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frenchie-simone · 14 days ago

Text

Physicality

Logan Howlett x fem!mutant!reader

word count: 2.8k

tags/warnings: SMUT 18+, reader is some kind of wolf/dog-ish mutant but no tail/ears described, reader has hair, reader is in heat, unprotected piv, creampie, logan has a pain kink (duh)

a/n: y’all i wrote this because i sometimes do feel like a bitch in heat, so this is self-indulgent as it always is. a tiny bit rushed so it’s not the best but i think it’s alright. if i forgot tags or warnings lmk!!

Today marks the day that you've officially been a part of the X-Men for six months. Your first mission feels like an eternity ago, perhaps because you're so busy every day, no day quite like the previous one. Being an X-Man means two things to you: dangerous missions and physics classes.

Oh, and of course, the massive crush you have on Logan. He doesn't know, how could he, when you cover up your feelings with snarky comments and distant behaviour? Logan doesn’t question why your anger seems to be directed at him the most, he just thinks you hate him more than you hate the average person. It’s partly true, you hate him for the way he makes you feel. More than that, you hate the fact that it's a full moon tonight.

It's after school hours, and you're preparing yourself for spending the night in the forest. You grade the physics homework, take a shower, change to more comfortable clothes and eventually sneak out of your room, trying to avoid anyone asking questions. It’s evening and the sun is setting early, so you decide it safer to leave the mansion now, just in case.

You greet students downstairs, and thankfully no one decides to chat more than that. You make it out to the courtyard without anyone interrupting you. You hop the fence and head towards the entrance to the forest, but your heightened senses pick up a familiar musky smell. You stop in your tracks and mutter a “fuck” under your breath before turning around. To no one’s surprise, you find Logan trying to follow you. He widens his eyes, but quickly regains his composure, his usual smirk creeping on his face. His gorgeous face…

“Were you following me?” you ask and cross your arms, glaring at Logan. He huffs a laugh and props a hand on his hip.

“Yeah. Was curious as to where you're sneaking out on a Tuesday” he says casually and raises an expectant brow, waiting for an explanation. You clench your jaw and look away, trying to figure out a plausible excuse.

“It’s a full moon tonight. I just wanted to watch the sky. In peace” you emphasize the last word. It’s getting darker by the second, and the minute the sun leaves the horizon, it's too late. Logan can't be near you tonight. You already feel the heat simmering on your skin despite the cool breeze.

Logan scrunches his eyebrows and looks at you, unconvinced. And yet, he only exhales and nods. “Alright, sweetheart. Just try not to get mauled by wolves, will ya?” he says with a smirk. If only he knew you were the wolf to look out for. You roll your eyes at him and mutter some curses under your breath before turning around and walking deeper into the woods.

It’s midnight and the sun has set. You're located deep in the forest, far from other people. The heat is getting to you now. Your muscles are twitching, your core is aching and it feels like your blood is boiling. You sit down and lean against a tree trunk, not caring about the dirt ruining your clothes, panting and trying to calm yourself down. You know that pleasuring yourself won't fix it, but it'll at least bring temporary relief. You slide your hand down your pants and under your panties and start massaging your clit. Pictures of Logan pop into your mind; images of him shirtless, sweaty, just after a workout… you can't help but imagine what he would look like on top of you. Or under. Or from the side.

“Logan…” you can't help but moan his name at the thought. Even imagining him is bringing you close to finishing. You move your fingers from your bud and curl them inside you, inside your already soaking pussy, and press your palm down on your bundle of nerves. You add another finger and start pumping slowly at first, but you lose your cool almost immediately. Your pace quickly becomes fast and hard, and with Logan's face and body plastered on the wall of your mind, you release on your fingers in record time. You mutter a "fuck" at how quickly you came because the ache comes back almost as fast as you finished. You lean your head against the tree and groan in annoyance, before bringing your fingers into your mouth to clean them. It hurts so much, it throbs and aches, so you bury your head in your knees and try to distract yourself from the pain that you can't fix yourself. You try to think about your next physics lesson, upcoming missions, and what you'll do on the weekend... and for a while, it works. Until you hear a twig crack and snap your head towards the sound.

You'd been so lost in your thoughts that you hadn't smelled Logan approaching. Now he's appearing through the trees, searching for you. And that musky, earthy scent of him is even stronger to you in your current state, and your nose twitches involuntarily. He sees you crouched on the ground, dishevelled and seemingly exhausted, and he quickly rushes to you. Worry etches his face as he kneels before you and places a hand on your knee. "Sweetheart, what happened? Are you alright?" he asks, searching your body for cuts or bruises. You swallow and look down at his large hand touching you.

"I'm fine, but you really shouldn't be here" you try to tell him, your voice shaky. He furrows his brows and gently strokes your knee, the worry still there. "Don't lie to me, Wolves. What's up?" he pushes, not listening to your dismissals anymore. You lightly shudder under his touch and your breath quickens. You try to calm yourself, but it's no use. "Logan, I'm serious. This is something I gotta deal with alone" you manage to say between shallow breaths. His hand stops stroking and slightly tightens its grip on you. "I'm not leaving 'til you tell me what's going on" he says with a stern voice. You can tell he means it. You swallow your pride and just decide to give him the truth.

"I'm in heat. You know, like an animal…" you mutter and look down, embarrassed to admit it. When he doesn't answer you, you carefully glance up. His eyes have gone wide and you hear him take a shaky breath. Oh fuck, did you make him uncomfortable? You turn your head to the side to avoid his face and you feel shame creeping on your cheeks.

"Hey, it's okay... I was just taken by surprise, I had no idea..." he explains after seeing you turn your head away. You turn your gaze towards him again, and he doesn't appear disgusted or uncomfortable, just a little... nervous. Logan takes a deep breath before speaking again: "Do you..." he clears his throat, "want me to help you?"

Your mouth falls agape at his words and your eyes widen. He can't mean what you think he is, right?

"How?" you ask him, eyes still blown wide. He rubs the back of his neck, unsure how to phrase it. "You know... take care of you," he says and looks at you, anxiously waiting for your reaction. You didn't think he'd actually suggest it, but now that he did, your body goes hot all over. You try to play cool even as you hear your heartbeat in your ears. "I couldn't possibly make you do that, Logan. It doesn't feel right" you answer with your remaining sensibility, but your urges and instincts strongly disagree. You look down at your knees, trying to hide the pleading in your eyes. Logan only scooches closer to you and takes your chin in his hand and tilts your head towards him.

"You're not making me, Wolves. I want to help you, wanna make you feel good. C'mon, let me take care of you" he assures you and holds eye contact, wanting to show you he means it. His words, his closeness, his tenderness... it's too much to refuse. You can't control your urges anymore.

You bite down on your lip to keep in any pathetic whines, but the way he looks at you is like an invitation to pounce on him. Before you can register what you're doing, you're pressing your lips to his. You only get a taste before you realize what you're doing and quickly pull away. "Shit. I'm sorry" you mutter and move away. You see his jaw clench, and you think you’ve upset him. The thought makes your heart drop.

Until he grabs your neck and smashes his lips on yours. You whimper at the sudden movement, but you quickly kiss him back. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer. He groans against your mouth, before his tongue runs along your lower lip, asking for permission to enter. You part your lips instinctively and he doesn't waste a second shoving his tongue in your mouth. Your own tongue quickly joins in, until you're both devouring each other with such passion and hunger that it makes your head spin and core overheat. Logan sits down on the ground without parting his lips from yours and pulls you down with him, and you adjust your thighs to straddle him.

Neither Logan nor you thought this was how your first time would go, but neither of you could foresee this. All your sensibility, rationality and critical thinking were thrown out the window, and all you can think about is his large, muscular, perfect body under yours. In the heat of the moment, you start subconsciously grinding your core against his already stonehard length. His hands fly on your hips to guide you, and he groans against your mouth at the friction. You pull away only to catch your breath, still rocking against him, and your hands go to lace themselves in his brown hair. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, panting against his skin, but the need for more becomes too strong.

“Please, Logan… I need you inside me” you practically whine, teeth sinking into his neck in an attempt to muffle your pathetic whines and mewls. Logan groans at the sting of your teeth in his neck, and if you’d see his face, you’d notice his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Mmh, you’ll get what you need, sweet girl. I’ll take good care of you” Logan coos into your ear, lifting you up and placing you to lie back on the ground. He’d like to take his time, draw out your pleasure, but Logan can sense the urgency of your situation. You start quickly unbuttoning your pants, needing to get him inside before the painful throbbing of your pussy becomes too much to bear. Logan complies, starting to unbuckle his belt, although he’d very much like to see you naked, to see that skin he’s been dreaming about ever since he laid eyes on you. Another time, he thinks to himself.

You pull your pants off hastily, while your eyes are fixed on Logan’s bulge still hidden beneath the fabric. When you’re in just your panties, you start helping him, or at least you try to, but you’re just fumbling with the zipper because of the hurry you’re in. Logan can’t help but smirk to himself, but he makes no comment, knowing you’re more than just desperate. He pulls down his jeans along with his boxers, freeing has impressive and extremely hard length, the tip already leaking pre-cum. Your eyes widen at the sight, and you feel your walls clench around nothing. You’d like nothing more than to run your tongue over his prominent vein, or take his cock down your throat. That’ll have to wait for another time.

You pull Logan closer by hooking your legs around his waist, and he falls forward with a grunt, but quickly steadies himself on his forearms. You don’t even take off your drenched panties, you just pull them to the side, waiting for him to give you exactly what you want and need.

“You sure you want this, darlin’?” Logan asks you, giving you one more chance to change your name. You quickly nod your head, grabbing ahold of his dick and guiding it to your entrance.

“Words, baby” Logan tsks at you, wanting verbal confirmation. You mentally groan, feeling like if you opened your mouth you won’t be able to shut it. “Yes, fuck, I want it. Need you” you pathetically beg, still trying to pull him closer.

Logan straight up growls as he finally caves, despite that nagging feeling in the back of his head telling him this is wrong. That he’s taking advantage of a poor bitch in heat. He quickly realises the guilt is not enough to stop him. In one hard thrust, Logan sheathes himself inside you, and you gasp at the sudden but very welcome intrusion. He’s already panting heavily, trying to take it slow, as to not hurt you. Too bad you’re not having it.

“Please move, Logan…” you whine, trying to rock into his shaft. Logan’s large palm quickly moves to pin your hip down, and before you can protest, he pulls out almost all the way, before slamming into you. You cry out in pleasure, your hands flying up to claw at his shoulders. Logan buries his face in your neck, as he repeats the motions, going slow but incredibly deep inside you, you can feel him in your tummy. Your walls are squeezing him so tight, he can’t help but groan, trying to muffle his noises against your skin. He moves his arms to wrap underneath you as he now picks up his pace, unable to go slow when it comes to you. You moan at the increased speed, your sharp nails scratching down his arms, and to your surprise, he lets out a moan at the sting.

“Fuck, baby… gonna come before you if you keep that up” Logan grunts, but makes no effort to slow down. You start trying to meet his thrusts with your hips, but Logan is not having it. He holds you tighter, fucking you down on his cock. He frees one hand from underneath you, moving it between your bodies to rapidly draw circles your swollen clit. You whine at the added sensation, your back arching off the ground.

“I’m gonna- fuck!” you cry out, unable to finish your sentence as your orgasm suddenly crashes down on you with a brutal force. Your nerve endings are lit on fire, but in the best way, and your eyes roll to the back of your head as you’re struggling to stay grounded. Logan holds you through it, just whispering sweet nothings to you:

“That’s it, baby. I’ve gotcha.”

“Did so good for me…”

Logan helps brings you down from the high, and for the first time in days, that seemingly insatiable hunger that had been residing in the pit of your stomach is gone. But not for long.

“Logan, I want you to cum in me, please…” you whine, your weak thighs shaking as you try to pin him to your pussy. Logan groans, knowing he really shouldn’t. It’s reckless, irresponsible, but how can he refuse you when you’re being so pathetic and needy for him to fill you up?

Logan lifts you up from the ground with effortlessly, making you straddle his thighs. He holds you down on his cock as he starts thrusting up into you, now just chasing his own release. You whimper as he pierces you on his dick, but you take it, more than willingly. It doesn’t take long, until he’s coming with a strained groan, holding you down on him, his grip so tight it’ll bruise. You feel his warm spend coat your inner walls, filling you up to the brim as he pumps himself empty. You let out an almost obscene moan as you cum on his cock again, the remnants or your previous orgasm not having faded.

“Fuck, Wolves… I shouldn’t have done that” Logan murmurs into your ear but with a slight grin betraying his words, and you can only giggle in response. There was no regret in either of you, you’ll worry about plan B tomorrow. If you remember…

You sit on his lap for a few moments, letting him catch his breath. For only a split second, you’re aware of the fact that you’re in the middle of a forest, both of your clothes covered in dirt, and you’re pretty sure you feel a leaf in your hair. When you feel him soften in you, you look up from his neck, admiring his face for a second. Your lips curl into a small smile.

“You didn’t think we were done, did you?”

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charliemwrites · 7 months ago

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Guilty By Association Commission from the very sweet and patient @soleilak

You (Callsign: Giggles, Gigs for short) are a medic on temporary assignment with the 141. The only problem? You're a former member of Graves' Shadow Company.

Content: Injury, angst, power imbalance, fingering and oral (reader receiving)

“Get your arse in gear, Gigs!”

Already exhausted and aching, the rough bark of your temporary captain urges your heavy feet faster. Gunfire sprays all around – you’re so addled you can’t tell if it’s enemy or friendly. All you know are your orders, a cry of survival in the uneven pounding of your heart. A bullet plows into the ground dangerously close to your foot.

Just a few meters ahead, Gaz curses and tumbles to the ground, hat lost. It’s not even a decision to alter your course. You can’t tell instantly what the damage is; if he’s been hit or just tripped. So you tuck and dive, grabbing an arm and leg as your back rolls across his chest. The momentum gets the two of you up and moving again, adrenaline taking the edge off his weight.

“Get us to the trees and I can run again!” he shouts in your ear.

You settle your blurry vision on the forest line ahead. Blessed cover – and your extraction point just a mile further. Goal set, you push through the pain of bruised ribs, a wrenched arm, and the ricochet of a bullet across your thigh. You wheeze your way well past the tree line, weaving between trunks until Kyle’s palm smacks at your side.

“We’re good, we’re good,” he says.

You grunt as you set him down, give him the quickest onceover in the history of medics. His calf is bleeding, just above the tops of his boots. It’s an ugly wound; it’ll need packing – but he can survive until exfil.

“Where the fuck are you two?!” Price growls through your headset.

Kyle pats your shoulder and takes off again, only the slightest limp indicating his injury. You grit your teeth and try to follow his example.

No one helps you into the chopper when you’re the last on the ladder. You’re not surprised, but it still stings. Salt on the day’s wounds.

Once the heli is up in the air, you scoot over to help Kyle with the wound on his calf. It’s almost hypnotic, the press-wind-press-wind of packing the deep gouge. Almost like unspooling your own tension through the care of a teammate. Every inch of bandage seems to amplify your own pains, though, as the mission high ebbs.

You hurt.

When Kyle’s done, you sit back a bit to assess him for any other wounds. The twitch of his mouth and slight bob of his head tells you he’s sorted, though – and it’s more thanks than you usually get.

“Where the hell were you?” Price demands.

“I got held up, sir,” you admit. Had been ambushed by two men you thought were on another floor. Bad luck, that. Or just poor preparation on your part. Your side twinges as you ease yourself into a seat. “Won’t happen again.”

Price grunts, mollified. “See that it doesn’t.”

You get maybe thirty seconds of peace before Soap’s voice cuts through the tentative peace.

“Gonnae take care o’ that or keep bleedin’ all over Nik’s seat?” he teases. Or at least it would be, if not for the sharp glint in his eyes.

What’s that saying about sins of the father? Well, Phillip Graves was definitely not your father, nor was General Shepherd – though he was old enough to be. In their absence, it seems you’re paying for their crimes regardless.

“Right,” you sigh, tearing off the bottom of your shirt, “sorry, Nik.”

“Just stay alive to clean it up, eh?” he replies jovially.

It’s not much of a joke, but you laugh anyway. You don’t live up to your callsign much nowadays, so you’ll take the levity when you can.

You tie off the makeshift bandage with a grunt and lean your head back, too uncomfortable to doze off.

At least the infirmary is a friendly sight. The staff are always grateful for an extra set of hands – even if they once belonged to a Shadow. And you have a lot of time to help since you’re not encouraged (never mind invited) to any non-professional activities with the 141. Working with the nurses during all that extra time has gained you some friends at least.

Dana is on call when you limp in. She fusses about you looking like the walking dead – then goes on to tell regale you with details from her current first-time watch of the show. The stream of words soothes you in the quiet little treatment room.

“Think we need an x-ray, dove?” she asks, prodding at your already discolored ribs.

“Wouldn’t help,” you sigh, “we can just wrap ‘em and call it.”

“Alright, dear, but you know what to do if it gets worse.”

“’Course,” you answer, summoning a grin, “can’t be keelin’ over before your nephew leaves that tart.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started – you know what she said at Sunday dinner?”

You giggle through her undoubtedly embellished story until she gets to your thigh – and the terrible bandaging.

“A piece of your shirt,” she scolds.

“My bag was too far, and my ribs hurt,” you complain.

“And what are all those big burly men for then, eh?” she huffs.

You shake your head. “I can’t ask them to help.”

Dana scowls past your hip. “Just because you’re the medic—”

“Pardon.”

You jolt in surprise at Captain Price in the doorway. Christ, he takes up the breadth of it too, shoulders brushing the jamb on either side. Even mission-dirty and stern-looking, he’s a hell of a welcome sight – though an unexpected one.

You try to sit up at some semblance of attention, but he waves you off. Can’t say you’re not grateful, unable to help wincing as you lie back.

You don’t notice him pause as Dana washes the wound, too busy sucking air through your nose.

“What’s… the damage?” he asks carefully.

You open your mouth to answer, but Dana beats you to it.

“Contused ribs, sprained shoulder, and a bullet wound to the thigh,” she rattles off. You’re always impressed by the undercurrent of disapproval and accusation she manages to weave into each word. “Not to mention dehydration and sleep deprivation. You’ve been staying up again, haven’t you?”

You clear your throat and turn your eyes skywards. “Oh, look at the ceiling. What a lovely ceiling.”

She clicks her tongue and begins packing the wound as you had for Gaz.

“Bullet wound?” Price asks sharply. Your eyes flick guiltily to him. “Why the hell am I hearing about this now?”

“It’s just a graze, sir,” you reply. “Sergeant Garrick’s was worse.”

His jaw does that thing you secretly (ashamedly) drool over, where it tightens and jumps. You know it’s not good but hey, silver linings right?

He doesn’t ream you out though. Just crosses his burly arms and lets out a long, heavy breath. You’re… not really sure what that means.

“Debrief at 0700 tomorrow, Gigs,” he says, voice unusually subdued.

“Yessir,” you reply dutifully.

As always, a strange mix of relief and disappointment twists in your chest as he walks away. Talking to him is a bit like being under a microscope – if that microscope was ready to brand you a low-down, no-good, dirty, rotten traitor at the first hint of suspicious activity.

You get it, you do. Graves and Shadow Company tried to kill Soap and Ghost, Los Vaqueros, and committed unspeakable atrocities. As much history as you had with him, he deserved what came to him, and Shepherd will deserve the same when he’s found.

Not that your hands were clean before Las Almas, but you drew the line when the orders came. Couldn’t bear to detain or shoot the friends you’d made in Los Vaqueros, or join the hunting party for Soap and Ghost. You’d been labelled a turncoat by your own teammates, thrown into a cell to be “court-martialed.”

Kate Laswell coming to your rescue was a second chance, a small-time miracle that you’ve been determined to earn ever since. In your more pathetic moments, usually in the small, dark, lonely hours of sleepless nights, you wonder how much it will take. How long you’ll be guilty by association.

At least this isn’t shaping up to be one of those nights. You’re half asleep by the time Dana sends you off, arm chilly from the IV fluids she bullied you into. For once, you might get a few decent hours.

Your second surprise of the night comes just outside your barracks door. Soap is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, head back and eyes closed. Awake, though. His index finger is tapping a steady but rapid pace on his bicep.

“Soap?” you say, alerting him. “Did you… need me for something? You’re not injured, are you?”

He straightens up, drops his arms to his side. You pause a noticeable distance away, uncertainty leashing you to the safety of space. Not that you feel threatened. His posture is the loosest it’s been around you since… well, since before Las Almas went to hell.

“’Course no’, I woulda – tha’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh…” You process the strange wording. “Why are you here, then?”

He shifts his weight, a little line appearing between his brows as he seems to gather himself.

“I’m here to apologize.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Look, what I said during exfil – it was bang outta order. You’ve been nothin’ but good to us ‘n I’m still holdin’ on to old shite.”

You shift, adjust the stupid flimsy sling for your sore shoulder. “It’s… not that old,” you reason, “and I don’t blame you, either. Not after everything.”

“Still, ya did the right thing back then – and ya’ve proven yourself half a dozen times over, besides. I’ve got no reason to treat you like an enemy.”

You swallow past the lump in your throat. It feels like you’ve swallowed a grenade; any moment the pin is going to come out and an explosion of gory emotion will splatter the walls.

“Thanks, Soap.”

He grunts something about “not thanking him” and ducks his head, shuffling past you.

“Seriously,” you say, voice strained from keeping it even. “I really appreciate it.”

He pauses, gives you a genuinely kind look. “Rest up, lass.”

It’s the best you’ve slept in a long while – after you cry into your pillow, that is.

At 0700 the next day, you’re in Price’s office, sore but in high spirits. Gaz sat next to you and Soap said good morning at breakfast. Even Ghost seemed less frosty than usual, grunting at you in acknowledgement when you’d sat down.

Of course, the good luck couldn’t last.

The debrief itself is fine. You speak when it’s your turn, listen when it isn’t. About as normal as it gets for a special ops squad.

It’s as the rest of the task force is filing out the door that the other shoe drops.

“Gigs, a word,” Price calls.

You freeze mid-step, shoot Gaz a panicky glance. He glances over your shoulder, snorts, and pats your arm in solidarity. Not as helpful as he thinks.

With a deep breath, you pivot back around. The door closes behind you with a damning click. You can’t even hide your hands behind your back to fidget at parade rest – your arm needs to stay in the sling for the rest of the day.

“We need to discuss yesterday,” Price says, palms flat on his desk.

You tilt your head. Wasn’t that what the debrief was for?

“Sir?” you ask. “If I – did I do something wrong?”

He deflates a bit, big shoulders dropping before he pushes himself up and rounds the desk.

“No, you’re not in trouble,” he explains, “but I have concerns.”

When he gestures for you to take one of the visitor seats, you do. You’re a bit surprised when he takes the other – though you can’t help an appreciative glance while his attention is elsewhere. He practically dwarfs the stupid little chair, and the way he spreads his thighs trying to get comfortable…

“Concerns, sir?” you parrot, trying to corral your scrambled braincells.

“What you said in the infirmary,” he begins, expression solemn, “is that really how you feel?”

“What I said…?” You try to recall anything of note from last night, but most of what came out of your mouth is a blur at best. “What did I say?”

He leans forward, lacing his scarred fingers together. You try not to stare, though the way he rubs at the knuckle of one thumb with the other is distracting. It’s an unusual gesture for the disciplined, determined man you’ve been honored to call captain for months now.

“That you can’t ask us to help you.”

A block of ice drops into your stomach.

“That’s not – I know you guys would help me if I needed it,” you hurry to say.

He gives you a long look. “Then why don’t you ever ask? You were shot and didn’t say a bloody thing.”

You shift, unable to meet his eyes. Can’t find the words to answer. It’s not that you didn’t think you could ask. It just didn’t feel right with the bad blood between you, Soap, and Ghost. Besides, you’re the medic, you’re supposed to be the one fixing everyone else – not the other way around. What use are you otherwise?

You try to explain this to Price, but you sense (from the grim set to his handsome features) that it’s not helping.

“I’ve been a shite captain to you, haven’t I?” he sighs.

You jump. “No, sir! You’re a great captain. I trust you with my life.”

He chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor. Sounds almost self-deprecating.

“I’ve not done a bloody thing to earn it.”

You shake your head. “Sir, you’ve kept me alive for months now. That’s plenty.”

Beyond that, he’s always been fair with you. Doesn’t give you shit assignments or the most dangerous roles in missions. Always makes sure you’re alive and accounted for. Calls you out for mistakes and faults, sure, but it’s for the sake of you and everyone else. He’s been just as ready to pat your shoulder for a clever maneuver or praise a good shot.

“You know damn well it’s not,” he scolds.

You huff, almost amused. “Sir, with all due respect, get off the cross we need the wood.”

His eyebrows jump up nearly to his hairline. Normally, you wouldn’t dream of being so cavalier with Price of all people. Soap’s truce last night gives you the confidence to continue.

“I know you didn’t trust me as a former Shadow at first,” you say, “but you looked out for me anyway. After the first few missions… it seemed like things evened out.”

He sighs and sits back, running a hand down his face.

“Laswell vouched for you – it’s the only reason I didn’t send you right back on that plane,” he admits. A small but genuine smile curls his mouth. “And then you put your life on the line for my boys time and time again.”

You mirror him, the tension in your shoulders easing away with each word.

“I knew things weren’t great with the others, but I thought it was best if I kept out of it. Let you lot sort it out so long as you all cooperated when it mattered,” he continues. “I didn’t realize how bad it got, and that’s on me. I’m sorry.”

You shake your head and lightly tap your boot against his. “It wasn’t the wrong call, sir. I think things are going to get better from here on out.”

He hums, eyes searching your gentle smile for any hint of insincerity. But you believe it, and it must show, because his eyes crinkle as he smiles back.

“Speaking of better,” he says, clearing his throat. “Mind if I take a look at those ribs? Dana had some choice words for me this morning.”

You giggle and tug your shirt from your waistband, hiking the hem up high to show the reddish-purple mottling all over your left side. Price makes a noise of sympathy, easing out of his chair to the carpeted floor. On his knees, he inches closer, leaning in to inspect the damage.

“How’d this happen?” he asks, voice lowering.

His fingertips skim over the edges of the bruises, featherlight. Your voice gets strangled in your throat as tingles race across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Um, hostile kicked me. A lot.”

His eyes flick up to yours, hard as ice. “Dead?”

“Yessir.”

His gaze softens, a proud, smug quirk to his lips. “Atta girl.”

You can’t fully suppress a shiver. It’s not just the gentle, considerate touches. It’s the purring praise from a man you’ve admired and harbored a sizeable crush on.

“Cold?” he asks.

This is your chance to wave it off. To pretend you are not so inappropriately infatuated with a man you thought only tolerated you until a minute ago. A little white lie, you could smooth your shirt back down, and be on your way.

But you don’t want to do that. Not really.

And from the way his pupils are slowly, steadily subsuming his irises, neither does he.

“No, sir,” you whisper.

His slow exhale caresses across your tender ribs.

“Then would you be comfortable if I checked on your ‘little graze’ as well?” It’s a tease, but also a genuine check of your boundaries. Another out, freely and openly given, that only solidifies your resolve to see where he’s going with this.

“Yessir,” you answer, shifting to get at your belt.

Price tsks, though, big hands spreading across each thigh and urging you down again.

“Now, now, don’t aggravate that shoulder,” he murmurs. “Let me help like a good captain.”

You swallow back an embarrassing noise as deft hands unbuckle your belt, thumb the button of your pants open, and drag the zipper down tooth by tooth. His thick, warm forearms rest on your thighs the entire time, keep them spread to accommodate his wide shoulders. He’s in no rush to continue his “checkup,” toying along the length of your waistband before easing it down.

“Lift up for me, darling, there we are,” he murmurs. You gasp softly as his palms brush your ass while sliding your pants down. Then outright squeak as he squeezes a cheek in each hand, a low noise of admiration rumbling in his throat.

“Gorgeous girl,” he chuckles. “Gorgeous arse.”

Your face feels hot as he tugs your pants down to your ankles, though the square of gauze and tape on the back of your thigh is long revealed. It takes conscious effort not to squirm under his hot gaze, praying a wet spot isn’t already visible on your panties.

“Let’s just get this one free…” He works the pantleg over your boot, leaving the other pooled around the laces. “Now then.”

You bite into your lip as he hauls your calf up into his shoulder, propping your leg up to get a clear view of your thigh.

“Not bled through,” he notes, tracing the neat edges of the medical tape. “You’ve been taking good care of it. Well done.”

You can’t help the little twitch that evokes, your whole body reacting to the deep timbre of his voice. He’s not oblivious to his effect on you, a glint in his eye as his bristly jaw brushes the inside of your knee.

“T-told you, it wasn’t too bad,” you manage weakly.

He hums and your pussy clenches helplessly around nothing. His eyes flick down and you know it’s all over.

“And what about this, hm?” he asks. You whimper as his thumb skims the lace edge of your panties. “Have you been taking care of this?”

Flustered and yet so, so turned on, you can only shake your head. He coos in mock disappointment, rubbing slow circles across your labia, closer and closer to where you’re aching and needy.

“It’s alright sergeant,” he soothes, “your captain will take care of you.”

Except he only rubs you through your panties A maddening pressure back and forth along the wet seam of your cunt, never delving deeper. You break down in hardly any time at all.

“Sir, please,” you whine, wriggling. He’s quick to brace you still again, leisurely movements never faltering.

“Please what, darling?” he teases.

“I-I need…” You whimper with embarrassment, squeezing your eyes shut. “I need you to take care of me, please, captain.”

He practically growls as he tears through the hip of your panties, tossing them aside in a sodden heap on the ground. With two fingers, he parts your labia, eyes hungrily drinking in the cream shimmering between them.

“All this and I’ve barely touched you,” he rasps, awed.

You nearly sob with desperation for something, anything. He shushes your fussy little noises with his thumb, dipping into the pool of slick at your entrance. Gets the pad soaked before drawing a line up to your swollen, sensitive clit. Your mouth falls open as he starts drawing tight, firm circles over that bundle of nerves.

He treats your body and your pleasure with all the confidence and competence you’ve come to expect of John Price. It takes shockingly little time for him to learn just how to press, how fast to rub, the patterns and circuits that get your legs shaking. And that’s before he twists his wrist and sinks a finger inside you.

“Practically sucking me in, love,” he murmurs, petting at your walls. You shudder and wordlessly beg for more, rocking your hips. “Need another already, greedy girl?”

He doesn’t even wait for your nod before stuffing you with another, curling and scissoring, exploring. You keen as he finds a sweet, sensitive spot inside you and begins toying with it, his thumb still swiping relentlessly at your clit.

He settles into a rhythm that has you moaning and keening, the heel of your boot digging into his shoulder blade. All the while he showers you in praise and encouragement, the dirtiest compliments that make you clench down tightly on his hand. Your body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending lit up with pleasure.

It’s builds and builds and builds, never quite cresting. You’re near tears when you moan his name, trying to find some leverage or angle to finally tip you over the edge.

“Do you need to cum, doll?”

“Yes, yes,” you cry, “please, sir, I wanna cum for you. Please, I’m s-so close.”

He hums, bracing your thigh with his free hand as he leans in. Your foggy brain doesn’t have enough time to process before he latches onto your clit and a third finger bullies into you. You wail. Your thigh twinges from the dull pressure of his shoulder, but the slight pain only adds a delicious edge to the pleasure.

His tongue swipes across your puffy clit once, twice, three times and you’re gone. You gush all over his hand, his beard, onto the chair. Your hips jerk as he works you over, fingers abusing your g-spot relentlessly despite how tightly you clamp down. Your body feels nuclear, nerves popping like firecrackers.

He only relents when the waves of ecstasy threaten to drown you in overstimulation. He eases his fingers from your twitchy hole, making room for him to lick you clean. It’s loud and obscene, yet there’s no room left for embarrassment anymore. You shiver and pant in the aftermath, your body unravelling into a puddle.

“Wh-what about you?” you ask as he begins straightening out your clothes. There’s an absolutely delectable-looking bulge in his fatigues that you’re dying to get your tongue on.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “If you want more –” (“I do.”) “- then you’ll have to wait until you’re healed up. Non-negotiable.”

You try to pout, but the effort is thwarted when he chucks you gently under the chin.

“C’mon, let’s have a lie down.”

He steadies you as you wobble to the couch off to the side, lying down first and letting you cuddle up between his legs. It’s a comfort more than you would have expected from a clandestine little triste, but you should know better than to doubt your captain. Head resting on his chest, you let yourself drift for a while, lulled by his fingers carding through your hair.

“Price…?” you ask after a while.

“Hm?”

“You didn’t do this just to… I dunno, make up for something, right?”

He huffs. “No, sweetheart. I’ve been arse over teakettle for a while. Staring like a complete muppet when you train.”

You hide a grin against his collarbone. “Good. I thought I’d have to start making things up for you to owe me.”

His chuckle rocks through you, and for the first time in a while, it feels a bit like home.

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #commissioned work #john price x reader #captain john price #tf 141 #medic reader #former shadow reader

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kquil · 2 months ago

Note

Request: Remus Lupin x ravenclaw!girlfriend!reader

Plot: Just them appropriately loving on each other, chaste kisses on shoulders and wrists while sitting in positions that may not look innocent, but it doesn’t go farther them that?

I don’t usually ask for bland ones, but some peace would be nice.

SIMPLE LOVING

LENGTH : 0.7k

TAGS : fluff ; remus being smitten ; feeding each other ; couple goals ; tickle fight

NAVI.

“How was Herbology, Rem?” you ask, sitting between his outstretched legs under the willow tree as it cried over the black lake. It was lunch break and because it was one of the lovelier days outside, you and your boyfriend decided to have lunch picnic-style along with the rest of his friends. Your group were also free to join, as always, and sat not too far from where you were comfortably melded against Remus, who lent back against the willow tree’s trunk. The both of you were cradled by its roots and shaded relatively well by its mourning silhouette. It was a perfect day.

“It wasn’t bad,” Remus mumbles against your hair before pressing a brief kiss against your temple. Straining your neck only slightly, you share a smile before relaxing into one another once more, “how was Charms?” he asks, wrapping one arm around your torso as his other hand extends out to your right and pulls the small plate of lunch you brought out from the dinner hall. Remus had done the same but hadn’t touched his lunch yet. He prioritises yours and begins to feed unprompted. Caring for you comes so easily to him.

In between mouthfuls, you reiterate the happenings of your Charms class. Remus didn’t care if the conversation got boring or had extended pauses, he merely enjoyed being around you. He also really enjoyed tending to your needs in small gestures. People often saw him carrying your heavy books to classes, helping you with your assignments and carrying spare hair ties on his wrists for you. Boys didn’t appreciate his setting of the standard and girls envied you for having such a considerate lover.

“The flick and swish always gets me. There’s no standard for it so the outcome is always variable. The others made it look easy but I’ll show them and master that charm soon enough,” Remus smiles at your attitude and rids your pout by offering another spoonful. He loves listening to you talk. He loved hearing the sound of your voice; it was one of the most beautiful sounds he could hear. Whenever you got to talking, he always made sure to be completely silent and gave your words special attention. Oftentimes, whenever he’s reading his academic books for references and pre-reading relevant material before classes, your voice would be the one reading out the verses in his mind — that way, learning became a little more enjoyable and he got through the material much quicker. You finish up your plate of lunch soon enough and lovingly turn your face to kiss his inner wrist in gratitude.

“Your turn, Rem,” you giggle and reach for his neglected plate of lunch. Smiling warmly, Remus observes as you turn in place before moving to straddle his lap. Naturally, his large hands move to hold your hips and you begin to feed him bite after bite.

In the background, your friends gape obnoxiously at the affectionate display, some burn bright red in the cheeks and others hurriedly look away. It was incredibly easy to mistake your activities for something much as the willow tree’s roots cradled your forms and obscured your lower halves. However, your innocent feeding of his lunch was all the indication they needed to know you weren’t doing anything beyond that.

“You’re a mischievous little minx, you know that, darling?” Remus muses, licking his lips as you set down his finished plate.

“Hmm?” you tilt your head innocently and lean down for a kiss, licking away the remnants of his lunch from his lips as you pull away, “What do you mean, Rem? I don’t know what you’re talking about,”

He laughs at your playful display and carefully throws you off him, to the grass. As you lay on your back, giggling sweetly, he leans over your form and captures your lips in a heated kiss. A stray hand traces the curves of your waist and hips as the other keeps him hovering above you. He never goes too far with intimacy, especially in such a public place but you savour the scandalised gasps of your distant friends. Your handsome boyfriend pulls away with a hidden smirk and buries his face into your neck, kissing your sensitive skin and tickling the area with his nose.

“Remus!” you squeal in delight, laughing as brightly as the sun overhead. His wondering hand and the loving kisses to your neck and shoulder had quickly divulged into a tickle attack. Onlookers stare on, envious of such a loving and harmonious relationship.

“Lily, can we—”

“No!”

NAVI.

A/N : i'm so sorry it took me such a long time to get to this request, my love, i was in a rut with requests for such a long time and i kept overthinking them all. I'm afraid i don't make any explicit mentions of reader being a ravenclaw but it's still fluffy and cute and perfectly sweet for you x

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fanfiction #marauders #marauders era #the marauders #remus lupin x you #📝 : request

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moondirti · 8 months ago

Note

(first time doing a ask bare with me)

pretty please a continue of the house distribution thing. the fic where she does military housing to afford rent. just a continuation please 🙏🏽

feel free to skip if your mind is just blank with ideas for it x

simon riley / afab! reader • part one cw: dubcon, intoxication, spanking, wedgies, degradation, dacryphilia, very mild puppy play (mostly just pet names)

"Well, aren' you a sight."

Much like the lamplight, his voice is low. Mocking, almost. You'd think he were amused if it weren't for the dangerous way his eyes assess your sorry state, raking the lines of your bare legs to the way your dress wraps tight around your chest. It almost escapes you that he's maskless at first, so entranced by the glint of his pupils, the shadowed irises that pinch a deep, very primal nerve in you.

His lips curl into an uneven sneer, scar dissecting the bottom and running down to his chin. You wipe your nose with the heel of your hand, giving your best attempt at an apathetic shrug.

"I had fun."

"Did'ya now?" He laughs humourlessly. "Mus' have different ideas of fun, me and you. Can' see the fun in getting pissed out'f my mind, worryin' the people in your life by stayin' out s'late."

Spite flares, fear slinking back your throat to make room for the petulance that froths on your tongue like venom. It completely poisons his admission to the fact that he'd been worried, turns it into something pathetic and hypocritical. You storm closer. Wild. Angry.

"That's fucking rich coming from you. What is your idea of fun, then, Lieutenant? Tormenting women who open up their home to you? Walking in on them in the bathroom, pissing all over the fucking seat? Does it grant you satisfaction to make people so uncomfortable that they'd rather be anywhere but with you?"

His jaw tenses, a "careful, pet." grunted under his breath, but he makes no move to stop you. Just continues sitting on your couch, legs spread, simmering. Waiting for you to tire out.

"Shut the fuck up. Oh my god. Oh my god. I can hardly be at bloody peace in my own house anymore! You're- You're... A fucking nightmare, Riley! So excuse me if I went out and enjoyed myself when I haven't been able to do so in weeks!"

By the end of your little tirade, you're an even worse mess than you had been before. Flyaways stick to your sweaty temple, mascara rims your blown eyes. Your panting does nothing to calm the frantic race of your heart, which beats at your ribcage like doldrums to war. You can feel the effects of it everywhere; your pulse, hot and quick, at your eyebrow, your wrists, the arch of your foot.

Riley stands. Your lip trembles.

You're so close now that your gaze is level with his chest. Tall. You'd forgotten how tall he was. Or how wide. Or dangerous. His biceps – bare given his tight-fitted t-shirt, tree-trunk large and enough to crush watermelons – tense, and all-too-suddenly, you find your jaw clutched in a bruising grip. He jerks your head up so your eyes meet his.

"Simon." He mutters. "But you don't get to call me tha', or anything at all but Sir."

"Letmegomff–" You're rendered mute when his thumb and forefinger press your cheeks together, but that certainly doesn't stop you from whining.

"Y'wanna know my idea of a good time?" Purely rhetorical, of course. Aside from not being able to answer him, it doesn't matter what you want. There's a clear direction this seems to be heading towards – someplace where the hand pawing your ass continues lower, or where the length in his pants fits down your throat. Someplace not unwelcome by you, despite the way you thrash and cry in his arms. "It's putting foul things like you in their place."

He shucks your dress over your ass, the fabric bunching around your waist, and hooks a fist in the waistline of your soaked panties. Your mind is so foggy, influenced by shitty tequila and the subspace Simon bullies you into embracing, that you don't process the cause of your pain immediately. Don't correlate it to the way he pulls upward, your underwear bunching into a tight line that cleaves between your ass-cheeks and rubs abrasively against your poor clit. Don't– can't confront it until the force literally picks you up off the floor, toes barely touching the ground, held up by a wedgie and the grip around your jaw alone.

Tears spring to your lash line, tracing miserable treks down your cheeks. His thumb swipes what it can away, pushing the salty water into your mouth, and stays there while you lap at his calloused fingertips.

"There we go. Look at you, brainless mutt. Jus' need something on your cunt and something in your mouth to keep you quiet, hm? Happy to hang li'e this for hours, I bet."

Your muffled yell is met with another laugh, thumb pushing deeper into your mouth to shut you up.

"Shh, I know. Still need'ta be taught a lesson. I haven' forgotten." The stitches on your panties begin to tear, the rips loud and relieving, especially when you start to sag back down to the floor. Simon doesn't take it with any kind of urgency, though he cocks his head at the way you blink up at him, lashes fanning in rapid succession. An unspoken, desperate plea. "Was gonna hold out, get you sobered up for your punishment. But you're practically itchin' for it, aren' you?"

He puppets your head into an enthusiastic nod, which he meets with a faux huff.

"Course you are." The forbearing quality of his tone is promptly betrayed by the way you're manhandled over his lap. Pivoting one hand opposite to the other, he's able to sit on the couch and get you thrown over his thighs in a mere matter of seconds. "Normally I'd make y'count, but I figure you're too far gone for that. Jus' try to keep your wailing quiet."

Your underwear gives in with a final tug, ripping from the soaked gusset to become nothing but a flimsy piece of fabric around your hips. Simon swipes the tattered remains off your raised bottom, taking longer than necessary to smooth over the area. It's all the indication you need to what's coming – his rough palm teases the nerve endings below your softer skin, bringing them to frenzied life. Preparing them to hurt.

When he breaks away, you hold your breath.

The air behind you whistles as his hand comes down.

A sharp, resounding crack fractures the baited silence of the room. Your mouth flies open. Searing pain roars across your backside like wildfire, worsening every second it's exposed to open elements. Your scream is belated, thunder to the lightening, tearing from your throat only after the initial shock subsides.

A series of lighter blows land on alternating cheeks, two fingers returning to gag you through the onslaught. Unlike his thumb, these reach the very back of your tonsils, prompting wet gags as they fondle with your throat. Drool dribbles from the corners of your lips, slicking your chin with lipstick-tinted fluid.

"Fuckin' beautiful when you're not givin' an attitude, puppy. All stupid and submissive, cunt droolin' on my lap."

You groan, choke, then cry some more when his spanks grow incrementally harsher again. Gratefully, they're never in the same place twice. He beats the top of your thighs, your lower back, the sides of your hips. Your cheeks especially, which start to emit a steady kind of heat the longer he keeps it up.

Eventually, as a matter of coping, your brain starts to consider the cruel sting as pleasurable instead, sending little bolts of pleasure directly to your clit every time his hand comes down on your ass. It swells, fattening up with blood, pressing tighter against the steady mass of his thigh. Inadvertently, you start rutting against it to find more of the same relief, humping his leg like the dog he's making you out to be.

It doesn't escape his notice, of course.

His foot pushes one of your flailing ankles outward so that your legs are spread, pussy made vulnerable to his scrutiny. The next slap is thus aimed straight at your fluttering hole, slick doing nothing to affect his deadly precision. When it lands, it lands exactly where he meant for it to, and introduces you to a whole other degree of pain that has you seeing stars. You're openly bawling around his fingers now, vision so cloudy you can't tell light from dark.

"Didn' like tha', did you?"

"Nngh– nmmph!"

"There's more where it came from, pup. Best listen to everythin' I say from now on, then, 'less you wan' your little hole beat black 'n' blue."

Simon stresses his point by tracing the seam of your cunt, collecting the lubrication there to smear across the hotspot at the top. Presses into it. Grants you a little gratification, as if to say: and here's what you can have if you behave.

"You gonna be a good pet?"

This time, he withdraws his fingers from your maw. Expects a response, even though it takes you ages to recover from the lack of oxygen. You swallow the saliva pooling behind your teeth, inhaling ragged gasps that make your lungs ache.

He pinches your clit when you take too long. Lightly, but it's enough.

"Yes! Yes, s-sir. I'll be good."

[next]

#please no one mention this degenerate piece of writing to me ever again #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #tw dubcon #༄dee answers #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley #ghost #x afab reader #call of duty #cod

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familyvideostevie · 28 days ago

Text

all of it still matters

joel miller x fem!reader | 2.4k

you get sick and, much to joel's chagrin, refuse to take it easy.

jackson!joel, fem!reader, fluff, fainting, ellie and her dog that i invented for some reason, kind of plotless but who cares! it's all about love in the end, anyway.

a/n: welcome back to our lovebirds from just and just as. be gentle, please. it's been a while.

The sky is a brilliant orange. Golden hour, they used to call it.

It's probably a little too cold to be sitting on the front porch but you can't help it on an evening like this. You tug a fraying flannel of Joel's tighter around your shoulders. It's worn at the elbows and he reminds you that he'll fix it if you release it from your clutches but somehow that never happens. The journal he made you is open on your lap, almost full. You've taken care to write down not only your memories but the stories he and Tommy tell about their lives before, the day-to-day of Jackson, the jokes Ellie is particularly proud of. She recently recounted a birthday trip to a museum, laughing as she told you about pushing Joel into the water.

You take a sip of your pine tea. It's chilly through the whole day, now, and soon the morning frost will be snow. Winter was hard for a long, long time, but now it's comfortable. It means lights up in town, children throwing snowballs, community meals and dances. It means warm nights under your blankets with the furnace of a man you sleep next to, soft salve on chapped hands, a slowing down of the Infected sightings.

And it means Joel chopping wood. He should be doing it in the back yard -- usually does -- but this evening he's finishing up the trunk pieces Jesse left by the steps. A big tree had gone down at the edge of the town clearing and everyone got a few pieces once they'd split it up. Joel will no doubt give Ellie at least half of what he cuts.

The benefit of him doing it out front is you get to watch. His back is to you, but you can see the way his sleeves are rolled up, the damp hair curling over the collar. The exhale when he brings the axe down, the flex of his shoulder blades when he tugs it free of the stump. You could watch him do anything.

As if hearing your train of thought, Joel wedges the axe in the chopping block and turns to face you. He runs a hand through his hair, silver strands catching the orange light, and huffs.

"Enjoyin' yourself?" he says.

You grin at him. "I'd say so."

Two things happen at once. A headache blooms without warning at your temple, sharp enough that you wince and press your fingertips to the skin there. Joel notices and takes a step towards you but then a dog barks and his attention is drawn down the street.

"Naledi!" Ellie yells, jogging up the street after her dog. "Come on, we've talked about this!"

Joel glances back at you but you smile at him, ignoring the blooming pain in your skull. Naledi -- named after one of those characters from Ellie's comics -- runs right up to Joel and noses at his knee until he pets her. The animal loves him. You don't blame her.

"Jesus," Ellie says once she reaches the steps up to the house, panting. "She can run." She looks at the yard and scowls. "Aw, shit, Joel. Did you finish all the wood?"

Joel, one hand scratching behind Naledi's ears, levels her with an unimpressed look.

"Ain't gonna chop itself," he drawls. "Last thing we need is you holdin' an axe."

"Rude," she gasps. "You steal my dog and make fun of me. Are you hearing this?"

Ellie looks at you in mock outrage, cheeks pink from the cold. She's not a teenager anymore, but falls back into it so easily when Joel teases her. It's a treat to witness.

"I don't know, Joel, you've seen her --" You stand in the middle of your sentence and the words stop coming because your vision swims. Black spots dance across the yard and you pitch forward to brace yourself on the railing.

"Oh, fuck," Ellie says. Joel is up the porch and next to you in a blink, arm around your waist to steady you.

"You okay?" he asks, low and serious.

The spots disappear and you take some deep breaths. "I -- stood up too fast, I think."

Joel remains in your space for a few more seconds. Naledi barks, watching the whole thing with a tilted head from the grass below.

"Ellie," Joel says. "You wanna finish up the wood? I think we're gonna go inside."

"Totally," she replies. "Yeah, uh, go lie down, or something. We've got this."

Joel ushers you into the house and sits you down in the kitchen. The sun no longer peaks over the mountains so he flicks on the overhead lights, which make you groan. He's back by your side immediately, tipping your head up with a knuckle on your chin so he can look at you.

"Think you might've caught somethin'," he says. "Bout that time of year." He presses the back of his hand to your forehead and frowns.

You circle his wrist and tug his hand down. "Just tired," you say. "The overnight patrol is catching up with me."

"Hmm." Joel leaves you be and starts to fix you something to eat. You know better than to argue and, frankly, you don't have the energy to make something yourself. He sets some buttered toast in front of you and leans on the island to watch you take a small bite.

"Something to say?" you manage through a mouthful of bread.

He shrugs. "You should go to bed early." It's barely sunset but it sounds like a good idea. "You going to be okay to work tomorrow?"

Your shift at the stables with Ellie. Pretty easy, as far as labor goes. A good night's sleep should make it bearable. "Yeah, it's just mucking stalls."

"Hmm," he says again. You know what that means -- he's thinking, he's decided, he's preparing, but he'll let you reach the same conclusion in your own time. He won't force you into anything, never does, but he most certainly has an opinion.

You change the subject. "Did you grab my journal?" Joel nods and pulls it from his back pocket to set on the table next to your toast. You take another bite to appease him.

"Almost done with that thing," he says. "Gonna need another one."

"If only I knew someone who made them," you tease. That gets a gruff laugh out of him.

"What you writin' about today?"

"You, Tommy, and motorcycles." Tommy had told you all about the famed birthday ride at the last family dinner. Everyone had heard the story but you, so their voices overlapped about a hundred times as they fought to be the one to explain.

Joel chuckles. "You ever been on one?"

You take one more bite of your toast and push the plate away. He's on it in a second, taking it over to the sink.

"No," you reply. "I don't even know the last time I saw a working one. Just stripped metal out in the wild."

"Think you'd like it," he says. "Good way to see things. Bit of an adrenaline rush."

"Yeah, because there's a shortage of that these days."

The joke falls flat and your eyelids start to droop so you don't see Joel's reaction anyway. Your head throbs.

"Bed," Joel says, softly. Hands on your shoulders, rubbing up and down your arms. "C'mon."

He ushers you up, hand on your back on the staircase. He waits while you brush your teeth and helps you into an old shirt and threadbare pants with a gentle touch.

When you're settled under the covers he perches on the edge of the bed and lays his hand on your forehead once again. A frown makes its way back onto his face and he checks your cheeks, your neck.

"I'm just tired, Joel," you mumble. "It's alright."

"Hmm." He kisses the inside of your wrist lightly and stands. "Gonna go check on Ellie, alright? I'll be back soon."

You fight to keep your eyes open and fail.

You feel like shit in the morning. Your head is pounding, your body aching. But you've had worse -- you've had broken bones and bruised ribs. You've been sick, you've been tired, you've been scared. This is nothing compared to life and death. You can muck a few stalls with a headache.

Joel isn't here -- a note on the counter says he got called to fix someone's sink and that he thinks you should stay home. You ignore it and head to the stables, taking deep breaths and walking slow.

Ellie shows up not long after you arrive and finds you leaning on your pitchfork in one of the stalls. Your stomach is churning but you're upright, still.

"You look like shit," she says.

"Thanks, kid," you grumble. "Where's your dog?"

"Dina's taking her on the trails today." They've been training Naledi to smell and track Infected.

You sway a little and make some noise of assent.

"Dude, are you sure you should be here today?"

If you leave now, she'll have to do the stalls herself. "I -- let me do a few more. I'm fine. It's alright."

She gives you a look she almost certainly learned from Joel but doesn't argue.

You are fine...for a little while. Ellie seems content to let you work in silence but you feel her eyes on you as you shovel shit and old hay. Just one more, you tell yourself. Then you'll go home and lie down. One more turns into two turns into three until you're scooping a big pile of straw and the spots dance across your vision again.

"Oh," you say with a gasp, and reach out for the wall, for something, anything to lean on. But your hand finds only air and then you're tipping, tipping, and you hear Ellie's Oh shit! and then --

Nothing.

No, I caught her before her head hit the ground. Are you on your back? Wait til she wakes to move her. Sounds like Esther. God, it smells like shit in here. Someone's hand on your forehead. He's coming --

You blink a few times and the roof of the barn comes into view. A groan makes its way up your throat without permission.

"Fuck," you say. "What --"

"Jesus," Ellie exhales. She's on her knees on one side of you, tugging at her fingers. "God, why did you come to work today?"

"I--"

"Where is she?" Joel's voice echoes through the barn and you try to get up on your elbows when you see him. The sudden movement makes your head pound again and hands on your shoulders help steady you. You're blinking into Joel's face, his creased brow and frown deepening as he kneels next to you.

A warm, weathered palm cups your cheek and his gaze catalogs the scene. He does this a lot -- takes in as many details as he can and makes a quick choice on how to proceed. It's a well-honed ability, one that's kept him alive this long. It's kept you and Ellie alive, and countless others in his company, too. Knowing how bad something is, and whether or not you can fix it.

He huffs, some of the tension melting from his face. "Just tired my ass," he mutters. "How're you feelin'?"

"Guess I fainted," you say weakly.

Ellie snorts. "No shit."

"Guess so," Joel echoes. "You wanna get up?" You nod. He does most of the work, arm around your waist as you stand and sway and end up tucked into his side.

"Surprised your knees work this well," you mutter. He makes a low noise in his throat and squeezes your side but otherwise ignores you.

"Think we're gonna go home, if that's alright," he says. You realize the crowd is a little bigger than you thought. Ellie, Esther, and some of the younger boys who work the horses stand nearby. Your head pounds too much for you to be properly embarrassed. You'll have to thank Ellie later for keeping an eye on you but for now, you let Joel lead you out of the stables without waiting for a reply.

Joel walks you home slowly.

"Did someone come get you?" you murmur. He nods.

"Kid said you fainted," he says. "I see you ignored my suggestion this mornin'."

"Yeah, but if I stayed in bed you wouldn't get to be a knight in shining armor."

There is a small voice in the back of your head that reminds you how bad it can be to be sick in this world. You've all seen it -- sickness takes a few people every year, a handful in bad ones. This is probably just the flu. You know that and Joel knows that. And even that can be dangerous, but you're here with the one man in the world who could defeat pretty much anything. Joel, who will keep you safe, who will see you through it. You really, truly believe that. And you want him to believe it, too.

"How polite of you," he says.

Your boot catches on the ground and you stumble a little. Joel slows you to a stop.

"I'm fine," you remind him. "Just sick, I guess." He huffs but you start walking again. "You really looked worried back there, you know."

"Yeah, well." You reach the stairs up to your house. He tightens his hold on you, practically taking all of your weight as you go up them one at a time. "Was worried you fell into some horse shit. Smell up the whole damn house."

That gets a laugh out of you. He gets you up the porch, across the threshold.

"You gonna listen to me this time?" he asks, sitting you down on the entryway bench. "Stay home, rest up?"

"I'll think about it," you sigh. "You gonna take care of me, Dr. Miller?"

He kneels in front of you to take off your boots and smirks. How many times have you done this? Peeling off each other's boots after a long day. When one of you is sick, when one of you is hurt. Your head is pounding and you almost certainly have a fever but Joel's gentle hands and familiar smirk sets you at ease. You're going to be doing this forever.

"C'mon," he says. "You know I'll take care of you."

He tucks your boots under the bench and puts his palms on your thighs. You lean forward to kiss him and miss by a mile, lips landing at the corner of his mouth.

"My head hurts," you say against his cheek. "I love you."

Joel sighs. "I know, baby," he murmurs. "I got you."

He does.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #just and just as

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undiscovered-horizon · 1 year ago

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"Finnish polka" - Ivar the Boneless x Reader

SUMMARY: After helping one of the northern Jarls, the Lothbrok brothers attend a celebratory feast. There, they're faced with a tradition of warriors catching flower crowns that belong to young women. How surprised Ivar is when you almost shove your crown into his hands.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 2.1k

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Ivar is tired.

Of course he's glad that Jarl Thorstein came out victorious. And that his brothers are fine. Still, he feels weary as the adrenaline leaves his body. His legs start to ache. Ivar downs the rest of his mead in hopes it makes him a little more deaf to his mood.

The upbeat, bright music fills his mind like an obsessive thought. His heart beats to the rhythm tapped by the feet of dancing women. They spin, jump and run around with flower crowns sitting atop their heads. How the wreaths remain immovable, he can't quite say.

Ivar is also angry.

As the local tradition entails, when the song ends, all the dancing young maidens will throw their flower crowns to the crowd. Whoever catches it, is believed to be the girl's lover chosen by the gods. However, whether the couple indulges and trusts gods' judgement is a different story. But if the wreath falls to the floor, the girl is said to remain unmarried for the next five years.

Ivar knows the chance of him somehow catching one of those is near zero. He's sitting quite far from the dancers. Even if he did catch it, he's disillusioned about the imminent dissatisfaction of the flower crown's ownert. Not only is he disabled in a way that almost entirely excludes him from fighting but he's also infamous for his ruthless nature and vengeful heart. Hardly a man who invokes desire. Still, some naive piece of him remains hopeful that maybe he's wrong. Maybe he can be terrible and loved all the same.

He shakes those weak delusions away from himself before they sour his mood further.

His piercing eyes have been following one of the dancers for the better part of the song when he catches himself. Her movements look effortless even when the musicians pick up the tempo. Clearly, she's done this dance one too many times to have any doubts about what she's doing. Joy beams from her in a way that makes her appear almost shining. The wreath on the top of her head is mostly green with white and red flowers. It makes Ivar think of the woods surrounding Kattegat; it makes him think of home.

Ivar leans toward Oddleif, one of the Jarl's men, who's sitting next to him.

"Who is she?"

Oddleif looks at Ivar out of the corner of his eye. He scoffs, takes a large sip of his drink and only then decides to answer:

"If you're thinking of catching her flower crown, don't." His blond braids dance slightly as he shakes his head. There's a hint of laughter hiding in the back of Oddleif's throat. "Half of the surviving army wants it."

"I have no care for flowers," Ivar lies through his teeth. "They have no use. They wilt and die and soon no one remembers them. I am simply curious about her."

"Her father is the blacksmith. You might have seen him in the battle, swinging that damned sledgehammer." Ivar silently nods. He remembers that man - tall as a pine tree and wider than a stable. The blacksmith invokes respect even when he's not decimating enemies like a troll equipped with a tree trunk. "He said once that he'll let any man marry his daughter but only if he can lift an anvil. Tried it once myself. Not that I had any success as you can imagine." Oddleif laughs bitterly and continues drinking. His eyes are glued to the dancers but Ivar knows that right now, the two of them are admiring the very same girl with a flower crown like a forest.

The melody continues to quicken. Despite being out of breath, you don't want it to end. Your feet ache but they do not falter nor do they stumble. It seems that their muscles know the dance better than your mind. There are a dozen girls dancing with you but you do not see them. Not really. They appear worlds away from you and the song of bagpipes and strings.

And then appears he.

A slouched, dark figure flies before your eyes as you're doing another pirouette. The man simply sits there, in the corner, but his presence is overwhelming. Or so you think. He does nothing and yet he tears his way into your microcosm of quick footwork, turns and lively polka.

You recognize him. Of course you do. Many whispers, equally frightened and amazed, have spoken of him. You have believed in all of them until the moment you met his gaze for that split second. Right then, somewhere between blinks and breaths, you renounce every gossip you've ever heard about him. A voice in the back of your head, a trickster or an oracle, nags at you to learn the truth yourself.

When the lively, fast melody comes to a stop, you find yourself shaken awake from the thoughts about Ivar the Boneless. The end of the song seems somewhat abrupt to you as you've been letting your fantasy run wild without paying much attention to what's going on around you. Dancing the last part purely by the memory of your muscles. The moment musicians stop playing, a small crowd begins to form in front of you. Men of different class, age and ancestry reach out their hands. Each one of them is more determined than the other to catch your wreath. They start to yell something but considering that the inside of the long hall is awfully loud anyway, you can't make out any words. Reading their lips, you can only tell when they're exclaiming different variations of your name.

They're only pushing towards you, shoving each other away. You keep taking steps backwards but the distance you create with each step is quickly shortened with the men calling out to you. You knew there would be many of them in front of you but never assumed that many. Instead of somewhat flattering, the siege is terrifying and imposing.

Looking for help or advice, just something that will ease your tension, you silently look around the long hall. Your gaze falls on the same slouched, dark figure. Strange peacefulness washes over you when his eyes meet yours.

The dim candlelight seems to bend around Ivar, making his corner appear darker than anywhere else in the long hall. He's simply sitting there. Maybe he's not interested? But the way he's staring at you shows nothing if not burning curiosity. The sons of Ragnar aren't know for their patience. No, they're said to take whatever they want the moment their desire sparks. Despite that, the youngest of them, and arguably the most famous, appears to be waiting. But for what exactly?

The fresh pine needles prick your skin. You furrow your eyebrows. Your gaze falls to the wreath and then comes back to Ivar. Could it be...?

It isn't much of a throw, really. You toss the flower crown towards him without looking anywhere else but into Ivar's eyes. Without as much as blinking, he catches the wreath with ease as though he has been prepared for that. Low murmurs hit your ears but quickly the sounds of disappointment fall silent as it's made clear who caught your wreath. Despite their initial determination, the men who had been reaching out to you suddenly disperse like fog does in the early morning. They knew better than to get under the skin of a Lothbrok. Especially that one.

"I believe this belongs to you."

Ivar is holding up the wreath. Despite his words, he makes no effort to offer it back to you. His eyes are bright and glistening, the corner of his mouth is tugged ever-so-slightly upwards. He appears amused.

At first, it was nice to finally sit down after dancing for what seemed to be hours on end. But now, when you're facing the consequences of your spur-of-the-moment decision, the tension sets in once more. This time, however, it doesn't feel threatening. In turn, the nervousness is somewhat welcome like the jittery state before a surprise is revealed.

"If I wanted to keep it, I wouldn't have thrown it," you answer in a light tone.

"And why should I keep it?"

The blue eyes study you for a moment. It's a strange feeling - you can't help but think that the longer you are in Ivar's presence, talking or not, he's reading your mind and soul. He stares at you in a way that tells you he already holds all the answers but wants you to confirm them.

"It's said to bring good luck." You shrug your shoulders. "Until the wreath wilts and dies, Freya and Freyr will look after you."

Ivar looks at the flower crown again. Only now, when he's holding it, does he realize that for a flower crown, there aren't many flowers. A few sandworts and poppies, yes, but the wreath is made mostly of evergreen plants. It might take weeks until the crown wilts.

The microcosm seems closed again. Now it's not you and the bagpipes but you and him. It's strange and it's new but it's not threatening. It's not the kind of presence a man of his infamy should have. Or perhaps you've simply fallen for his honey trap.

"Why did you throw it to me?" Ivar tries to make the question seem unimportant, just curiosity brought to light. But he can't quite convince himself that he doesn't care. There's a hint of something vulnerable and genuine when the words roll off his tongue. It's easy to miss like a dandelion clock carried away by a gust of wind.

You wish you knew the answer yourself.

"I don't know really," you say honestly. "Perhaps it was one of the gods that threw the flower crown for me." You make a pause. Ivar's face is unreadable. "Or perhaps I have no interest in urgent, desperate men."

Ivar chuckles. A deep shadow is covering part of his face, making him appear kind of sinister. For a moment, you question whether he's laughing with you or at you.

"And what exactly makes you think I'm not urgent or desperate?" he continues. You notice his smile is growing wider. That glint of amusement in his blue eyes has changed in mischief. "What if I'm worse than all of them? You surely know who I am."

"Of course I do, Ivar the Boneless," you drone the words. In a barely noticeable fashion, he clenches his jaw when you say his name. It makes him feel a strange, burning sensation in his stomach but Ivar is left unsure whether he likes it or detests. "The whispers of your ruthless character are unending."

"But you're not afraid?" he asks with both disbelief and suspicion. A girl with a flower crown doesn't necessarily strike him as fearless in any way. Or this whole strange situation is a little too good, too dream-like, for him to accept it at face-value.

Ivar's smile falters when your face takes on a confident, maybe even arrogant, expression. He's taken aback.

"I'm a woman of the North," you say while leaning towards him on the table. The distance between your faces shortnes. "The only person I fear is my own reflection."

The sudden closeness makes Ivar inhale sharply. The strong smell of pine needles fills his nostrils. For a moment, his imagination runs wild but it's not his fault - he has no grasp on it:

How those big eyes glistened in the semi-dark of the long hall as you were staring at him. Your smirk, somewhat challenging and beckoning him to push on. Then, the smell of conifer that shakes all senses awake. His fantasy leaves the northern snows and travelles to forests, to him brushing pine needles from your hair and your naked, flushes skin smelling of evergreen trees.

But quickly his shaken awake, to his utmost displeasure, by you:

"Well, if you don't want it, I suppose I should take it back, no?"

Your hand unsurely reaches out for the wreath in Ivar's hand. He's quick to pull his arm back.

"It's bad luck to take back gifts," he states plainly. In an act of nonchalance, Ivar is playing with the wreath, spinning it around his finger. "I should like to keep it."

Sometimes you come back to the night you've met the infamous Viking, when you're rendered sleepless while he's calmly breathing next to you, getting the rest he desperately needs. How funny all of it seems - that a flower crown in bloodied, merciless hands could lead to having a genuine crown on your head. Maybe you were right, after all, and it really was the hand of one of the gods that threw the wreath for you.

#vikings #vikings series #vikings tv series #vikings fanfiction #vikings imagine #vikings x reader #vikings ivar #ivar x reader #ivar lothbrok #ivar the boneless #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless fanfiction #ivar the boneless imagnie

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gracexthoughts · 5 months ago

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Seven

jacaerys velaryon x targaryen!aunt!oc

content/warnings; canon typical incest, slight talk of death/violence, Alicent being rude, angst and fluff

summary; Jacaerys and Aelyria were childhood bestfriends, inseparable and mischievous, until the princess Rhaenyra moved her family to Dragonstone, leaving her youngest half sister without her closest companion. Nearly a decade later, King Viserys has decided the feud within his family too far gone and declared the betrothal of Prince Jacaerys to his youngest daughter to help heal the rift.

a/n; inspired by seven by taylor swift and jace’s talk with baela about fathers. I know this pairing has been done a lot but I really love it and hope I did it justice. about 4k words.

Please picture me In the trees I hit my peak at seven feet In the swing Over the creek I was too scared to jump in But I, I was high in the sky With Pennsylvania under me Are there still beautiful things?

“Aely!” The young prince Jacaerys called after the princess as she sprinted off into the woods. “Slow down!” Even though he was taller, she was quick and had run off before he could even get ready. Her laugh rings out over the grass as she darts into the woods, Jacaerys on her heels.

The entirety of the royal family, accompanied by many lords and ladies, had traveled to the Kingswood for a royal hunt in celebration of the Prince Jacaerys' 10th name day. As he is the future heir to the Iron Throne, the crown had spared no expense for the celebration. Jacaerys himself, however, was not at present interested in whatever creature was being tracked down in his name, his sights set on adventure with the young Princess Aelyria, the King and Queen’s youngest child. Having been born mere months apart, they had grown to be quite close; they trained with their dragons together in the Dragonpit, had discovered and begun exploring the passageways in the Red Keep, and Aelyria had taken to sneaking into the princes’ training sessions in her own desire to learn to fight along with her favorite nephew. And when she would inevitably get dragged away by her mother or the septa, Jace would sneak into her chambers later that evening with two training blades in hand to teach her what he had learned that day.

As Jacaerys breaks through the treeline, he runs straight into Aelyria, who had stopped suddenly in the woods, sending the pair tumbling forward in a heap of limbs. “Jace!” the princess cried, a laugh in her voice as they disentangled themselves and their cloaks.

“You’re the one who stopped!” Jace laughs in his defense. “Why did you? I thought we were racing to the creek,” he wonders, standing and extending his hand down to help up the princess, a princely boy even at his young age.

“I thought I saw something but we must have scared it off now,” she says, taking his hand and standing, not bothering to brush the dirt off her skirts. The princess’ lilac eyes flicker with mischief as she looks around the woods surrounding them, her eyes settling on a nearby tree with low branches fit for climbing. “C’mon!”

Before Jacaerys can respond, the princess is pulling herself up to the lowest branch, swinging her legs over with ease, not a care in the world for the preservation of her skirts. She was always quite boyish, never heading her mother’s lessons of ladylike manners and behaviors. The young prince has never minded though, enjoying her wildness and sense of adventure. A day with her was never boring.

Soon the young royals were high in the treeline, standing on either side of the large trunk balanced on branches as they took in the view around them. Their breaths were labored from the climb, their cheeks flushed and smiles wide. The ruckus of the hunt was left far behind and below them, not able to reach them in the trees. “I wish we could stay here forever,” the princess sighs, sitting down on her branch, her legs swinging.

“Why?” the prince asks, watching her curiously.

“It’s quiet,” she says softly, looking up at the still standing prince. “And beautiful and here my mother can’t yell at me to be more ladylike.” She rolls her eyes and mimics her mother’s intonation. Jacaerys laughs, climbing over and sitting next to the princess on her branch.

“When we are older, I’ll be King and I’ll command your mother to leave you be.”

“Will you let me be a knight?” the princess asks, excitement in her voice.

“If you’d like!” Jacaerys laughs. “You could be my sworn protector.”

“I’d be a brilliant knight.” the princess declares, straightening her back and puffing out her chest and the pair fall into giggles.

“Well I promise then, once I’m King I’ll make sure your mother can never tell you to be ladylike again!” Jacaerys declares, holding out his pinky to the girl, who smiles and links hers with his, thankful for him.

Sweet tea in the summer Cross your heart, won't tell no other And though I can't recall your face I still got love for you

Jacaerys makes his way through the dark halls of Dragonstone, his footsteps echoing through the hall as he makes his way to the Great Hall. Nearing his destination, the voices of his mother and stepfather leak out through the ajar door. He pauses for a moment, not wishing to walk in on an intimate moment.

“He says he wishes for it in the hope it will heal the rift between our families,” his mother says, her voice smooth and calm.

“So he may fall prey to their vicious children? How do we know this isn’t a Hightower scheme?” Daemon challenges with clear disdain in his voice.

“I cannot believe this idea came from Alicent nor Otto,” the princess responds.

“Does not mean she won’t take advantage of it. She may be instructing Aelyn on how to best manipulate him at this moment.”

“Her name is Aelyria, Daemon,” Rhaenyra corrects, peaking Jacareys’ interest further. His mother’s youngest half-sister was not a common topic of conversation in their home, even if she far preferred her half-sisters to her half- brothers. “They were friends when they were children; Jace doted on her even. It may prove to be a good match.”

Daemon opens his mouth to respond but stops when he sees Jacaerys entering the room with a questioning look on his face.

“Jace,” his mother says happily, smiling at him and motioning for him to come in. He obliges, his long stride carrying him through the room quickly to stand at the Painted Table with his mother and stepfather. “Apt timing. We just received word from your grandsire the King, he has suggested a match for you.”

“A match? Who?” the young prince inquires, his gaze darting between Rhaenyra and Daemon, acting as if he had not been eavesdropping.

“The Princess Aelyria. You are the same age, both unwed, and the King remembers how close you were as children,” his mother states, setting down the scroll of parchment in her hand on the table. “He thinks you would make a fine pair, and she a good Queen to have by your side.” Daemon scoffs slightly to her left, walking away to lean against the mantle above the hearth. Jacaerys stays silent for a moment. Marriage was something he knew would be coming but in truth, he hadn’t given it much thought. The princess he remembered was a small, spirited little girl with a quick wit and even quicker temper. She often snuck out of her own lessons to join the princes in their trainings, and trained in the Dragonpit alongside them for many years. He’d certainly held a boyhood crush on her then but Jacaeyrs struggles to imagine who she has grown into.

“What say you, Mother?” he asks finally, looking up from the Painted Table to meet her eyes.

“I quite agree with my father,” she says after a moment. “It would do well to have our line of succession shored up, and the princess would make a fine match. While she has a reputation for being a little wild, I also hear that she has a good heart and a kind reputation among the smallfolk that would strengthen your reign when the time comes,” She says, moving closer to her son, “But it is your opinion that matters most in this.”

“And of the Hightowers?” Daemon interjects from his place at the hearth, his eyes fixed on the flames.

“Even they are not above the will of the King,” Rhaenyra responds, “We would have to go to King’s Landing for the wedding, but we needn’t stay.” Jacaerys holds his mother’s gaze for a long moment, mulling the idea of marriage, to someone he hardly knows any longer, over in his mind. “So?”

“Yes, I accept,” he says with a nod, attempting to look more sure of himself than he feels. His mother smiles, raising his confidence slightly, and nods.

“Then I shall write to my father,” she says, and kisses Jacaerys’ forehead before retrieving the scroll from the table and retreating from the room. Jacaerys lingers for a moment, watching Daemon whose eyes are trained on his wife’s retreating figure.

“The Hightowers are scheming and dangerous. You should watch this girl carefully,” he says to the young prince finally.

“She’s not a Hightower, she’s a Targaryen,” Jacaerys responds quickly, already feeling protective over his betrothed.

“Same thing for that lot,” Daemon responds darkly before grabbing his sword from the table and following after the princess.

Your braids like a pattern Love you to the moon and to Saturn Passed down like folk songs The love lasts so long

The Prince grunts slightly as his feet hit the solid ground after lowering himself from Vermax’s back, stiff from the long ride. He and his mother have come to King’s Landing for the first time in many years so he and the princess can be reacquainted before their wedding in a moon. The rest of their family will come for the wedding but Rhaenyra wanted to avoid any repeat of the last time they were all together.

Jacaerys would never reveal this secret but he was quite nervous. He could barely remember the face of the princess, let alone what she could look like or what her personality was now. Was she still as wild and rebellious and boyish as she was or has she relented to her mother’s will and become a lady? Jacaerys watches quietly as his mother speaks with the guards, requesting a carriage be brought to take them back to the castle, and as the Dragonkeepers escort Vermax and Syrax into the Dragonpit. Jacaerys wonders if Vermax remembers his first home still, the place they first bonded. He is quickly torn from his thoughts as a shadow passes over them and looking up, he sees a beautiful white and golden dragon making its descent to the ground.

The dragon and her rider’s backs are facing the prince once they land but the woman in front of him was undoubtedly the princess, for he’d recognize her dragon, Starfyre, anywhere. He watches as the princess pats her dragon on the neck, before leaping from the saddle and landing easily on the ground. She faces away from him still, speaking to the Dragonkeeper in High Valyrian but the prince finds himself taking in every detail he can. Her silver gold hair is intricately braided to hang down to the small of her back, her legs are long and wrapped in trousers made for riding, and a black riding coat accentuates her curves and hangs to her knees, her voice is melodic and sure in her High Valyrian. She nods to the Dragonkeeper and turns, pulling her riding gloves off with her teeth before her lilac eyes find Jacaerys and Rhaenyra.

“Jace?” she calls, stepping away from her dragon and closer to him. She has the wide doe eyes of her mother still but everything else of her is Targaryen through and through, sharp features and high cheekbones, and her smile more beautiful than Jacaerys remembers it.

“Aely,” he responds with a smile, resting his hands on the hilt of his sword, unsure of where else to put them.

“I didn’t think you were arriving until later this evening,” the princess says, her eyes scanning the prince. Like Jacaerys, she has spent much time wondering how the boy she knew has changed into the man she’s been betrothed to and she is stunned at what she finds. His face is angular and handsome framed by long dark curls. He is tall and lean while still appearing strong, his warm brown eyes the exact same as she recalls.

“We got an earlier start than expected,” Rhaenyra steps forward, “How are you, sister?”

“I am well, and you?” Aelyria nods. Rhaenyra has always been her favorite sibling, even if they weren’t close. She looked up to the women as a child, and her mother’s distaste towards the princess made Aelyria feel a certain kinship with her half sister.

“We are well. Are you headed back to the Keep?”

“I am, would you ride back with me?” she offers, motioning to the carriage pulling up to the gates of the Dragonpit.

“That is kind, thank you,” Rhaenyra says with a smile, and a wink for her son, and moves toward the carriage but Aelyria hangs back, her eyes trailing over her betrothed again.

“You are much changed since I last saw you,” the prince says, stepping forward.

“I can say the same for you, nephew,” she says, failing to keep her mischievous smile from her face. Jace had always hated when she called him that as children, but he can’t find the annoyance in him at the moment, too entranced by the sound of her voice. Instead he laughs and shakes his head, holding his arm out to escort the princess to the carriage so they can make their way back to the Red Keep.

And I've been meaning to tell you I think your house is haunted Your dad is always mad and that must be why And I think you should come live with Me and we can be pirates Then you won't have to cry Or hide in the closet And just like a folk song Our love will be passed on

Jacareys wanders through the halls of the Red Keep, familiarity and strangeness battling in his mind. The castle has changed much in the near decade of his absence and yet, he could see it as it was in his youth: the halls the same he and his brother ran through, the Dragonpit the same as it was the first day he rode Vermax, the secret passages the same as when he and Aelyria discovered them as children. Jacareys found himself mindlessly making his way to the training yard, allured by the sound of steel against steel.

Jacareys steps into the training yard to find Princess Aelyria and Prince Aemond sparing in the center. He remembers well how she would watch the princes in training, even picking up a sword and practicing herself before being run off by Ser Cristen or her mother or the septa. She’s grown much in the years since he last saw her, her skills far outpacing that of which he had imagined. Jacareys watches as she circles Aemond, striking, blocking and dodging with surprising speed and accuracy. Jacareys finds his gaze drawn to her legs, unhidden by skirts as she stands in trousers, the riding coat she favors tossed over a training dummy.

Princess Aelyria’s laughter echoes off the walls of the yard as she stands up from her dodge of her brother’s blunted sword, having ducked and rolled under the blade to recover behind him. Aemond turns around in frustration, swinging again with his blade as Aelyria reaches up to block his attack before stepping under his reach and elbowing the prince in the side. With her small stature and lesser strength, the princess had learned that speed and agility were her friends in bouts and quickly excelled in her capabilities. Aemond grunts from the blow to his side, his steps staggering slightly as his sister circles him, waiting for her to recover.

“Ready to yield, brother?” she taunts, her lips turned up in a smirk.

“You’re the one running,” he bemoans, righting himself and raising his sword, readying to strike again but lowers his blade, his eyes fixed over Aelyria’s shoulder with a sly smile. “Come to train, nephew?” The princess turns, her eyes finding Jacaerys pushing off the wall, his brown eyes trained on the prince.

“To speak with my betrothed,” he answers, his gaze shifting to Aelyria and softening for her. Aemond eyes narrow, upset at the match as much as his mother, leveling a menacing glare at his nephew before taking his leave without another word. “He doesn’t like me,” Jacaerys states, as the door to the yard slams, and turns back to Aelyria who chuckles.

“Aemond likes no one,” she responds, leaning on the training blade, "He merely tolerates me as he has no one else to spar with save Cole."

“It may be,” the prince says, suddenly feeling uneasy under her gaze. “When did the Queen surrender to your training?”

“Soon after your leave, if I remember correctly. They grew weary of disciplining me with no effect,” the princess smirks.

“As you always hoped,” they chuckle, a hint of their old familiarity returning. The prince glances at the table of training weapons. “Care for another round?”

“If you can keep up,” she smirks, tossing him the blade Aemond had left in his wake. Aelyria makes the first move, but Jacaerys quickly counters. He holds back at first, unsure of fighting with a woman, but he quickly learns that Aelyria is quite capable and a formidable opponent and he begins to let loose. They are well matched, meeting blow for blow until both of them are sweaty and panting.

“You fight well,” the prince compliments, his chest rising and falling quickly and a curl sticking to his damp forehead.

“Thank you, you do as well. Much better than when you would teach me in my chambers,” Aelyria laughs, wiping at her hairline where baby hairs stick to her skin.

“You make it sound quite scandalous,” Jacaerys jests, setting aside the training blades.

“It was to us then,” the princess points out, remembering how careful they were to not get caught.

“True enough,” he laughs, his eyes lost in hers, the soft lilac of her irises beautiful and intriguing to him as ever. “You know, I’ve missed you, in truth. I never had as much fun alone as with you here,” the prince says softly, stepping forward and brushing a stray hair from the princess’ brow. The air becomes thick between them, their eyes locked together.

“I missed you too, my brothers are poor company compared to you-”

“Aelyria!” The voice of the Queen rings out over the courtyard, startling the Jacaerys and Aelryia who back away from each other quickly. The queen stalks over to her daughter, grabbing her arm roughly. Aelyria’s face sours and she yanks her arm from her mother’s grip, leveling her with a hard stare. “You have a dress fitting you are currently missing and you look a mess. I thought you could put away this foolishness for one hour. You would think this is my wedding for as much as you seem to care about it!”

“Mother, I-”

“I apologize, your Grace. The princess had finished near an hour ago but I stepped in. I don’t have many sparring partners save my brothers on Dragonstone. The fault is mine,” Jacaerys steps in, unable to ignore the anger bubbling in his stomach at the queen’s treatment of her daughter.

“Price Jacaerys, it is good to see you again. I am afraid I cannot stay, but I hope you are settling back in well,” Alicent says to the prince, her face barely masking her distaste of him, before she turns back to her daughter. “Come, Aelyria.” Jacaerys watches as the princess takes a deep breath and, flashing him an apologetic smile, turns to follow her mother back into the castle.

Please picture me In the weeds Before I learned civility I used to scream ferociously Any time I wanted

“Come in,” Aelyria calls softly at the knock on her door. Jacaerys steps into her chambers at her permission and smiles as he closes the door. “Hi.”

“Hi,” the prince says softly, moving to sit next to Aelyria at the table in the center of her room. “I wanted to apologize for earlier. I did not mean to keep you and I regret that I did.”

“I do not. I could have been bathed and early and perfectly excited and she still would have found something wrong. The fault is not yours,” the princess assures, placing a hand over his and squeezing gently. Before she can pull her hand back, Jacaerys clasps his hand to hers, relishing the feeling.

“I’m sure it is hard for girls and their mothers as it is with boys and fathers,” the prince says sympathetically.

“Is it hard, with you and your stepfather?” The princess asks, her eyes on their hands.

“Sometimes, it was strange at first but he’s been my father almost as long as my actual father was,” Jacaerys shrugs.

“You know, I don’t think I ever got to tell you how sorry I was for you when your father passed,” Aelyria says softly.

“Oh,” the prince says, surprised by her and shakes his head. “Seems so long ago now but I was glad he passed on Driftmark, I know he missed it while away.”

“That’s not who I meant,” the princess says, and Jacaerys, on instinct stiffens at the realization she means Ser Hardin Strong, and not Leanor Velaryon from whom Jace received his name. “I don’t hold it against you like my mother and brothers do. Seems a silly thing for them to care so much about,” Aelryia adds quickly, sensing his unease.

“Really?” Jacaerys eyes find hers, shock shining in the dark brown of them.

“You wouldn’t be you if you had another father and I’ve always quite liked you as you are,” the princess smiles, her thumb grazing against the back of Jacaerys’ hand as a slight blush colors his cheeks. “What was he like?” She asks after a moment.

“He was gentle, and fierce… They called him Breakbones,” Jacaerys smiles, Aelyria along with him, but there’s a sadness in his eyes still. “He loved us, I think.”

“Of course he did. Otherwise he would not have defended you so fiercely against Cole.”

“You remember that?”

“I do,” Aelyria nods, leaning back in her chair. “It was the first time I saw a true fight. I remember thinking that I had to learn how to fight like that. It felt so necessary, like it was all I wanted… Your father gave me that.” Jacaerys blinks at her for a moment, a strange smile on his lips. “What?” He shakes his head slightly.

“No one ever calls him my father, not even my mother,” he says after a moment, looking down to where their hands are intertwined on the table. “It’s nice,” he adds after a breath.

“He’d be proud of you, of who you’ve become,” Aelyria says suddenly, sitting forward and using her free hand to lift Jacaerys’ chin.

“He’d be happy we’re betrothed,” Jacaerys smiles, leaning closer to the princess.

“Really?”

“Yes,” he nods, “I remember one time, he happened to be watching training and you had just gotten dragged away by the Queen but you had put up a good fight before you left and he said, ‘There’s a warrior if I’ve ever seen one.’ I remember looking up at him and he just winked at me, almost like he knew.”

“I wish I had known him better,” Aelyria says softly after a moment and Jacaerys nods, squeezing her hand.

“Me too…” Jacaerys nods. For a moment, the pair sit in a comfortable silence, gazing at each other, taking in the fact that they’re together again after all this time. “Do you remember that hunt we had on my tenth nameday? When we ran off into the woods, hiding in the trees?” Aelyria laughs, the memory washing over her at his question and nods.

“Yes, I do. Oh, what fun we had that day. We only got found because we could not stop laughing as they rode underneath us. Mother was so angry I ruined that dress,” they laugh at the memory together. Even though it had ended in a scolding for each of them, neither ever regretted that day.

“I remember what I promised that day, and I swear I’ll keep it. Now that we’re betrothed, you are mine, and I am yours and once we’re wed, I’ll make sure you never have to heed your mother unless you wish to,” Jacaerys leans forward, intensity in his gaze as he makes this promise to Aelyria. “I quite like you as you are, and I won’t have her try to change you.”

Aelyria smiles gratefully, wondering how she got so lucky as to be marrying this man; the boy she grew up with and loved as a girl, and the man sitting in front of her, with all his fierceness and devotion. Aelyria, too moved to speak, leans forward instead, pressing their lips together softly in thanks. Jacaerys doesn’t miss a beat, his hand reaching up to cup her cheek as he kisses her back. Her hand winds in his hair and their hands hold to each other tighter on the table between them. As their lips part, they don’t move away, instead connecting their brows together. They smile at each other, giddy in their love, hearts beating rapidly as one, as they always have and always will. I, I Sweet tea in the summer Cross my heart, won't tell no other And though I can't recall your face I still got love for you Pack your dolls and a sweater We'll move to India forever Passed down like folk songs Our love lasts so long

#jacaerys targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #prince jacaerys #jacaerys valaryon #jacaerys strong #jace velaryon #jacerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon #jace targaryen #Jacaerys velaryon fluff #Jacaerys velaryon angst #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd fanfic #jacaerys x reader #hotd jacaerys #jacaerys targaryen #jacae

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l0vergirlsw0rld · 2 months ago

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day 2: roleplay (unedited) oldman!logan. | NSFW MDNI 18+

The cabin was quiet except for the crackling of the fire, casting warm flickering shadows across the room. Logan was slumped down into his usual leather armchair that was positioned across from you. He was now nursing his fourth whiskey, flipping across the crinkled pages of today's newspaper.

You subtly took a peek at him from your book, trying to determine whether he was in the state you needed him to be to play this little game of yours; A newfound sexual fantasy that was planned for the evening, unbeknownst to him.

It had been days since you were dancing around this idea, trying to find the right time to propose it to him. It was common knowledge that he was older and less adventurous than you were sexually; so you decided to wait til he loosened up a bit before springing this idea onto him and by the looks of it, tonight was the night.

Logan read attentively through his thick lashes, reading glasses sat on the tip of his nose, his eyes traced each sentence on the paper; one by one, lost in focus. You could tell from the prominent missing crease in his forehead that he was feeling relaxed and open. Most likely due to the liquor.

Game time, you thought to yourself before closing your book.

You rose from your seat and sauntered over to him, his eyes slowly lifting from the page to meet yours. There was something different in the air tonight, and he could feel it. The subtle smirk playing on your lips didn't go unnoticed by him whatsoever as he knew you better than anyone else on this planet.

“What's all this about?” The side of his mouth quipped upwards. His low voice was already gravelly, though there was a hint of intrigue behind his gruff exterior.

You stopped a few feet from him, your fingers tracing the neckline of your white silk nightdress in momentary hesitation. You slipped your hand into your bra and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.

“We’re going to play a game tonight, Lo'.”

He folded and tossed the newspaper on the small side table, sitting further up in his seat curiously.“You want to play a game? You know that's not really my style, sweetheart.”

You stepped closer stopping right between his knees, unfolding the paper and showing him a set of instructions you had scribbled on there.

“I think this one might be,” you said, your voice low and teasing. “Let’s just say I play the part of an innocent little bunny and you’re the Big Bad Wolf chasing me. Simple.”

His eyes narrowed as he deciphered your instructions, a slow grin curling his lips as he pieced together the objective.

“You want me to hunt you?” His words were slow and careful as if he found the prompt amusing. He removed his glasses with a swift hand, taking a better look up at your now-flushed face.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the thrill of this dangerous game settling into your bones. “Catch me,” you whispered, leaning in close enough to his ear that he could feel your breath on his neck, “and I’m yours for the night.”

That was all it took. The predator in him snapped awake. You didn’t even have time to see him react before you dashed towards the door, slipping out into the night. The cool breeze hit your skin, but it wasn’t the chill of the temperature that made you shiver—it was knowing that Logan was right behind you.

He was nice enough to give you a lengthy headstart; though he was getting on in age, he still possessed mutations that overpowered your human capabilities. But for the sake of the game, he took his time getting up and out of his chair.

Blades of wind sent your hair twirling behind you as you cut through the trees. The night air was sharp against your exposed skin, each breath stinging your lungs as you ran deeper into the woods.

The moon hung low in the sky, its silver light filtering through the canopy of trees, casting long, eerie shadows across the forest floor. Your visibility was minimal but you were able to make out the thick trunks of trees, to avoid running into them. As you continued to charge forward through the underbrush, branches whipped at your arms and legs making your skin sting from the sharp sensation. Leaves and twigs crunched beneath your hurried footsteps.

It was a matter of a single minute before you could hear him close behind. His heavy footfalls weren’t rushed, but they didn’t need to be. He was toying with you, letting you run, knowing exactly where you were no matter how fast you moved. His senses were far sharper than yours, and even with the distance between you, you could feel his eager presence, a predator on the hunt.

Your heart raced in your chest, every sound amplified in the quiet of the night. You dodged low-hanging branches, vaulting over fallen logs, your breath coming in short, frantic bursts. The trees closed in around you, their skeletal arms reaching out as if they, too, were trying to capture you. You circled the forest floor, trying to navigate what direction to go in next before you spotted a hiding spot.

There—a cluster of rocks, large enough to hide behind. You stumbled forward towards it, your foot catching onto a tree root, and you barely managed to catch yourself before you hit the pine-covered ground. Every muscle screamed in protest, but you didn’t stop, pulling yourself behind the boulders, crouching low, holding your breath as his steps grew louder.

The woods went still for a moment, only the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears. You pressed your back against the cold, rough stone, closing your eyes, willing yourself to stay silent.

But you knew it wouldn’t last.

A faint rustle in the leaves sent a jolt of fear through you. You peeked around the edge of the rock, your eyes scanning the darkness, searching for any sign of him. Then, you heard it—a deep, guttural growl, low and menacing, close enough that the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

“Come out, darlin’,” Logan’s voice called out, dark and teasing, dripping with amusement. “You know this Big Bad Wolf can smell your wet pussy from a mile away.”

Your pulse quickened as his words sank in. Of course, he could: he memorized every curve and freckle on your body and your scent was no different in this circumstance.

The ground beneath you seemed to vibrate as his footsteps drew nearer, slow and deliberate.

His voice came again, it was right behind you, a low growl that sent shivers down your spine.

“Gotcha, little bunny.”

Well, that didn’t last long. You thought.

A firm hand gripped your wrist, pulling you up onto your feet and sprawling you forward onto the rock that stood between the two of you. His eyes were wild, filled with the thrill of the chase, his whiskey breath hot against your skin.

“I said I caught you,” he growled, pulling you even closer to him, your knees scraping against the stone, earning a small whine from your lips.

Your pulse quickened, and you met his intense gaze. “What now?”

Logan’s lips curled into a dark smirk, his voice a husky whisper. “Now, I claim what’s mine.”

The tendons in your forearms stung as the weight of your body pulled down on them. Your arms were suspended above your head, wrists tied together to a thick tree branch with Logan's belt. You planted your bare feet onto the forest's floor keeping them solid, trying to master your balance.

Logan's firm hands spread your cheeks apart as he dove his face deeper inside of you from behind. Your breath hitched with every brush of the sharp blades of his facial hair against your sensitive skin. A low growl escaped from his chest as he lapped at you skillfully.

The excitement of the chase had you dripping down your leg, leaving a fragrant trail for Logan to follow and capture you. His hunger for you grew deeper with each stride and now he could finally have his taste after a short pursuit.

You moaned into the night's air, as he passed his tongue over your swollen clit repeatedly. With every flick of your sensitive bud, your legs twitched in response. The much-anticipated friction was quickly building pressure in your lower area, nearing that sweet relief you oh-so craved. His nails dug into your skin, sending jolts of excitement up your spine.

"Tastes so fucking good," He groaned against your slit, your juices dripping down his chin.

You tipped your head back with a moan as he resumed his long warm strokes against your core. "I'm close!” You let out breathily. Your fingertips and toes began to tingle as your orgasm crept closer.

"Cum all over my face, be a good bunny," He encouraged you, sucking your clit into his mouth. His soft lips wrapped around your aching needy clit. He hollowed his cheeks, the pressure surrounding you increased, his wet tongue stimulating it simultaneously. Heat began to pool at your cheeks as your attention became hazy.

"Ah fuck!" You moaned squeezing your thighs around his face as the unbearable pressure began to pool out of you. Your sporadic breaths filled the air and your body contorted from the overstimulation of your senses. Logan kept his steady pace, helping you ride the wave of pleasure.

Your hips bucked against his face softly as you began to regain your senses and your breath. He followed your lead, making sure his girl was finished cumming before pulling away.

Your breathing regulated and he retrieved his face from your now sensitive area. His palms slid down your ass and off of you as he wiped your sweet slick off his face with the back of his hand.

With a low grunt, he got up from his knees and the familiar unzipping of his jeans could be heard from behind you.

"How's my little catch doin'? Still with me?" He spoke lowly, as he pushed his pants down to his ankles.

"Yes, so good." You assured him, voice small and exhausted from the major relief.

"...so good, hm?" He repeated, tracing a loving finger between your folds before positioning himself behind you.

His throbbing red tip ghosted your entrance as his hands slid up your hips to settle on them. His lips pressed a warm, wet kiss to your shoulder.

"You ready?" He mumbled against you.

"Yes," You breathed.

"Such a good little bunny," He praised before pushing it through your tight slit, making your breath hitch at the back of your throat.

"Fuck your tight." He grunted out as he slowly travelled further inside of you, his length gliding effortlessly due to his skillful preparation. You became fuller, your walls clenching around his remarkable girth.

He reached the hilt, his thick tip making contact with your cervix. You instinctively jumped a little from the pressure. “Can’t handle this big cock eh?” He snickered.

This wasn't new, even though the both of you had been together for a while, you often needed some time to get used to him. He waited until he could feel you relax around him, adjusting to his size before pulling back his hips to find a rhythm.

The sound of skin slapping against skin grew louder through the dense forest as Logan began to make full thrusts inside of you. With each one, your uncomfortableness lessened and was replaced with pleasure. His perfectly angled curve found your G-spot, making you arch your back in response.

You bit your lip trying to stop the moans from escaping, but you couldn't help it as you felt that familiar pressure begin to build. His pumps became harder and faster as his own excitement grew, one of his hands slid up into your hair and pulled your head back closer to him. His lips were now curving the shell of your ear and you could feel his hot breaths on your nipply skin.

Goosebumps trailed up your stomach as he whispered; "You're gonna take every drop of this big bad wolf’s cum like a good little slut-bunny, you hear me?" His voice rang through your ears as he pushed deeper. His grip on your hair tightened, yanking your scalp with each buck of his hips.

"Yes, ah- please! Fill me up with your cum, Mr Wolf-ah" You squeezed around him. His cock twitched inside of you eagerly: "Mr." He wasn't one for formalities, but there was something about the way you said in this moment that just did it for him.

"Oh fuck," He let out, snapping inside of you even faster. Your juices dripped down your legs from his relentless thrusting. Your head grew heavy on your neck as your body began to overheat. His long pumps, pushed his swollen tip into your sweet spot, edging you closer and closer to your release.

Your knees began to shake with the overstimulation of your core. Logan bit down on your shoulder and with another few bucks, you both were cumming in unison. His cock was buried deep inside you, spraying your tight walls with his pearly seed.

He rutted forward mechanically, riding out his orgasm. He replaced his teeth with his lips on your shoulder, kissing a trail up to your neck. Your head swooned in ecstasy as your breathing once more began to stabilize. "You. did. so. good," He praised between kisses.

As you caught your breath your body began to come down from the high. The heat draining from you, as the night's cold air covered you in shivers. Your nipples pebbled against the coarse bark of the tree.

Logan pulled out and untied you from the branch, catching you in his arms. He dressed you back into your nightgown and put his pants back on before carrying you bridal style back to the cabin.

"You won," You managed to let out with the little energy you had left inside of you. Your eyelids grew heavy in the comfort of his strong arms.

"I sure did, little bunny." He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"I sure did."

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heejake-hoon · 6 months ago

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Torture

Warnings: smut, mdni, Heeseung is mean, teasing, hair pulling, names calling, desperate reader, blowjob, cum in the mouth, unprotected sex.

Heeseung couldn't help the smirk on his lips while watching you struggle in front of him, pressing your legs together so tight, your eyes stuck on the screen in front you, so helpless, chewing on ur lips so hard it made his cock twitch , loving the way you react to his dirty texts, trying to look normal whenever someone adressed you, looking so confused, so lost as if you were in another dimension.

He eyed you from the corner of the table, sitting far away from you on purpose to make you struggle more while he kept typing how he wants to have you, how he'd just go under that table and eat you out without anyone noticing, how'd love to fuck you in front of all these people to show them who u belong to. Nothing could beat the way your eyes widen whenver you read those texts, looking around as if anyone would caught you before biting ur lips and fanning yourself, clearly imagining those things happening.

His tongue darts on his lips everytime you makes eye contact with him begging his with ur puppy eyes to stop teasing you but he wouldn't do that yet, he wants to see u reach ur limit, curious as to what you'd do once u r beyond frustrated and his eyes lit up when you excused urself to the bathroom, following you immediately not giving you the chance to even close the door before he hooped up, pinning you against the said wood, his hand going bellow ur dress to feel ur wetness and the chuckle he let then made your eyes roll, you were so sentive, so horny, so desperate for his touch, you whimpered, begged for him to do something, anything but he just kept his hand on your pussy urging you to grind on it, his brows raised in amusement at the way your face scrunches up while u desperately tried to get off but it wasnt enough, his hands didnt move, just kept holding you.

You had to use his body to grind on and it made him feel like a tree trunk. You were so pathetic and desperate, clinging on his arms, his neck, anything just to keep him in place while humping him, your head leaning against the door. "Look at you, so needy, grinding on me like a dog in heat" his voice was so low and raspy, his words going straight to your core. Your hands reached down to unbuckle his belt, but he stopped you making you whine "nah, princess, if you want it you should earn it" you didn't think twice about getting on your knees, ignoring how close you were and looking at him up with teary eyes "please" you whispered and he shook his head "not enough" he said while his thumb caressed ur lips, so soft, so plump. You opened ur mouth and took his finger in, sucking on it while your tongue swirled around it and his eyes were fixed on your lips, his dick was throbbing and all he wanted was to fuck your mouth but he wanted to torture you more, he pulled his fingers away and your eyes widened when he turned around to open the door.

Just when he was about to leave you got up and locked the door, pushing him inside, his brows raised as you dropped back on your knees and looked up at him, this time not only begging, but pleading. "P-please, i'll do anything, anything, please i wanna choke on your cock, i want you to use me, please" his hand went on your hair and tugged, his eyes never leaving yours as he spoke "that's more like it slut" and you didn't hesitate before unbucking his belt, opening his zipper, pulling his cock out of his boxers and wrapping your lips around him.

Heeseung threw his head back and closed his eyes as you took him deeper, hollowing ur cheeks and licking the underside of his cock, sucking his precum like a thirsty dog. Your eyes were tearing up as his hands gripped your hair tighter, using your mouth as he pleased, fucking into it and making u gag, not giving a damn about the fact that the both of you were supposed to be back, that there were people waiting for you, all he cared about was cumming inside ur pretty little mouth, his head snapped down to look at your face, ur pretty red lips, ur swollen eyes, the way u kept staring up at him, moaning around him. And his heart skipped a beat, you looked so good on ur knees for him, he was about to burst. His hips stuttered, his grip tightening, his breath becoming irregular as he spilled down your throat and u were so obedient not wasting a drop of his cum.

He pulled you up to stand in front of him and wiped the tears off ur cheeks, cupping ur face, his thumb caressing your bottom lip. "My beautiful girl" he whispered while kissing ur lips, tasting himself on them, his tongue dancing with yours while his hand was groping your ass, kneading the flesh and his teeth tugging on your bottom lip, biting it. His other hand was travelling down and you couldn't help but whimper when he inserted a finger inside of you. "I knew it" he groaned, "i knew my dirty slut would be soaked for me, isn't that right baby?" He was finger fucking you slowly, torturously, his thumb circling around ur clit for a while before he added another finger stretching you, and your eyes rolled back as he increased the pace of his thrusts, as he kept hitting your spot over and over again and you found yourself cuming around his fingers, crying his name, clinging onto his shoulder for support, and he kept going, milking every last bit of pleasure from you. Once u came down from ur high, he took his fingers out and sucked them clean, licking them one by one, tasting u on his tongue and moaning around them. It was the hottest thing u've ever witnessed.

Not giving you time to admire him more he turned you around, bending you on the sink. His hands were on ur ass, caressing, fondling, kneading the flesh, making you whimper, the sound was so sweet and soft and it made his cock twitch. He pulled ur panties aside and entered you, no warning, no prep, he just shoved himself deep inside you, and the feeling of being stretched by him made u cry out, it was so loud that he had to cover ur mouth with his hand to stop the others from hearing you. He didn't even give you the chance to get used to him before he started moving, pounding into you hard, his grip was so tight, you couldn't help the tears rolling down ur cheeks, it hurt so good. "Fuck, you're always so tight, baby, always so good for me" he growled, "such a perfect little cocksleeve" his words made your head spin your pussy clenching around his thickness, as he kept hitting your sweet spot with every thrust.

You were already close to your release when he pulled your hair back, making u stand straight, still holding ur waist, his hand going up to grab your throat, choking you lightly while pounding into you, his breath was ragged, his lips right next to ur ear "imagine if they hear us" and you whined, "you can't be that loud, princess, i'll have to punish you if they do" and your eyes widened, his hold on ur neck getting a little tighter, his pace speeding up, and you came undone, a silent scream leaving your lips as he kept thrusting through your high. He wasn't finished though, he didn't slow down, he kept going until he was chasing his own release, spilling inside of you, filling you up.

#enhypen #enhypen smut #enhypen fanfiction #heeseung #enhypen heeseung #heeseung smut #heeseung x reader #heeseung enhypen #heeseung fanfic

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syrupgirl · 2 years ago

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Request:

Could u write a fic ab Sully family x y /n reader? Where she lives with the sully family after her parents died, she gets taken by the colonel in the forest and is set up for bate because he knows she important to the Sully family.

a/n: the way I interpreted this, reader is taken by herself rather than what happens in the film where all of the kids get taken. I did use the rough layout of the scene for inspo but it does diverge from cannon ie Neteyam is with the kids when they get discovered. I hope that’s similar enough to what you mean. also reader is na’vi and around Neteyam’s age :p

Sullys stick together -The Sully family

“Catch me if you can!” Tuk yelled. Her little feet pattering along the branch of an enormous tree, while you and the rest of the Sully children chased her for sport.

She giggled delightedly, dodging out of the way of Lo’ak’s hand.

You really weren’t supposed to be out this far. Too close to the battlefield Jake had said. To close to where the sky people had already begun laying their claim on Pandora. Not if the Na’vi had anything to say about it.

But oh, it was such a beautiful day, almost no clouds in the sky, Kenten floated around you with the unfurled fan necks slowing their descent. Who wouldn’t want to get carried away with the day?

Suddenly, little Tuk ran into the trunk of a tree and startled back, falling on her butt. Kiri rushed forward and kneeled beside her, rubbing her back.

“Oh Tuk, are you ok? Are you hurt?” Kiri asked, ever the nurturer.

Tuk rubbed her nose and sniffed, tiny little tears blooming in her eyes. “Yeah, just got a fright, that’s all.”

Kiri helped the youngest sully stand up and continued to comfort her. Tuk reassured her sister that she was ok and Kiri relented. Tuk then wandered off to continue her little adventure.

“Wait, guys! Look!” Lo’ak whisper shouted.

Everyone looked to the direction he was pointing. Spider’s eyes widened and he even gasped a little.

“Wow, bro. That’s where my dad and your dad fought, right?” He asked Neteyam.

Neteyam didn’t answer right away, looking almost sheepish. “Yeah, bro.”

Lo’ak looked like he could barely keep still, a giddy grin upon his face.

“Well c’mon! Let’s have a look inside!” He was about to spring up when you put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“No way! We have no idea what’s in there, there could be some old tech still active, or…I don’t know, some angry beast!”

Despite not being a blood member of the Sulky family, after Jake and Neytiri took you under their wing and growing up with them for so long cemented your place among them as family. You were as much Neteyam’s sister as Tuktirey was.

Despite not being a blood member of the Sully family, they listened to you and cared about what you had to say, or that’s what you thought.

“That’s why we have our knives, skxawng.” And with that Lo’ak got you to sprint to the abandoned lab. Well, he would’ve had it not been for the tussling of the bushes opposite where you were all crouching.

“Sit down!” Neteyam gritted out, he grabbed his younger brother by the back of his neck and yanked him back down beside him. Lo’ak started to protest, talking about how it was probably some harmless animal. The sound of voices shut him down. Voices speaking in, english.

You were confused. Sky people should not have gotten this far out without drawing attention of the clan. Neteyam motioned for everyone to be still and you all watched on as the voices got closer.

Neteyam turned on his comms and started speaking to Jake. You could guess what he was saying; do not engage, retreat, stay low and out of sight. All very good suggestions in your opinion.

You kept your gaze intently to the direction of the voices, just waiting for them to pop out so you could get a good look at them and hopefully get some answers to your burning questions.

For better or for worse your questions were answered sooner than you thought.

Aside from the speaking english, the only thing that gave them away for being avatar and not Na’vi was the tactical gear. They were fully decked out. A few of them had arms decorated with tattoos and…sunglasses, Jake had called them.

They slowly approached the abandoned lab with guns raised and eyes everywhere. You all ducked down further once you realised you were way out of your league. Unarmed humans you might be able to handle. Armed humans, definitely more difficult but you had done it before, but avatar who were armed to the teeth along with the strength and speed of the na’vi made for a dangerous mix. You all watched as they searched through the building, overturning the insides of it.

“Come on, dad is on his way, he told us to fall back.” Neteyam’s urged all of you, gesturing into the forest behind him.

“What? No! This is our- my chance to prove to dad that I can help! I can be an asset to the people!”

Neteyam and Lo’ak continued to bicker when you noticed Kiri looking around, looking around desperately.

“Kiri?” you asked, “what’s wrong?”

The girl looked almost brought to tears when she looked up to you.

Her voice trembled, “Where is Tuk?”

Oh god.

She had disappeared before Lo’ak had picked up on the lab.

No one had seen her since.

Kiri clasped her hands around her mouth, she looked about as scared as you felt. God, little Tuktirey.

Abruptly, the group of avatars in front of you trained their guns on clump of trees of to your right. You had heard the sound too, a snap of a small branch or twig. Whatever had stepped on it was light.

Light enough to be Tuk.

The hostiles started to walk toward the noise. It’s like you were watching them in slow motion. Off to the side you could see Kiri’s eyes widen, horror flashed across her face. Spider had a similar expression, his eyebrows upturned in the centre. Lo’ak and Neteyam had stopped their fighting and just looked scared out of their own minds. Neteyam for once didn’t have a solution for everything.

So you did the only thing you could think of. A stupid, stupid thing looking back on it, a stupid thing parading itself as bravery. You scrunched your face, said a silent prayer to Eywa to deliver Tuk to safety and to give you strength for whatever was to happen.

You lept out from behind the log and dashed out of cover.

The avatars snapped their attention to you and raised their guns, but you kept charging towards them. Unsheathing the small knife you kept on you at all times, you cried out.

An avatar with short cropped hair on the top of his hair held out his hand and caught you around the neck. He didn’t hold you tight enough to strangle you, but tight enough that you couldn’t escape. He lifted you up into the air like you were fresh prey.

You struggled and snarled, trying to get your knife in any part of him that you could reach.

“Well, well, well, lookie here…” Quaritch chuckled darkly. He motioned for his squad to lowers their guns and the obeyed, observing their colonel with obvious amusement. It made you sick, you probably outwardly grimaced.

“I’ve seen you somewhere before.” He muttered. Quaritch made a show of ‘hmmm’ing and scratching his chin in fake thought. “Ah yes, i’ve seen your runnin’ around with the Sully spawn. You’ve been causin’ a lot of trouble, you and those other brats.”

You pretended not to understand him, opting to keep snapping and thrashing at him. It was not a complete lie; while Jake had taught you some basic english, you could probably only form the sentences of a small human child.

“The thing looks feral…” A teammate muttered from behind the colonel and the squad laughed.

“Don’t be fooled, soldier. These Na’vi can be quite clever when they put their heads together.” The colonel responded.

Thinking of your family behind you, you hoped and prayed that they had retreated back with Tuktirey.

Quaritch lowered you to the ground but before you tried to make a break for it, he wove his fingers through your hair and pulled hard.

You bit your teeth to stifle a scream and reached up to attempt to pry his hand off of your head.

“I know that there’s more of you back there, in the tree line, so you behave and my team will leave them be.” Fear flooded you at that, hearing that this man knew you weren’t alone. With a snap of his fingers he could have you all held hostages. So you stilled. You rested your hands back at your sides and begrudgingly set your gaze on him.

The avatar holding you smiled.

“Children o’ Sully! You listen here,” he spoke in english before switching into what seemed to be pretty broken na’vi, “you tell your father to come here, and this girl will be returned unharmed in exchange for his compliance.”

At least he didn’t know Neteyam had already been in contact with both Jake and Neytiri. If they just pretended to leave, Jake and Neytiri would think of a plan. Like they always do.

The bushes where everyone was hiding rustled. Quaritch tensed and the avatars behind you raised their guns once more, but the bushes stilled, no other came from it.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You hoped that they had gone back home or at least taken Tuk back.

“Alright everyone, I’m guessing we can expect Jake Sully and his mate getting here pretty soon.” He drawled, turning to face his team. “Get ready for an attack. Be on your guard and keep your new eyes and ears sharp.”

Jake and Neytiri quietly dismounted their Ikran and armed themselves. Neytiri looked as if she was shaking with rage, her mouth downturned and her eyes looking for a threat.

“Hey, I’m sure they’re all fine. They’re tough kids, they’re our kids which make them tougher.” Jake attempted a joke but it died out in the silence when Neytiri did not respond.

They hadn’t landed far from where Neteyam told them they were and they were almost silent as they crept forward into the thicket.

A flutter of motion from they’re left has Neytiri’s bow drawn and aimed at the spot.

“Mom! It’s just us! It’s me, Lo’ak!” Lo’ak revealed himself from his hiding spot, arms raised and Neytiri breathed a watery sigh.

She rushed forward, took her baby in her arms, and held him tightly. Lo’ak wrapped his arms around her neck and squeezed. From behind him, Neteyam and spider emerged too, looking a little more embarrassed. Jake looked at his eldest and frowned.

“Where are your sisters?” He asked. Neytiri finally set Lo’ak down and gasped a little, noticing the absence of three of the Sully children.

“Kiri took Tuktirey back home and..” Neteyam looked ashamed, “yn was taken.”

His mother squeezed her eyes closed. Even if you weren’t born of her, you were her daughter. The idea of you being taken, as bait no less, had her heart in her stomach and her chest alight with anger.

Jake sighed and his face turned stony. “You all stay here, stay hidden, while we clean up your mess.” He whispered. The boys wilted and sunk back.

Your legs were starting to ache with how long you had been standing and your scalp with how hard the grip he had on your hair.

The man who had been holding you earlier passed you off to another one of his teammates, who seemed to take liberties in yanking your hair every once and a while.

The once clear sky had filled with clouds and rain trickled down through the canopy above you. No one had spoken in a long time, like everyone was holding their breath.

Suddenly, your ear twitched and you flicked your eyes to where you had heard…something. It could just be the sounds of the forest, an animal eating a plant or a ripe piece of fruit hitting the earth, but this sound sounded out of place, made my something not of the forest.

You caught a glimpse of something blue ducking behind the trunk of a wide tree. They had been holding what looked like a bow. Neytiri!

You shut your eyes and thanked Eywa for delivering you a mother as magnificent and brave as her.

Everything was still for a while and you wondered why Neytiri hadn’t taken a shot. Had she left? In an attempt to look like you were getting drowsy, you slumped a back into the avatar holding you. Your head hit his chin as you did so. He shoved you forward again, tugging your hair as he did so.

That’s why she hadn’t taken a shot, there was too much of a risk of hitting you. You looked up to where you had seen her before and caught her eyes. She had been staring at you intently the whole time, waiting for an opening.

So you gave her one.

You hoped she understood what you tried to say in a single look.

Saying another silent prayer to Eywa, you grabbed the arm that wasn’t gripping your hair, brought it up to your mouth, and bit down as hard as you could.

The man screamed, “You little bitch!”

Thankfully, on instinct he let go of your head and you had just enough time to duck out of the way before an arrow hit him straight between the eyes.

Twigs and leaves crunched beneath your feet and you made a break into the forest. You didn’t dare look back behind you. Gunshots rang through the air, some even whizzed past you.

Just as you jumped over the fallen trunk of a tree, an arm caught you from the side. You fought against it, landing a blow against whoever’s face had snatched you.

They groaned and let you go.

“Be calm! It’s just me!” Spider said as he held his now bloody nose.

You gasped and reached out to touch his face. “Oh Spider, I’m so sorry. You scared me!”

He shook his head a little before standing up, offering you a hand. “It’s fine, let’s go. Lo’ak and Neteyam already left.”

You took his hand and the two of you ran through the forest together. Never daring to look back.

When Jake and Neytiri returned, you knew you were all in for it.

You and your siblings listened outside of their tent, listening to them argue. You held Tuk to you, you didn’t want her to hear what they were saying but she insisted, so all you could do was let her know she wasn’t alone.

Jake stormed out of the tent and you all pretended to be looking at anything else. Smooth.

“yn, get over here.” He ordered. Lo’ak patted you on the back and walked away with the others.

“That stunt you pulled!? That’s not on, okay? It was stupi-!”

You interrupted him, “What I did was stupid, but I don’t regret it. If I hadn’t, Tuk would have been in my position and I couldn’t stand by and watch that happen, sir.” Jake was silent at that. The same stern look painted across his face and his eye twitched.

You stood your ground.

He stood his. For a while.

Until he broke.

The hard look he had softened and he just looked like a tired dad. You realised how stressed he must be, knowing that an old enemy was back and would go through his family to get him. He though he had lost Neteyam earlier this week, and now his daughter? You could have sympathy for him.

You approached him and wrapped your arms around his broad chest. “I’m sorry, dad. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

It felt as if his chest buckled at that and he returned your hug.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again. Alright, soldier?”

You smiled up at him and gave him a. mock salute.

“Yes, sir.”

#i can’t tell if i over wrote #sully family #avatar x reader #sullys x reader #jake sully x reader #neytiri x reader #neteyam x reader #lo’ak x reader #kiri x reader #spider x reader #avatar 2 #avatar way of water #avatar fanfiction #avatar imagine #sully family imagine

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imaredshirt · 2 months ago

Text

I'm kinda really into the idea of Fiddleford meeting Stanley before meeting Stanford.

Pretty early on after being chased out of New Jersey, Stanley ends up being chased out of Kentucky and drives the night through Tennessee until his car breaks down somewhere west of Murfreesboro. He gets the car towed to a nearby garage, where a young mechanic takes one look under the hood and says he'll have it ready in a jiffy. All Stan will have to do is pay a few bucks inside, and he can be back on the road in no time.

Sounds great to Stan, except - well, he's broke. He can't pay the guy. He knows this, but the guy doesn't know this, so Stan spends the next few minutes trying to talk up one of the old-ish Stan-vac Vacuums he's got stashed away in his trunk, hoping to give it to the guy in lieu of cash.

Turns out the mechanic is a chatty guy himself, and Stan learns a few things about him: his name's Fiddleford (Stan calls him Fidds right off the bat, and for some funny reason the guy's over the moon about it) he likes building little gadgets and the like in his off time, and he's working at his uncle's garage for a few months to earn some spending money before he heads off to some back-up college in California.

Next thing you know, Stan's got the trunk popped open and Fidds is examining the vacuum, humming and hawing and narrowing his eyes at the shoddy design. The car's fixed up and ready to go at this point, but Fidds is taking the vacuum over to a workbench where he's got a set of tools nearby, and Stan's following him, trying to explain that the vacuum isn't bad exactly, it's just --

"So, the thing doesn't actually suck stuff up," Stan says as Fidds deftly pulls the machinery apart. "I mean, it'll pick up some dust bunnies for a few minutes before giving up, but then it kinda - uh, spits them back out."

"Well," Fidds says, squinting one eye to look into the dust bag. "Aside from the clogged exhaust port on this one, I reckon you just needa fix that shoddy wiring to the motor and adjust the coolin fan. That'll take care of both problems."

"Shoddy wiring?" Stan groans. It wasn't like he was the one who had made the thing. He was only slapping his name over the handle and selling it. "What am I supposed to do about that?"

"It's an easy enough fix ," Fidds says. He rubs his chin and plucks the motor up, looking at it thoughtfully as he twists it to and fro and then adds, "If you want it to perform its most basic functions, that is. But I bet if I tinkered with it enough, I could make it even better."

Suddenly, he's got this almost manic gleam in his eyes, and Stan would be worried if the guy hadn't already piqued his interest. "Yeah? Better how?"

Fidds glances around the corner at his uncle, who's snoring away in a plastic lawn chair, then looks back to Stan. "Better as in it could pick up a dust bunny hiding under a bed on the third floor from the kitchen."

Stan's feeling a little manic himself. “Pal, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve just made this thing marketable to every single sucker from here all the way back to Jersey.”

Fidds doesn’t have the right tools there in the garage, so he says he’ll have the thing ready in two days. Which is fine with Stan, he doesn’t have anywhere to be anyway, so he asks if there are any secluded places where he can park his car for the night - which prompts Fidds to cheerfully offer up a spare bedroom back at his family’s farm. It catches Stan off guard, until Fidds explains the terms - he just needs to do some chores around the farm from sunrise to sunset, and that’ll take care of the room and the car repair, no problem.

So that’s how Stan finds himself in this little room somewhere out in the hills, sitting in a cushiony bed, suitcase at his side and car parked out under some sycamore and hickory trees. Fidds is at the door telling him what time dinner’s at and what time everyone gets up the next day to start with all the chores, and Stan is nodding, suddenly feeling like he could fall asleep where he’s sitting, even with the mechanic’s rapid-fire twang going on and on, which he doesn’t mind - the guy’s voice is nice. The bed is comfortable. The room is warm and dry and it’s about a thousand times better than sleeping in his car for two nights.

He kicks off his boots and he’s still nodding when he falls back, drowsy and relaxed, and falls asleep to Fidds’s voice explaining how the room’s available for a few weeks, as long as Stan’s up to working on a farm.

Stan wakes a few hours later to a plate of dinner sitting on the bedside table and some banjo tunes being plucked out somewhere outside. He looks out the window and sees Fidds sitting under a tree, sticking his tongue out as he adjusts the strings on his banjo before looking up and waving cheerfully at Stan. Stan waves back.

He wouldn’t mind staying here for longer than a couple nights, he guesses. Working on a farm wouldn’t be too bad.

(Throughout the weeks, they learn things about each other - like how Fidds’s family wants him to marry a nice girl, have a few kids, inherit the farm, forget about computers and physics and college - and how Stan’s dad kicked him out for ruining his brother’s future, and how his brother hasn’t talked to him in months and probably won’t for years)

(and once the vacuum is done, they try selling it together, and it goes well - until the vacuums are so strong that one dummy gets their arm sucked up into it right up to their shoulder, and someone says they lose a hamster to one - not that the dummy or the hamster suffer anything worse than minor injuries, but an angry mob chases Stan and Fidds right out of Tennessee and through Arkansas and all the way to Texas, where they find themselves feeling kind of despondent in some seedy little motel, and then Stan turns to Fidds and asks “Hey, you know anything about making the adhesive on the backs of bandages better? Or maybe just less painful?” and Fidds’s eyebrows shoot up and the manic gleam is back, and needless to say, they spend the rest of autumn being chased from one city to the next.)

#idk man i just had a hankering for some more fiddlestan #fiddlestan #fiddleford mcgucket #stanley pines #gf #listen fiddlestan being chased from state to state together #is kinda my jam #wheiever pines twins fidds ends up with #he's also gonna end up being chased by something #whether it be a paranormal monster #or an angry mob

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cuubism · 24 days ago

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Idk if you are still taking prompts, but: After their first meeting, while Hob still thinks it is a joke, he escorts Dream out. It is only when Dream returns to the Dreaming that he realizes his ruby has been stolen by Hob. Thus begins a game of cat and mouse through the ages, and Hob keeps slipping through his Endless fingers.

oh dear, this was from last year. fun though! could be the basis for a much longer fic. i love thief hob

Hob knows better than to gloat openly about his winnings, but he can't help tossing the ruby a few times in his hand as he walks, admiring it. Such a stunning gem, he's never seen its like but in paintings of kings, and even those are rare enough. Invaluable. And the strange lord had just had it about his neck, for all to see.

Hob shakes his head, tucking the ruby away in his tunic. Money can't buy common sense, it seems.

He finds his horse in the stable and leads it outside, stepping into the stirrup and swinging up into the saddle. After a find like this, best to disappear. Easy as the ruby had been to snatch, that strange young lord will doubtless come back looking for it, once he notices it's gone.

Night is falling by the time Hob reaches the treeline. He hasn't been followed--the path behind him has been empty for hours, and the trees show nothing but birdsong as he steers his horse into the darkness. Hob knows this route well, and by the time the moon is high above, he's navigated to a familiar clearing, untacked his horse, and sat back against a tree for some rest.

He can't help but look at the strange ruby one more time before going to sleep. It glows unnaturally in the moonlight, a blue-white reflection on a background of venous red. He tilts it back and forth in his palm, studying the cut. Who, exactly, is going to buy this from him, he can't yet say. But it'll pay his way for years once he finds them.

Hob kisses the ruby's cool surface, then tucks it away in his tunic again, chain wrapped around his fingers for safekeeping. He quickly falls asleep.

The moon is still high when Hob wakes, startling back to awareness against the trunk of the tree. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, looking around, disoriented. Strange, it's like it's been only moments since he fell asleep--

His horse is gone. So's his pack. And for that matter, the clearing is smaller, closer, darker than he remembers--

Heart pounding, he scrambles in his tunic to find--

"I imagine you are looking for this," says a low voice, and from the darkness emerges the wine-red glint of the ruby. Following it is the dark shape of the lord Hob had robbed in the tavern, only he's-- he's--

He's horrible. His eyes glow white in the dark, his hair waves in a strange wind, and everything about him is sharp and wrong, like an uneasy nightmare Hob might have in the wee hours, consequences coming back for him.

"Look," he says, holding up his hands in self-defense. Shit, his sword's gone from his belt, too. "S'really your fault for swanning about with that thing, innit? 's bandit country, m'lord."

"Is it?" He... doesn't seem angry. He's smiling. Oh, it's a terrible smile, but nevertheless. "How foolish of me, then. To expect to maintain ownership of my belongings."

"Like I said, thieves about," Hob says. "Got to be careful, now." Really, what did he expect Hob to do? Let someone else get the score?

The strange lord sits down on the grass across from Hob, still with those glowing eyes and that terrible smile playing about his lips. "And what, Robert Gadling, ought I to do, having caught one of these thieves?"

And the thing is. Authority doesn't work very well on Hob. One of his 'flaws' most like to get him killed, 'cuz Authority didn't tend to care whether it worked on you or not. Hob's been hauled before the magistrate for theft before and no matter that he knew he'd be lucky to get away with his life he could never quite bite his tongue. Always a smart mouth, his mum used to say.

It's no different with this lord. Hob's hardly about to bow his head and apologize. He remembers the smirk on the other man's face at his challenge in the tavern. Pretty little thing to be talking big words about punishing thieves.

"Dunno," he says, tracking his gaze over the soft lines of the man's dark robe, his fine neck and narrow shoulders. The longer Hob looks, the less frightening he seems, though there is still something of the otherworld about him. God's teeth, if Hob's brought the ire of the fey about him... "What would you like to do?"

And the strange creature laughs. Just a chuckle, but nevertheless. "I could make you spend your next one hundred years paying a thief's price over and over again in the Dreaming, as penance for taking my ruby," he says. "Should I do that, Hob? Cut off your hands, and again and again as you regrow them?"

"If you did you wouldn't get to see what they can do for you," Hob says. Hell, Hob'll do it even without threat of punishment. He's a pretty little lord, for certain, even if he is fey.

The lord chuckles again, and closes his fist around the ruby, stealing its light. Without the reflection, his eyes seem even wilder. "Hm. Perhaps not this time. I am too curious to waste your next century in sleeping punishment." He takes Hob's face in one hand, holding his chin in sharp fingers. "Be wary what your hands touch in the Waking World, Hob Gadling. Not all creatures will find your insolence humorous enough to wish to be merciful."

He lets go, and Hob falls backward through the tree at his back, falls into darkness--

And wakes in sunlight, his pack beside him, his sword at his side, his horse grazing a few feet away.

Heart pounding, he shoves his hand into his tunic, though he already knows what he'll find.

Or what he won't find. The ruby, gone into the darkness, into dreams, with his strange, fey lord.

Hob shivers.

Well. He'll certainly have to meet him again in 1489, now. Not to retake the ruby--that hardly matters in the end.

But answers to all the mysteries it's brought: those Hob would gladly steal.

#short little prompt fics today #dreamling #my writing #thief hob #ask #silverdrip

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artaxlivs · 1 year ago

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Eddie’s sitting in a lounge chair in Steve’s backyard. Well, it’s not a backyard perse, it’s a huge patio with a pool and then a whole fucking forest. Who’s house backs up to the forest? Do the Harrington’s own the forest, too?

Whatever, doesn’t matter.

He’s sitting in the lounge chair in nothing but cut off shorts and his jewelry, slowly bakng in the sun. What’s left of his beer in it’s sun warmed can is held loosely in one hand when Max plops down in the chair next to him. El gently sits in the same chair as Max and the both stare at Eddie. He doesn’t look at them though.

After thirty seconds, Max asks, “What are you doing?”

“Just wait for it.” Eddie tells her, sipping on his warm beer but not moving his eyes from the poolhouse across the patio.

Both girls look over, shading their eyes with their hands. All three of them wait silently. After another minute or so, the poolhouse door swings open and Steve comes out, pushing something that looks like a vacuum cleaner. He’s wearing his headphones and sort of bouncing to the beat as he drags a big hose part of it over to the pool filter opening thingy. Popping the plastic lid off, Steve kneels down, reaches through the opening for the vacuumy attachment hose he’s holding through the pool side. It looks very complicated and Eddie doesn’t give any fucks about pool cleaning or safety or whatever the fuck is happening there.

What he cares about is all that lovely golden skin on display. Steve’s shirtless, modesty about that hairy chest or those bat bite scars nowhere in sight, wearing swim trunks so short that Eddie can see the little love bite he himself left on the inside of one of those thick thighs this morning. Left it so high that no one else would see it but he’d forgotten that this man is allergic to inseams longer than his pointer finger.

Steve must get the hose attached because he stands back up, shakes the water off of his hands and gently lowers the pool vacuum into the water, holding the hose thingy as it sinks to the bottom. That done, he dances back into the poolhouse on barefeet, probably listening to fucking Bruce Springsteen or Queen because the guy actually has way more music cred than the kids give him credit for. There’s a click and low drone as he turns the filter on and the vacuum starts to roll around on the bottom of the pool.

Max turns to Eddie and grins. El doesn’t looks away from where Steve has disappeared into the poolhouse. “So we’re ogling Steve.” She says with a wolfish grin. No question. It’s a statement.

“Red!” Eddie sputters, looking away from the poolhouse to give her his best stink eye. “You are children!”

El makes a raspberry noise with her lips and rolls her eyes in a way that looks far too much like Max - or Mike.

Max scoffs, “We’re fifteen, you asshole. Tell us what you were looking at when you were fifteen and we’ll stop.”

Nope. He will not be doing that. No one ever needs to know what young Eddie was using for ....ew he’s not going to think of them doing anything he was doing at fifteen. Gross.

“Mayfield. You’re ruining it. Watch quietly and I won’t tell Steve.”

El grins too this time and settles into a more comfortable position. She and Max share a triumphant look and lean closer together. Probably to whisper to each other where he can’t hear them. Good. Eddie doesn’t want to know.

Steve comes back out, waves at them like the innocent babe that he is and then starts wielding a giant fly swatter - or wait, it’s a pool net. It’s like twelve feet long and Eddie can clearly see the muscles on Steve’s stomach and arms flex as he scoops out leaves and summer bugs from the middle of pool with it. By the time he’s satisfied with the now pristine surface of the pool, there’s a fine sheen of sweat on Steve. If Eddie wasn’t sitting next to two teenage girls, he’d probably be over there by now, climbing Steve like a fucking tree.

Who invited them? Oh wait, they did. Happy fucking summer he guesses.

The captain of the swim team disappears into the poolhouse again and when he comes out this time, he’s got a screwdriver and a lightbulb in his hands for some reason. Setting them on the edge of the pool, he dives in and Eddie was not prepared for that. Steve’s all sleek and long limbed, sunkissed as he barely makes a splash into the pool. When he comes up, he flicks his hair back and swims over to where he left the screwdriver, putting it between his teeth and pushing himself below the surface.

Steve really shouldn’t have let the girls come over to swim today. He should have known what watching this was gonna do to Eddie. Damn him. He hears the girls giggling and sighing as he watches his boyfriend replace the light in the pool underwater. Like, he’s under water the whole time. Jesus, how long can Steve hold his breath for and what else...nope, don’t think about it.

Eddie has zero idea of how much time has passed but eventually Steve gets out of the pool, drags the vacuum thing out - holy wet back muscles Batman - and puts it back in the poolhouse. Dripping and carrying a towel in one hand and his walkman in the other, Steve wanders over to the three of them and then shakes himself like a fucking dog, The girls squeal and Eddie doesn’t because he honestly needed the cool down.

“You guys enjoy the show?” Steve smirks.

Fucking ‘A they did. Thank you very much. Eddie can’t wait to drag Steve inside and ravish him now.

That doesn’t happen. Because the girls, while old enough to thirst after an adult man, are apparently not old enough for Steve to leave alone in the pool for the thirty minutes it would take for him to bend Eddie over his bed and fuck him - honestly they could probably make it happen in fifteen if they tried. So instead, they play babysitters all afternoon and when Hop finally picks the two troublemakers up, Eddie’s too goddamn sunburnt to get laid.

Very gently, Steve rubs aloe into Eddie’s lobster red shoulders and vulnerable spiderweb of scars across his stomach, the tops of his knees and across his nose. “And what did we learn?” Steve snarks at him.

“To put sunscreen on before you take your shirt off.” Eddie replies morosely from where he’s laying on his back on Steve’s cool sheets, staring up at the ceiling and deeply regretting his lack of foresight.

He almost jackknives up when Steve tugs the waistband of his shorts down to expose his still white underbelly and kisses him just above his hairline. “Mmmhhmm, there is one part of you that escaped the mean summer sunshine,” he sucks a bruise into Eddie’s skin where he’d left the kiss, tugging gently to help Eddie out of his scratchy jean cut offs. “And lucky for you, I’m a giver.”

Happy fucking summer indeed.

***That’s all there is of this one but feel free to check out my masterlist of full fics here. If you’re thirsty for Bottom Eddie being feral over Steve, Drummer Steve is the one I suggest. If you’re looking for kinky & clueless Top Eddie then An Accidental Flogging is probably more your thing. Happy reading!

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #summer steddie

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n1ght0f-nyx · 3 months ago

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woven bonds pt 3

pert'ah x fem reader

over the last few weeks of living with your arranged orc husband, you start to grow comfortable with him, curious about his culture

tags/warnings- arranged marriage, human female x male orc, gentle giant, your starting to develop feelings for big man

also feel free to request non-woven bonds related things that involve pert'ah or my other ocs (see my masterlist) i love writing for all these characters and seeing the mass of support ive gotten over the last month!

word count-1471

The forest around Pert'ah’s hut had started to feel familiar to you. The once oppressive canopy of trees, with their towering trunks and rustling leaves, now seemed to whisper secrets of their own, ancient and comforting. You spent more time outside, watching the way the sunlight filtered through the branches, how the world around you moved with a calm rhythm that you were only now starting to understand.

Pert'ah, as usual, worked diligently nearby, his large hands carefully guiding a bundle of thread through the wooden loom. The patterns he wove—so intricate, so delicate—fascinated you. Though you had watched him for weeks now, there was something different about the way you felt today. The walls you had built inside yourself, those walls of anger and sorrow, were beginning to erode. In their place was curiosity.

You found yourself wondering how he could create such beauty with hands that looked like they were made for something else entirely. You wondered about him, about his past, about the life he lived before you were forced into this arranged marriage. The thought of learning more made your heart beat a little faster.

Gathering your courage, you stepped closer to him.

“Pert’ah?” you asked quietly, watching as his broad shoulders tensed for just a second before he turned to look at you, his deep-set eyes widening slightly in surprise. You weren’t sure you had ever spoken his name with such softness before.

“Yes, [Name]?” he responded, his voice calm but filled with the kind of hope that made your chest tighten. His hands paused on the loom, waiting for what you had to say.

You hesitated for a moment, then nodded toward the weaving. “Can you… can you teach me how to do that?”

For a brief moment, you worried that maybe your question was too sudden, that he wouldn’t want to share something so personal. But the way Pert’ah’s face lit up erased all your doubts. His smile was wide, his tusks just barely showing as his eyes softened with warmth.

“You want to learn?” he asked, his voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and joy. He quickly stood up, brushing his hands on his simple tunic as if trying to prepare himself. “I teach! Yes, yes. Come sit.”

You moved to sit beside him, feeling a little self-conscious at first. His hands, so much larger than yours, gently guided your fingers to the loom, showing you how to thread the yarn through with care. He spoke softly, explaining the different colors and patterns orcs used, and how each design had a meaning tied to it—family, nature, strength. You could hear the pride in his voice as he spoke of orc culture, and for the first time, you didn’t feel the same resistance you once had.

As you worked together, your hands moving awkwardly through the motions he showed you, you found yourself laughing at your mistakes. Pert’ah chuckled beside you, his deep laugh resonating in your chest like a low rumble. There was no judgment in his gaze, only patience.

“You do good,” he said, nodding in approval as you finally managed to weave a few rows without getting tangled in the threads. “Better than first time I try.”

You grinned, feeling a strange sense of pride in his praise. “Thank you,” you said quietly, meeting his eyes. “I didn’t know weaving could be so… peaceful.”

He nodded. “It is. Make me feel calm. Like world slow down when I work. Orcs… we no always fight. We build. We make.”

You found yourself wanting to know more. The orcs had always been painted as brutish, war-hungry creatures in your world, but everything about Pert’ah contradicted that. He was an artist, a craftsman.

“Is that why you became a weaver?” you asked, genuinely curious now. “Because it brings you peace?”

Pert'ah tilted his head, thinking for a moment before nodding. “Yes. My father, he was warrior. Wanted me to fight too. But I no like it.” He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if remembering something. “I not good at hurting. I better at making things. I want to create, not destroy. So I leave fighting. I make my own path.”

There was something in the way he said that, a quiet strength, that resonated with you. He had chosen to go against the expectations of his people, to find his own place in the world, and that took a kind of bravery you hadn’t expected from him.

You found yourself smiling again, a small, genuine smile. “I think that’s… admirable,” you said softly, feeling warmth spread through your chest as you spoke. “You’ve built something beautiful here.”

Pert’ah’s eyes flickered with surprise at your words, and for a moment, you thought he might not know how to respond. But then, his expression softened, and he looked at you as though you had just given him a gift.

“I glad you see,” he said quietly, his voice full of emotion. “I make it for us. For you.”

There was something in his gaze—something so tender and full of hope—that made you feel a strange flutter in your chest. You had seen that look before, but now, it didn’t make you uncomfortable. In fact, it made you feel… safe.

The days that followed were filled with quiet moments like this. You and Pert’ah spent more time together, talking, learning about each other in a way that felt natural. You asked him about his art, about orc traditions and stories, and he answered each question with a kind of reverence, as though he cherished the opportunity to share these things with you. And the more you learned, the more you realized how wrong your people had been about the orcs.

They weren’t savages. They had a rich culture, full of art and history. Pert’ah had once shown you a collection of his tapestries—each one telling a different story of orc ancestors, their triumphs and losses. You could see how much pride he took in preserving these traditions, and it made you want to learn more.

One afternoon, as you both sat by the fire, you found yourself asking a question you hadn’t dared to before.

“Pert’ah… why did you agree to this marriage?” you asked, your voice hesitant. “Why me?”

Pert’ah looked at you, his eyes softening as he considered your question. He was silent for a moment, then he sighed deeply.

“I no want you be sold,” he said, his voice low and serious. “I no think it right. But when your father come… he say it bring peace between our people. I think… maybe, if we together, we no have to fight anymore. Maybe we find way to live better.”

He paused, his gaze lowering to the fire. “But more than that… I see you. When I first meet you, I see sadness in your eyes. I think maybe… I can make it go away. I want make you happy.”

His words hung in the air between you, and for the first time, you felt a deep ache in your chest—not from anger or resentment, but from something else. You realized then that Pert’ah hadn’t just seen you as a human, as someone different from him. He had seen you as a person, someone who was hurting, and he had wanted to help.

Slowly, you reached out and placed your hand on his, your fingers gently brushing against his rough skin. He looked up at you, surprise flashing across his face, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand turned, his fingers curling gently around yours.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “For everything.”

Pert’ah’s grip tightened slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “You no need thank me,” he murmured. “I do because… I care for you.”

The sincerity in his voice made your heart swell, and for the first time since your marriage, you felt a real connection between the two of you—a bond that had nothing to do with politics or peace treaties. It was something deeper, something real.

As the fire crackled beside you, you found yourself leaning just a little closer to him, your head resting against his shoulder. He stiffened for a moment, as if unsure of what to do, but then he relaxed, his arm gently wrapping around you in a way that felt natural, protective.

In that moment, you knew you were falling for him. You weren’t just coming out of your shell—you were opening your heart. And with each passing day, you found it easier to see Pert’ah not as the orc you had been forced to marry, but as the man who had shown you kindness, patience, and a love that was growing stronger with every beat of his heart.

And you were ready to let that love in.

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