#but the prompt was too good to pass up and i finally got the chance to finish this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

marthawrites · 10 months ago

Note

could you write smut for Aemond like prompts 1, 15, 11, 52, 49, 25, 13, and 26? They are all so good 🥹 Reader could be his betrothed (Targaryen would be perfect but if you aren't comfortable then Stark is great) and Aemond didn't want to wait until the wedding

Hello dear nonnie! You requested this back in September - I apologize for making you wait so long for this story. If you're still around I hope it's what you want, and that you enjoy this rendition of Aemond and his (fanon) niece!

Shadows, Beastsong, and Dragonblood

Aemond Targaryen x niece reader

Word count: 7.6k+ (whoops)

About: Growing up you and your uncle Aemond always shared a special kinship. As you grew older, tension between your family and his rose. Moving to Dragonstone led to long years of not seeing each other. When you and your mother visited her father, King Viserys, yours and Aemond's relationship changed. It changed further, years later, upon your final visit to the capitol.

Includes: Fluff, angst, tension, and smut. Featuring incest (uncle x niece), mentions of Aemond's virginity loss at the brothel, mentions of minors sexually experimenting, male receiving oral sex, vaginal fingering, adult reader's virginity loss, and unprotected vaginal sex.

Note: Hello lovely reader! This story follows canon events. HERE is the prompt list used. Reader is technically a Velaryon!Strong bastard who personally identifies as a Targaryen because she looks just like her mother, Rhaenyra. Reader is implied to have pale skin, silver hair, and purple eyes - everything else is entirely up to you. Rhaenys has her canon black hair in this fic. I heavily debated about breaking this into three parts but decided to keep it as a single story. This fic has many firsts for me and it's different than those I've written in the past. It took a lot of effort and I hope you enjoy it!

The years following Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon’s marriage bared fruit after fruit. It wasn't long long after Jacaerys’ birth that Rhaenyra began to show signs of another pregnancy. A woman’s body goes through tremendous changes during, for, and after childbirth, and sometimes her moon cycle can take half a year to return to normal. The princess’ first moon’s blood after his birth hadn’t the chance to appear before the maester’s deemed her pregnant for a second time.

Another boy, Laenor hoped, to help strengthen the Velaryon line. A healthy babe, Rhaenyra hoped, to love and grow.

Their second child was pinker and paler than Jace upon entering the world. Unlike your brother who had a fine covering of dark hair over his head, yours was so pale it looked akin to winter’s first snow upon your head. A tiny, sweet, healthy baby girl who would grow into the very image of your mother.

And, again, after you came into the world, Rhaenyra showed signs of pregnancy soon after. Laenor got what he hoped for with their third child: another boy, Lucerys, with a splattering of dark hair over his head, too.

Another three years would pass before your little brother, Joffrey, was born. Dark of hair and dark of eyes just like his two older brothers.

As you all grew, none of your brothers showed any signs of Targaryen or Velaryon features. They all had rich brown eyes, dark curly hair, and were quicker to tan than you. Whereas you were a copy of your mother. A true Targaryen beauty: silver hair, pale skin, and eyes the color of amethyst. If Rhaenrya was the Realm’s Delight, then you were the Charm of the Realm. The only thing you lacked as a Targaryen was a dragon. Disappointingly, the egg that was placed in your crib never hatched. The older you grew, and the more you learned of the world, the more you hoped to have a dragon of your very own one day. Rides on Syrax with your mother–thrilling as they were–left you sad. You wanted to be in charge of the reins. You wanted to speak and command a dragon. You wanted the power of your Targaryen ancestors; a conqueror like Queen Visenya or Queen Rhaenys.

You and your brothers grew alongside your uncles, Aegon and Aemond, and your aunt, Helaena, in King’s Landing. As young children you all, for the most part, got along well. You and your uncle Aemond shared one profound thing together: neither of you had a dragon. It was a topic of extreme sensitivity for him. And because of this, sadness, anger, and even embarrassment hung around him from a young age. You wouldn’t lie and say you didn’t carry those emotions in your heart, too, because you did, but Aemond’s was heavier. Suffocating.

Shameful.

When everyone else trained in the dragonpit you and Aemond were known to stay in the library together. You bonded quickly through tales of your shared ancestry, love of philosophy, and the histories. Much to Aemond's annoyance, your penmanship surpassed his own. When you told your mother you wanted to be a scribe when you grew older she laughed. “Princesses aren't scribes. You will do much more wondrous things than live your life by the quill.”

You nodded, ever sweet to your mother, and still practiced your writing. Your septa and parents praised you–and Aemond scowled in your retellings. It made you giggle. It was harmless and the extra attention (however negative it seemed to be) from your uncle who was barely older than you made your heart soar; emotions you couldn’t quite name soared too.

He surpassed you in everything physical. If it happened in the training yard, he had you beat by a league.

You surpassed him in subtlety. At first, you were the one who snuck up on him. You were the one who showed him secret passageways in the Red Keep, as well as hidden nooks and crannies that had surely been forgotten.

It didn’t take Aemond long to exceed your skill, however.

Time went on and life continued. With each passing year the innocence of childhood melted like candlewax. You all stopped playing as often until play happened no longer. When once there were shared sweets, games of tag, and exaggerated stories of ‘grand adventures’ to the stables, now there was gossip. Whispered words, sniggers behind hands, and an air of aloofness that had never been there before took over.

“Why do you and your family treat me and my brothers like this now, uncle?” You asked Aemond with flushed cheeks and eyes filled with unshed tears. Whether it were anger or hurt he could not tell. Your heart couldn't, either.

“They look nothing of their father. Or my sister,” he answered plainly with an edge of something you couldn't quite decipher.

“And what of our cousin Rhaenys? Hm? The Baratheon blood runs strong in her for she is black of hair. No different than my brothers!”

“‘Tis different,” Aemond answered curtly, still refraining from speaking bluntly to you about what his mother gossiped about.

“It's not!” You proclaimed.

Not long after that confrontation did Laena Velaryon suffer an unfortunate death. Her funeral was memorialized in King's Landing with the closest of her kin. And, as the God's would have it, it was that fateful night Aemond gained a dragon–Vhagar, the largest and oldest in the world–in exchange for his eye.

A small price to pay for the way the young prince would bloom beneath her wings.

Rhaenyra’s family, as well as Alicent’s family, were all summoned by King Viserys to make sense of what happened to Aemond and why it happened. Tension swelled and crackled through the collected room like living storm clouds. You stood quietly behind your mother, purple eyes wide and scared as you surveyed the chaos. Even as all the kids yelled over one another trying to make their side of the story heard, you didn’t utter a peep. How desperately you wanted to ask Aemond himself what happened. How terribly you wanted to hold his hand through the pain of his slashed face being stitched up. How awfully you wanted to kiss him if only to let him know he could still feel something–to see if he could still feel something.

The King seemed to hold no love for his son as he asked him–ordered him–to tell the truth. You felt your heart breaking as you witnessed father and son hold a stare off that could alight the entire room aflame. Two dragons, one old and one young, challenging each other, daring each other, their teeth seconds away from rending into the other.

The following moments were a blur and you didn’t realize what was happening until Alicent ran to your mother with her husband’s dagger clenched in her hand. You screamed and were pulled away in time to not get pushed or stumbled over. Blood spilled and the tension broke in a devastating clash of emotions. Emotions you, as a child, couldn’t understand, not fully.

Kings Landing was no longer safe for your family.

During the following days, before departing for Dragonstone, you were able to sneak to Aemond a handful of times. He didn’t talk much. You never pressured him to. Often, it was only silence and your uncle’s soft sobs that filled the otherwise quietness of his bedchamber. It was at the peak of those times, those heart wrenchingly raw moments, that you would sing to him. Admittedly you were no singer–flat most of the time and awkwardly sharp at others–but neither of you cared. You weren’t even sure if the song you sang was proper in its pacing and pronunciations. It was a song you both deemed secret: learned from the pages of an Old Valyria history book, paced to your own tune, the ancient words were sung with all the wonder of adolescence.

Vhargar and Aemond’s bond had already been forged by grit, determination, and a kind of stupidity that only young boys held, and it grew by the day. You weren’t sure if Vhagar’s roars were louder while Aemond quietly sobbed into your comforting embrace, or while he was utterly silent. You wondered what brewed beneath the surface during those times. Part of you was afraid of what that silence might gestate. There were many tales of beasts being soothed by music, and so you sang and hoped your ancient song might keep his beast at bay.

“We’re leaving for Dragonstone at first light, uncle,” you said to him a little sadly. You hadn’t ever been away from Aemond. Would the libraries at Dragonstone offer the same respite as the ones here at King's Landing? Would you see hopeful glimpses of him from the corner of your eye only to realize it a play of your imagination?

While he acknowledged your words he didn’t say anything in reply.

“When do you think we’ll see each other again?” You asked softly, tentatively.

“Likely when we are grown and free to make our own decisions,” he answered, words flat.

It stung. It hurt. “Then I shall tame one of the wild dragons and fly to visit you.” Aemond’s single eye, that lovely hue so similar and so different to your own, glittered at you for the briefest second. So he can still feel things, you thought to yourself. The corner of his mouth twitched in tandem, and before you could stop yourself you learned forward and pressed the gentlest kiss to the outside of his mouth. You didn’t stay to catch his reaction for you turned on your heel and walked down the secret passage from whence you came; naught more than a whisper of silken skirts.

Such affection would be improper by Gods and men alike if you were born of a different bloodline. The Targaryens were closer to Gods than men, however, and so you did not have to play life by man’s traditions. The blood of the dragon runs thick, and your heart pulled to Aemond. A surge of energy rushed through you and you wanted nothing more than to kiss him properly. But when you turned to look over your shoulder, you only saw darkness. He was already gone.

II.

Dragonstone’s libraries were much different than the big library in the Red Keep. Over the following years, you finally, slowly, began to feel peace akin to what you and Aemond shared. Similar, but not quite.

Rhaenyra married her uncle Daemon and they had given you two more little brothers: Aegon and Viserys. Part of you missed life in King’s Landing with its bright sunshine, lavish gardens, and wide populace. Despite the grimness of Dragonstone, however, this place truly felt like home. An ancient seat of Targaryen glory, the the Targaryen's of old spared nothing while crafting this castle with arcane arts, dragonfire, and sorcery. The fabled magic of it sent your veins thrumming. If it weren’t for Aemond you might not ever want to go back to King’s Landing. Aegon’s garden was your favorite place in all of Dragonstone with its tall dark trees, wild roses, and thorny hedges. You wrote diary entries as well as letters there. You and Aemond wrote back and forth a few times over the years, but just like in childhood when games of chase were played no more, your letters, too, stopped. Still, the garden with its piney scent and tart cranberries remained your place of solace.

A letter from King Viserys arrived some time after you’d turned fifteen. Rhaenyra pulled you aside that same day, away from your brothers, and said, “father’s health is beginning to fail. I'm going to see him. Daemon said he will stay here while I visit on dragonback. Would you like to come with me? I’d love for you to. And I know Syrax would too,” she smiled hopefully, giving your forearm a gentle squeeze in annunciation.

You blinked, slightly taken back, before beaming a bright smile. “Of course, mother! I miss my grandfather and would love to see him.”

“I’ll send a raven. Perhaps he will have a belated nameday gift for you,” your mother answered with one of her playful expressions.

A return letter was indeed sent and over the next few days Rhaenyra and Daemon made plans for the upcoming week. It wouldn’t be a long stay but that didn’t stop excitement from crawling up your spine and settling in your belly. How would uncle Aemond be? It’d been so long since you two had seen each other! It'd even been a long time since you wrote to one another. Would he remember you as you remembered him? Would he even care to see you?

You donned your warmest wool and most comfortable leathers for the flight to King’s Landing. Gray clouds broke to open blue sky and the brisk salty air had you feeling like you were in charge of the flight. Syrax knew the way well and flew right where she knew to–the dragonpit.

There wasn’t a grand welcome for your arrival and yet somehow it felt more comfortable than being paraded around for hours on end and being forced to entertain a grandiose feast. Viserys–he did look ailing, much more than you last remembered–and Alicent welcomed Rhaenyra and yourself. Ser Criston Cole and Aemond stood with them.

He did want to see you!

“Father! I’m sorry we haven’t been back sooner. Daemon and I–”

Excited hugs were exchanged between the three of you, and the conversation droned out as pressure built behind your ears; dull ringing taking over as anxiety, excitement, and something else unnamed thrilled along your spine. Aemond, only a short time older than you, was no longer the boy you remembered. He’d grown tall and sharp. Any softness of childhood melted away during the last few years. Placed over his damaged left eye was a simple black leather eyepatch. It stood out starkly against his pale complexion–though, it matched the rest of his black leather attire. His slash healed well, you thought privately, but a gnarly scar remained. It looked painful.

Aemond peered at you looking at him; keen. Something simmered beneath his eye and you were reminded of singing to him all those years ago–how you’d hoped to soothe any beast that might be growing in the shadows. The corners of his bowed mouth quirked.

“Darling?” Your mother asked, her voice finally making sense in your head as she turned to regard you closer. “Are you feeling okay?”

With a quick flutter of blinks you looked up to her. “Sorry. Yes, I’m feeling alright. A bit tired from the flight is all. May I have a snack before supper?”

“Of course,” she replied with a reassuring squeeze of your hand.

Alicent smiled. You always thought her pretty. A part of you wondered how none of her children shared her brown eyes or auburn hair. “Check with the kitchen. I’m sure there’s breads and cheeses available at the very least. Wine, too, I imagine.” She looked between you and Aemond before adding, “let Aemond take you. He’s been quite excited to see you since Rhaenyra’s letter.”

“Uncle,” you breathed, surprised by your lack of breath upon saying his name. “I daresay I barely recognize you.”

“I could say the same, niece. It's been many years,” he said with an inclination of his head. “You are looking a little faint. Let’s find you some food, hm?” He asked.

At first, conversation proved to be sparse. Before, things had always been so easy with Aemond and silence had always been comfortable. Now, it didn’t feel easy nor did the silence feel comfortable. Anytime you looked up at him, or over to him, he was already looking at you. His attention barely seemed to wander elsewhere. You ate until you felt better while Aemond pretended to eat. Slowly, with effort on your part, conversation picked up. Before too long the air of awkwardness lifted and your shoulders relaxed.

Aemond seemed to notice, too.

Three days followed and each proved to be more eventful than the last. You’d met up with your aunt and uncle, Helaena and Aegon, and happily–even if Aegon's jests were more perverse than you ever remembered–caught up with them. They were married now. Though, you saw no sort of physical or emotional connection between them. You liked Helaena; you wondered, privately, if life was treating her well, and if she found any enjoyment within it. The faraway look in her eyes suggested not, but you remembered her always being a peculiar child. She didn’t always have both feet in this world, you realized, and you didn’t feel any sort of jealousy for her otherworldly gift. Did dreamers fall into a silent abyss while slumbering? Or did they even dream when they slept, resulting in a never ending barrage of sight and madness?

On the fourth day Aemond introduced you to Vhagar. Sympathy–or perhaps pity–shone in his eye when you told him you still hadn’t bonded with a dragon. “And here I remember you saying you would tame a wild dragon so you might fly across the sea to visit me?” He proclaimed with an arch of brow, snark and jest in equal measurements.

“It’s not quite so easy. I enjoy my skin and my hair. I have heard many tales of brave men trying to bond with those dragons only to end up as a pile of ash. Or forever scarred. Or–” you lowered your voice and tipped closer to him, adding with a whisper, “–lacking of limbs.” You tilted your chin, purple eyes glittering with playfulness; teasing, testing.

“Hm,” he stifled a laugh with a press of his lips. “Both of those are a marvel. It would very much be a shame to scathe the beauty of Old Valyria.”

Your heart jumped and you blushed. Surely he was only being kind, right?

He flew you on Vhargar until the spilled watercolors of sunset mottled into gray. Upon returning to the Red Keep, tucked away in one of your secret childhood places, Aemond dared to kiss your lips. Stunned and exhilarated alike, you returned the affection with fervor. He wasn’t your first kiss, but the things that sparked and webbed through your body were much more intense than any before. “Aemond…,” you whispered against his mouth. “We shouldn’t be doing this, uncle.”

“You can stop any time,” he rasped in reply, eye dark.

In a shuddered breath you admitted, “I don’t want to.”

“Me either.”

You kissed until voices and footsteps filled the nearby corridor. Hiding your giggles behind a hand, you slunk away in direction to your chamber leaving Aemond behind. You turned to see where he might be going. Already he’d turned on his heel and strode in the opposite way. He didn’t follow. That night–with a thundering pulse– you dreamt of wild roses, flying, and your hands on your uncle’s chest while he kissed your neck.

The following day was yours and your mother’s last day in the capitol. She intended to leave after lunch, and until then she let you do as you please. Requesting, of course, to be back in time to leave on time. With how much you missed the rest of your family you could only imagine how much she missed them!

“Come to Dragonstone with us. I don’t want to leave you so soon. I can show you all my favorite places at home. At the ancient seat of our family,” you added the last bit with bright eyes in hopes of seducing him away with you.

“My place is not there,” replied Aemond. “I am to stay here with my mother and siblings. ‘Tis my duty as second son.”

You knew, as second son, that Aemond would have to carve his own path with fire, blood, and teeth–heavy emphasis on the latter, most likely.

“Daemon can train you. Our castle yard has an impressive training pit. It’s different from the one here. Everything is different there. There’s some nights when the magic in the walls makes my blood sing. There is no magic like that left here,” you tried to coax him further, stepping close so you had to look up at him with soft eyes. Eager eyes.

Instead of accepting or denying your request he leaned down and kissed you like he did yesterday. And just like yesterday you warmly accepted the affection. The blood of the dragon runs thick, and dragonblood runs hot. Despite your relation, and despite yourself, you found yourself wanting. Needing. He was too. You could tell by the tightness of his pants. Two young dragons hidden away amongst sparse candlelight in a secret passage perhaps only Maegor the Cruel knew of. “I’ve always wanted to try something. Will… will you let me?”

He pulled back to peer at you curiously. “What is it?”

Slowly, running on an instinct that any wanton young woman harbored, you sank down onto your knees before him. “You can tell me to stop at any time. Okay?”

Aemond wasn’t an idiot. He nearly spent in his pants at the very sight of you lowering like that. Aegon had taken him to a brothel on the Street of Silk for his thirteenth nameday, and he lost the last innocence of boyhood within those perfumed walls; a secret not many knew. And, perhaps less knew how much he despised it–how it disgusted him. The thought still made his stomach turn.

But you? His beautiful, perfect niece, with your epitome of Targaryen beauty?

He never asked you to stop as you sated your curiosity. The rush of sensation that blazed through his body was more intense than anything he’d yet experienced. At the peak of his pleasure he swore he blacked out.

He returned the gift as best as he could with his fingers.

You barely made it back in time to your mother to fly back home. You sincerely hoped she didn’t ask any questions about where you were or why you were running late.

III.

As the Gods would have it, it would be another few years before Rhaenyra and her family were summoned to King’s Landing for, perhaps, an even more dire situation than the first: the legitimacy of Lucerys’ claim to Driftmark and its throne. It was a matter already settled many years ago by none other than King Viserys. Yet, still, conflict stirred with Vaemond Velaryon and his proclamation.

A never ending political headache for the King who’s health was in such despair it was a miracle he lived to see each new morning.

Similar to when you and your mother arrived three years prior, there wasn’t a grand welcome awaiting your family. In fact there was… nothing. Tension sparked to new heights and you wanted nothing more than to crawl into yourself and disappear. While not entirely disappearing, you and your brothers made way to the private guest bedchambers; Rhaenyra made sure to have rooms arranged for all of you prior to arriving. Before leaving, she told all of you that she would summon you later once things were settled. Or supper. Whichever came first.

Truthfully you had no plans to eat with everyone. Uncaring of any potential consequence it might bring you loosened your hair, stripped down to your shift, and plopped in bed so heavily that a plume of dust rose from the sheets. If you were less exhausted–mentally and physically–you’d be repulsed by the dust. Right now? You cared little.

Slumber washed over you like the waves you were so used to at home.

You didn’t wake until hours later when a servant rapped over and over upon your door. “My lady? Hello?”

Coughing and turning to face the doorway, you asked, “what is it?”

A young girl stepped inside and bowed. “Your mother has summoned you for dinner.”

“Bring me a plate, please. I have no wish to eat with a crowd tonight.”

She twisted her hands a few times as if in disapproval but said nothing. Instead, she simply nodded, bowed again, and left with a click of the door.

That night you ate alone and silently hoped Aemond would come find you. Surely he knew ways around the Keep that would lead him to you... But, he never did. After eating your fill you slept like the dead.

Sunrise gently woke you and gradually you began to prepare for the day. Once ready to get dressed, you were confused to see your dress on the floor instead of on the back of the chair you hung it over last night. Strange… you thought to yourself, scanning around the room for what might have caused it. A section of curtain fluttered with morning breeze and when you walked to inspect it you realized the window had been partially cracked. You laughed a short sound and rolled your eyes–how silly to be paranoid about the breeze. You couldn’t remember any strong gusts last night, but you did sleep very hard.

Fully around, now, you made your way to find breakfast. Eventually you did and broke fast with your brothers. For a few moments it felt like you were all children again. Talking, laughing, stealing bits of food off each other’s plates, it felt… good. Homey. Lighthearted in a way only they could make you feel. Once finished, they departed for the training yard and you went to explore the gardens. There might not be any wild roses here and the hedges might be considerably less thorny than those at Dragonstone, but that didn’t stop you from missing it.

Flowers, shrubs, and trees were in full beautiful display and their fragrances sent you right back to childhood. You lost track of how long you wandered. At least a full hour, surely. Likely more. It wasn’t until you heard your name spoken behind you that you snapped back to reality. Turning to look over your shoulder, you stuttered, excited and surprised, “Aemond!”

He stood taller and sharper than he did three years ago. He was a man grown, now, just like you were a woman grown. Gone were any traces of awkward lankiness. He was slim, yes, but judging by the width of his shoulders he had a strong back and arms. “Niece,” he replied. “Your brothers graced my training session earlier. As did Vaemond Velaryon and his entourage,” he paused to inspect a bit of dirt on his sleeve before folding his arms behind his back. “I thought perhaps your strong brothers might grow into their Velaryon features as they aged. But, alas, they haven’t.”

Prick.

Was he really going right for your throat? Immediately?

“Do you have so little faith in your sister’s lineage” You asked, hands folding behind your back, mirroring him, as you slowly closed the distance between yourselves with deliberate steps. “Myself and all my brothers were grown in the belly of a dragon. Birthed into this world by a dragon. Tell me, uncle, how is that any different than being seeded by a dragon?”

“It is not my sister’s lineage I lack faith in, dear niece, it’s the roots she climbs.”

Fury heated your face and for a moment you considered punching him in his stupid, sharp, beautiful nose. Or perhaps kneeing him in the root he no doubt made reference to. In the span of three heartbeats you settled for neither and instead gave him a disappointing quirk of mouth. “And here I was upset that you didn’t come to say hi to me last night.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I saw you plenty last night.” he said, tone making it seem like everyone watched you sup together even though you ate alone.

You squinted at him suspiciously. “Did you come find me to be rude, or was there another reason you graced my company?”

“We recently received a collection of books from Myr. Would you like to look at them with me?” Hopefulness briefly lit his features. Idly, you wondered what his deal was. He was an outright asshole only a moment ago, and now he offered to read with you like you did so often as children? The library always had been a place of solace for both of you. Mayhaps he was simply nervous today, on edge, and let the ugliness of anxiety guide his tongue. It would be quiet in the library–the perfect place to, perhaps, connect once again as adults.

You continued to look up at him, attempting to read his features, before replying, “sure. Only if we can have tea and scones too.”

It was his turn to squint at you suspiciously.

That made you laugh; tension began to ease around both of you. “I won’t get crumbs on the pages. Promise!”

And so, walking shoulder to shoulder, you both made way to the library. Tea and scones arrived shortly afterward. As soon as you began reading from different tomes conversation began to flow more freely. Nerves might be flying wild everywhere else in the Red Keep, but here? Safely within these walls? You relaxed. Aemond relaxed. There were no more subtle jabs at bastardry, nor Driftmark, nor anything else. Every now and then you’d laugh and Aemond would smile. Other times it was perfectly silent. When you thought him engrossed by something he read, you eyed him carefully through your peripheral vision–and sometimes with your full vision–trying to keep rising sensations at bay. Despite his sharp tongue and rude quips, he was horribly handsome. You thought he was the last time you were here, too, and now those same feelings intensified to new heights. You caught him doing the same to you. Though, he didn’t coyly turn away when caught. Tension of a different sort heated the air around both of you.

Hot-blooded.

Dragonblood.

You ate supper with your mother that night. She and Daemon discussed things from earlier in the day but you paid it little mind–yours was still on Aemond.

After supper you had a quiet night in your bedchamber. You requested a bath, and it didn’t take the servants long to prepare it for you. Soaking in the hot water was exactly what you needed–complete with your favorite oils generously added to the water until sweet florals and subtly spicy scents lingered around you. By the time you were done your fingers and toes were wrinkly and the water was tepid at best. Sitting in front of the vanity, you dried and braided your silver hair for bed. The day’s events–Aemond–proved to be mentally exhausting. Conflicting emotions warred in your mind as you laid in bed and started up at the neat lace underlay of the four poster bed’s silken drapes.

A noise at your door startled you from whatever daydream danced in your head. How was it opening? You triple checked the lock! Who was coming inside? Frozen and wide eyed, you couldn’t move from your spot upon the bed as someone silently intruded. As the figure stepped out of the shadowy frame you took note of their height, body shape, and silver hair… “Aemond!?” You asked shrilly. “Seven Hells what on earth are you doing?”

“Coming to pay a proper visit to my little niece, of course,” he answered with quiet amusement. Standing at the side of your bed, now, he tilted his head and continued, “I requested a specific guard for this duty tonight so I could slip past him.”

You looked up at him as he looked down at you, regarding you closely. Something shone behind his eye and you couldn’t quite put a finger on it. A rush of emotion rose and settled in the pit of your belly as Aemond gently dragged his thumb across your lower lip. Down the curve of your chin. You swallowed thickly. “You could have just as easily knocked like any regular person would, uncle,” you said.

“What's the fun in that?”

Silence followed as you both took each other in, that unknown expression behind his eye becoming more clear. Lust.

Did your own gaze mirror it too? The sound of your blood filled your ears.

“Do you remember the last time you were here? When we were in that passageway all alone?” He asked, tracing the backs of his fingers along your pretty face.

Of course you did. You smiled–coy–and tipped your head into his touch. “Quite well.”

A soft satisfied hum accented the curve of his mouth. “Good.” His fingers pressed against the underside of your chin as he tilted your face up to him, embers sparking through the eye contact. “I've searched for that type of release again and again and have yet to find it,” he said; desperation and intensity so evident you knew he meant it.

Shivers took over your entire body and your spine arched forward, curving as if to seek the sensation of his body against yours. “You have?” You asked between parted lips.

“I have.”

A hot rush of excitement overcame you and before you knew it both of your hands pulled on the buckles of his tunic, pulling him down to you. You kissed him fiercely and he returned it with ferocity. There wasn't anything tentative about it; lips, tongue, teeth, all meshing until you whimpered into his mouth.

Aemond pushed you back on the bed and fell atop you, one arm holding him up for support, as his silken hair draped along his face. He was so warm, and felt so good over you, that you moaned into his kiss again; he swallowed it whole.

You whined, voice raspy and sweet alike, as you tugged on the front of his belt, “again. I want to do it again,”

“Look at you, so needy for my cock,” he rumbled against your neck, kissing and nipping along the sensitive flesh. He grinned warmly into the crook there and you giggled.

Pushing yourself up on your elbows you turned your body so you could push him onto his back. The startle of his angular lovely face was more than enough reward. With the new position you could feel how hard he was inside his pants, and you wondered if he could feel your heat through the thin material of your smallclothes. You slid down the front of his body until you knelt delicately on the floor. Looking up at him as innocently as you could, your hands ran up the lean length of his thighs while you nestled between them. “You left my window open last night,” you whispered at him as your fingers began to unlace the front of his bottoms.

A low, restrained sound came from Aemond at the combination of your touch and words. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he replied with cool indifference, supporting himself partially up with his elbows so he could watch you.

A knowing smile spread on your pretty lips as you answered, “you're a bad liar, uncle.” Kissing the flat plane of his abdomen, you tugged the front of his pants down until he was fully freed; hard, solid, and already blazing with heat. You moved those same kisses lower–placing them all around the base of his need until your nose tickled with his scent. His length twitched, the velvety smoothness of him bumping your face.

Above you, he hissed an inward breath, head tilting to the side. “Go on then, this cock isn't going to suck itself now is it?” He crooned, doing his best to appear in control even though his heart thumped wildly with anticipation and the clawing ache to be inside of you–any part of you–had him going mad.

If the slick between your thighs wasn't already unbearable you'd have retorted his taunt. But, you wanted this nearly as much as him. Lifting one of your hands you gripped around his length, pumping slowly, as you rolled your tongue beneath his tip; tasting him, teasing him, coating that part of him with saliva so you could more easily take him into your mouth.

Aemond could have lost it there–would have lost it if he hadn't already fucked his hand to release prior to visiting you. “Did I tell you you could use your hands?” His eye glittered like dragonglass.

Without having to be told again you released your grip and instead held onto the tops of his thighs with both hands, the wholeness of your expression feline. You licked up each side of his cock, circling your tongue around his head, again and again, coating him to your satisfaction. And then, just when you saw Aemond's hips twitch and flex beneath you, you took him into the fullness of your mouth and consumed him.

He groaned, head tipping back. Countless times had he tried to recreate the pleasure you gave him first; no woman ever made him feel the same way and he hated them for it.

You bobbed, and sucked, and savored the hot solid length of him in your mouth. You dragged and worked your tongue against him, too, lost in the heady sensations of him. The quiet sounds he made coaxed you further and soon you became uncaring of the slobbery mess you were leaving on him. Relaxing your throat, you swallowed as much of his cock as you could. When you gagged at the intrusion you pulled your head up, only to do it again. And again. You moaned around him; wanton.

It was too much for Aemond. Somehow he grew even hotter, even harder, and soon one of his hands pushed your head down while his hips bucked up into your mouth. He panted. Peak was so close. Looking down at you, then, he saw how dazed and desperate you were as he fucked your mouth. The knot of pleasure at the base of his spine exploded and he groaned, guttural, as his balls tightened and cock released down your throat.

You about peaked with him. Breathing through your nose you did your best to take all of him, the hot pulses of his length making you clench around nothing.

“Swallow. All of it,” Aemond said down at you, slowly easing the pressure of his hand on your head.

Panting, you did. You showed him your empty mouth with pride. “Dragonseed is never to be wasted, uncle.”

If Aemond had anything intelligible to say it didn’t leave his mouth properly. Both his hands gripped around your upper arms and he yanked you up, maneuvering you atop the bed once more. Reaching to the open belt around his waist he unsheathed his dagger with a whisper of leather and steel. It glinted orange in the chamber’s lowlight. “My sweet, lecherous niece…,” he said darkly, sweetly, pinning you down to the bed as he loomed above you. “I know how to make you a true Targaryen, bastard,” he hissed the last word into the shell of your ear and reveled in the way he saw your throat tighten in defiance.

You tensed beneath him and he laughed.

“My favorite bastard,” he crooned, trailing his dagger up the front of your body. “I will make you my wife.”

Goosebumps pebbled your skin as he teased you, taunted you, thrilled you with the edge of his blade. He never drew blood. It only grazed your shift. “I already am a Targaryen,” you proclaimed, voice strong despite its softness.

“I’m going to ruin you tonight and you will let me. Mother will have us wed by the turn of the new moon.” He tilted his dagger just slight, just enough, and the delicate material of your shift stood no chance against it. He sliced it open to reveal the fullness of your lovely body; your shape, your form, your clean floral scent… all of it made his mind feral. “Marry me, niece.”

A hundred–no, a thousand–things ran through your mind all at once. You saw and felt him already fully hard once again, and the hot press of his cock against your flushed skin had you losing sanity. “I will,” you breathed, nodding. “I will marry you.”

Aemond tossed his dagger away to instead pull your smallclothes down your legs. “My darling betrothed,” he growled, shouldering off his tunic and undershirt as you lay completely bare beneath him. He didn’t even bother kicking his pants off the rest of the way before he moved between your spread thighs. “Let us promise our union now before any Gods that are watching.”

It was wrong. You knew it. And yet… Your heartbeat pounded in your ears and between your thighs. Madness. Surely this was madness. “We can’t,” you protested weakly.

He laughed another dark sound. “Targaryens are closer to Gods than men. We don’t follow the same rules as everyone else.” One of his hands moved over your breasts, sliding and squeezing over them with reverent affection. His other lowered between your legs and the tips of his fingers brushed over your budded pearl. He nearly snarled at the wetness he met there. He circled that bud. Slid over it. He worked your bundle of nerves, watching you all the while.

“A-Aemond!” You gasped, stuttering. Your nipples pebbled firmer as tension built in your belly, tightening in a way that only you were able to make happen. You needn’t any more convincing to give him your maidenhead. So wrong. But, with Aemond? So, so right. Your thighs spilled open wider for him; inviting him.

The rasp of his thighs pressed against the smooth undersides of your own and slowly, carefully, he lined himself up with your dripping entrance and began to press forward.

Your body yielded and the fullness of him was a sensation unlike anything you’d experienced before. His heat seared into you as he sunk, cautiously, through your opening and past your body’s unmarred barrier. It pinched and you winced, blushed face staring up at him with doe eyes.

Full.

You were so full.

You whimpered a little sound as Aemond’s jaw clenched and a groan rumbled deep in his chest. “You’re doing so well,” he mumbled, the intensity of his eye making you dizzy.

Finally, he was seated all the way inside you. With a heaving chest he held the position for a long moment, knowing you needed the time to adjust just as much as he did. He pulled back and eased back in, testing you. Testing himself. Fuck. He wasn’t going to last long. You were absolutely fucking perfect around him. You breathed his name again, gripping onto any part of his body that you could.

Aemond’s movements became a little more sure with each moment. It didn’t take much longer until he was taking you fully. The softness of your breasts rocked with the motion of his thrusts, your face loosening as pleasure began to take over any pain there might have been. His greedy eye raked down the front of your body so he could watch where you were joined. Each time he pulled out his cock glistened with your slick, and each plunge sent you gasping at the pressure. Never had he seen anything that made his cock, and gut, and chest ache with such need. “You look so pretty with my cock inside you,” he said lowly, barely able to make words.

“Feels good, Aem,” you simpered in reply.

His mouth crashed to yours in a heavy kiss, licking into your mouth so your tongues slid against one another. The soft sound of skin slapping on skin began to grow louder as both of you worked into and against each other’s thrusts. “I’m going to mark that pretty little neck so that everyone knows your mine,” he rasped against your skin as he kissed over your chin, your jaw, until he reached your neck. He nipped there, biting harshly, kissing over each bite mark to soothe any lingering sting. He did it over and over, sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth until he knew he’d leave a mark behind.

You trembled beneath him, squirming with pleasure, as he fucked into you at an angle and pace that had you soaring. The balance of pain and pleasure was more than anything you’d felt before and you were wholly at its mercy. You scratched his skin as you squeezed your fingers against his lean muscle, marking him as he marked you. “‘S too much,” you whined, breathless.

He only continued. Panting, he said, “I want to hear you scream my name when you come. Understood?”

You nodded, desperate. “Yes, yes yes yes..!”

His pace grew sloppy, frenzied, as his own high threatened to push him over the edge any second. “Give it to me,” he moaned, pleaded. “Come with me.” One of his hands squeezed over your breast again, pinching and tugging the nipple, while the fingers of the other worked your clit.

“Aemond!” You gasped thinly, covering your mouth just in time to muffle the scream that no doubt released with the intensity of your peak. Aemond’s mouth replaced your hand as climax took him, too, cock twitching as spurt after spurt of his seed filled the deepest parts of your body. You both rode it out together, senses buzzing and fuzzy, while the wonderful post-climax bliss sensations intoxicated you more than any wine.

He carefully slid out from your body and nearly grew fucking hard again as he saw the evidence of your maidenhood upon your clean bedsheets.

“You will be the loveliest bride,” he said, relishing the sight of you glowing from pleasure.

Pulling the top quilts back, you beckoned him in, asking, “stay awhile longer?”

He did.

You laid together, limp and blissful, and for the first time in over three years Aemond found himself fully sated.

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider a follow, and/or reblog, and/or letting me know as it all makes me vvvery happy! ��

To be added or removed from the taglist, hit me up!

Masterlist

Main Taglist: @watercolorskyy @melsunshine @girlwith-thepearlearring @arcielee @barbiedragon @aemondtarqaryens @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @schniiipsel

Aemond Taglist: @darylandbethfanforever9 @bellaisasleep @aemondsblog @khaleesihel @sirenofavalon @doublesparrows @aemonds-fire @nikstrange @abbyandizzysmum @aemonddtargaryen @lost-and-founds @castellomargot @avidreader73 @snh96 @boofy1998 @connorsui

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond smut #aemond fic #aemond imagine #request

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leilanihours · 4 months ago

Note

🗝️22 with nika 🫶🏻

# THIS LOVE CAME BACK TO ME

pairing: nika muhl x reader

word count: 675

warnings: paige being a salty third wheel lmao

prompt: "i missed you"

⭑ from lani: promised yall i would still post the celly reqs so here we go td is dedicated to that ! - also not proofread..

celly masterlist !

main masterlist !

“SHE DOESN’T SUSPECT anything, right?” you ask paige for what seems like the billionth time.

“y/n, ima give you the same answer i gave you two hours ago: no, she doesn’t suspect anything,” paige rolls her eyes playfully.

“sorry,” you apologize as you grab your suitcase from the conveyor belt in front of you, “i just really want this to go perfectly.”

“dude,” she says, “it will. she won’t admit it to the public but nika is a hopeless romantic, she’ll love literally anything you do because you’re you.”

you laugh at paige’s exhausted tone as she tries to comfort you, “sounds like someone’s not very excited to be an honorary third wheel this week.”

“hell no i’m not excited,” she agrees with a dramatic shake of her head as you both begin making your way to the front of the airport, “y’all got me fucked up with your corny ass shit.”

“please,” you scoff, “you’re just mad azzi couldn’t make it here.”

“and what about it?”

you each laugh as you approach the sliding doors leading to the pick-up and drop-off area. paige specifically asked nika to pick her up there rather than at the gate so you could mentally prepare yourself (per your request).

“alright she just texted me saying she’s two minutes away,” paige reads from her phone, “you ready?”

you nod happily before not-so-sneakily hiding behind the pillar paige is standing next to. you lean against the concrete pole, smiling to yourself at the thought of finally getting to see your girlfriend.

two minutes goes by quickly, and you hear nika squeal, presumably at the sight of paige.

“my twin!!” you hear her familiar voice cheer.

“what’s good, nika?” paige replies as she goes to hug the brunette.

“was the flight okay? did you end up sitting next to some stranger?”

“yeah, the girl that was sitting next to me was actually a huge fan of you, she could not stop blabbing about seeing you today,” paige lies playfully.

“who-“

“okay first of all, rude,” you say to paige as you reveal yourself, “second of all, hi, baby,” you grin at your girlfriend.

“no fucking way,” nika laughs as she immediately pulls you into her arms, “what are you doing here? i thought you had summer classes??”

“do you really think i would pass up a chance to see my favorite girl and annoy the shit out of paige?” you mumble into her shirt as you nuzzle your face into her shoulder.

the girl’s grip on you was almost bone-crushing, you could feel it in the way her hands found their way under the hem of your sweater, brushing against your soft skin in delicate circles. she placed light kisses on your hair repeatedly, as if she was trying to confirm that you were there.

“i missed you so much,” she whispers into your hair.

“i can tell,” you joke, causing her to lift you from her embrace to deadpan at you, “i missed you too, nik.”

“yeah that’s what i thought,” she nods, pulling you back in for another hug.

it feels like the two of you were entangled for hours, and paige felt the same way with how she was awkwardly standing to the side waiting.

“uh..” she interjects, “not to be rude but we got two king-size beds waiting for us at the hotel and i’m hella jetlagged so let’s wrap it up here, yeah?”

you groan at the blonde’s comment before pulling yourself out of nika’s grasp, but lacing your fingers with hers as you let her guide the group to her car.

you begin chatting endlessly about various things that have happened in the past few days, feeling joyous to be able to talk face-to-face with your girlfriend. nika listens intently, savoring the pure sound of your voice that she had missed so dearly.

sure, you guys facetimed every day, but nothing compared to being able to converse from within the comfort of each other’s physical presence. nothing compared to being with each other, period.

— leilani signing off ! 📁

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tadpolesonalgae · 1 year ago

Text

Azriel x reader: Milestones

A/N: I was listening to FaceTime with my Mom (Tonight) by Bo Burnham for the entire time while writing this :’)

Warnings: fluff

Word Count: 2,255

Visual Prompt here!

You’re so screwed.

So, so, so screwed.

Check the second hand on your watch, dodging out the way of passersby, feet practically dancing over the cobbles as you speed-walk toward the restaurant. There’s no way you’re going to make it. Absolutely no way. Gods, you were already marked late last week. One more strike and the consequences will be inflicted on your salary. You really don’t want to have to rely on Azriel to get food in again.

Eyes flit through shop windows mindlessly, hoping the weather will still be relatively temperate after your shift—your hopes are pretty high. The afternoons have been fairly mild recently, the smallest crispness only just beginning to creep in. Frost dusting the leaves, diamond dew-drops glittering in finely spun web.

A flash of white causes you to come to an abrupt halt, backtracking a few steps to peer through the large expanse of glass, the shop name typed out in bold letters across the pane. Contained within the front display are three dresses: pale yellow, white and pale orange, from left to right. Each is held upon a female mannequin torso, the fabric swishing as customers pass by in the background.

The centre dress. It’s lovely. The stitching, the length…the fabric looks like it wouldn’t itch, either.

Shuffle around some mental calculations…size, width, length. All good.

Damn. It looks like it would fit you.

Your watch practically burns into your wrist, searing your skin, urging you to move forward, time ticking away as you stare and stare. Looking at it alone, you know it’ll be pricey…possibly unaffordable, if you get a portion of your wages spliced off. You just have to try it on. Even if it’s utterly out of your price range, you can get to wear it, just to see if it really is as lovely as it looks.

But for now, you’ve got to sprint to work. You’ll just stop by later. Have something to look forward to.

————

You’re in absolutely no condition to try on that dress.

One slightly too-loud word away from crumpling into a pile of tears and washing down a drain, never to be seen again. Left to wallow beneath the city, dissolving into the Sidra.

Velaris is a lovely place to live, but it’s not perfect. Well, its citizens aren’t perfect. Between the male who had insisted his steak wasn’t properly cooked, to the female who sent her food back seven times, to the group of fae who were short on their bill by five gold pieces… Tears well at the memories alone. You got stuck on cleaning up, anyway—punishment for being late. At least your salary will remain untouched for now. The dress still stands a chance.

However, it will have to wait for tomorrow. Cleaning up takes long enough as it is, but having to do it on your own is a whole new level of misery. By the time the chairs are up on the tables, the floor’s been swept and the remaining utensils washed and returned to their rightful places, you’re on the verge of collapsing. Feet aching, wrists aching, head aching. The moment you get home, you’re going to pass out on the welcome mat.

The key clicks in the restaurant lock, finally done with the horrifically long day, and your back slumps, spine aching. What a miserable day.

Footsteps sound behind you, closer than any of those passing by, and you turn. Only to be overshadowed by—

You nearly burst into tears. “Az…” Lips tilt down in the corners, vision blurring as your voice wobbles.

“You were supposed to be home three hours ago,” he says gently, stepping closer, wings flaring to shield you from the partygoers and other currently unwelcome folk. “I thought you might’ve been hit with a long day,” he sighs, arms reaching out, tucking you against him, wings curving round, swallowing you whole.

You whimper as you fall into him, a few tears slipping out as you grip him, pressing into his leathers as his scent encompasses you. Heat warms your bones, sinking into your skin, slowly encouraging your light to start up again. Tears begin to slow, eyes drying as his comfort soothes you out, calming you down from the utterly hellish day. His hand strokes patterns down your back, pressing kisses to the crown of your head, making you want to melt like butter. Melt and splash onto him, soak into his skin so you can always be together.

Sniffing, you step back, wiping your cheeks; drying your eyes as you manage to get a hold of yourself. Azriel’s hands rest atop your shoulders, holding you together while you gather up the strength to do it yourself. “Feeling better now?” He asks, attention solely on you. Head dips in confirmation, though he waits a moment longer before stepping away. “Let’s get home. Then we can get into bed and forget today ever happened.” A sad smile lifts your lips as you look up at him gratefully. “Thanks, Az.”

He shrugs it off, hand swallowing yours as you begin the darkened walk back, faelight illuminating the way. You don’t miss how his shadows dart around you when you reach a slightly unstable part of the cobbles, how his hand tightens on your own. “Want to talk about all the shitty people?” He offers, a laugh bubbling from your chest. “Not really,” you mumble, “I don’t want to give attention to their shittiness.” He nods in the low light, going quiet.

“You know,” he starts slowly, “I think you’re pretty strong for going back there day after day.” You snort. Hand squeezes you, “I’m not joking. Having to interact with that many people, put up with so much bullshit, and keep going back?” He hums quietly, and the tears well again—you turn your head slightly. “Says the Spymaster,” you mumble, “you’re one of the strongest people I know.”

“And you don’t see me waitressing,” he counters.

Laughter bursts suddenly from your lungs, blaring through the night air. Tears spill as you laugh, squeezing closer to him, feeling how his wing wraps around you affectionately. “I really love you sometimes, Az,” you half cry, half laugh. You can feel the grin on his mouth as he peers at you, a single brow quirked. “Only sometimes?” You sniff again, praying your nose won’t start running this time. “Okay…all the time,” you relent, “but particularly now. I extra-specially love you.”

He replies with a laugh of his own, making you go all soft and fuzzy inside, heat warming your breastbone as your temperature spikes with pleasure. Hearing him laugh…it makes you happy. Especially when he’s happy from you. That’s the Special Happy—only his kind.

————

“Oh…”

You blink a few times, comprehending the words. It was sold a few days ago.

“Do you know…I mean, will there be another?” You ask, trying not to sound as crestfallen as you feel. The shop assistant shakes her head, curls bouncing as she does so, “I’m afraid not. At least, not that I know of. It was a one-off from the seamstress—she generally doesn’t do dresses like that.”

“Oh…” You repeat.

“I’m sorry you missed it,” she tries to console. “If it helps at all, the male who bought it mentioned it was for his wife—it’ll have a loved home.” You nod weakly. It helps a little. You press your lips together in a tight smile, “thank you anyway, for being so kind about it. You probably didn’t want to have to comfort a moping customer today when you clocked in.”

She smiles gently, “it’s no skin of my back. I hope you’ll find something else at some point.” You nod your head dutifully, then turn, glumly padding out of the shop. Azriel remains where you left him, stood just to the side of the entrance—worried about knocking a mannequin over in the compact shop. “They didn’t have it?” He asks, noting your expression. Shake your head dismally, sighing. “Gods, if I’d been earlier that day I could’ve gone in after work. It might’ve still been there.”

His arm wraps over your shoulders, pulling you into his side while you fall into step beside him. “Oh well,” you murmur, “the female was very nice about it, so that’s something, I suppose. Not a totally awful experience.” Azriel hums in response, squeezing gently. Puff air out from your lips, “anywhere you’d like to go, then?” He thinks for a little, pausing to contemplate the question. As if he hasn’t already made a list ranging from highest to lowest priority of places he’s like to visit today. You know his games quite well.

“What about food? A hungry stomach won’t help with your mood.”

“I asked where you’d like to go. Not where my stomach does,” you reply grumpily. He gives you a pointed look and you sigh. A reluctant smile raising your lips. He’s right.

“Will you at least pick a place you like?” You sigh, leaning into him, taking in his scent. He chuckles at that, already leading you away from the shop, distraction having succeeded.

————

A week later, and the dress still glimmers in the backstreets of your memory.

Eyes have begun checking the store front day after day, just to see if another similar one has been sent over, but—nothing. So far.

So far, you remind yourself. There’ll be other dresses. Other nice things to look forward to. Other things to be happy about. Like your husband having been completely free today. A smile curves you lips as you shuffle through your wardrobe, searching for something nice to wear for him.

Neither of you particularly fancied going out to eat—despite it probably having been easier to do so. But you spend so much time around other people eating, and you’d just be habitually tense the entire evening. Not to mention Azriel wouldn’t find it fun, either. So you’re having a quiet night in, after a loud day out, shared with friends and family alike.

He knocks on your door, stepping in soon after. “Looking for something to wear?” He asks, a lilt to his voice. You roll your eyes, smiling none the less, “how’d you know? And you didn’t wait for my answer. I could’ve been changing.” Tongue flicks out to wet his lips, eyes latched upon your own. Heat warms your cheeks, shaking your head, grinning to yourself.

Azriel walks over, large hands settling at your waist, gently turning you to face him. Lowers his mouth over yours, lips slanting together. You’re surprised at first, caught off guard by the soft display of affection, but then you melt into it, hands cupping his jaw, his own keeping you close against his chest. Pull away to look at one another. “What was that for?” You whisper hoarsely, peering up into gentle hazel eyes.

Lips curve, turning you around to face the bed. A cream box laying atop the neatly made duvet, pretty bow tied atop it. “For me?” You ask, looking up at him, head tilting back against his chest. He nods, gentle pushing you forward, “have a look.”

Smiling, you raise the lid from the box, feeling his gaze warming your skin.

Blink.

White fabric…

Eyes lock on hazel, mischievous and adoring.

Turn back to the gift.

Swallowing, shaky fingers dip into the box, latching on the familiar fabric. Stand from the bed, allowing the dress to unfold in front of you, held up by the seams atop the sleeves. It’s the dress.

Your dress.

Lower it slowly, eyes heating as they connect with his, softened with affection. “You…” Azriel nods gently, expression shifting to something a little vulnerable. “I hope you like it.”

The tears start before you have the chance to even try to stop them, lip wobbling as you set the dress down on the bed, hurrying over. Arms wrap around him, burying your head in his chest, willing your eyes to dry. Hands settle against you, stroking your hair, tracing circles over your back, laughing quietly. Keeping you safe in the quiet of your bedroom.

“You like it?” He asks, making sure he’s gotten it right. He could never get it wrong, but you nod anyway. “I love you and hate you so much right now,” you mumble, sniffing. Pulling away a little—enough to peer up at him. “What have I done to earn your hate?” He smiles, hand still stroking your hair. “How am I ever supposed to top this for you?” You murmur, fingers gripping him tighter. “You’ve set the standard so high, how am I ever supposed to match it?”

Azriel laughs, shaking his head, “go put it on for me, and you’ll have done so.”

You doubt it, but follow his instructions anyway, changing out of your day clothes, shifting into the dress. Soft and gentle on your skin, fitting comfortably, not too heavy; not too light. Utterly perfect. Lip wobbles again as you arrange the fabric to sit how you want, turning to look at him, waiting his opinion. “What do you think?”

“I think I pity everyone who’ll never get to see you like this,” he murmurs, silently walking forward, stopping when his feet are either side your own. “And I think I’m the luckiest male alive because I’m the first you chose to show.” Cups your jaw, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Pulls away to look at you, smiling adoringly.

“Happy Birthday.”

General Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog

Az Taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch

#Azriel #Azriel x reader #Azriel fluff #fluff #acotar #Azriel x reader fluff #Azriel shadowsinger #Shadowsinger #Milestones

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scary-grace · 4 months ago

Text

the new postmodern age (chapter one) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

Written for @threadbaresweater's follower milestone event, and the prompt 'a day at the beach'! Congratulations on the milestone, and thanks for giving me a chance to write this fic.

dividers by @enchanthings

Before the war, you were nothing but a common criminal, but in the world that's arisen from the ashes, you got a second chance. Five years after the final battle between the heroes and the League of Villains, you run a coffee shop in a quiet seaside town, and you're devoted to keeping your customers happy. Even customers like Shimura Tenko, who needs a second chance even more than you did -- and who's harboring a secret that could upend everything you've tried to build. Will you let the past drag both of you down? Or will you find a way, against all odds, to a new beginning? (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3

Chapter 1

You believe in second chances.

Before the war, you were living on the margins, just like the rest of even the pettiest criminals were. No one would hire someone with a record, even if the record was for something nonviolent, and that meant that you were always hungry, always freezing in the winter and getting heatstroke in the summer, always one step away from doing something worse and getting put away for good. You were going nowhere fast, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t get back on your feet. It was a struggle to get up in the morning.

But after the war, something changed. Not a lot, but enough, because after a heartfelt public plea from the hero who saved the day, the world decided to care a little bit about people like you. The government passed new anti-discrimination laws, including one banning hiring discrimination against people with criminal records, and for nonviolent criminals like you, they opened up an extra opportunity – a choice between job training or a startup loan for a small business, so you could pay down your fines and restitution while adding something good to society. Sure, it was all in the name of preventing new villains from being created, but you’ll take it. You took it, picked up a loan, moved out of the city to a small town on the coast, and decided to open up a coffee shop.

You’re not really sure why you picked a coffee shop. Maybe because the town you moved to didn’t have one yet, or maybe because you used to hang out in them a lot when you had nowhere else to go. And the program you’re part of worked exactly like it was supposed to. You had to hire people to help you get the building you chose up to code, and that meant you met people in your new community. You showed those people that the criminals they hated were people, too. You’ve paid most of your fines and you’re able to break even anyway, and even though there’s a sign on the door telling everyone that you’re a convicted felon and you have to answer any questions you’re asked about it, you have customers.

Not just customers – regulars. People whose kids you’ve seen grow up, people who talk to you when they see you out and about. After five years of trying, you’ve finally carved out a place where you belong. So yeah, you believe in second chances. How could you not?

You stand back from your front window, admiring the latest addition. There’s the sign identifying your business as one sponsored by the Nonviolent Criminal Reintegration Act, but just above it, you’ve added a bigger sign: Free Internet Access. Osono, whose bakery makes the pastries you sell, studies it alongside you. “Free access? Shouldn’t it be access with purchase?”

“I thought about it a lot, but no.” You’re sort of lying. You thought about it for two seconds and that was it. “This is better.”

“It’ll attract riff-raff.”

That’s the kind of comment that used to really piss you off, but you know Osono. You know it’s just a blind spot, and you know how to respond. “Most things are online these days. Job applications, apartment listings, information on government assistance. When I was in trouble before, free internet access would have helped me a lot. And I usually bought something anyway, even if it was just a cup of coffee.”

“Not a pastry?” Osono nods at the trays stacked on her cart, and you remember that she’s waiting for you to open the door. Oops. You unlock it in a hurry and prop it open with a rock you pulled up from the beach. “Where were you getting food?”

“Wherever I could.” You were hungry a lot. And sick a lot, because sometimes you had to eat things that were expired. You don’t like to think about that very much. “I stole sometimes so I wouldn’t starve. I’ve paid it all back by now.”

“You know how to take responsibility,” Osono says. She slides back the door on your pastry case without asking and starts loading things in. “I wish more of them were like you.”

“Most of us are,” you say, as gently as you can manage. “We just need a fighting chance.”

Sometimes people forget that you’re a criminal, that you’ll carry your record around for the rest of your life. You can’t let them forget. Osono nods in the way that tells you she’s humoring you and lifts a tray of pastries you haven’t seen before out of the cart. “These are a new recipe I’m trying out. What do you think?”

“They’re pretty,” you say. “Is that chocolate in the filling?”

“And cinnamon. They aren’t vegan, but there aren’t any common allergens in them.” Osono passes you the recipe anyway, and you scribble down the ingredients on the back of the name card you’re making, just in case someone asks. “Tell me how they do, all right? If they sell decently I’ll add them to my rotation.”

“Will do.” You help her with the last few trays. “Thanks, Osono. Say hi to the kids and Naoki for me?”

“Will do.” Osono wheels the cart back out the door, then pauses to study the internet access sign. “Good luck with this.”

“Thanks.”

You wait until the delivery van pulls away before you start rearranging the pastries to your preferred setup. You add “new arrival” to the label for the new pastry, then touch the lettering to turn it a pleasant but eye-catching green before placing it front and center in the case. Then you set up your espresso machine, wake up the cash register, switch on the lights and take down the chairs from the tops of the tables – and only then do you switch on the other sign in your window. It’s seven am. Skyline Coffee and Tea is open for business.

It’s grey and cold, and the low tide is closer to noon today, which means you’re in for a busy morning as the people who walk the beach daily stop in for food and coffee first. Only one person orders one of the new pastries, but almost everyone comments on the free internet access. They say the same kind of thing Osono said, and you say the same thing you said to her if they hold still long enough for you to answer. You say it nicely. It’s an effort to say it nicely, sometimes, but it’s worth doing.

Past noon, things slow down a bit. You decide to speed-clean the espresso machine, and you’re so focused on your work that you don’t notice the customer. It’s possibly also the customer’s fault, since he’s peering at you from over the pickup counter instead of standing by the cash register, and when he barks the question at you, it startles you badly. “What’s the password?”

“On the WiFi?” You tuck your burned hand behind your back. “No password. Find a place to sit down and have at it.”

The customer looks disconcerted. Or at least you think he does – the lower half of his face is covered with a surgical mask, and given that he doesn’t have eyebrows, it’s hard to read his expression. “Why?”

“Why isn’t there a password?” You haven’t gotten that question yet. “I want people to be able to use it if they need it.”

“They’re gonna watch porn.”

“Me putting a password on the WiFi wouldn’t stop that,” you say. “And I’m not the internet police. If somebody starts acting up, I’ll deal with it. If not – just use headphones.”

The customer’s expression twists. “I didn’t mean me.”

“Sure.” You’re not a moron. “It’s not my business what you do. Unless your business starts messing with my business. Seriously. Knock yourself out.”

The customer turns away, and you spend a second being extremely grateful that you went for single-occupancy bathrooms instead of multiple-stall bathrooms before you go back to cleaning the espresso machine. Your hand hurts, but it’s nothing running it under cold water won’t fix later. When you straighten up, there’s someone at the counter.

It’s porn guy, who you really shouldn’t call porn guy. Innocent until proven guilty and all that. You dry your hands and hurry over. “What can I get for you today?”

“Black coffee.”

“Sure. Anything else?”

The customer glances at the pastry case and shakes his head. Then his stomach growls. He knows you heard it. What little of his face is visible above the mask turns red. “No.”

“Tell you what,” you say. “I’ve got these new pastries the bakery wants me to try out, but next to nobody’s tried one yet. If you agree to tell me how it was, you can have it half off.”

“I have money.” The customer shoves a credit card across the counter to you, and you see that he’s wearing fingerless gloves. Or sort of fingerless gloves. They’re missing the first three fingers on each hand. “I don’t need help.”

“No, but you’re helping me out.” You add the pastry to his order and discount it by half, then fish it out of the case with a pair of tongs. “For here or to go?”

“Here.” The customer watches as you set it on a plate. “What is that?”

“It’s babka.”

“I can read. What is it?”

“I don’t really know,” you admit. Maybe that’s why people aren’t buying them. “The filling’s chocolate and cinnamon, though. It’s hard to go wrong with that. It’ll be just a second with the coffee.”

You fill a cup, then point out the cream and sugar. Then you realize you still haven’t tapped the customer’s card. You finish ringing up the order and glance at the cardholder’s name. Shimura Tenko. He hasn’t been in before today. You’re not the best with faces, but you never forget a name.

Shimura Tenko sets up shop at the booth in the farthest corner, and although you sneak by once or twice to check on him, you’re pretty sure he’s not watching porn. People don’t usually take notes when they’re watching porn. It looks like he’s working or something. Working remote, but he doesn’t have internet access at home? Or maybe he does, and he’s just looking for a change of scenery. That’s a normal thing to do. A change of scenery is one thing Skyline Coffee and Tea is equipped to provide.

Speaking of that, it’s been a while since you changed out the mural on the café’s back wall. Your quirk, Color, lets you change the color of any object you touch, and choose how long the color sets. You’ve used it for a lot of things over the years, but now you mainly use it to create new murals every few months or so. The back wall’s been a cityscape since the fall, when you saw a picture of Tokyo’s skyline at night and got inspired. Maybe this weekend you’ll switch it out for something a little softer. If people wanted the city, they’d stay there instead of coming here.

Customers come in and out, a few lingering for conversations or to test out the free WiFi, but Shimura Tenko stays put, somehow making a single cup of black coffee last until you give the fifteen-minute warning that you’re closing up shop. Another person might be pissed about someone hanging out so long without buying anything else, but you’ve been there. You let it go, except to ask him how the babka was as he’s on his way out the door. He throws the answer back over his shoulder without looking your way. “It was fine. Nothing special.”

Fine, sure. When you go back to clear his table, you find the plate it was on wiped clean. There’s not even a smear of the filling left.

“Check this place out!” Your probation officer leans across the counter, eyes bright, out of costume and way too enthusiastic for eight in the morning. “It’s looking great in here. You changed something. New color scheme? New uniform?”

“Nope.” You don’t get nervous for your check-ins, but you don’t like the fact that they’re random. Today’s not a good day. “There’s some new stuff on the menu, and in the pastry case. Maybe that’s it.”

“No,” Present Mic says, drawing out the word. He turns in a slow circle, then whips back around with a grin. “When did you repaint that wall?”

“I didn’t paint it,” you say. It’s best to be honest. “I used my quirk. I’m not making money off of it and it’s not hurting anyone, so it falls within the terms of my probation.”

“Take it easy there, listener. I’m not trying to bust you,” Present Mic says. Heroes always say that. You know better than to buy it. “It looks good. Really brightens the place up.”

“I thought it could use it,” you say. “It’s kind of a rough time of year.”

Cold weather always brings you lots of customers, but people are sharper, unhappier, and if they’re in the mood to take it out on someone, they pick somebody who can’t make a fuss or hit back. Somebody like you. You’ve learned not to take it personally. “Not too rough financially. You’ve made all your payments on time. I checked.” Present Mic is peering into the pastry case. “How’s that free internet access thing going for you?”

“Not so bad,” you say. “The connection’s pretty fast, so I get people in here who are taking online classes, or working remote. I’ve only had to kick one person out for watching porn.”

“Yeah, he filed a complaint,” Present Mic says, and your stomach drops. “You made the right call. Don’t worry.”

You’re going to worry. It’s going to take all day for that one to wear off. “I haven’t had problems with it otherwise.”

“Why’d you do it?” Present Mic gives you a curious look. “Free stuff brings all kinds of people out of the woodwork. Why give yourself the headache?”

“I want this to be the kind of place I needed,” you say. “Somewhere safe where nobody would kick me out if I couldn’t buy more than one cup of coffee, where I could use the internet without getting in trouble for it. A headache’s worth that to me.”

It’s quiet for a second, but Present Mic being Present Mic, it doesn’t last. “You really turned a corner, huh? Hard to believe you were ever on the wrong side of the law.”

“We all could be there,” you say. “It only takes one mistake.”

Present Mic sighs. “You’re telling me. Did you catch the news last week?”

“The thing with Todoroki Touya?” The surviving members of the League of Villains all went through their own rehab, and they’re on permanent probation – and last weekend, Todoroki Touya, formerly known as Dabi, lit somebody’s motorcycle on fire after they followed him for six blocks, harassing him the whole way. “I saw. Is he getting revoked?”

“Nope. The other guy was way out of line, and the panel ruled that the majority of people – former villains or not – would have reacted similarly under that kind of pressure.” Present Mic rolls his shoulders, and his leather jacket squeaks. “All I can say is, he’s lucky we’re in the business of second chances these days. Or fifth chances.”

“Why so many?” you ask. “The rest of us are on three strikes, you’re out.”

“Yeah, but you have to mess up a lot worse for it to count as a strike,” Present Mic points out. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a guilt thing. This whole rehab thing is Deku’s idea. And Deku never got over what happened with Shigaraki.”

Members of the League of Villains died leading up to the final battle, but of the five who made it that far, only one of them was dead at the end of the war – Shigaraki Tomura, their leader. To most people, it was good riddance to the greatest evil Japan has ever seen, but Deku’s always been publicly against that viewpoint. Insistent that All For One was the true villain. Regretful that the war ended with Shigaraki’s death, too. “Since he couldn’t save him, he’s stuck on saving the other four,” Present Mic continues. “Which equals infinite chances. So far Todoroki’s the only one who’s needed them.”

You nod. Present Mic stretches. “Let’s take a walk,” he decides. “I’ll buy coffee for both of us.”

“I can’t leave,” you say. “I don’t have anybody else to watch this place. If a customer comes by –”

“Half an hour, tops. Come on.” Present Mic produces a wallet from the inside of his leather jacket. “The sooner we leave, the sooner you can come back.”

You lock up, hating every second of it, and follow Present Mic into the cold, a to-go cup of your own coffee in your hands. Present Mic runs through the usual list of questions, the ones that cover your mindset as much as they cover your progress on your program requirements. Some of them are about how you’re getting along with the civilians in town, and you know he’ll be checking in with some of your customers, seeing if their perception lines up with yours. It feels invasive. Intrusive. Some part of you always pushes back. You always quiet it down. You made this bed for yourself, coming up on a decade ago. Now you have to lie in it.

“I’ve got some news,” Present Mic says, once he’s finished with the questions. “The program’s considering early release for some of the participants.”

“Why?”

“The legislative review’s coming up, and they want success stories,” Present Mic says. “You know, people who clawed their way out of the criminal underworld to become productive members of society. I’m putting your name on the list.”

You almost drop your coffee. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Mic says. He seems taken aback by your surprise. “I mean – you’re kind of who this thing was designed for, listener. You caught your first charge when you were underage, for a nonviolent crime, and the rest of your case is a perfect example of just one of the many problems Deku won’t shush about. Now look at you. You’ve got your own business, you’re paying back your debt to society, you’re participating in civilian life. There are civilians who don’t do that much.”

Of course they don’t. Actual civilians don’t have to prove they have a right to exist. “If you’re approved for early release, the government will waive interest on your startup loan, and I heard a rumor that they’re considering wiping charges off people’s records,” Mic continues. “It’s a pretty good deal, listener. And you’re making a pretty weird face.”

“Sorry,” you say, trying to fix it. “I mean – felonies are a forever thing. They don’t get wiped.”

“It’s just a rumor,” Mic says, and pats your shoulder. “Even if that doesn’t pan out, you could use a break on the interest. Anyway, it’s not a sure thing, but I put your name up. You’ve got as good a shot as anybody.”

You think that’s probably true, which is weird to think about. You’ve been behind the eight ball since you were in high school. Present Mic throws down the rest of his coffee, then turns back the way the two of you came. “Let’s go. I saw a pastry I wanted to buy, and I bet you have a customer or two.”

You’ve heard things about other program participants’ probation officers taking things without paying, but you got lucky with Present Mic – he always pays. Sometimes he even gives you a hard time for setting your prices too low. And he’s right about the customers. When you get back, one of your regulars is sitting cross-legged, leaning back against the locked door with his hood up and his laptop open.

It’s Shimura Tenko, who you never saw before you started offering free internet, and who’s turned into a regular ever since. The two of you don’t talk the way you do with some of your other regulars – something about the mask and the hood and the gloves tells you that Shimura isn’t looking to make friends. But he shows up two or three times a week, orders black coffee, and camps out in the corner of the café until closing time. Sometimes you can talk him into a pastry, and it’s always a babka. Whether he orders one or not, he’s always hungry when he comes in.

Shimura looks up as you and Present Mic approach. His eyes narrow, then widen abruptly, almost comically shocked. Then he slams his laptop shut, rockets to his feet, and books it, vanishing down the street and around the corner. You feel a surge of frustration. “Can you not scare my customers?”

“I’m out of costume. Even when I’m in, nobody’s scared of me.” Present Mic is lying. You’d have been scared out of your mind to run into him back in the day. “Damn, that guy was skittish. What’s his deal?”

“He’s one of my regulars.” Was one of your regulars, probably. People don’t react the way Shimura just did and come back for more. You unlock the door, feeling strangely dispirited. “Which pastry were you thinking about?”

Present Mic sticks around for an hour or so, long enough to talk to a few customers who don’t run away from him. Most of your regulars have seen him before. He leaves a little bit before noon, after eating three pastries he paid for, and as usual, the café quiets down in the afternoon. You don’t mind. Today wasn’t a good day even before Mic put in a surprise appearance and scared off a customer for good. Days like today, you’d rather have the place to yourself.

Sometimes in the midst of proving you’re a model citizen to anybody who looks your way, you forget that there’s a reason you weren’t. It wasn’t a good reason. Your family wasn’t rich, but you always had what you needed and some of what you wanted. Your parents weren’t perfect, but they loved you. You weren’t the most popular kid at school, but you always had someone to talk to. And none of that mattered, because you felt hollow and miserable and lonely no matter what else was going on around you.

Nothing you did or said could make you feel better. Everything felt the same, and everything felt awful, and no matter how hard you tried to explain, to ask for help, to raise the alarm, you couldn’t get your point across. You had a good life. What did you have to complain about?

The judge who handed you your first conviction said pretty much exactly that. You’ve heard that the sentencing guidelines for minors have changed, that untreated mental health issues are considered a mitigating factor these days, but back then it didn’t matter at all. You got help at some point. You take your meds like you’re supposed to, and you did therapy until you realized the people who monitor your probation were reading your notes. And you’re older now. You know the hollow feeling goes away. But that doesn’t mean it’s any easier to tolerate when it’s here.

You’re hanging out behind the counter, staring at your most recent mural and wishing you’d chosen something less cheerful than the field of wildflowers that’s currently decorating it, when the door opens. You barely have time to get your game face on before Shimura Tenko steps up to the counter. “Um –”

“How many heroes are you friends with?” Shimura asks shortly.

“I’m not friends with Present Mic,” you say. “That was a spot check. He’s my probation officer.”

Shimura blinks. He has crimson eyes and dark lashes, matching his dark hair. “Huh?”

“My probation officer,” you repeat. “I’m a convicted felon.”

“Don’t lie. They’d never let a convicted felon run a coffee shop.”

“I got a loan,” you say. “Through the Nonviolent Criminal Rehabilitation Act. It says so on the sign.”

“Your sign says free internet access.”

“Underneath that.” You wonder if it’s really possible that Shimura didn’t see the other sign. Maybe he was just too hyped at the prospect of free internet to look any harder. “How long have you lived here?”

“Five years.” Shimura looks defensive now. “What’s it to you?”

Five years, and you never saw him before today. He must keep to himself. “Nothing. I just – I thought everybody around here knew. I’m not very quiet about it. I’m not allowed to be.”

“Why not?”

You don’t want to do this right now, but rules are rules. “Part of the Reintegration Act involves educating civilians about where criminals come from – like, how a person goes from you to me.”

Shimura snorts. It’s rude, but not anywhere close to the rudest thing someone’s done to you when you talk about this. “The government thinks the people who are best equipped to educate about this are the actual criminals, so I’m legally obligated to answer any questions people ask me – about my record, about why I did it, about the program and why I’m doing that. So they understand what’s happening and why it’s happening. For transparency.”

“And that means anybody can question you, any time,” Shimura says, eyes narrowing.

“Yep. Stop, drop, and educate.” You wait, but he’s quiet, and you’re tired enough and hollow enough that the suspense gets to you first. “You can ask what I did. I have to tell you.”

Shimura nods – but then he doesn’t ask. About that, at least. “It’s dead in here. Did Present Mic clear everybody else out?”

“No. It gets quiet on sunny days when the tide’s low.” You nod through the window, and the sliver of beach visible between the buildings across the street. “I was thinking about closing early.”

“Why?” Shimura’s voice holds the faintest shadow of a sneer. “To walk on the beach?”

To lay facedown on your bed and wait for tears that won’t come, and won’t make you feel any better if they do. “Now you’re here, so I’m open. Do you want the usual?”

Shimura hesitates. Then he shakes his head. “Go home.”

“I’m open,” you repeat. You don’t want him to complain to Present Mic like the actual porn guy did. “Do you want the usual or do you feel like something new?”

“The usual.”

“Come on,” you say. He glares at you over his mask. There’s an old scar over his right eye. “There’s nobody here. Nobody’s going to catch you drinking something that actually tastes good.”

“The usual,” Shimura Tenko says, and crosses his arms over his chest. “And –”

He glances at the pastry case, and you see his expression shift into disappointment. It makes you sadder than it should, but you can fix it easily. You slide the babka you saved on the faint hope that he’d come back out of hiding and into full view. “One of these?”

Shimura stares at it for a full fifteen seconds before he looks up at you. “You saved it for me.”

“Yeah.” You pride yourself on knowing what your regulars like. You don’t want someone you see a few times a week to leave unsatisfied. “One babka and one black coffee, coming up.”

Shimura holds out his card, then hesitates. You’ve never seen him look uncertain at all. “And whatever you think tastes better than black coffee. One of those.”

“Really?” You can’t hide your surprise, or what an unexpected lift it is for your mood. “You won’t regret it. Which flavors do you like?”

“I don’t care.” Shimura waits while you swipe his card, then tucks it away. “This was your idea. I’m going – over there.”

He gestures at the back corner. “I know where you like to sit,” you say. “I’ll bring it out.”

As soon as he leaves, you get to work. You need to nail this. He’ll laugh at you if you bring him a tea latte, so it needs to have an espresso base. What goes well with babka? You already have chocolate and cinnamon on board – what about caramel, or hazelnut? Does he even like sweet things? He must, if he keeps ordering the damn babka. Maybe hazelnut, but what if he’s allergic? You pitch your voice to carry and see him startle. “Do you have any allergies?”

“Not to food.”

You wonder what he’s actually allergic to as you start pulling espresso shots for a chocolate hazelnut mocha. You really hope Shimura likes Nutella, because that’s exactly what this is going to taste like. Using bittersweet chocolate syrup instead of milk chocolate fixes it partway, but when you pour off a tiny bit to try it, it still tastes a lot like something you’d eat out of a jar with a spoon.

Whatever. You’re committed now. You don’t have a choice. You pour it into a cup, make some vague gesture at foam art, and carry it and the black coffee through the empty café to Shimura’s table. “One black coffee and one drink that actually tastes good.”

Shimura eyes the second cup. “What’s in there?”

“You said you didn’t care.”

“Yeah, well, now that I know you’ve done time I’m not sure I can trust you,” Shimura says, and you lock your expression down. That one hurt. A lot. He drags the cup towards himself with his right hand and lifts it to his mouth as he pulls down his mask with his left, but you’ve lost interest in the outcome. You turn and head back to the counter, trying not to feel like someone’s slapped you in the face and convincing yourself at least a little that it works.

You screw around behind the counter, taking inventory and counting down the minutes until last call, but Shimura’s back at the counter with forty-five minutes to go, an empty cup in his hand. It’s not the cup you put the black coffee in. “Fine. You win. I want another one of these.”

“Yep.” You set your clipboard aside and head back to the cash register to ring him up. “For here or to go?”

“Here.”

“I’m closing soon. To-go’s probably better.”

“Are you kicking me out?” Shimura asks. You look up at him, make eye contact, and whatever he sees in your face sets him off. Not in the way you thought it would. “Before, about the doing time thing. You know I was kidding, right?”

“Sure you were. Do you want a receipt?”

“Hey,” Shimura snaps. “It was a joke.”

“Not a good one.”

“Yeah, it was. If you –” Shimura breaks off, his scowl clear even from behind the mask. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I wouldn’t have said that if I didn’t get it.”

“Get it,” you repeat. “You’ve done time?”

“Yeah.” Shimura Tenko covers the back of his neck with one hand. “No charges, but – yeah, I did time. So it’s funny.”

“It’s still not funny.” You lift the empty cup out of Shimura’s hands and turn to start making a second Nutella-esque mocha, trying to decide if you feel better or not. “It’s just not mean.”

A shadow falls across you as you work. Shimura’s following you along the edge of the counter. “So am I getting kicked out or what?”

“Yes,” you say. “In forty-five minutes, when I close.”

Shimura’s eyes crinkle ever so slightly at the corners. You wonder what his smile looks like under that mask, but you’ve got espresso shots to pull, and you need to focus if you don’t want to burn your hand. You look away, and when you look back again, he’s at his table, laptop open, mask on, chin propped in his gloved hand. No charges, but he’s done time. You didn’t expect that. Even though you’ve spent the last five years of your life trying to prove that you’re no different than anybody else, it still catches you by surprise to learn that one of your customers is like you.

You bring the second drink by his table, then start working through your closing checklist. He stands up with five minutes to go, just like clockwork. He leaves without another word, as usual, but when you step outside, he’s still standing there. “You didn’t ask why.”

Why he did time? “Neither did you,” you say.

“Yeah, but I won’t break probation if I don’t answer.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” you say. It’s not quite dark, but the sun’s almost down, and the shadows are growing long. Late March already, but it feels like you’ve got a long way to go before spring. “If I want people who meet me to look at the person I am now, I have to do the same thing for them.”

Shimura Tenko makes a sound, half-laughter and half-scoffing. “They sure did a number on you,” he says. You turn and walk away, and his footsteps follow yours. “Hey. Come on. There’s no way you’re that sensitive.”

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m just having a bad day.”

A bad day, and you never get a day off. Even if the café’s not open, you’re still in sunshine mode every second, making sure that the people who want to treat you like a criminal look absolutely insane for doing it. You fought hard for this life. You’re glad you fought for it. And today more than usual, you’re just really tired. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Yeah,” Shimura says. You’re glad he doesn’t try to apologize again. You know it would be painfully insincere. “How did you know?”

“Hmm?”

“The pastry. How did you know I’d come back?”

“I didn’t,” you say. “I just hoped you would.”

You don’t know why you hoped. Maybe because he’d clearly been waiting a while when you and Present Mic got back. Maybe because you remember how much it mattered to have somewhere else to go, whether you had a place of your own or not. Maybe because you’ve gotten sort of a sense of him over the past few months, and you know he’s the kind of person who pretends not to want the things he wants. Wanting the coffee shop he hangs out in to be open and to have his favorite pastry available is such a reasonable thing to want. You were hoping he’d come back so you could give it to him.

Shimura doesn’t say anything. You keep walking, and he doesn’t follow you. When you glance back over your shoulder as you round the corner, you see him standing just outside of Skyline Coffee and Tea, staring intently at something. You can’t say for sure. But you’re pretty sure it’s the sign that explains about the NCRA.

A while back, you read that some countries set aside two days to commemorate a war. One day to celebrate that it ended, another to mourn that it happened at all. When it comes to the war you lived through, Japan does things differently. There’s just one day, a national holiday, where every government office closes and most businesses do, too. For most people, it’s a day to celebrate. There are carnivals, street fairs, concerts, parties. It’s been a holiday for exactly four years and a whole host of traditions have already sprung up around it.

But there’s one person who never celebrates, and it didn’t take you long to come around to his way of thinking. On April 4th, the fifth annual Day of Peace, you close the café early and make the trek to Kamino Ward.

You’re not sure how Kamino Ward became the place. Maybe because the final battlefield’s been overtaken by celebrations, and at least some people still see Kamino as hallowed ground. The place where the Symbol of Peace made his last stand. The place where the Symbol of Fear passed the torch onto his successor. You get there a little while before sunset, and you join the hundreds of people who’ve already gathered there. The crowd looks smaller than it did last year, and it hasn’t grown much by the time Midoriya Izuku, known to the world as Deku, climbs onto the steps leading up to the All Might statue’s plinth.

Someone hands him a microphone, which he takes with hands that tremble ever so slightly. He’s only twenty-one, and he looks old before his time. “I’m here,” he starts, then swallows hard. “I’m here because we didn’t win. Not really. If you’re here instead of at a party somewhere, I think it’s probably because you lost something. Something, or someone, who was important to you. Something you can’t get back.”

It’s quiet. It’s always quiet after he says something like that. “I’d like to think we did something. That we changed for the better,” Deku continues, “but I think we can only say that if we don’t forget what we had to lose for it to happen. So, um – you know the drill. If you brought a candle, great. If you didn’t, we have some. You can say the thing you lost if you want – we have a microphone – but when you’re done, light the candle and put it down somewhere that feels right to you.”

He takes a deep breath, lets it go. “And then you can go. But I’ll stay until they all burn out.”

People swarmed the first two years. This year they form a line, stepping up to light their candles one by one. You never know what to say when it’s your turn, because it’s not something specific you miss. The way things used to be was awful. You don’t miss that, and you weren’t close enough to anybody to lose someone who mattered in the war. But April 4th has never felt like a happy day. It feels wrong to you to be setting off fireworks and throwing parties in response to a war that almost destroyed the world.

A lot of people say names when it’s their turn to light a candle. Some say places. Some share an ideal they lost, a hero they venerated who fell from their pedestal, a dream they had that will never come true. Each lost thing named is met with respectful silence. But just like last year and the year before, there are three names that aren’t, no matter who says them. “Big Sis Magne. Bubaigawara Jin,” says Toga Himiko as she lights her candle. Say Todoroki Touya and Sako Atsuhiro and Iguchi Shuichi, who still answers to Spinner, as they light theirs. “Shigaraki Tomura.”

There’s always whispering after their names, especially Shigaraki’s. But Deku always goes last, and Deku always shuts them up. He lights his candle and grasps the microphone, speaking clearly, firmly. “Shigaraki Tomura.”

You remember what Present Mic said, about how Deku never got over failing to save Shigaraki. Deku was sixteen when he won the war. Still a kid. Was saving Shigaraki really his job? Maybe that’s the point of all this. It was everyone’s job to stop villains like Shigaraki from being created, and you all failed, so it fell to Deku – and he failed, too. It’s one big, sad, ugly mess. When you’re honest with yourself, you’re not surprised that most people try to cover it up with fireworks.

People begin to filter out of the memorial park, and you find a place to sit down. It’s not like you have somewhere else to go. The others who say settle in as well, in small groups amidst the rows and clusters of candles. You’re within earshot of one of the groups. Without meaning to, you find yourself listening in.

“They’d have hated this,” Todoroki Touya is saying, his voice low and bitter. “Every second of it.”

“Big Sis Magne wouldn’t have. And Twice would have liked it,” Toga Himiko says. Her voice is soft. “All the candles. He’d say it’s like his birthday.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Todoroki Touya’s voice goes even quieter. “Do any of us know when his birthday was?”

It’s quiet. “Shigaraki would hate this,” Todoroki states. “You know he would. What did he tell you to tell Spinner, Deku?”

Deku doesn’t answer. Spinner does. “Shigaraki Tomura fought to destroy until the very end.”

“Yeah,” Todoroki says. “To destroy. And Deku made him a martyr.”

“He destroyed a lot of things,” Deku says quietly. “All For One is gone. One For All, too – there’s never going to be another Symbol of Peace. He destroyed the way we saw villains. We don’t just get to look at what they’re doing right now. We have to think about how they got there. And he destroyed how we saw ourselves.”

“Yeah?” Spinner says. “How?”

“We didn’t think we were responsible for other people,” Deku says. “Now we have to be.”

It’s quiet again. This time it’s quiet for a while. “Whatever,” Todoroki says. “I’m going home. See you all at the next sobfest.”

“He always says that,” Spinner says, once his footsteps have faded. “He’s gonna get tanked at home and text us just like he did last year.”

“I miss Tomura-kun,” Toga says, her voice softer than before. “I thought we’d all be together at the end.”

“I know,” Deku says. “I’m sorry.”

“And you’re sure –” Spinner breaks off. “You’re sure you couldn’t get his ashes or something? So we could –”

“There was nothing left of Shigaraki,” Deku says. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Spinner says. Toga sniffles. “We know.”

The group splits, Toga in one direction, Spinner in the other. A moment later, Deku walks past you, and you do everything you can to fade into the background short of turning yourself camo-colored. It doesn’t work. “Did you hear all that?” Deku asks. You nod. He sighs, or sniffles, maybe. He looks younger up close. “You were here last year, right?”

“And the year before,” you say. The longer you look at him, the worse shape he’s in. “Um, are you okay?”

“It’s just –” Deku’s eyes well up, suddenly. “It’s hard. I can’t say what I want to say to them.”

“Why not?” you ask stupidly, and he shakes his head. “Um – do you want to sit down?”

You wouldn’t ask another hero that, but you feel like it’s worth the risk. Even though he’s twenty-one, you can’t look at him and see anything other than a kid, and it feels wrong to let a kid stand there and cry. Deku sits down next to you. “I know I’m not supposed to ask,” he starts, his voice watery, “but you never say anything when it’s your turn. Most people don’t come here. Even the ones who lost somebody would rather be at a party somewhere. Why do you come back?”

You have to think about it for a second. Deku cringes. “Sorry. You don’t have to answer.”

“I sort of do.” It might hit your probation requirements, and even if it doesn’t, you should explain anyway. “What you said earlier, in your speech – I’m one of the people the world got better for. My life would have been awful if it had stayed the same. But in order for me to have this life, we had to have the war.”

“What did you do during the war? Were you in a shelter?”

You shake your head. “The shelters banned people with criminal records,” you say. Deku’s eyes widen. “Nowhere would let me in.”

It wasn’t all that different from the way you were living before – not much food, not very safe. The only difference was a sharp increase in the number of abandoned buildings for you to crash in. But it looks like you’re making Deku feel worse, not better, and you scramble into part two of your explanation. “I’m one of the NCRA participants. That program only exists because of the war – and you, because you won’t let people forget why the war happened. So I want to remember why the war happened, too. And I want to honor it. Them.”

“Him,” Deku corrects, and your stomach clenches. “I wonder what he thinks of all of this. If it’s enough. If it’ll ever be enough. I mean, obviously it’ll never be enough for him, because he doesn’t – I mean, I can’t ask him, but I know he can see it. I don’t know where he is, but if I could just ask him –”

You didn’t realize Deku believed this strongly in the afterlife. You sit quietly, and after a few seconds, he remembers you’re there. He glances at you, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “Do you not get to talk about it very much?”

“No,” Deku admits. “People want to move on. And I don’t really blame them. But I can’t. Not until I know for sure.”

It’s quiet for a little bit. He wipes his eyes. You watch the candles flicker down a few millimeters more. “You’re in the NCRA,” Deku says finally. “For job training, or did you get a loan?”

“I got a loan,” you say. “I run a coffee shop now. With free WiFi.”

“Do people like it?”

“I think so,” you say. You think of the kids who come to study, the people who use the WiFi for remote work, the old people who walk the beach every morning and stop by for coffee and pastry afterwards. “I have regulars, anyway. And people talk to me now. They never used to.”

“People talk to me now, too,” Deku says. “It’s nice.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “It is.”

It is, but it’s not quite what you meant, and you don’t want to interrupt when Deku starts talking about the NCRA. It’s not just that people talk to you. They talked to you before, but now they see you – not as a criminal, but as a person like them, minus the squeaky-clean record. That’s new, and that’s good. You know even less about Shigaraki Tomura than Deku does, but even if he’d hate what’s happened to the world he wanted to destroy, you’re thankful anyway. The world is better now. It’s better because of Deku, and Deku’s the way he is because of Shigaraki.

There are fireworks going off over the bay, distant enough that you can’t hear the sound. Closer than that, you hear music and laughter from a street party you passed on your way here from the train station. Deku trails off after a while, and you don’t speak up again. The two of you sit in silence until the last of the candles burns away.

You get home late, and it’s an early morning opening up the café. Luckily for you, everybody else is also running late courtesy of the holiday yesterday. Osono comes by fifteen minutes off-schedule and full of apologies, and while you’ve got your doors open by seven, it’s not until seven-fifty-eight that your first customers come through the door. It’s a double shot of espresso kind of day, and while you’re pulling them, your customers tell you about the parties they went to last night. When they ask what you did, you tell them you went into the city. It’s not a lie.

After the slow start, the shop stays quieter than usual, quiet enough that when Shimura Tenko rolls up just past noon, there’s still plenty of babka left in the pastry case. You start his order before he’s even opened the door – one black coffee, one Nutella-flavored nightmare – and he stops to drop off his stuff at his usual table before he comes up to the counter. You can tell he’s disquieted by something. “Did Present Mic come by and scare everybody off again? How are you going to keep this place open if no one’s here?”

“Mornings are a lot busier than afternoons,” you say. “And spring’s my quietest season, anyway. No tourists like there are in the summer, and it’s not very cold.”

“Yeah.” Shimura glances around, still displeased. “This place had better stay open.”

“It will,” you say. “One shot of espresso or two?”

“Three.”

“Three? It’s your funeral,” you say, but you pull the extra shot. “Late night last night?”

“I went to a party,” Shimura says. You nod. “It was my birthday.”

“Happy birthday.” You cancel half his order. You give people a free drink on their birthday, if you know it and they come in. “Your birthday is April 4th? That’s a tough draw, especially the last few years.”

“You’re telling me.” Instead of retreating to his table like usual, Shimura hovers at the bar. “What about you? Did you go to a party?”

You shake your head. “I went into the city.”

“Which city?”

“Yokohama,” you admit. Shimura’s eyes narrow. “I go to the vigil at Kamino. I have every year they’ve done it.”

“Really,” Shimura says, skeptical. “Why?”

Deku asked you the same question. You have a feeling Shimura won’t like the answer, but it’s the only one you have. “My life is better than it was before the war, because of what happened in the war. I want to be thankful for that. It doesn’t feel right to me to go to a carnival.”

Shimura doesn’t say anything, just watches you. It makes you feel weird. “If I’d known it was your birthday, though, I’d have gone to a party for that. It was your birthday way before it was the Day of Peace.” You’re babbling, and Shimura still hasn’t said a word. “Not that you’d invite me to your birthday party or anything.”

“I didn’t know you’d want to go,” Shimura says slowly. The espresso machine beeps, and you focus on it way harder than you’d do under ordinary circumstances. “Look, I – it wasn’t my party. Just a party. It’s not like I went in a fucking birthday hat.”

“That would look pretty weird with your hood still up,” you say. Shimura makes an odd sound. You look up and see the corners of his eyes crinkling again. “Still, though. I’ll remember for next year. I’ll get a cupcake or something. Even if you don’t want somebody who’s done time at your birthday party.”

Shimura laughs at that. Actually laughs. Your chest constricts, filling with warmth in a way that feels out of proportion to the situation at hand. “I only want people who’ve done time at my birthday party,” he says. “Don’t try to give me that drink for free. You letting this place go under would be a shitty birthday present.”

“Too late. It’s already free and I’m not rerunning the sale.” You pour the black coffee and set it down on the pickup counter, followed by the godawful Nutella drink. “Happy birthday plus one.”

Shimura rolls his eyes, but they’re still crinkled slightly at the corners. He doesn’t respond until he’s already halfway back to the table, and he’s so quiet that you have to strain your ears to hear. “Thanks.”

You should say something. Something like “you’re welcome”, or “any time”. Something that sounds like good customer service, instead of what you’re worried will come out of your mouth if you open it right now. The conversation is over. Nothing else needs to be said. You turn to face your small workspace, searching for a distraction. There has to be something you can clean.

It’s been so long since you had a crush that you barely remember what it’s like, but you’re pretty sure you have a crush on Shimura. As far as crushes go, he’s kind of a weird pick – because he’s a customer, because he’s not the friendliest, because he hasn’t given any indication that he likes you at all. He likes babka and free internet and the horrible off-menu mocha you make just for him. That’s it.

It feels weird to have a crush. Weird in how normal of a thing it is to do, when you’ve been so focused on looking normal and pretending to be normal that you haven’t done anything actually normal in a while. But maybe this is a good thing, and maybe it’s okay. You might get released early from your NCRA requirements, and even if you don’t, you’re doing well. You can afford to like somebody again.

The café stays quiet, and with two hours left before closing time, you’re getting bored. Bored, and you haven’t switched out the mural since before your last check-in with Present Mic. Now’s an okay time for that. You scribble a sign to prop up on the counter – I’m here, just yell – and head towards the back wall. You have to pass Shimura to get there, and as you do, he looks up. “I’m not looking,” you say. “I’ll just be over here.”

“Doing what?”

“A new mural,” you say. “Pretend I’m not here.”

Shimura decides to start right away, and you flex your fingers more out of habit than anything else. Then you set your hand on the wall and activate your quirk, changing the entire wall from the wildflower mural back to the same blank neutral as the others. That’s a good start. Now you just need to figure out what you’re going to do with it.

Actual muralists sketch and line their work. They work from references and they draft the design before they actually start painting. You know that because you used to want to be a muralist yourself. You could sketch and line things, but these days you’re more about feelings than anything else, and feelings take color. You block the wall into a few sections – you remember to do that, at least – and fill in general colors, running your fingers along the edges to blur them together. Grey base and sides. Dark-colored middle. The entire upper half of the wall is light. It’s not until you’ve added the half-circle above the horizon that you get a real understanding of what you’re making.

It's another cityscape, or the ruins of one, something you saw in photos or maybe in person. It looks a lot like the sunrise view from Kamino Ward, the sky on fire with deep purple and orange and pink and gold, the reflection of those colors splashed across the sea, the wreckage of the city bathed in morning light. You’ve done enough therapy to psychoanalyze yourself, and it’s not hard to see what you were going for with this. Things are horrible. Things were horrible for a long time before today, but the sun is still rising, and the sunrise is still beautiful. And it’s a lot easier to see now, with all the other stuff out of the way.

“That’s not paint.”

You weren’t expecting Shimura to say anything, and you weren’t expecting him to pay attention to what you’re doing. But when you look back over your shoulder, you see him staring, his phone set aside, the lid of his laptop shut. “It’s not paint,” you say. “Just my quirk.”

“How does it work?” Shimura asks. You turn back to your mural, and you hear him get to his feet. A moment later he’s standing beside you, answering his own question. “You can change the color of things you touch. And decide how long it stays that way.”

“Yeah.” After using it your whole life, you’re pretty good at it. You can fine-tune stuff, enough to add shading to the buildings and the rubble at the sides and bottom of the mural without compromising the light from the sunrise. “Not a very powerful quirk.”

“You could still cause trouble,” Shimura says. You could. And you did. “This is how you got your charges, isn’t it? Stuff like this.”

“Graffiti? Yeah,” you say. You remember the rush you got the first time you tagged something, the first time you spilled your thoughts and feelings in a way no one could ignore. “Except when you do that, you get charged with trespassing and vandalism, and when they figure out they can’t remove it, you get charged with destruction of property. Throw in malicious unlicensed quirk usage and – boom. Felonies.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Me or them?”

“Giving somebody a felony for painting stuff on walls.” Shimura studies what you’ve done so far. “All of these have been yours, right? Is this the same stuff you were painting before?”

“Not always,” you say. This conversation falls under your NCRA obligations, but it doesn’t feel like it’s the reason Shimura’s asking – and it’s not the reason you’re telling him. “When I first got into it, it was just words or sentences. Stuff I couldn’t figure out how to say out loud. The first time I really got busted, it was for tagging the side of my parents’ house.”

“Your parents called the cops on you?”

“And pressed charges,” you say. He’s staring at you again. You pretend you don’t notice and fuss over the shoreline in the mural. “I got better at it when I was older. The art got better, anyway. But I got in more trouble because of where I put it. And I guess what was in it.”

“Anything I’d have seen?”

“I don’t know. Where did you hang around?” you ask. You got booked in most of the big cities in Japan during your criminal career. “Uh, I did the UA barrier. The one with the – you know.”

“The human shields?” Shimura bursts out laughing. “Did you have a sibling in Eraserhead’s class or something?”

“No, I just thought it was stupid to do the Sports Festival a week after what happened,” you say. Shimura snickers. “It felt like they were using the kids as props to distract from how much of a mistake they’d made, and I was mad about a lot of other stuff, too, and – yeah. I kind of went off.”

You really went off. There’s no other way to describe triggering the UA barrier on purpose at two am so you could make a crude mural of All Might, Endeavor, Hawks, and Best Jeanist hiding behind a bunch of kids in school uniforms. Shimura is still snickering. “Damn. I’m surprised they call you nonviolent with how bad you hurt their feelings.”

“They had to replace the whole barrier,” you say, and Shimura wheezes. “I’m not trying to be funny.”

“No, but it is funny.” Shimura glances at you over the edge of his mask. “And now you run a coffee shop and make things like this.”

He looks away from you, back to the mural. “Is this something real? It looks familiar,” he says. Before you can answer, his eyes widen, and he says it himself. “Kamino Ward. Why would you paint it like that?”

“It’s how I see it in my head. Or how I feel it. I don’t really know.” You reach out and use the tip of your index finger to highlight one of the buildings that’s still standing in sunrise gold. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” Shimura reaches out and touches it with one gloved hand. “People are going to be pissed at you.”

“If they recognize it.” You’re not too worried. “Most people just look at the colors.”

“I recognized it.”

“You’re not most people.”

You instantly wish you hadn’t said a word. Shimura Tenko glances at you quickly, then looks back to the mural. “Yeah,” he says. “I was there.”

Your stomach drops. “You were?” you repeat hopelessly, and he nods without looking your way. “I’m sorry. It’s – insensitive. I’ll take it down –”

“No.” Shimura catches your wrist before you can make contact with the mural. “Leave it. I was gone for this part. It’s a nice view. The horizon, I mean.”

That’s your favorite part, and you’re not even done with it yet. “I still have some stuff to add,” you say. Shimura nods but doesn’t let go of your wrist. You pull at it slightly. “I need this back.”

“Fuck. Sorry.” Shimura recoils like you’ve burned him, then backs away. Way too far away. You’d say he was making fun of you, except you can see his eyes over the mask, and they’re expressive in spite of his complete lack of eyebrows. “Sorry. I don’t usually – touch people.”

“It’s okay.” Your wrist feels tingly where his hand made contact, and there are butterflies in your stomach. He doesn’t usually touch people, but he touched you. “Thanks for stopping me.”

Shimura turns away completely. “I have to work.”

“Yeah. I didn’t mean to distract you.”

“I know.” Shimura slides back into his booth. You turn back to put the finishing touches on your mural.

He’s right about it. In the hour left before you close, at least one customer who trickles in gives you a hard time for putting up something so upsetting. You listen to his concerns, but you stick to your guns, and when he sits down to wait for his order, you see him watching it. Just like Shimura is, the screen of his laptop long since gone dark.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #tomura shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #tenko shimura x reader #shimura tenko x reader #shigaraki tomura #shimura tenko #x reader #reader insert #coffee shop rehab fic #man door hand hook car door #a bisquared production

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steviewashere · 5 months ago

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hmmm i think for a prompt i will sayyy steve/eddie for not actually unrequited with steve scared of defining their relationship bexause he doesn’t want to be rejected but their friendship is super affectionate and closer than his previous friendships <3

Okay, finally getting around to doing some of the prompts in my inbox. But I gotta admit, I may not have gone the way that this was supposed to. It's still good, but I'm unsure. Thank you for the prompt!! <3

Tags: Getting Together, Love Confessions, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Unrequited Love, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Mutual Pining, Yearning, Domestic, Bisexual Eddie Munson, Friends to Lovers, Steve Harrington Has a Crush on Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Insecure Steve Harrington, First Kiss, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Hand Holding, Back of Hand Kisses (My Love)

💕—————💕 He brushes away a stray hair from Eddie’s face and wonders, not for the first time, when they got so close on the couch.

Steve knows that he’s doomed. There’s something in his relationship with Eddie that’s new, unspoken, treacherous. And he suspects that it started with the gentle touches. The way his fingers move over the frizz on Eddie’s curls and how he can map all the scars on their torsos. He’s aware of all the noises Eddie makes in his sleep and how their legs lock into each other under his comforter. He knows where Eddie is, based solely on the echoing steps his feet make. If they move soft, he’s in his socks, moving through the hallways to avoid waking Steve up.

There a lot of things he knows about Eddie, in fact.

Coffee with three teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk. All laundry dried, except for his jeans; and he’s allergic to the Tide, but not Gain. He brushes his teeth with Arm & Hammer, flosses twice a day, and uses spearmint mouthwash only at night. Every Tuesday between 7pm-9pm, he allots time in his schedule just for campaign planning; he needs to be reminded to eat dinner on those days, so Steve always makes something and sits with him until he’s done. Sometimes they hold each other’s hands, a reminder, Steve supposes. Eddie enjoys pepperoni and olives on his pizza, and will gladly take Steve’s olives. He takes his eggs scrambled with cheese, but colby jack, not the Kraft American slices. Bees are his mortal enemy and just one sting would upend him in the hospital. His skin burns easy in the summer, so he applies double the sunscreen, and Steve has done this all before. He has freckles on his back, over his shoulders, up the sides of his neck, on his face. Steve likes to try and count them, but loses track the moment Eddie giggles or smiles.

When he comes over to watch a movie, he always slouches on the right cushion and lets Steve wrap around his left side. He prefers sci-fi over action, but action over romance, but romance over sad dramas. His favorite animals are cats and will adamantly refuse to watch or listen to anything involving that said animal dying. If silences stretch for too long, Eddie taps his fingers over the shapes of his rings, though never slides them off his fingers. He tapes his rings because they’re too big to fit naturally—they were hand-me-downs from his grandpa on his mom’s side, a last gift given before he passed. His mom smelt like Love’s Baby Soft, so when he’s having a particularly bad day, he sprays his pillows with an old bottle he kept. (It’s almost empty and Steve already bought a new one for when it runs out, he just has to have the gall to give it to him.)

Eddie runs cold. Eddie wears three layers all the time—at least. Eddie speaks softly when it’s just the two of them. Eddie always looks at him. Eddie listens to him. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

That’s all Steve’s brain is.

And he knows that it’s too much for them to just be friends. But that’s all they are.

He doesn’t want that to be the case, but when he gets the chance to open his mouth and finally say something, it’s like the words die half-way out of his chest. Because Eddie’s like him, in some ways, trying to find the right person, not finding that person, going out and trying again. He hooks-up with girls on the weekdays and goes out to seedy bars on the weekends. His collarbones are sometimes riddled with hickeys; when Steve chances a glance at him, when he’s shirtless and getting ready to share the bed, before he gets in the pool, when he’s a little too warm, when he wants Steve to apply the sunscreen, when he wants fingers tracing the edges of his scars—when he wants to talk about something that went wrong with the girl.

Like tonight.

Eddie’s on his couch. Hair in his face. Shirt off.

He leans too far into Steve’s side, even if it means nothing. He laughs and places a palm on the center of Steve’s back. He shoves his cheek against the side of Steve’s face and whispers hot and harsh on his ear, wet and warm and soothing, all too close—and Steve can smell him. Musk and sweat and Love’s Baby Soft and citrus and Irish Spring and a little like marijuana. He laughs again and stumbles into Steve’s side and places his head on the nook of his shoulder. He calls Steve sweetheart and squeezes his hand.

He always does, though. All of this. He always is this. Too much and too affectionate and too sweet and too ‘Steve’s type.’

Steve can’t take his eyes off of Eddie. Wondering, not for the first time, when he’ll just say what he needs to.

“I think you’re beautiful,” Steve wants to say, “I think you’re kind. I think you’d look good underneath me on my bed. I think I like when you wear my clothes whenever you stay over. I think I’d make you breakfast forever if it meant you’d sit at my table. I think I love you, Eddie. Eddie, god, I think I love you.”

They’re just friends, though. Nothing less.

Nothing more.

And Steve’s afraid of the nuance of this friendship he has. Is it better to never say a thing? Or should he rip the bandaid off and eventually plaster it over his broken heart the moment Eddie rejects him?

Because, as is, all Eddie talks about is girls. Girls with tattoos. Girls with nerd interests. Girls with wild makeup. Girls.

And Steve, noticeably, is not a girl.

He’s none of what Eddie is seeking. Nothing of what he wants. What he desires.

“I don’t know,” Eddie sighs, “she just isn’t the one.”

Steve grunts. “That makes no sense,” he softly exclaims, elbowing Eddie. Washing in the hiss and smirk that Eddie gives him. He’d bathe in whatever Eddie handed to him, if only to have him here, like this, all the time. “It just…You say she’s perfect under you. You say she’s funny and sweet and beautiful. You say all these nice things about this girl, but she isn’t the one? None of that makes sense to me, Eds.”

Eddie’s gaze on him shifts then, something more distant and pained. His fingers splayed over Steve’s thighs, they flex and flatten and tickle. He twists his mouth. And swallows hard, enough to flex the muscles of his neck. “Yeah, I guess I did,” he murmurs. Then, he leans in further. Further, somehow, always further.

And something in Steve wilts. Because, “This isn’t fair.”

“What?” Eddie mutters, brows furrowing. “What’s not fair, Stevie?” He blinks and Steve’s immediately in a daze. His eyelashes are long and dark and creating soft shadow under his eyes. His cheeks are flushed with rosacea pink blush. And has an overwhelming amount of sweet, sugary softness in his stare—enough that Steve’s stomach stirs nauseously.

“This,” Steve whispers. He wrenches his hand away from where it, on an automatic shift, went to trace Eddie’s scars—especially the one closest to him, a wide and silvery one over his left ribs. The one that’s smooth under Steve’s touch.

Nervously, Eddie chuckles. His hand instinctively tightens over Steve’s leg. “Sweetheart, I don’t—“

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Steve exclaims, finally jumping apart. He stands shakily from his couch and faces where he sat, towering over Eddie’s stupidly big, soft eyes and his gentle scowl and the flush of his pale skin. His shadow draws his attention towards the highlights over Eddie, the light yellow on his irises and the glint of scars and that shiny silver of his decade old rings. “This thing you’re doing. The—The—Flirting!”

“Flirting?” Eddie innocently asks. He blinks again, owlishly this time.

“Yes, Eddie! Flirting! You do it all the time…You—You always call me sweetheart and you’re always touching me and…” But he takes in Eddie’s face again. How pretty he is. How stupidly endearing every aspect of him is. And he—

God, Steve can’t do this. He can’t ruin this.

“…Never mind,” he mutters, “don’t worry about it.” And he sits back down. A noticeable gap between them.

“Steve?”

He shakes his head. But otherwise remains silent.

“Steve,” Eddie calls again, softly. So small that it could’ve been lost inside the couch cushions. “Do you not like when I do those things?”

“I like them,” Steve can at least admit. “I don’t mind.”

But Eddie doesn’t touch him again. He looks away, Steve can sense it, even with his own eyes facing forward. His t-shirt is put back on, Steve can see every movement Eddie makes and knows exactly what part of his body he’s using and what exactly he’s doing.

And then they’re just silent.

Maybe he’s already ruined it. He always knew that everything would fall through the moment he admitted anything. The moment he made some sort of realization. And it’s not like the crush was unprecedented. It was slow. Small things, at first. Other things, when time gave way to them. He catalogued everything. And he knew, the moment he learned to touch Eddie where it mattered most—over his scalp and the scars and down the slope of his nose—he was already falling in love.

Of course he’s in love with one of his best friends.

He’s always in love with a best friend. Always somebody that becomes unattainable. First, it was Tommy and then Tommy started dating Carol. Then, it was Nancy and they were great, but then she wanted Jonathan. After, it was Robin and he’s fine with not having Robin in that way, thank god not in that way. He should’ve seen it coming when Eddie stuck around.

He should’ve known. Why didn’t he know?

But if he spoke, Eddie would find a reason to not love him back. That was the scary part. Tommy—he couldn’t see it. Nancy—she never loved him, not really. Robin—well, that one goes left unsaid. What would Eddie find? Would he realize how clingy Steve is? Would he become embarrassed by Steve’s romance movie type of love: drive-in dates and sweet kisses on the lips and slow embraces that lasted forever? Would he come to terms with having nothing in common, despite having everything to talk about as friends? Would he get bored? Would he just…fizzle out?

Steve can imagine it all. Becoming boring. Becoming uninteresting. Becoming unlovable.

Not being desirable.

That’s all he wants. To be desired the way he desires. All too much. All at once. Like flames engulfing the world. He wants and he wants and he wants.

But if he spoke, he’d have to continue wanting—though from an arm’s length. Because Eddie would leave, probably. Turn him down. Realize the truth about Steve Harrington.

The boy everybody wants, but nobody loves.

He’d still want Eddie, though, even if he realized.

“I didn’t know—“

“Eddie,” Steve murmurs, “you don’t have to…Don’t do this with me. Just ignore it. Please, Eds, just ignore it.”

Gentle fingers on the back of his hand. Pushing the skin upward, towards his knuckles. “And if I didn’t want to ignore it?” Eddie asks. So soft. So small.

Steve blinks, his eyes wet and his throat burning. “Don’t—“ He takes a shuttering breath as Eddie’s palm wraps around his whole hand. “Eddie, please,” he pleads, “don’t do this if you don’t mean it.”

Eddie’s hand flexes, squeezing. “Steve,” he murmurs, “look at me?”

Hesitantly, and oh so slowly, Steve makes his head move. He catches Eddie’s eyes, the first thing he always notices when they’re together, and melts. They’re like voids, pulling Steve in. A warm void, though. A hot bath. He raises their joined hands to his lips. They’re a little dry, soft and warm over Steve’s skin.

“I want to mean it,” Eddie quietly confesses.

“But,” Steve mutters, “but what about all those girls?”

“They’re not the one,” Eddie says, “they’re not you.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

Eddie gazes at him now. The way love interests do in all the movies Steve’s ever loved. With a softness like that of cat backs, the ones Eddie likes. With warmth like that of Eddie’s dried laundry. With sweetness like that of Eddie’s morning coffee. His lips are pressed into the back of Steve’s hand again.

“They’re not you,” Eddie reiterates. “They aren’t sweet to me, they aren’t gentle or funny in those silent ways you are. And they aren’t handsome with your good hair. Or warm against me. I’m with them and all I can think about is coming back to you, talking to you, holding you, laying next to you. All I think about is you.”

Steve raises his free hand to the right side of Eddie’s face. Cups his cheek, runs his thumb over his cheekbone, tangles his fingers in the hair above his ear. “You’re all I think about, too,” Steve admits. “Even when I’m hanging out with you, I’m still thinking about you.” He smiles back at the received soft one Eddie has. His dimples have never looked this good. And his mouth is plenty kissable. His face is warm and pink under Steve’s hand.

So he leans in, slowly, enough for everything to be taken back. For him to wake up from this possible dream. And when there’s nothing left to do but lean forward that extra millimeter, Steve kisses him.

Eddie tastes like pepperonis and olives and spearmint. He’s focused completely, kissing back with enough force to make Steve nearly fall backwards. His lips move as if devouring. Steve hopes he tastes just as good.

“I love you,” Eddie confesses first. “I’ve loved you for…a fucking long time.”

Steve, the hopelessly hopeful romantic that he is, melts. “I love you, too,” he breathes.

“Boyfriends?” Eddie asks, smirking, but not teasing.

He nods. “Yeah, Eds. Wanna be your boyfriend.” Something more. God, they're something more.

💕—————💕

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #unrequited love #not actually unrequited #angst and hurt/comfort #getting together

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gunnerfc · 11 months ago

Text

🎄WOSO FICMAS: Dec. 18 - Kyra Cooney-Cross 🎄

Kyra Cooney-Cross x Reader (Arsenal) | WC: 753

Dec. 18 prompt - finding yourself under the mistletoe with the person you have a crush on

-> woso ficmas masterlist can be found here!

Leah had decided to host a team Christmas party after the last game of 2023, wanting everyone to have a chance to celebrate the holidays together before everyone left to go home. As you got ready for the party, you could feel the nerves starting to grow within you. Your crush on Kyra only growing by the day and you weren’t sure what to do about it. You hadn’t told anyone on the team, knowing the second they found out, they’d tease the hell out of you.

You were one of the first to arrive at the party, offering to help Leah finish setting up and making sure everything was ready to host the entire team. In rushing around to finalize everything, you failed to notice the mistletoe that was in the doorway leading to Leah’s kitchen. Had you known about the little plant that was up there, you would have avoided being alone with Kyra even more than you would have naturally.

It wasn’t until everyone had arrived that you truly noticed the nerves. Watching from the living room as Kyra made small talk with her fellow Aussies, you felt your face flush as you heard Leah sit beside, you clearing her throat to get your attention. When you met the blonde’s eye, she didn’t say anything but the knowing smirk on her face let you know your secret crush had just been discovered.

You quickly excused yourself to the kitchen, needing to find something to drink and to calm your nerves. Standing in the doorway, now with a cup in your hand you let your head rest against the siding, your breathing evening out.

“Hi, Y/N. you good?” the familiar Aussie accent caused you to jerk your head away from the siding, making eye contact with the one person you were trying to avoid tonight.

“Yeah! Yeah, I'm good! How are you?” you were sure Kyra could hear how shaky your breath was but she didn’t comment on it, a small “me too” leaving her mouth.

Kyra moved closer to the doorway, now standing under the mistletoe that neither of you knew was there. Neither of you spoke, both feeling the nerves of being this close to the person you had a crush on, even though the other had no idea.

Just as you were about to speak, planning on asking about how she planned to spend the holidays back in Australia, Katie walked in between you, focused on getting a drink from the kitchen. You and Kyra both moved to let the Irishwoman pass, not expecting her to stop right in front of the two of you.

“Y’know you're under the mistletoe, ya gotta kiss now.” Katie didn’t bother to stay to see if you followed through.

You and the midfielder stood staring at each other with wide eyes before slowly looking up, coming face to face with the mistletoe. A small part of you was hoping Katie was just fucking with you but she had in fact been telling the truth.

Both you and Kyra locked eyes again, both feeling your nerves. Though a part of you saw this as an opportunity to finally tell the Aussie how you felt.

“We don’t have to! I'm sure they won't even know that we didnt.” Kyra spluttered, not wanting to make you uncomfortable.

With a quick shake of your head, you muttered “I want to.”

Neither of you moved at first, but Kyra made the first move, stepping closer to you giving you time to leave if you wanted. You quietly exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding as you moved a hand up to rest on the side of the midfielder’s neck. Kyra gave you a little nod before your lips met in a short but sweet kiss.

You both pulled away, faces flushed from having finally made a move. Neither of you spoke and soon the quietness between the two of was broken as you heard Caitlin calling for Kyra. Despite the other Austrialian’s yelling, Kyra didn't move.

“If I don't go see what she wants, she’s just gonna keep getting louder.” the Aussie joked, but before you could respond, she added, “We can talk about this later I promise. I really like you and I wanna take you out on a date.”

All you could do was nod, not fully trusting your voice. Kyra’s smile grew, the Aussie leaning in to give you a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving to find your teammate.

#woso x reader #woso #awfc x reader #auswnt x reader #matildas x reader #kyra cooney cross #kyra cooney cross x reader

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dontbelasagnax · 5 months ago

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MISSION SUCCESS MUHAHAH I'd take any of the prompts from you really, so how about 21? Wildcard! Dealers choice! My only request is that it's in-universe 😚

(if you can't decide then maybe bloody kiss? I did once say that you writing angst would be the ultimate win for me)

Alright!! I've finally finished this first prompt!! Both of you, @lightasthesun and anon, wanted bloody kiss so here we are. Ann, since you wanted angst, I believe I am delivering that. However. You must know I'm not an angst person so I cried three times while writing this despite knowing it has a happy ending. You will pay somehow.

Pairing: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1,851

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Major Character Injury, First Kiss, Getting Together, Angst with a Happy Ending

Summary:

All things considered, Cody probably should have seen it coming.

[ OR: Cody gets shot off a cliff. This is obviously quite dire. If he's got one chance left to kiss Obi-Wan, he'll take it. ]

(fic under the cut if you wish to read here on tumblr)

All things considered, Cody probably should've seen it coming.

He didn't.

There was a moment, just one, where he looked over his shoulder at his General and their troops. It was oddly peaceful, trudging forward together. He had a passing thought that moments like that were rare.

He was on a cliff. And then he wasn't.

Somewhere amidst the blast, the rush of blood in his ears, the icy lurch of his stomach, and a panicked thought that he really should've worn his jetpack, he heard a shout.

It might have been his own voice. He couldn't be sure.

The fall was rough. His body seemed to find every jutting rock off the side of the cliff to bounce off of. He says bounce. The gravity on this planet is stronger than most. It was more of a solid collision straight down with the weight of his body rolling him off every surface he met until he fell straight through air to what he thinks is the ground.

He blinks rapidly, spots of black dancing across his vision. Breaths come out shallow and laboured and- is it silent? Where's the sound? Is it- there's a high pitched ringing and-

"-ody! Cody!"

The spotty sky is cut by blurs of Obi-Wan. There are lines down- oh. His visor must be shattered. Nevertheless, he doesn't like the expression on his general's face.

"Cody," it's husked out, too harried and somehow gentle at once.

"Sir," Cody tries to say. It comes out raspy and gurgled. His mouth tastes of iron. This isn't good. "Did you-" a cough wracks his body and it's perhaps the most painful moment of his existence, "jump?"

"You know the answer to that."

Against his better judgment, Cody feels compelled to sit up at that. He can't quite pinpoint which part of his body protests most. It all turns into one searing blaze of pain. His vision blurs.

He heaves a great stuttered breath which seems to hurt almost as much.

He knows it's bad.

"The men need you," he tries.

"At the moment you need me more."

"Sir."

"Cody, please."

Cody closes his eyes. Breathes as shallowly as he can. A tear trails down his cheek. He swallows dryly. "Can't move."

"Oh, Cody."

"Can you- helmet?"

There's the hiss of his bucket coming unlatched and then it's tugged free.

With the increased range of vision, he glances down at whatever he can make out of himself. It's not pretty. Plastoid is somehow painted red and his left arm seems to be twisted at an unnatural angle.

Yeah. He's not making it out of this alive.

He drinks in the sight Obi-Wan makes above him, hair flopped over his forehead, a smear of ash across his cheek. He's beautiful.

The warmest, kindest hand cradles Cody's cheek. "I'll get you a med-evac-"

"They cut off," Cody fights a wheeze, "communications, remember?" A wet cough erupts violently- shaking him from the inside out. Time ceases through the blinding pain. When his lungs quiet there's wetness falling down his face. Blood and tears. "You've gotta go, sir."

"No, Cody. No."

"Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan goes stockstill, staring with wide, wet eyes. Too soft. Too full of urgency and pain and yearning. He's always trying to get Cody to refer to him by his first name.

There's always a first time for everything. And a last.

"C'mere."

"Cody," Obi-Wan says even as he leans in closer and rubs a thumb across Cody's cheek. Their foreheads meet. He can't decide if Obi-Wan’s breath on his skin is comforting or exhilarating.

With all the strength he can muster, Cody tilts up his chin and closes the remaining distance between them.

A kiss.

Warm press of lips to lips. Just the hint of facial hair brushing against his skin. He can't imagine it gets better than this, even with lips as cracked as they are and wet with blood instead of a balm or saliva. It's not as if he knows better. It's his first kiss after all.

Another first and last.

It's only fitting for it to be with Obi-Wan. The person he's very privately begun to think of as the love of his life.

In another life, when he opened his eyes after their first kiss, the cause of his blurred vision would be Obi-Wan's fault alone. "Always wanted to do that," Cody croaks.

It's true. He's wanted a lot of things. A lot of simple, impossible things that will never be. But. He's dying here and now. He knows how to make the best out of a bad situation.

Obi-Wan’s expression is nothing short of cracked through and through with devastation. "I won't leave you here."

He doesn't think he's ever heard his general’s voice clogged with tears before.

"You will.”

And because he doesn't have to pretend anymore that he doesn't want to touch his general--that he doesn't want to feel his skin and share his breath and know him in the most intimate of ways--Cody reaches for Obi-Wan's hand.

In an instant, his stomach churns as his vision swims, he realizes his mistake. That was his mangled arm he tried to move. The tide of the pain is too strong to fight. Obi-Wan blurs to nothing but a smear, words turn to garbled noises and-

The world goes black.

[Beep]

Cody comes to with the groggy need to open his eyes. It’s a struggle. Seemingly with the weight of an AT-AT upon his eyelids, he blinks his eyes open to searing bright white. Immediately his eyes shut. Not to be deterred, he tries again, blinking steadily until he can see.

Sterile white ceiling. Fluorescent lamps. A flimsy curtain. Annoying beeping.

He's in a med bay.

Tubes and wires. Barely patterned sheet. A hand holding his own-

A chunk of unmistakable ginger bangs flopping onto an eyebrow. Tired eyes looking at Cody so fondly, creases of a smile drawing from the edges of his eyes down his cheeks.

“They said you'd awaken soon,” says Obi-Wan. A thumb strokes Cody's wrist.

"'m I dead?" Cody croaks. His throat is drier than the heated days on Geonosis. He frowns. Obi-Wan is here. That isn’t right. "Are we both dead?"

"I should certainly hope not.”

So. Not dead.

Well.

That's unexpected.

“Wha-” Cody's throat catches on a cough and he splutters roughly.

“Here, here, dear.” Obi-Wan’s there with a cup of water, directing a straw past his chapped lips.

He sips the water down gratefully, satisfied as it soothes the parched gravel of his throat. He tilts his head away when he's done and Obi-Wan puts the cup down.

“What happened?” Cody tries again.

“How about I tell you later? After Egg has checked you-”

No. That won't do.

“Sir,” he interrupts, unyielding, “Sitrep.”

Obi-Wan must be tired because he doesn't even try to do their usual mutually stubborn staring match; he just sighs. “Ghost company managed to infiltrate the Separatist base and contact the admiral to request reinforcements and med-evac.”

Cody narrows his eyes. There is a glaring gap of information. “Where were you?”

“With you,” he says plainly.

Cody opens his mouth to say something but Obi-Wan effortlessly silences him by placing his hand over Cody's once more.

“I wouldn't leave any of my men behind to die, but, you- Cody.” There is a deep ocean of emotion pooled in Obi-Wan's eyes and spoken in the two syllables of Cody's name. “I couldn't leave you. Not like that.” Obi-Wan sighs as if expelling the weight from his shoulders. "And,” the corner of his mustache twitches upwards, “personally, I think I deserve a better kiss.”

“You- what?” Cody's brain flickers mid thought.

“The kiss. I deserve a better one, “ he says with near haughty conviction. “It was rude, quite frankly, to kiss me and nearly die. Gave me quite the fright.”

Cody swallows, his mouth suddenly dry again. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.”

Cody's eyes cannot be dragged away from Obi-Wan's lips. As Obi-Wan sits on the edge of the bed, all Cody can see is the hint of teeth catching on Obi-Wan's pink bottom lip.

He's closer now. Closer still as he gently pitches himself over Cody.

Fuck. Fuck.

“Kiss me,” Obi-Wan breathes.

It's not an order. Not really. Cody is helpless but to obey.

He makes a wounded noise into the meeting of their lips.

Obi-Wan is so soft and warm- his lips, his beard, the nudge of his nose. His hand slowly trails up Cody's good arm, bare as Cody seems to only be wearing a med gown. Sparks dance up his skin.

As their lips push and pull into kiss after kiss, heat grows inside Cody's chest and belly, competing with his fluttering stomach, elated and happy and-

“Ahem.”

Their lips separate with a smack. Reality filters in alongside the sound of rapid, high pitched beeping. Obi-Wan pulls away, expression nothing short of sheepish.

Their highest ranking medical officer, Egg, approaches the bed. “I see you're awake and someone failed to notify me.”

“Yes, well-” Obi-Wan starts, face adorably growing pink.

Egg ignores him. “Commander, how are you feeling?” As he speaks, he taps buttons on a machine attached to the wall which blissfully makes the beeping stop. “Any discomfort? Nausea? Pain?”

Cody sets aside the embarrassment of being caught and evaluates himself. He feels… surprisingly fine. “No, nothing.”

“Good. If that changes you've got a button you can easily request more meds with. Use it; there's nothing valiant in unnecessary suffering.”

Cody nods, fully aware he needs to cooperate if he wants to stay on Egg’s good side.

"And, General,” Egg looks directly at Obi-Wan for the first time, “stop making my patient tachycardic."

"I make no such promises.”

Cody shoots him A Look.

“Darling,” oh Force- this is a development Cody had not seen coming, “I do endeavor to never make a promise I can't keep.”

Okay. Well. That's-

Egg sighs, long and weary. “I'll be back in roughly two hours for rounds. If you spill any body fluids in my med bay I'll be requesting your transport to The Resolute med bay. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” both Cody and Obi-Wan respond.

With that, Egg makes his departure, fully swooshing open the privacy curtain before leaving the room.

There is a moment of relative silence. Cody realizes that Obi-Wan is once again holding his hand. He likes it. He likes it a lot.

“That couldn't have gone better,” Obi-Wan announces cheerily.

Cody can't help it.

He laughs.

It starts small, just a huff of breath out his nose until he's wheezing, lips stretched over gum and tears dripping down his face, clutching Obi-Wan who similarly chortles. His laughter is the most joyous of music.

He's alive. Miraculously. And somehow- somehow they're doing things like hold hands now.

It strikes Cody that, although he's confined to this awful med bay bed, for the first time in his life he feels happy. He's actually, truly happy.

There's no way it can last but he hopes he'll remember this moment forever. Acting an absolute fool with the man he loves most. Happy.

#my writing #codywan #commander cody #obi wan kenobi #🫣🫣🫣

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espinosaurusrexex · 2 years ago

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Heyy could you maybe do the verbal fight with bucky from the bingo thing if it isn’t finished yet? love what you write btw <3

Thank you! Also to everyone that helped with their amazing ideas. I couldn’t decide which one to write... I will definitely take another prompt from this post (you can view it as a WIP list lmao)

I had to go with the most detailed one this time because my head is literally blank. Thank you @winterarmyy 💕

Verbal Fight (Bingo Game)

!BINGO ASKS CLOSED!

BuckyBarnes x Reader

word count: 1.6k

warnings: fluff, misunderstandings, and Bucky’s sad internal monologue

Bucky’s eyes jolted open when Natasha and you laughed on the sofa next to him. He had been up for 36 hours now. But he wanted to spend time with his girl after the mission - a mission which left him with little to no sleep on top of physical exhaustion.

His arm was resting on the couch behind you, fingers grazing your shoulder ever so slightly. It was enough to send him into a drowsy state. But as much as whatever he was doing right now neared sleep more than anything had done in the past day, he needed to go to bed. Preferably with you, cuddled up under the warm blanket, the smell of your hair in his nose and your soft body pressed into his. Bucky felt all warm just thinking about it and it plastered a small smile on his face.

“I think I'm going to hit the hay,” he said as he stood from the sofa, and waited once he had done so.

“Ok,” you answered before your eyes wandered to him, an asking eyebrow urging him to talk again. “Anything else?”

His eyebrows raised before his hand reached out to you, a silent plea from him to just take it and follow him. You didn’t always go to bed together, but he liked to believe that you enjoyed it just as much whenever you got the chance to. “Aren’t you gonna join me?”

Your features softened once his request had passed, but you shook your head slightly. “You go ahead, I’ll be right behind ya.” And then you were back to giggling with Natasha.

Bucky’s smile fell. He just wanted his girl in his arms and finally some sleep. Was that so too much to ask? But he didn’t want to sound desperate either.

“Geez, clingy much Barnes?” Nat laughed before you agreed with a giggly “I know, right?” And then started whispering something with her.

Bucky’s shoulders slumped, his heart seemingly doing the same. He just liked being with you. Especially after a mission or when he didn’t get to talk to you much. Was that clingy? Bucky thought it was normal to miss the people he cared about. You always told him you missed him when either of you was away. But apparently, he was a little too much. You had spent the entire evening together after all.

A hoarse ‘okay’ drowned in the giggles in front of him before Bucky turned and headed to his room. How could he not have noticed that he trapped you with his presence? How long had you felt that way? All the questions were eating Bucky up inside. He couldn’t not bother, but he was hoping that his exhaustion would take care of it for now - let him sleep and forget about his racing mind.

-❁-

Unfortunately, Bucky’s wishes remained unheard. He wasn’t sleeping. It had been 43 minutes since he tried. He knew, because every time he opened his eyes in hopes of having dreamt his newest dilemma, the watch hand of the clock on his nightstand had barely moved.

He was constantly bothered by the ways he could change his behavior. The last thing he wanted was to annoy you. But it was hard. He enjoyed your presence so much. It was new for him to feel this attached to a person, and because it felt so nice for a change, he pursued it in all the ways he could.

It was about time it came to bite him in the ass now. Because in his experience, good things never lasted long, not for Bucky anyway. Hell, he was surprised the last four months of your relationship had gone so well. He was bound to mess up - it was in his nature...

The door to his room opened, but Bucky stayed in his position on the bed. His back turned to you, and his face pressed into the pillow frustratedly, we waited for you to just get ready and sleep. He told himself it was so he could be alone with his thoughts again, when really, he just didn’t know what to do - he needed to give you space.

Though Bucky should have known, you weren’t one to ignore an issue - and you always knew when there was one.

The bed dipped but he didn’t move. Your hand reached out to him but he didn’t move. You attempted to turn him to you and he shook your hand off.

“What’s wrong, Buck?” No response. It would only make it worse.

“Come on, talk to me.” You touched his arm again and Bucky finally sat up and turned to you, eyebrows scrunched, breaths heavy.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” There was no way to navigate this. Even if Bucky were able to steer this conversation toward the revelatory outcome he wanted, he had no clue how to do it. It was better to just get space - give you space.

But you wouldn’t budge. You scooched closer to him on the bed, halting when Bucky flinched back. When he caught your eyes then, he found hurt and confusion turning your features. It made his chest sting, his hand clammy.

“You were fine just then. What happened?” Another attempt to reach out to him but he reacted the same. You averted your eyes, picking on the covers. “You know you can tell me anything right? I’m here if you need me-“

“Well, I don’t need you.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. But how else could he tell you that he was anything but clingy?

“You don’t mean that.”

“How would you know what I mean?!” He snapped, his effort to stay calm breaking like a dried stick between his fingers. “I feel like I don’t even know you! You don’t even want to spend time with me.”

But he didn’t miss the fire light up in your eyes at his last words and it sent a shiver through him. “Well, it’s hard when you pull yourself out of every social interaction to ever exist!” You moved away from him and he felt a pull at his heart.

“Maybe I wouldn’t do it if you would actually pay attention to me for once!” Bucky didn’t know where that came from. There was frustration and confusion, and hurt all mixing in his brain, making it hard to distinguish intrusive from rational thoughts.

“Oh, so this is my fault?” You huffed.

“Or maybe I’m just fucking broken. Is that what you’re trying to say?! In this case, I don’t even know why you keep up with me.”

“Buck-”

“If I’m so broken why don’t you just get back to having fun with everyone else on the team and just leave me be? That’s what you do best, right? Be social! Show me how it’s done because I can’t do it. Ever!” Bucky caught a tear falling from your cheek. No. Nonono. This had not been his intention. Shit.

The room fell silent and Bucky took a deep breath. He was just angry at himself. Angry that he was incapable of connecting with people. Angry that he upset you by being clingy once he found the one person he could attach himself to.

“Alright stop it!” Another tear spilled from your eyes but something inside him was still not finished.

“Why? Is it making you uncomfortable to hear the truth?” He hadn’t intended to say it, but his mouth just opened and did. Stupid fucking mouth.

“Bucky!” He flinched once you raised your voice. You had never done it at him. Neither of you had ever fought with each other in fact. “Where the hell is this coming from?” Now your tone was softer and Bucky could feel his heart pumping blood through his body again. Yeah... where the hell was this coming from?

Bucky fumbled with the blanket. He didn’t even notice he was crying until a fat hot tear landed on the covers. He felt you shuffle closer again, relieved that he hadn’t scared you off entirely.

“Do you really think you’re broken?” You spoke so carefully, as if he were to break at any second. And honestly, that might have happened.

“It feels that way too often for it not to be true..,” he whispered ashamed.

“Baby,” You reached out again and this time, he allowed it, needing your touch more than ever before. You pulled him into your chest, your arms encasing him as he slumped against your frame - finally exhaling, relaxing, and falling into your embrace. “Everyone feels like this from time to time. You don’t have to always be happy and confident to be normal or okay.”

Your soothing voice traveled through his exhausted haze, tears still falling from his eyes. "But it feels like I get stuck in my sorrow.”

“That is normal. I have those days, too. Nat has them, Steve does too.”

Bucky moved to look up at you, a silent request for confirmation in his stare, but this time, he felt, you understood. You probably always had.

“It’s true, babe.” Your body rocked softly and it soothed Bucky further into your soft chest. He felt the tension draining from his body, the sleeplessness replacing it in every inch of him.

“Please, talk to me when you feel like this again. I can help you. I want to help you.”

“Thank you.” He smiled weakly. How could he have ever thought you would neglect him? It was stupid, just as stupid as that attempt of his to give you more space.

“Not for this, Bucky.” You kissed his forehead, ultimately lulling Bucky into his well-deserved sleep - with a calm mind, and the promise to never let his insecurities get the better of him again.

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theworldofotps · 2 months ago

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Apple Picking (Drabble) Writing Prompt

Pairing: Damian Priest x OC Rachael Word Count: 640 Description: Rachael finally convinces her boyfriend to take her apple picking.

Got this prompt from @madhatterbri fall writing prompts you can check that out here! Wrote this for one of my faves @new-zealand-chic ________ Tag list: @omg-im-such-a-masochist @melissahausen @new-zealand-chic @writtingrose @hotgirlgraps @madhatterbri @sassymox @mrsacklesevansmgk @xladyxfatex @adamcolesbaybay @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @demonqueen29 @itsicantbelievethis666 @lilred91 @rebellious-desires @surdelcielo @letsgivethisonemoreshot @ava-valerie @shortyiceheart @serpantscorpio8497 @thatpanpal @wrestlersownmyheart @vebner37 @seeingstarks @whenimakeitshine1234 @legit9thlunaticwarrior @ironshamelessyouth @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @ripleyswhore @moonrosekk @xbreezymeadowsx @alyyaana If you wanna be added to the list lemme know. ______ Rachael had been talking about going apple picking for weeks, her excitement for autumn bubbling over every time she saw the leaves start to change color. Her boyfriend Damian, who was usually wrapped up in the chaos of WWE, was finally on a short break with the intention of spending some much needed time with his love. Rachael saw this as her chance it took some gentle convincing and a few cheeky promises that he could never resist. Damian agreed to spend the afternoon at the orchard with her much to her delight.

As soon as breakfast was finished, they got in Damian’s car driving to the closet place, Rachael was practically vibrating with excitement as Damian got their basket. Together they strolled through rows of apple trees, the crisp air filled with the sweet scent of fallen leaves and ripe apples. Rachael was glowing, her joy infectious as she pulled Damian from tree to tree. Pointing out and showing him the very best apples, she could find. He couldn’t help but smile, watching her with adoration as she soaked in every moment. Damian found himself very happy that he finally agreed to bring her here, seeing the delight on her face made his chest warm.

“This one looks perfect.”

She said, pointing to a cluster of apples high up in the tree, a small frown forming on her face as she stood on her tip toes.

“But it’s too damn high…”

Damian glanced up, a playful smirk spreading across his face as he watched her in amusement trying with all she could to reach them.

“I don’t think we can reach those unless you’ve got a ladder hidden somewhere.”

Rachael thought for a moment before her own smirk grew as her eyes trailed over her boyfriend’s tall frame.

“We could do that or maybe you could give me a boost.”

He raised an eyebrow but quickly caught on, bending down slightly he looked back at her.

“Okay then short stuff hop on try not to fall or pass out from the difference in altitude.”

He joked, staying still as she carefully climbed onto his shoulders, steadying herself as he stood upright. She giggled, a mix of exhilaration and nerves, but Damian’s strong hands held her securely and after a moment she let go of his head. From up there, the view was even better; she could see a good few rows over.

“See anything good, are you still conscious?”

Damian asked, tilting his head slightly as he kept ahold of her so she wouldn’t fall that was the last thing he wanted to have happen.

“Plenty and yes you ass I’m still conscious jeez I’m not that short.”

Rachael reached out, plucking a few of the bright red apples setting them in the basket that was hanging on her arm. One slipping from her grip but somehow Damian managed to catch it before it hit the ground and carefully lifted it up to her.

“You’re pretty good at this.”

“Just doing my job.”

He teased, keeping her steady as she continued to pick the basket soon being filled to the brim, she had so many ideas of what to do with the. Finally, she began to slowly climb down, once she was safely on the ground again Damian wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

“You know something you were right.”

He said softly, brushing a kiss against her forehead as he took her hand in his and the basket in his other.

“This was a lot of fun I’m glad we came here together.”

Rachael smiled up at him and stood on her tip toes to give him a light kiss.

“Yeah I’m glad we did too.”

Her heart was full as they continued through the orchard, the perfect autumn afternoon unfolding just as she’d imagined.

#damian priest #autumn writing prompts #damian priest fanfic #damian priest x oc #wwe

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justagalwhowrites · 1 year ago

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CAN YOU WRITE A PRE-OUTBREAK ONESHOT WHERE JOEL TAKES CARE OF HER WHEN SHES SICK?? THAT WOULD BE SO CUTEE

Hi Bestie!

I know I said nothing new today but... I ended up with like 2 hours of writing time and decided to finally respond to an ask. I loved this prompt! Thank you SO MUCH - both for sending it in and (hopefully) patiently waiting for me to get to it. I love you!

Sick Leave

On a visit to Texas, you come down with appendicitis and Joel looks after his girl. Can be read independently, but is within the timeline of Lavender, found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader (Lavender reader)

Warnings: None :) Just fluff

Length: 2.1K

Late July, 2002

“And who’s he?” You asked, all but swallowed by the nest of pillows at the head of the bed.

“That’s Sonny,” Sarah said, curled up beside you, her head on your shoulder. “He’s a mobster, he’s like… the dangerous guy in town?”

“He’s kinda cute,” you nodded. Sarah’s nose crinkled. “What? If he grew a mustache he’d kind of look like your dad…”

“Oh, ugh!” She elbowed your ribs lightly, the way she normally would if you hadn’t just had surgery. You winced. “Oh, crap! I’m sorry…”

“It’s ok,” you adjusted a bit, the spark of pain already fading. “I asked for that, calling your dad cute and all.”

“Yeah, you kind of did,” she agreed, adjusting, too, so she was snuggled in around your arm. “Plus if you think he’s cute, you should see his body guard, Jason. He’s… ugh, he’s just so good. Oh, look, see? There he is.”

You giggled a little.

“He is cute,” you conceded. “Think I like Sonny more, though…”

“Ugh, you would,” she scoffed.

Sarah watched the melodrama intently and you just rested your head against hers, enjoying the chance to snuggle a bit with your favorite kid. It had been an unusual visit to Texas this time around. Instead of trying to cram as much fun stuff into the few weeks you were down as you possibly could, you’d come down with appendicitis just after you got into town. That had meant no trips to Six Flags, no midweek beach trips, not even any matinees to watch movies in the comfort of overpowered air conditioning.

But it had also meant Sarah giving you a thorough education on her latest summer obsession - a soap opera called General Hospital - and Joel, waiting on you hand and foot.

“Baby Girl?” You heard the front door close as Joel came in. “You forgetting that conversation we had about boundaries again?”

“No!” Sarah called, rolling her eyes.

Joel came into the bedroom, a drink carrier with three Diary Queen cups in hand. He shook his head.

“Sure looks like ya are,” he said, setting the ice cream on the dresser. “Thought we decided to give her some space? Make sure you’re not jostling that incision and giving her time to rest?”

“But Dad!” She groaned. “I never get to do this…”

“She’s right, you know,” you said as Joel passed you your Oreo Blizzard. “I’m usually too far away for good soap opera girl time and we’re usually a little too busy when I’m in town to keep up with all the goings on in… where is this again?”

“Port Charles,” Sarah said. Joel handed her a milkshake with a roll of his eyes.

“Port Charles,” you said, smiling up at Joel. “So this, really, is vital stuff. Plus, I’ve learned that Jason is, apparently, cute.”

“Cute, huh?” He asked, getting his own ice cream from the carrier and delicately climbing in on the other side of you.

“Oh yeah,” Sarah said. “I mean, have you seen him? Those arms!”

“I do know a thing or two about liking men with nice arms,” you said, giving Joel a teasing look. He shook his head, grinning slightly.

“Aren’t you a little young to be lookin’ at men’s arms?” Joel asked, leaning over you a little to look at his daughter.

“Dad, I’m 13,” she rolled her eyes.

“You’ve been 13 for a week,” he muttered.

“13 is 13, love,” you took a bite of your Blizzard. “Better get used to it.”

When Sarah got up to run to the bathroom during the commercial, Joel adjusted your pillows and tucked you against his side.

“Seriously,” he said, his voice low. “You need to be resting, I can take her out of the house…”

“Hon, I’ve been in bed for three days,” you smiled at him. “I am resting.”

“Just worried about you,” he kissed your temple. “Scared the hell outta me…”

He’d been like this since you’d gotten sick in the first place.

The first few days of your trip had been fine. There was the ceremonial visit to your favorite Mexican place in town - always the first stop you made besides dropping bags off at Joel’s house.

Sarah was old enough now that she could stay home on her own in the evenings, so you and Joel went with Tommy and a girl he was seeing - you hadn’t bothered to learn her name, you could already tell she wasn’t going to stick - to listen to music the night your flight got in. The next day you spent in the pool, watching Joel grill from the inflatable lounge chair he’d gotten just for you, margarita in hand.

“You’re lookin’ mighty comfortable there, Baby,” he teased.

You shrugged and sipped your drink.

“Might just have to move in,” you said. “Poolside cocktail service is a really nice perk…”

You woke up the next day feeling like shit.

It was like a switch had flipped. You went to bed feeling fine - slightly tipsy, but fine. More than fine after Joel got done with you. And then, right around six in the morning, you were running to the bathroom to puke.

“Shit, baby,” Joel was sitting on the bathtub next to you, one hand on your back, rubbing in broad circles between your shoulder blades, the other holding your hair in his fist. “Maybe I didn’t cook the chicken all the way through…”

“When have you ever fucked up on the grill?” You asked, resting your cheek on your arm as it draped against the toilet seat. Joel’s eyes went a little wide.

“You don’t think you’re…” he broke off. You raised your eyebrows and tried not to laugh.

“Don’t think morning sickness, shows up two days after you sleep with someone,” you said. “And it’s been a few months since I was here over spring break, I think it would have started sooner than now if I were knocked up.”

“Right,” he nodded, looking relieved. “Right…”

“I just picked up a stomach bug at the airport,” you sighed. “Make sure you and Sarah wash your hands a TON, they’re nasty little fuckers…”

You totally lost your appetite and a fever showed up that afternoon. Joel refused to keep his distance, sending Sarah to stay with Lizzy while he brought you a steady stream of Jell-o, chicken broth and popsicles.

“You’re going to get yourself sick,” you said the second night you felt like crap. You were lying on your side, Joel wrapped around you, his broad shoulders enveloping you, his hand splayed over your stomach.

“Don’t care,” he kissed the crown of your head. “Need you at least this close. You’re too fuckin’ far away all the time, not going to let a little stomach flu keep me from touchin’ you while I can.”

You weren’t noble enough to fight him on it. You had nasty stomach cramps all day on top of everything else. Being held by Joel was about the only thing that made you feel better.

It was about four in the morning when the feeling in your stomach went from cramps to sharp, stabbing pain. It jerked you out of a sound sleep, your hand flying behind you to Joel’s hip, your nails digging into him as you fought to breathe through the agony of it.

“Baby?” Joel’s voice was thick with sleep. “What’s goin’ on, you OK? Need somethin’?”

“I think I need to go to the hospital,” you managed through gritted teeth. “I don’t think this is a stomach bug, I think it’s appendicitis…”

Joel was wide awake then, rushing to put on a shirt and helping you sit up in bed. You winced as you moved, gritting your teeth, the pain sharp.

“Hold on, Baby,” Joel tucked an arm below your knees and the other around your ribs, tugging you to his side. “I’ve got you…”

He lifted you off the bed and carried you down the stairs as gently as he could, cradling your feverish body to his chest. He lowered you gingerly into the passenger seat of his truck and buckled you in before he drove to the hospital, going at least 10 over the speed limit the whole way.

Joel paced the whole time you sat in the ER, going up to talk to someone at the nurses’ station every five minutes until they got you back to be evaluated.

“Oh,” the doctor said as she looked at your stomach on an ultrasound. “We need to get you back now. Right now. This looks like it’s about to rupture.”

“Shit,” Joel paced, like a caged animal. The second the doctor left to go arrange emergency surgery, he took your hand, holding it tight.

“Baby,” you said, voice calm. “It’s an easy surgery, it hardly even counts as surgery, you don’t need to be worried…”

“They were ready to leave you in the damn waiting room all day,” he frowned. “Then what would have happened?”

“The surgeon would have had a harder job,” you said. “Joel, hon, it’s fine.”

He was like that until they took you back for surgery, glaring at doctors and nurses as they whisked you away.

When you woke up a few hours later, he was there, bouquet of daisies in his hands and a relieved smile on his face.

“Do me a favor and try real hard to not scare me like that again,” he said, brushing your hair back from your face.

“I’ll try my best,” you smiled a little.

But ever since, he’d stuck close by.

“You know,” you said, looking up at him, poking at your Blizzard with the long, red spoon. “I was thinking…”

“Always dangerous when it comes to you,” he said. You glared at him.

“Anyway,” you said. “I was thinking… I should probably start doing a bit more. It’s been a few days, I’m feeling pretty good…”

“Baby,” he sighed.

“Come on,” you pouted a little. “I’m getting restless.”

He sighed again.

“What were you thinkin’?”

You smiled.

“Nothing crazy,” you said. “Just… could we do BBQ for dinner? Maybe try to go see a movie tomorrow? We haven’t made it to Men in Black II yet and Sarah really liked the first one…”

“How about we start with the BBQ and see how you’re doin’ in the morning,” he kissed your temple. “Not gonna let you push it…”

Joel made sure you had plenty of water and a book before he and Sarah went to pick up dinner, giving you a lingering kiss on your forehead as he left.

They came home with enough BBQ to feed a small army and made you a plate with brisket and Mac and cheese, your favorites. But they also picked up Men in Black from Blockbuster, along with an ample supply of Mike and Ikes, popcorn and Sno-Caps. While you were getting cleaned up in the bathroom, Joel and Sarah set up the bed with three tray tables and a nest of pillows big enough for all of you to recline and watch the movie. He even lit a candle - lavender scented - on the nightstand.

“Joel!” You gaped at him. “What’s all this?”

“Figured we can do it up right,” he said, tucking you into bed and setting the tray table over your legs.

The three of you had dinner and cuddled close in bed, laughing at Will Smith getting thrown around by aliens. Sarah fell asleep, her head against your shoulder. Joel put on When Harry Met Sally once the first movie ended.

“I’m sorry this trip has been such a bust,” you said softly as he ran one hand gently up and down your arm.

He frowned.

“What are you talkin’ about?” He asked. “Hasn’t been a bust. You know how grateful I am this happened when you were here and not all the way in New York? How glad I am that I got to be the one to take care of you? I’d have been fuckin’ terrified, you all the way up there with just your grandmother to look after you, somethin’ like this happens. Besides, I’ve gotten to spend a week laying around in bed with my girls, not arguin’ with that.”

You smiled a little.

“Still,” you said. “Think we should try for the movie tomorrow. Not sure Sarah’s soaps are quite my speed.”

“If you’re up for it,” he kissed your temple. “But if you need another day or two of rest, don’t fight it. Just let me look after my girl, OK?”

You closed your eyes, content.

“OK.”

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this little drabble of Joel being all soft and caring! It was really fun to write him being all fluffy and worried.

For those wanting some insight into who they're talking about at the beginning, I give you Sonny Corinthos from General Hospital:

And Jason Morgan from General Hospital:

You know. For science.

I'm going to go ahead and tag the usual Lavender crowd here. I hope that's OK!!! I'm sorry if it's not and I hope it's not too annoying!

Taglist: @paleidiot@ayamenimthiriel@ginger-swag-rapunzel@drewharrisonwriter@flugazi @pedropascalsbbg@taoyuji@starstruckmusiciansartghost@splendsay@bigboiseason123@jpbplvr @ashleyandring @mrsyixingunicorn10@sloanexx@ninaminaromina @lady-bellyn @hufflepuffriver @sarap-77 @storyarcscribe @mellymbee @jasminedragoon @lemonmeli @reds-ramblings@arizonadaydreamer@mumma-moonchild@blackroseguzzi@candypeaches16@kittenlittle24@wrappedinfiction@oatmeaiboy@pedritosdarling@winchestergypsy90@imnotdatboii @lalalalemonade11 @maknimuk1@mrsdarcyinlovewithbuckybarnes@pedrosaidsheispunk@commanderawkward@n7cje@elliesgirlll@tsunamistorm123@spookyxsam@leeeesahhh @anoverwhelmingdin @untamedheart81 @pedropascalfan221 @pedr0swh0r3 @pedrobae@fifia-writes@fatima-marisa @acf2023 @1soff@encephalitiskat

Thank you so much for reading and being here! Love you all!

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fluff

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multifanhoe99 · 1 year ago

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Kinktober Day 18- Voice Kink

Pairing: Felix x Fem!Reader

Warnings: He calls the reader love and baby a lot, Also pretty girl, descriptions of female anatomy, deep voice Felix, oral (fem receiving).

=Let me know if I missed any.=

18+ MDNI

PROMPT LIST

MASTERLIST

You loved spending days inside with Felix cuddled up on the couch. With his busy schedule, it didn't get to happen very often so you took advantage of it whenever you got the chance. He was currently sitting with his head in your lap and you were playing with his hair. Sometimes it was nice to just do nothing but sit in each other's company and do nothing.

"It looks like it's raining again. I know how much you love a good rainy day," he said, "The sound of rain on the roof, the smell of wet concrete outside. What do they call it? There's a name for that specific smell right?"

"Yeah," you replied, "It's called petrichor."

He smiled, "Oh yeah, yeah that's it. God, you're so smart. I love that big beautiful brain of yours."

"Oh stop it," you say. You loved Felix's voice. It was so dynamic and beautiful. It always did something to you. It was almost hypnotic. "I could listen to you talk for hours."

"Now who needs to stop," he said.

"No really," you said assuring him, "I love listening to you your voice is so cute and soft and soothing." He just laughs but, you really did mean it. He could be talking about nothing and you could still sit there and listen to him talk for hours.

About an hour has passed and you two are now cuddling in bed. You just finished watching a movie and were about to start another one when he said, "Wow, it's really starting to come down now. Listen to it out there."

"Yeah, it is," you replied, "I have to admit there's something so peaceful about being inside while it's raining. I know you get a little antsy when you're stuck inside but, I always feel like there's something, almost intimate, about rainy days. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," he said getting a mischievous smile on his face, "rainy days just make me want to curl up in bed and absolutely worship you from head to toe. Come here pretty girl, snuggle up close to me." There it was. The tone in his voice drove you insane. Something about the timber in his voice sent shockwaves of pleasure straight through you. He knows it does too. You still can't help but do anything and everything he asks of you. Once he pulls out his bedroom voice you are putty in his hands and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You cuddle up closer to him and he says, "Yeah, just like that. Being with you, holding you like this, it's so nice. You make me so happy." You know that he genuinely means it but, you also know that he is riling you up on purpose. As he talks to you in his deep voice he starts to gently run his fingers up and down your body.

He continues, "You know what else makes me happy? This bed; God this bed is so cozy and warm." He continues to gently caress your body.

You let out a small moan as he sweeps over a particularly sensitive place. He smiles knowing his plan is working. He wants you all hot and bothered for him. He loves making you feel good.

Feigning ignorance he asks, "Does that feel good baby? When I just drag my fingers down your arm like that, and if I just kiss you here?" He kisses a sensitive spot on your neck that has you moaning. He leaves a trail of kisses along your neck.

"God, it feels so amazing just to touch you," he says with his lips against your neck, "Just this, feeling your skin on my lips. That's all I need. Unless you want more." Finally, he reveals that this was his plan all along.

He starts to pull away from your neck. You hold him closer again letting out a pathetic, "No, please."

He chuckles at your begging. Teasing you by saying, "Oh, so you do want more? You know I'll give you whatever you want, baby." He continues to kiss your neck even giving it a few licks and sucking beautiful purple hickies into your skin for him to admire later. You keep moaning at his actions. His voice alone has you in such a trance. Your body is begging for more of anything he will give you but, you know you want him somewhere specific. You feel yourself getting wetter the more he praises and worships you with his deep, melodic, voice.

"I'll never get enough of that," he says, "I love how soft your lips are and I love the way your body responds to me. It's so cute how your back arches as I slowly make my way down your body and how you let out that soft little moan when you want me to keep going. Why don't I tell you all the things I love about you as I trail my fingers down to where I know you want me to be?"

"Yes, please," you whine, "Please Felix. I need more. I need you to touch me."

He hums in satisfaction before continuing, "Let's see I love the way you kiss. I love the way your lips taste, the way your body shivers when I gently bite your neck like this." He bites down harshly on your neck. Your body does indeed shiver and you let out a long moan. His hands are taking their sweet time getting to where you need them most. He takes his time squeezing at your hips and helping you undress. He loves to savor the moments when he just gets to worship and praise you like this. He knows you love his voice and he is intent on using it to let you know just how beautiful he thinks you are.

"You're so fucking perfect, baby," he says now that he finally has you perfectly exposed to him, "I want to explore every inch of you with my lips and fingers and tongue. I really just want to focus on you tonight, baby. Is that okay?"

"Yes, Felix. I love it when you worship me," you answer.

"Good," he says, "I love your body so much, baby. I want to kiss your neck, your collarbone, your perfect tits." He leaves a hot, wet kiss on each place he mentions. His hands have gone back to softly stroking the skin of your thighs. You felt like you could cum from his words alone but, you still craved more.

"Look at you," he says chuckling, "God, I love how you respond to my touch. Look you're getting goosebumps everywhere. Are you cold, baby?"

You shake your head unable to form real words between your moans as he is now finally rubbing ever so softly at your clit. "Okay good," he says with a knowing smirk, "Must just be a reaction to feeling me rubbing my fingers along your clit and kissing you all over. I think you like it when it's like this. You like it when you have my full attention." You nod your head in agreement. His fingers and lips feel so good and his voice makes you feel dizzy.

"I know you do," he continues, "You deserve this and so much more. Where else deserves to be played with? Your lips are begging to be kissed and so are your tits and your thighs." He finally moves his head down to kiss and lick at your thighs. His hand also continues to rub gentle circles on your clit.

You moan loudly and he responds, "Good girl, I love it when you moan for me. Tell me all the places you want my fingers. Tell me where you want my tongue."

You moan out, "My pussy, please, please, please. I want you to eat me out, my love."

He lets out a moan of his own, "Your pussy, of course, baby let's see here. Oh, your pussy is so pretty, baby. I love the way you taste. You are so perfect. I love the little noises you make keep going, baby. Moan more for me." He says each sentence during breaks from devouring you like a man starved. It feels so good to have his tongue on you. You move your hands to his hair and squeeze your legs together whenever he does something you especially like.

"I love how you squeeze your thighs around my head as I slowly run my tongue along your pussy," he says during another break. This time he adds his fingers to your soaking entrance. He moves them at a decent pace making sure to curl up so he can hit your sweet spot. This way he can still pleasure you while taking breaks from sucking and licking at your clit to whisper into your ear.

"I love spoiling you," he growls into your ear, "You got me so hard I'm absolutely throbbing. You're so sexy like this for me I love eating you out." He continues to fuck his fingers into you and lick at your clit.

"Yeah, grip my hair tighter baby. Show me where you want me to be," he says. You grip his hair tighter and move his head to the perfect angle.

He stops one more time to ask, "Does that feel good? Can you handle all of this? My fingers and my tongue?" He then goes back to what he was doing. You could just respond with moans and broken cries of agreement. You were getting so close and he knew it. He doubled down his efforts no longer taking breaks to talk to you. Instead, he was very intent on helping finish you off.

After a few more seconds you came loudly, "Yes, baby! I am cumming! Ah, that feels so good!" After a while, you came back down to reality to see the love of your life with a dopey smile. Your juices and his saliva all over his chin and he was still rock hard.

"Did you enjoy that, my love," he asks.

"Of course, would you like me to help you now," you reply.

"That's alright, love," he says, "This was about taking care of you right now. I can take care of myself later. Let's go get cleaned up and then we can have dinner yeah?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Not gonna lie I was struggling to find the will to write. It was such a long day and I didn't want to do it but, then I came across this ASMR audio on the orange YouTube and it was PERFECT for this fic and for Felix. Thank you to people who suggested some other idols for this day but, this was too good to pass up. Let me know if you want the link to the audio if you wanna listen to it while you read this.

#kinktober 2023 #kinktober #x reader #k pop smut #felix x reader #lee felix #felix stray kids #felix smut #stray kids smut

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andreafmn · 1 year ago

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Kinktober ⛓️ Day 12

Word Count: 2.4K Paring: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Prompt @kinktober2023: Costumes WARNINGS: SMUT 18+ (minors DNI), oral (female receving), dom/sub subtext, p-in-v sex

Summary: Spencer's love for Halloween knows no bounds. He plans his costume weeks in advance, he hosts parties at his apartment, and decorates everything, even his desk at work. (Y/N), on the other hand, couldn't care less. But for Spencer, she'd do anything. Even if he goes incommunicado during a case.

A/N: I'm trying my best to get back on track, but life... this past weekend really killed all my writing inspo. Food poisoning is no joke.

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All Hallows Eve was a day that Spencer Reid enjoyed to no end. A day when anyone could be whatever they wanted, hiding behind masks and costumes. There was a thrill to seeing people let out a side they normally would keep hidden. Between the spooky decorations, the scary movies, and all the terrifying marketing surrounding the holiday, Spencer couldn’t think what the best part was.

Unfortunately for the young doctor, no one in his close circle shared his love for Halloween. Not even his girlfriend, (Y/N). Having grown up in a very religious family, she missed out on all the fun of being a child during the holiday and had found it too much work for one day in her adult years. Meeting Spencer had only made her excited about movies and candy, but her enjoyment never reached Reid level.

After two years of relationship, though, (Y/N) thought it was time to put in a little effort for her boyfriend’s favorite holiday. While he was away on a case, she decked out their apartment with cobwebs, skeletons, and anything else she could find. She changed lights to colored lightbulbs, changed beddings and decor pillows, and even went as far as to buy a costume. It wasn’t clever or scary, but she had to admit, it made her look unbelievably good.

It had been a week since she had decorated the apartment, and Spencer still wasn’t back. And with Halloween day approaching, she was growing discouraged at all her work. So much invested for no one to enjoy it, she thought.

At least she had somewhere to wear her costume to. Her coworkers had invited her out to a bar on the eve of Halloween where they would give out a round of free drinks to anyone who came in costume, and maybe she had never gotten the chance to go trick or treating, but she didn’t mind free drinks. Maybe Spencer wasn’t home yet, but there was no reason she couldn’t have some fun.

She had slipped on her green vine short dress, accompanied by a red wig and knee-high boots, and her Poison Ivy costume was complete. With her friends, she danced and drank, ate and sang, pushing her worries and concerns to the deepest corners of her mind. If Spencer didn’t feel the need to call, she didn’t feel the need to leave another single voicemail. (Y/N) would have fun and forget that it had been three days since her boyfriend had felt the need to check in.

Hours passed, and finally, she felt the urge to go home. She was already sobering up, and the loud music and chattering were getting to her. Her costume gripped at her sweat-covered body, and her wig made her scalp itch. It all made her wonder how people could endure being dressed that way for more than a night.

With sleep heavy in her bones, (Y/N) turned the key to her apartment’s door. Her cold and lonely bed was calling for her, and she would answer.

“Spence,” she gasped as she noticed the figure standing in the middle of the dimly lit living room. “You’re back.”

“I am,” he chuckled softly. “And I owe you an apology. I didn’t have cell reception those last couple of days, and I didn’t get a chance to send an email, baby. I know it’s no excuse, but I did try to call you as soon as we landed, but you weren’t answering.”

“My phone died. I was out,” she said matter-of-factly. “Some friends invited me out for drinks.”

“And you went out in costume?” he smirked.

“Costumes got us a couple of free rounds,” she shrugged. “It was supposed to be a surprise for you. I went through all the effort of decorating the apartment and inviting our friends over for tomorrow night. But I was mad you weren’t answering, so I decided to use my costume tonight.”

“I really am sorry,” Spencer said, slowly closing the distance between them. “And for the record, you look ravishing as Poison Ivy.”

“I looked better a couple of hours ago,” she pouted, crossing her arms around his neck as he snaked his onto her waist. “Now I’m all sweaty and tired. But I am relieved that you’re finally home.”

“I’m home, and I’m really, really sorry,” he smirked, kissing her softly before whispering in her ear, “and you are making me very hard.”

“Are you serious, Reid?” (Y/N) chuckled. “The only reason I didn’t think you were dead was because no agents had come to our door yet. And I find you here, after days of no communication, and you’re telling me you’re turned on?”

“What can I say, baby?” he grinned mischievously. “Something about you in this costume is doing things to me.”

“So a cheap wig and a green dress is all it takes to get you in the mood, huh?” she snickered. “That’s good to know, baby.”

“With or without a costume, you can get me hard in a second, (Y/N).”

“Doctor,” she gasped as he kneaded the skin of her ass. “You’re being quite riské.”

“I am in my home. With my beautiful girlfriend. Surrounded by amazing Halloween decorations. And an erection that is making these pants more uncomfortable than normal.”

“You’re so dirty when no one can see you,” she teased, kissing him and taking his bottom lip between her teeth. “What do you think your coworkers would think if they knew their resident boy-wonder was a dirty, dirty boy in private?”

“They don’t need to know,” Spencer smirked, his hands running up and down her body, feeling her curves under her dress. “There is only one person that I care about who knows how I am in the privacy of my home, and she already does.”

“You’re right about that,” (Y/N) sighed contentedly. “But I’m tired tonight. I was thinking of heading into bed.”

“And waste this masterpiece you have on?”

“Well, it was supposed to be a surprise for my boyfriend, but he kind of wasn’t returning my calls, so I spent all my energy tonight,” she sighed. (Y/N) wanted to tease him, though. If he wanted to take her to bed that night, she would make him work for it. She ran her hand across his bulge, squeezing his length. “I went out dancing and drinking, so many Batmans and Robins trying to get handsy with me. Even a few Harleys tried it.”

“And why didn’t you go home with any of them?” Spencer asked, his voice strangled as she continued her strokes. “I’m sure they would have definitely answered your calls. Not like that dumb boyfriend of yours.”

“Mmm, well, he’s good where I need him to be,” she grinned, nibbling on his ear until he winced. “Although, I do agree that with how he acted this week, he should be punished.”

“He should,” he panted. “He really should.”

With a devilish grin on her face, (Y/N) pushed Spencer’s body down to the ground so his face was directly in front of her weeping cunt. She spread her legs far enough to fit him between them and pushed his mouth onto her aching bud.

Spencer knew exactly what he had to do after he slid her panties down her legs. As soon as his face was buried between her folds, he stuck out his tongue and got to work. He traveled across her entrance, separating her labia, and landed on her clit. He sucked and lapped, he circled and pulled, all in an effort to hear the enchanting mewls that left her mouth.

One of her hands snaked into his hair, taking a handful of curls tightly between her digits. She pushed his head further into her, cutting off his air, just like he liked. Only when she came around his mouth would he be able to come up.

“Oh, baby, keep going,” she moaned, her grip tightening around his hair. “I’m so fucking close.”

Spencer hummed in approval against her, the vibrations sending shivers through her body. His mouth worked on her as adeptly as always, finding just the right spots to make her quiver under his touch. He could feel his mind growing hazy from the lack of oxygen, but it was only her pleasure that mattered. He has messed up, and he’d do anything to show her how sorry he was.

In moments like those, he was thankful for his training. He could last minutes without his breath. And for her, he would last hours if necessary. He knew (Y/N) would keep him there until she thought it was right; she would go without her climax until she decided his penance was enough.

And minutes that felt like hours were time enough for (Y/N). As Spencer’s jaw grew tight and sore, the woman above him finally let herself unfurl on his tongue, wailing out his name as she came.

“Good boy,” (Y/N) panted, using a finger under his chin to bring him back up to her face. “At least I know you’re good at doing as you’re told. Now, let’s go to the bed. I think you might deserve a treat this Halloween.”

“Will you keep the costume on?” Spencer asked, trailing along behind (Y/N) like a lost puppy. “Please, will you keep it on?”

“It wouldn’t be a treat if I didn’t,” she smirked. “As much as I would love to take this off, I love what it’s doing to you so much more.”

(Y/N) pulled Spencer to their room, letting go of his hand as she laid her body across the bed. After she rested her head on her pillow, she would not move another muscle. Spencer knew that. He knew it was his job to bring her to absolute pleasure. And only when she allowed him to would he join her in the bliss of his climax.

The woman spread her legs just enough to fit her boyfriend between them. Sluggishness was rapidly taking over her, but she fought against the grasp of sleep. It had been a week without him, and she wanted to enjoy every second awake. Well, for as long as her mind would let her.

Although, it wasn’t like Spencer was about to take his time.

With his eyes firmly set on her, Spencer removed his clothing quickly, layer after layer. He didn’t care where they landed. All he cared about was the quickness of his moves. There was a tiredness they both shared, exhaustion from an already long day. But one climax was all he wanted. It was all he needed.

Spencer crawled up her body, careful not to disturb a single leaf on her dress. Once at sue level, he cradled her cheek softly and pressed his lips to hers. He savored the taste of cheap alcohol and mixer with the cherry taste of her lip gloss.

“Baby, hurry up,” (Y/N) muttered against his lips. “I’m not gonna last much longer awake.”

“Your wish is my command,” he chuckled before kissing her again. “I’m close to passing out, too.”

He reached a hand between their legs, grabbing his cock and lining himself up with her entrance before sinking into her warmth. Spencer sighed as he felt her walls hugging him, welcoming his length like he belonged there.

His hips moved slowly into her, calculated and angled. He knew exactly what she needed to reach completion as quickly as possible. On any other night, Spencer would have been striving for longevity. Calculating the best way to make their time last. But at that moment, they wanted good, quick, and easy.

It wasn’t long until they were both panting, the tempo of his thrusts slowly increasing as the minutes passed. A thin sheet of sweat had formed on their skin, glimmering under the soft light of their bedroom lamps. Their breaths and their hearts were synchronized, the moment unifying theme as one.

“You’re close, baby,” (Y/N) chuckled softly. “The vein in your forehead is pulsing.”

“That’s because I’m focused on one thing,” he responded. “And you always make it hard on me.”

“Well, you can always do what you want,” she smirked. “But you know you’ll be punished later.”

“And that’s supposed to be a bad thing, right?”

“It can be.”

“That still sounds good to me.”

“That’s because you’re a sucker for pain, my darling,” (Y/N) snickered. “Now, hurry up and make me cum. Because you can’t until I do.”

With a focused stare sewn into his face, Spencer moved even more determinedly. He propped his body up with one of his arms, using the other to find (Y/N)’s clit, maneuvering the swollen bus until the moans that left her throat were strangled and consistent. He knew every part of her body, and it was impossible for him to forget how to work around them.

Spencer continued his attack, using only some of his strength to hold off the explosion that wanted to exit him. All he needed were a few more thrusts and a few more circlings of his fingers to have her come undone around him.

“Oh, fuck, Spence,” she cried as her back arched away from the bed, her nails digging into the soft skin of his arms. “You can come,” (Y/N) panted. “Go ahead, baby. You can come.”

It was just the instruction he needed to paint her walls white, shooting strand after strand of his seed deep inside her. “I love you, (Y/N),” he panted as he restated his forehead against her. “And I really am sorry for not calling sooner.”

“It’s okay, Spencer,” she smiled softly. One of her hands raised to caress his cheek, pressing her lips tenderly on his. “You made up for it. But the next time, I won’t be so… giving.”

“I would never dare,” he grinned. “Or maybe I would. It’s not like I don’t enjoy my punishments.”

“Oh, you kinky doctor,” she chuckled as she played with a curl that had fallen over his eyes. “Now, help me get out of this costume. It should be illegal to sell something so itchy.”

“But you’ll still wear it tomorrow, right? I mean, it is Halloween day.”

“You and your Halloween fever,” she laughed. “Fine. But you’re gonna clean up the apartment after. November first is officially Christmas.”

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