable. The weight of your admission hangs heavy in the air, and you shrink under the judgment you can feel emanating from him.

Finally, he sighs, the sound carrying more disappointment than anger. “You know what you did,” he says, each word deliberate. “Now it’s time to face the consequences.”

Your stomach twists, dread pooling in your chest. His tone is calm, almost gentle, but it carries a finality that leaves no room for debate.

“I wouldn’t normally punish you while you’re sick,” he continues, leaning back against the couch, his voice even. “But since you seem to think that being sick has no bearing on your decisions, I won’t let it affect mine either. Stand up.”

Your knees feel weak as you scramble to obey, rising unsteadily to your feet. Confusion flickers across your face- why not just pull you over his lap like usual? Why make you stand?

“Go and get the wooden hairbrush,” he says, his voice low and dispassionate, the command sending a shiver down your spine. “The flat, square one. And lose your pants on the way.”

Your gasp escapes before you can stop it, your hands instinctively clutching at the waistband of your pajama pants.

He doesn’t budge, his expression firm, his gaze unwavering. “You heard me.”

The room feels colder as you move, your steps hesitant. The gravity of the moment weighs heavily with each step you take toward the bedroom. Your heart races as you reach for the brush, the smooth wood cool against your palm. Sliding your pajama pants down your legs, you feel your cheeks burn with a mixture of shame and anticipation. You decide to take off the sweater as well, knowing Shouta would have you sweating soon.

When you return to the living room, brush in hand and pants abandoned, Shouta’s eyes meet yours. His gaze softens slightly, a flicker of care visible beneath the stern exterior, but it does nothing to ease the butterflies raging in your stomach.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, gesturing for you to come closer. You obey silently, beyond arguing at this point. There would be no getting out of this, Shouta cares too much about you to let you get away with this. You hand over the brush and he places it on the arm of the couch, and then you fold yourself over his lap obediently. Without another word he folds your shirt up to expose the entirety of your backside, and places his hand on it, making you squirm with dread.

“Safeword?”

“Red” you whimper, accepting your fate.

He doesn't hesitate any longer, steadily applying his hand to your ass with all the restrained muscle of a pro hero, just hard enough to make sure you know exactly where you belong. The first few swats land on your bare ass, and you already want to start crying. And then he starts talking.

“Let's go through each unfortunate choice you made yesterday, shall we?” he says, and you try not to tense up at his disappointed tone.

“First, you disobeyed me when I specifically told you to stay in bed while you weren't feeling well, and second, you lied to me and said that you would be home for the night. Third, you disregarded yourself and your health, which we will be going into great detail about with the hairbrush.”

As he laid out your actions, your ass got steadily reddened, and the tears started falling against your will. You fisted the fabric of the couch and willed yourself not to squirm, knowing it would only make things worse for you.

Shouta’s voice was calm but carried the weight of unshakable authority, each word landing like a stone in your chest. “Do you think I asked you to stay home for no reason? That I ask you to listen to me for my own amusement?”

Your stomach churned at his tone, the disappointment in his voice far worse than any raised voice could have been.

“You trust me to know what’s best for you, and in turn, I trust you to be honest with me. I specifically told you to stay home, to rest and recover. Instead, I get a text from Hizashi that you’re out, you’re drinking, and completely ignoring what I asked of you. What if he hadn’t messaged me? What if I had come home to an empty house, no idea where you were, and no way to ensure you were safe?”

The image his words painted made your chest tighten with guilt. You could hear the strain in his voice, the quiet upset that cut deeper than anger ever could. You knew how much this dynamic meant to him—not just as a way to care for you, but as a source of reassurance in a life that was chaotic and dangerous. Being a pro-hero came with enough unpredictability; this was one area of his life he could keep steady.

Even with that realization weighing heavy on your chest, you couldn’t help it. Against your better judgment, a pouty response escaped your lips, soft and stubborn, laced with defiance that you immediately regretted.

“I was gonna be home before you got back—” The sharp crack of his hand meeting your thigh cut off your words with a yelp, the sting blooming as tears welled in your eyes. His hand rested firmly on the offended area, grounding you.

“That is not the point and you know it. You dont get to have a bratty attitude with me about this, or the hairbrush is going to be followed by a long time out in the corner for you to fix it. Am. I. Clear.”

“Yes- ‘m sorry, I'm sorry sir.” you cry, your face soaked and dripping onto the cushion.

“Hm. As I was saying, this will not be happening again. You misbehave, you get consequences. For the next two weeks, you will be in this house and in our bed by 9 p.m. sharp. If I’m not home, I expect a picture of you in bed, and then you will put your phone in my bedside table.”

The shame of his words was almost as unbearable as the sting still radiating from your thighs. You sobbed into the couch, mortified at the level of supervision he felt you required. “Yes, Daddy,” you whimpered, your voice hoarse.

“I am not playing about this,” he pressed on, his gaze unyielding. “If I find out you’ve stepped foot out of this apartment, you had better have a damn good reason—or you’ll find yourself right back here, no excuses. If you can’t take care of yourself on your own, I will do it for you.”

You nodded again, your sobs turning into shaky, uneven breaths. The shame was overwhelming, and yet you knew he wasn’t done.

As the spanks land, the force behind them pulls a sharp gasp from you, and each strike feels like a wave of guilt crashing over you. His words pierce through the haze of pain. "I think this way you might begin to understand how serious your actions are. His disappointment lingers in your chest, making it harder to breathe.

The spanks stopped for a moment, and you gasped, your body trembling as you tried to catch your breath. Shouta’s hands, firm and unyielding just moments ago, softened as they rubbed soothing circles on your spine. His voice, low and steady, cut through the haze of your tears.

“Breathe, baby. Take a few deep breaths,” he murmured, his tone no longer sharp but filled with an unyielding care that made your chest ache.

You hiccupped, following his instruction as you sucked in shaky gulps of air. The relief of his touch warred with the knowledge that this reprieve was temporary. Your breath finally evened out, and your tears slowed, but they didn’t stop.

“Good girl,” he said quietly, though there was no warmth in his praise—just a steady, measured approval for doing as you were told. His hand drifted to your shoulder, squeezing gently before he continued.

“Now,” he began, his tone sharp once more, “let’s discuss the way you’ve been treating your health.”

Your stomach churned, and your heart thudded as the words landed. His hand left your shoulder, and you braced yourself for what was to come, dread building with every passing second.

The hairbrush came down with a crack, the sound cutting through the room and drawing a pained cry from your lips. Shouta didn’t bother to shush you; the punishment was meant to leave a lasting impression, and he doesn't want you to hide where you are at emotionally. The strikes weren’t as rapid as the earlier flurry of his hands, but each one was deliberate, the wide, heavy impact sinking deep into your already tender skin.

You sobbed with each blow, your cries punctuating the rhythm he set.

“I will never, ever stand for you treating yourself the way you chose to last night.” His voice was calm, but the sharpness in his tone felt like another lash, hitting somewhere deeper than just your body. “You were sick- you are sick- and the fact that you thought you could just disregard that to go party makes me think you don’t understand how seriously I take your wellbeing. Not to mention how seriously I expect you to take it yourself.”

The hairbrush came down again, and you twisted slightly, though his firm grip kept you in place. The dull thud seemed to echo in your chest, a physical reminder of just how much you had messed up.

“Every part of you is important, mind and body,” he continued, the cadence of his strikes steady and unrelenting. “One of our biggest rules is that you don’t disrespect yourself, and you know very well I don’t just mean self-deprecating words. I expect you to take the same care for yourself when I’m gone that I do when I’m here.”

The words hit harder than the brush, and your quiet whimper turned into a full sob. His disappointment was unbearable, an ache in your chest that far outweighed the sting of your reddened skin.

“Clearly, you can’t be trusted to do so on your own,” he said, pausing for a moment to let his words sink in.

The tears streaking down your face weren’t just from the physical pain; they came from the overwhelming guilt of letting him down. You knew how much he valued self-care, and how hard he worked to instill that same value in you, even when he struggled to prioritize it for himself.

You sniffled, hiccuping through your tears, and a treacherous thought flitted through your mind. Hypocrite. He barely looked after himself most days. Your attitude almost made itself known again before the next blow snapped you out of your thoughts, and you yelped, realizing too late that the silence had stretched on too long.

“Every day until you are one-hundred percent better,” he said, his tone unyielding, “you’re going to sit at that table and write me fifty lines, telling me exactly how well you’re going to take care of yourself in the future.”

You let out a soft wail of protest at the thought, but he ignored it, leaning in to speak into your ear.

“And trust me, little girl, you do not want to have this discussion again.”

And then, as suddenly as it began, it was over. The punishing rhythm of the hairbrush ceased, and the room settled into a heavy, tear-soaked silence. Your sobs, however, remained steady, shaking your body as it lay slumped over his lap.

Shouta’s hands shifted, their movements no longer firm and corrective but gentle, smoothing up and down your back and thighs. He didn’t rush you, letting you cry as long as you needed, his presence grounding you even as your emotions spilled over.

When your cries softened to hiccups, he gently helped you upright, maneuvering you so you were straddling his lap. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck as you buried your tear-streaked face into his shirt, soaking the fabric with every breathy sob. He didn’t mind; his arms held you just as tightly, encasing you in a protective warmth.

“Okay, kid,” he murmured, his lips brushing the crown of your head as he swayed you gently. “Alright, you’re okay now. I love you so much, baby.”

His voice was soft, full of love and patience, and it was that tenderness that finally cracked the dam inside you. The moment you had enough air in your lungs, you blurted out in a desperate rush:

“I’m so sorry, Daddy! I’m sorry I fucked up—I didn’t mean to! I just—I wanted—I’m just so, so sorry,” you wailed, clinging to him like a lifeline. The words poured out of you like water from a broken dam, each one carrying the weight of your regret. You weren’t just apologizing for the mistake, you were apologizing for letting him down, for making him feel like his care wasn’t enough to anchor you. The thought of betraying the trust he put in you made the tears fall faster.

“Oh, baby,” he said, his voice thick with emotion as he hugged you even closer. “Okay, okay. I know. Thank you, babygirl, I know you are. You’re forgiven now, okay? You did so good for me, you’re all forgiven.”

His words were a balm to your guilt, soothing and grounding you as you took shuddering breaths, gradually winding down. Your sobs quieted into occasional hiccups, and he gently tilted you back to examine your tear-streaked face. Shouta’s soft smile held no trace of the earlier sternness. He reached over, plucking a tissue from the side table, and methodically wiped away your tears, along with the snot and drool that added to your humiliation. He discarded the tissue without a second thought, his focus entirely on you.

“Let’s go take a bath, baby, clear up your sinuses,” he murmured, his voice warm and soothing. He hoisted you into his arms with ease and carried you to the bathroom, grabbing two towels along the way. Setting them on the counter, he gingerly placed you atop them, your seated position making you just a little taller than him. He stood between your legs, his hands resting gently on your thighs, and studied your face with concern.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice earnest and patient.

You took a moment to check in with yourself, cataloging the aches in your body, the tenderness in your emotions, and the lingering sting of your punishment. Eventually, you nodded and murmured, “Yeah, ‘m okay. I’m just really sorry.”

His brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of sadness crossing his features. Leaning up, he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “I know, sweetheart. I believe you.”

He didn’t push for more, understanding how fragile you felt. Instead, he gave you space, letting you sit quietly while he started filling the tub. The sound of water rushing against porcelain filled the room, and he quickly stripped down before helping you out of your oversized shirt. His movements were efficient but tender as if he were afraid to overwhelm you.

Once the tub was full, he climbed in first and extended a hand to guide you in, settling you between his legs with your back pressed firmly to his chest. The warm water enveloped you, and his arms encircled your middle, holding you close.

“There we go, my good girl,” he murmured into your hair, his breath warm against your temple. The praise made you shiver, the tension in your body melting away as you nestled further into his embrace.

“Always my good girl, no matter what,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “I love you so much.”

His words wrapped around you like the heat of the water, comforting and secure, and you let yourself relax completely. This was where you belonged—wrapped in his love and care, forgiven and cherished.

#aizawa thirst #aizawa/reader #aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x reader #daddy k!nk #daddy issues

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ladymercysletters · 2 days ago

Text

Higher - Prologue #1: an Aemond Targaryen Series

Synopsis: Y/N Targaryen is the daughter of Rhaenerya Targaryen. Her parentage is disputed though unlike her younger brothers hers is not certain. Whilst they all share the same dark curls of Harwin Strong; Y/N shares her mother’s platinum with a dark streak running the underside of it. There are some, like Queen Alicent, who take this as a sign that her true father is obviously also Harwin Strong – Rhaenerya just getting extremely lucky that most of your hair was white. Others, including you mother, point out Laenors mothers, Rhaenys Velaryons, dark Baratheon hair, and that it obviously comes from there. But wherever your true blood lies you’ve always felt more dragon than anything else.

Word Count: 2,298

Rating (per chapter): none

A/N: Prologue is set when Aemond and reader are young. As I can neither remember, nor care to double check, I'm saying they're around 14 ish. If some of the timelines don't quite match up, does it really matter.

You had no idea where your mother was. Somewhere in the castle most likely; and your father? Which one? By right or rule of birth your father Laenor was nowhere to be found. You could hazard a guess that he was with his Lannister knight. They seemed good friends and you often saw them together. By blood or a guess Harwin Strong of the Kings Guard was teaching your brothers to defend themselves from their uncles, Aegon and Aemond in the training yard; and Daemon, you didn’t have the faintest idea. You rarely saw him and hadn’t seen him since his arrival with his family that morning.

Sitting in a stone alcove overlooking the training yard you pondered your newest sibling. Your mother was due to give birth in but a few days if she held on, and you truly hoped this one would be a girl. Not that you didn’t love your brothers, but boys could be so mean. You looked out of the window and saw how Aegon was mean to his brother Aemond, and goaded your own brothers to join in.

It wasn’t long since being here that you barely recognised them as they picked and taunted your youngest uncle like crows. Helaena had so much more of a sweet temper, and she truly felt like a sister to you when she was there, but she was barely ever there; in the room, on the same plain of existence as anyone else.

Harwin never made his favouritism more obvious than when they were sparing. Even the lightest blow and he was pushing the two Targaryen princes from Jace and Lucerys and berating them. He was even protective of you on occasion but never as much as the boys; just about everything involving you was in half measures compared to your brothers.

You wandered down to the training yard, sick of being by yourself. You almost made it there before Aemond came running down the corridor at you, pushing past just to duck into a room and lock the bolt with a thud. You spun back around to see the main of Aegon’s wavy hair glowing around his head from the light behind him.

“What have you done this time!” you barked, squaring up to your eldest uncle despite your difference in height. Your brothers were behind him, giggling to themselves like a pack of hyenas.

“Just a laugh, niece. Nothing more than a joke. Only some are not yet man enough to take it.” He finished with a shout down the corridor. They all moved past you, bowling down the dimly lit tunnel to the Keep, they obviously didn’t see where he went. As soon as you knew they were out of sight you walked slowly over to the locked door and tapped.

“Aemond. Its me.” You called quietly through the cracks. “They’ve gone. Can you let me in?” You could hear his sniffs get closer as the door unbolted; cracking open just an inch so you could squeeze through. Pulling your gilded blue dress through the small frame you were met with your uncles red nose and pinked cheeks. “Oh Aemond” you began before he cut you off.

“I’m fine. Its fine.” He started, turning to walk back into the room, facing away from you. Even from your short glace you could see both of his eyes were bloodshot. You pulled your small handkerchief from your sleeve and draped it over his shoulder. This caught his attention, and he turned to find you not so subtly looking up at the ceiling and the tall beams that held it up, just so he was sure you couldn’t see his tears fall.

You sat in silence for a while. You often did, both of you finding it comforting just the two of you, not saying anything; but no one needed to. Eventually you both found yourselves sitting intertwined on the small bench at the end of the room. Your legs were placed over his, his head on your shoulder and yours resting over his; both your hands played with the others.

“I heard mother the other day.” Aemond started. “She was begging father not to betroth Helaena to Aegon. He says it is a good match to keep our blood pure.” His voice was small, and you could almost hear a question in it.

“Poor Helaena” was all you could mutter. And poor her you felt. You were both almost of age and you knew your mother and father had already discussed your future, to some extent at least. “Poor Aegon as well”

“Why poor Aegon?”

“Well, I don’t suppose he wants to marry Helaena any more than she would him.” stroking the back of Aemond’s hand. He huffed but accepted your answer. He sat up a bit and you switched with him, resting your head on his shoulder.

Aemond looked down at you. His hand reached around and fondled with your hair, the silver strands rolled back in small braids from your face, he felt around until he found the little patch of dark hair. He liked to play with that bit the most; perhaps it was because that was what they always teased you about, how even if they were bastards at least they knew who their father was, whereas you could be anybody’s! It wasn’t usually your brothers saying that, just Aegon. But he knew how to spin it to make them laugh at you as well.

Aemond sighed to himself as you relaxed against him. You’d been in the glorified cupboard a while now and he was sure they’d forgotten their search for him and moved on, but he didn’t want to move; not when he could hear you talking about something he feels he really should be paying attention to.

“… from the Reach, and the Riverlands, but she says I don’t have to think about my betrothal until I’m at least seven and ten years old. She says grandsire made her tour at fifteen and she hated it!”

“Betrothal?” Aemond blurted, sitting bolt upright and nearly knocking Y/N from her resting place “to whom?” he cried.

“Well, no-one yet. That’s the point.” You looked up at him and smiled. Aemond’s insides clenched when you did.

“Well don’t.” he said, matter-of-factly. To be honest he didn’t know what else to say. He was suddenly hit with the thought that you wouldn’t always be with him, around him, and he couldn’t stand it. Tears welled up suddenly in his eyes and he pulled out your hanky again to stop the tears.

You reached up to pull his hand from his face, tutting lightly as you saw his watery eyes. Taking the hanky from his hands you gripped them as you dabbed at his eyes.

“Okay” you murmured, pressing a small kiss to his cheek. Aemond’s eyes widened at your action, his face flushing. You settled back against him in another comfortable silence, this time with a strange sort of certainty in your future.

A week later and you were still in Kings Landing. Not that you minded, but your mother had still not birthed and the maesters were beginning to get worried. Your father/s were more present, you noted, each one also becoming slightly more concerned at the late hour of this pregnancy.

You were sat with Helaena and the Queen, embroidering a handkerchief with a small silver dragon when Aegon came bowling in, followed by Lucerys.

“Mother! Ladies” he bowed comically. The Queen rolled her eyes but said nothing, drawing her attention back to her tapestry. “What do we have here then niece.” He said, lying sloppily next to you, grabbing the soft cotton from your hands.

“Give it back Aegon.” You snapped quietly, reaching out for it.

“Ah ah ah” he tutted. “Don’t snatch niece.” That irked you more. He always called you niece to belittle you, despite you being closer in age than his own half-sister. The Queen looked over the two of you, watching as her eldest son loomed over you teasing. Becoming bored of her tapestry she set it down beside her and left, never one to entertain her children for too long.

Aegon looked over the work in his hand, the corners of his mouth turning down as he was impressed with the small delicate stitches and beading that caught the light. “Why not make it gold niece.” He said finally, throwing the cloth back in you lap as he stood. “to match my glorious Sunfyre.” He smirked down at you before sauntering out again.

“A green bead. A blue bead. A green bead. A blue bead.” You turned to see Helaena muttering softly into her work. She wasn’t beading; you thought. Just sewing golden thread into the wings of her beetles.

At dinner that evening your mother was absent again. You almost requested you meal to be brought to your room but the Queen had insisted you eat with your brothers and her children. Silently you all sat, heads staying down after your prayer. Then you heard a noise. A snorting. Grunt.

Aemond stiffened beside you. Your eyes flickered to watch him before darting over the table at your brothers, each of them giggling between themselves. You looked over to Aegon – he was smirking.

“Jacerys” you scolded quietly, glaring daggers at him to get him to stop.

“What. Sister I am not doing anything.” He smirked. The Queen interjected.

“Velaryons. I hear your mother is in her labours.” She breathed. Setting her cutlery down. “That is good news is it not. After so long I’m sure you will all be glad to greet your new sibling.”

“Very much so, your grace.” Your eldest brother said politely, turning to her.

“I’m sure you are all looking forward to going home.” You could tell by the way she sighed as she said it, she was just looking forward to you leaving. Aemond looked over to you as you caught his eye, both of you silently sad that you would be leaving again in the not-too-distant future. “Y/N” she broke once more, grabbing your attention “You will no doubt be keen to return home” she smiled rigidly.

“Why is that?” you asked slowly, stuttering over the words in confusion.

“Well, I’m sure when your mother is well recovered you will need to prepare for your coming out. My husband tells me he has already received ravens enquiring when you are to tour for a husband. I’m sure your mother will want to prepare you herself.” She said curtly.

“Oh. I suppose so.” You said meekly. You knew your mother had received ravens, but to hear your grand-sire had also been in receipt of them made you fear he would use you as a bartering tool.

“I wouldn’t worry niece.” Aegon broke the silence, sensing your nervousness. Everyone looked up to him, surprised at his concern. “If you do manage to receive a decent proposal, the poor sod will have to first work out which father to ask! Ha!” he slapped his knee in jest at his fine joke.

“Aegon!” the Queen snapped. Aemond stood bolt upright next to you, knife gripped in his hand by his side as he stared down at his brother. Aegon laughed

“What are you going to do with that brother?” he questioned laughing. “Carve me up and eat me?”

“Show some respect brother.” Aemond muttered through gritted teeth. His eyes rolling over your brothers sat next to his own; dismayed that neither of them stood to defend you. Aegon scoffed but said nothing; kicking his feet from the ground as he stood, bidding his mother goodnight as he left.

You placed a small hand on Aemond’s wrist that held the knife. He seated himself back down next to you, placing the knife on the table as he whispered a small apology to you.

“There is nothing to be sorry for. Thank you.” You whispered back, hand not leaving his. You suddenly felt the Queens eyes boring into you and moved your hand swiftly from her son.

You wept quietly as you packed your trunk. Your mother had birthed your newest brother a week ago. Another brown-haired boy: and now you were set to leave again for Driftmark. You had sent the maids away, content to pack your belongings yourself in silence. Folding up some of your stockings you pushed them down into the corner of the trunk, sniffing deeply.

A low rumbling took your attention from the ground and you looked over your shoulder to the bookshelf in the corner of your room moving across the floor.

“Aemond!” you gasped, seeing your uncle emerge from the secret passageway. You ran across the room to embrace him. Since your departure had been announced you had not seen much of him; his mother keeping him away any time you asked after him – insisting that he was in his studies and must not be disturbed. His arms wrapped around your waist, and he buried his head in your neck, breathing in deeply.

“Y/N. You are leaving today?” he muttered

“Yes. Shortly. I just need to finish packing.” You drew back from him but did not release your arms.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to leave either.” You sniffed. Fresh tears willing in your eyes. “I hate boats.” you laughed, trying to lighten the mood.

“I brought you a book. For the journey.” You took the small book he produced from his back pocket and looked it over. As you turned it a small letter fell from between the pages. Aemond gasped and swiftly scooped it from the floor, pushing it back between the pages. “Don’t look at that until you have left. Promise.” He said blushing.

“promise.” You smiled.

#my writing #aemond targaryen #hotd #hotd imagin #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen series #higher

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