#contingency song

[saintanhedonia]

im census designated type devastated

[mishi-smile]

I know it's been a few months now but

this song is the song ever

[tswaggie13]

Okay so I had two phone screenings for 2 different positions at the same company. The first I am more interested in, but I would be taking a significant pay cut. The second, is a senior position, aligns with what I currently do, but I’m not as interested.

I had the second one today. After he’s like “I wanted to also talk to you about this other position that we haven’t posted yet.” And he sends me the job description……. It’s a literal combo of the 1st and 2nd jobs…….. MEANING I would likely have the best of both worlds—INTEREST AND NO PAY CUT!!!!!

[aurenflare]

How’s life popping along

oh life is popping along quite well actually! there are a couple concerts i'm seeing in december that i'm pumped as hell for, and i'm working on a bunch of different projects (both for class and outside of) that are really exciting atm! all this considered, i am of course a high school student in the month of november, but nonetheless!! we stay silly!! and focus on the positive!!

[francisjameschild]

my niche interest! hello, I also have a lot to say about ballads!

Hm I'd like to suggest that folks not take these trends as hard rules, indicating omnidirectionality. I tend to think of ballads as open ammunition being tossed back and forth in the gender wars of oral tradition, flipping back and forth between viewpoints as different singers find ways to make them say different things.

Ballads were hardly a misogynist monolith-they were written by a range of individuals over a wide range of years, and many started out (far as we can tell) carrying women's voices, or have older variants that told more complete and often more empowering versions of their tales that may contain acts of violence against women but that could not originally be condensed to just that feature. Not as a rule by any means, but they're definitely a sizeable number of songs.

Some start out more feminist and lost their teeth over time, and some start out misogynist and gained more feminist frames. It'd be interesting to graph them all out over a timeline and see what trends emerge but also very difficult given the spiderwebbing of variants dating from different periods and going in different directions and the subjectivity of what counts as feminist or the reverse.

Anyhow here are some examples of songs that, far as I can tell, started out fairly feminist long before the 1940s:

Lady Isabel and the Elf Night: dates at least to the 17th c. Very similar to Pretty Polly and Omie Wise (okay also many others) plot wise but when Lady Isobel's courting lover reveals all the other women he's killed before, she kills him instead. Also there's often a parrot.

Fair Annie, an adaptation of Marie de France's late 12th c lai Le Fresne more. Where Annie, the mother of seven of her partner's children, is told to step aside, put out the welcome mat, and feign maidenhood so that he can marry someone new and wealthy. Upon the new bride's arrival she asks who Annie is and why she's crying, then reveals "Oh, we're sisters! Which means you can totally have my dowry and I'm not marrying that pos, you are, don't worry, I'm going the hell home." (emphasis mine but that's basically it)

Broughty Wa's, a Scottish song about outswimming your kidnapper while he sinks like a stone in your wake, known only from Amelia and Jane Harris, sisters who contributed to Child heavily and learned their repertoire from their mother who in turn learned them from "an aged nurse". more

Lady of Loch Royan: most versions of Lord Gregory, as it's known more often today, are the sad tale of a new mother knocking on her lover's door in the rain asking to be let in, only to be turned away by his mother who tells her to jump in the sea, which she does and he wakes up and runs after her, but too late. The two very similar likely oldest versions are an Appalachian variant recorded by Jean Ritchie and the version aggregated by Sir Walter Scott in 1802, unlikely to have been contaminated by knowledge of each other, indicate, "we have here a truly remarkable instance of a unique version of a ballad appearing in two widely separated places 150 years apart" (source), which should serve to underline how often the Appalachian versions might well be the closer-to-original surviving versions of these songs rather than remaining English and Scottish ones, and how difficult they are to date.

Anyhow most of the modern versions of this I hear are highly truncated, just sad Annie crying sweet memories outside of Lord Gregory's door then going off to drown, but the Sir Walter Scott version has her building a ship, meeting with robbers, breaking fairy charms, and being mistaken in her rain-soaked rage for a witch, warlock, or mermaid. I mean she still dies right soggily in despair (or in given how mad she seems in this version, possibly spite), but that's something, surely. more

And not a child ballad but I want to note that the Pretty Polly linked above (there are a bunch of songs by that name, including Lady Isobel, confusingly) is descended from a longer murder ballad called The Cruel Ship's Carpenter/ The Gosport Tragedy, which in it's fuller form most often ends with Polly's ghost appearing and tearing her killer into three pieces.

Ballads <3

*Also might I ask if it's a typo on Twa Sisters going back to the 10th c rather than the 17th I've heard more often, or if I might learn more about that early source? I'm very curious (maybe the related folktale type goes back that far or farther?) Off the top of my head I think Judas is the earliest Child ballad in the 13th c so if there's an earlier one I'd love to know.

the appalachian murder ballad <3 one of the most interesting elements of americana and american folk, imo!

my wife recently gave me A Look when i had one playing in the car and she was like, "why do all of these old folk songs talk about killing people lmao" and i realized i wanted to Talk About It at length.

nerd shit under the cut, and it's long. y'all been warned

so, as y'all probably know, a lot of appalachian folk music grew its roots in scottish folk (and then was heavily influenced by Black folks once it arrived here, but that's a post for another time).

they existed, as most folk music does, to deliver a narrative--to pass on a story orally, especially in communities where literacy was not widespread. their whole purpose was to get the news out there about current events, and everyone loves a good murder mystery!

as an aside, i saw someone liken the murder ballad to a ye olde true crime podcast and tbh, yeah lol.

the "original" murder ballads started back across the pond as news stories printed on broadsheets and penned in such a way that it was easy to put to melody.

they were meant to be passed on and keep the people informed about the goings-on in town. i imagine that because these songs were left up to their original orators to get them going, this would be why we have sooo many variations of old folk songs.

naturally then, almost always, they were based on real events, either sung from an outside perspective, from the killer's perspective and in some cases, from the victim's. of course, like most things from days of yore, they reek of social dogshit. the particular flavor of dogshit of the OG murder ballad was misogyny.

so, the murder ballad came over when the english and scots-irish settlers did. in fact, a lot of the current murder ballads are still telling stories from centuries ago, and, as is the way of folk, getting rewritten and given new names and melodies and evolving into the modern recordings we hear today.

305 such scottish and english ballads were noted and collected into what is famously known as the Child Ballads collected by a professor named francis james child in the 19th century. they have been reshaped and covered and recorded a million and one times, as is the folk way.

while newer ones continued to largely fit the formula of retelling real events and murder trials (such as one of my favorite ones, little sadie, about a murderer getting chased through the carolinas to have justice handed down), they also evolved into sometimes fictional, (often unfortunately misogynistic) cautionary tales.

perhaps the most famous examples of these are omie wise and pretty polly where the woman's death almost feels justified as if it's her fault (big shocker).

but i digress. in this way, the evolution of the murder ballad came to serve a similar purpose as the spooky legends of appalachia did/do now.

(why do we have those urban legends and oral traditions warning yall out of the woods? to keep babies from gettin lost n dying in them. i know it's a fun tiktok trend rn to tell tale of spooky scary woods like there's really more haints out here than there are anywhere else, but that's a rant for another time too ain't it)

so, the aforementioned little sadie (also known as "bad lee brown" in some cases) was first recorded in the 1920s. i'm also plugging my favorite female-vocaist cover of it there because it's superior when a woman does it, sorry.

it is a pretty straightforward murder ballad in its content--in the original version, the guy kills a woman, a stranger or his girlfriend sometimes depending on who is covering it.

but instead of it being a cautionary 'be careful and don't get pregnant or it's your fault' tale like omie wise and pretty polly, the guy doesn't get away with it, and he's not portrayed as sympathetic like the murderer is in so many ballads.

a few decades after, women started saying fuck you and writing their own murder ballads.

in the 40s, the femme fatale trope was in full swing with women flipping the script and killing their male lovers for slights against them instead.

men began to enter the "find out" phase in these songs and paid up for being abusive partners. women regained their agency and humanity by actually giving themselves an active voice instead of just being essentially 'fridged in the ballads of old.

her majesty dolly parton even covered plenty of old ballads herself but then went on to write the bridge, telling the pregnant-woman-in-the-murder-ballad's side of things for once. love her.

as a listener, i realized that i personally prefer these modern covers of appalachian murder ballads sung by women-led acts like dolly and gillian welch and even the super-recent crooked still especially, because there is a sense of reclamation, subverting its roots by giving it a woman's voice instead.

meaning that, like a lot else from the problematic past, the appalachian murder ballad is something to be enjoyed with critical ears. violence against women is an evergreen issue, of course, and you're going to encounter a lot of that in this branch of historical music.

but with folk songs, and especially the murder ballad, being such a foundational element of appalachian history and culture and fitting squarely into the appalachian gothic, i still find them important and so, so interesting

i do feel it's worth mentioning that there are "tamer" ones. with traditional and modern murder ballads alike, some of them are just for "fun," like a murder mystery novel is enjoyable to read; not all have a message or retell a historical trial.

(for instance, i'd even argue ultra-modern, popular americana songs like hell's comin' with me is a contemporary americana murder ballad--being sung by a male vocalist and having evolved from being at the expense of a woman to instead being directed at a harmful and corrupt church. that kind of thing)

in short: it continues to evolve, and i continue to eat that shit up.

anyway, to leave off, lemme share with yall my personal favorite murder ballad which fits squarely into murder mystery/horror novel territory imo.

it's the 10th child ballad and was originally known as "the twa sisters." it's been covered to hell n back and named and renamed.

but! if you listen to any flavor of americana, chances are high you already know it; popular names are "the dreadful wind and rain" and sometimes just "wind and rain."

in it, a jealous older sister pushes her other sister into a river (or stream, or sea, depending on who's covering it) over a dumbass man. the little sister's body floats away and a fiddle maker come upon her and took parts of her body to make a fiddle of his own. the only song the new fiddle plays is the tale about how it came to be, and it is the same song you have been listening to until then.

how's that for genuinely spooky-scary appalachia, y'all?

[forthedancingandthethriving]

Live footage of me remembering that Lumiere is, in fact, the Main Villain of TSC, and is canonically feared by the majority of everyone and is not a threat to be taken lightly, even after the universe activation

[musicrunsthroughmysoul]

The only problem with these 1990/1991 Big Country concerts that I'm watching is that their drummer in 1990-mid 1991 literally cannot play a military-esque drum roll if it killed him, which is a ginormous problem for Big Country considering at least two of their biggest fucking hits features that prominently so then "In a Big Country" as a primary example doesn't sound nearly as good and anthemic as it normally does. SURELY IT MAKES SENSE WHY THAT'S A PROBLEM. Because if they don't play those songs, the audience will eat the band, but then the song doesn't sound as good and, what, the band just has to pray that the audience doesn't notice?! Okay. Yeah, sure. Whatever.

Although on one hand I could see that as, like, oh man, Mark really fucked them for any other drummers...he accidentally (or maybe not; I don't know his personal agenda) made sure that pretty much no other drummers would fit for the band (also considering his maximalist approach to drumming, LOL)...but on the other hand I like that classic drum roll about so many Big Country songs, so am I allowed to complain when another drummer can't imitate Mark Brzezicki perfectly?

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: They sing going to war

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

While serving alongside the human forces during the Torus Campaign I learned much of their strange culture.

Their need to stack foods in elaborate combinations which they call a “Sandwich”, their constant need to play ��The Game” without ever explaining what it is unless to tell you that you have lost it, and even their obsession with petting anything within arm’s reach with an almost religious like dedication; but the strangest custom I only witnessed during the final stages of the war.

We had just deployed over the world of Obidon III and were launching a joint ground assault with the human forces. Enemy resistance was expected to be heavy and many would not survive the drop, but command believed that if enough forces reached the surface of the planet they could establish a beachhead and allow the rest of the contingent to be brought in.

During the decent to the planet all I could do was keep my eyes closed and hope beyond hope that we would survive. I was so lost in this trance like state that my friend Septem had to physically smack me on the helmet to get my attention and tell me to turn my radio channel to frequency 13.

I was confused at first since that frequency was being used for our human allies but he insisted that I would not believe what they were doing. So I reset my radio in my helmet to frequency and what I heard was something I had never expected on a battlefield.

They were singing.

The frequency was chalk full of voices in such volume that I had to turn down the volume but it seemed like every single human that was part of the attach was joining in the song. My translator unit was trying to keep up but the sheer intensity of the humans singing was causing it to drop in and out, picking up every other word.

I wanted to listen closer to them but the enemy flak began pounding the outside of our dropship. Each detonation sent the ship rattling side to side violently. I had just retightened my straps when a shell burst just beneath us sending a shockwave through the ship so strong it sent several of my comrades flying from their seats into the opposite wall. They hit the wall hard and did not get back up when their bodies collapsed to the ground.

All I could think about was how this was the moment I was going to die. This was the moment my existence in this universe comes to its conclusion and I return to the dust and atoms of the cosmos. And as I tuned myself to this reality all I could hear were the humans still singing over the radio.

They must have been going through the same amount of enemy fire as he was and yet still they somehow were still able to sing as if nothing was wrong with the world. I got so focused on their singing that I forgot about my worries for such a time that I was startled when the dropship landed with a loud thud against the planet’s surface and the boarding ramp lowered.

The following battle was a grueling six hour run and gun with the enemy as we tried to carve out a safe LZ for reinforcements. I got separated from my unit on more than one occasion and wandered into the human designated areas in the confusion.

To my utter surprise the humans were still singing.

Clad in their blue and gold armor, they broadcasted their voices from their helmet speakers as they advanced street by bloody street. One of them took shelter with me for a time as we prepared to rush a fortified courtyard which housed heavy anti air emplacement. I nodded a greeting to the human who replied in kind, yet their voice never ceased in song. I saw them rush around the corner and take several heavy rounds to their chest, but the shells ricocheted off the armor leaving only scratches on the paint.

I watched in disbelief as this wild singing human leaped over the barricade and slapped a detonation charge on the anti-air weapon before leaping back as it exploded the weapon. They stood in the smoldering flames to take a moment to catch their breath when a sniper’s round from down the street struck them in the head and blew out a large portion of their cranium. It was the first time during the entire battle I had seen a human die but I did not have long to contemplate it as the rest of the humans charged past, still singing, in the direction of the snipers shot.

Another hour of combat and the landing site was finally secured and reinforcements were brought in to take our positions. What was left of the initial landing force were sent back to orbit and recover and regroup from their losses. Out of my people’s forces I was one of twenty soldiers to have survived. I imagined the humans had lost equally as many until the pilot remarked that additional shuttles had been dispatched to carry their force back up. It seemed that despite the intensity of the fighting only three of their warriors had fallen in battle; one of them including the warrior I had watched fall.

I was beyond myself.

These reckless warriors had somehow survived one of the most intense battles the campaign had seen and only lost three of their number.

Once back on the ship the first chance I could I sought them out for an explanation. They were quartered in the lower reaches of the ship, isolated from the other contingents onboard.

Outside their area were two guards still in full armor that initially would not let me through until one of them recognized me from the fighting in the city. I was then led inside and found many of the humans feasting and laughing. Two long rows of tables had been setup facing each other; between them were several fires each with a different animal being roasted over them. At the end of the rows stood three large pyres of wood which held three bodies atop each of them.

As I passed through the humans many ceased their laughter and looked at me, their clouded eyes with suspicion. We made it half way through the throngs when a giant of a human stepped forward and blocked our path. They demanded to know why I had been let it in; going even further to say they will throw me out personally if the answer was not good. The guard who had recognized me said I had witnessed the last moments of one of the fallen and would speak of their deeds. There was a long pause as the large human glared at me, his eyes as cold as the crescent moon of my homeworld.

The human finally relented and let out a loud boastful laugh, clapping me on my shoulders and welcoming me to the feast. Those gathered around cheered and similarly welcomed me now as the ceremony proceeded once more. I could barely say anything as I was seemingly pulled into the celebration. I drank, I ate, I laughed, I even boasted of my own achievements during the battle.

At the height of the feast I was called forward to speak of the final moments of the human soldier I watched die. I learned their name had been Moris Yu, and had served in the human contingent since the beginning of the campaign. I spoke of his final moments, of how he charged the enemy alone and had single handedly destroyed their war machine. I spoke of the snipers bullet laying him low to which all the gathered humans spoke as one “To Odin’s hall he flies.”

With that pyres were set on fire and the bodies slowly turned to ash. I imagine it had some significant ritualistic meaning in human culture but it was beyond me.

After the funeral I asked one of the soldiers the question I had come to them with.

“Why do you sing in battle?”

The human took a long huff from a wooden pipe and blew a cloud of smoke before answering.

“Long ago, my people were raiders and conquerors of the sea.” They began, “Our gods watched over us and should we prove worthy we would be sent to them to join them in their halls and fight alongside them for eternity.”

“There was one warband led by a giant of a man called Osmond Frig. He loved song just as much as he loved fighting, so he made his warriors sing during every fight as it made him happy.”

“They agreed to such silliness?” I asked, to which the human grinned.

“They did after he felled the first three men who laughed at him with a single blow from his axe.” They finished before continuing with their story.

“What was truly surprising was not the sight of these warriors singing, but rather the fact that they were rather good at it. It was said they could make the Valkyries themselves shed a single tear with their songs.”

“Eventually one of the gods, Bragi, noticed Osmond’s warband and took a liking to them. Much like the Valkyries he too was moved by their song and decided to reward them with his patronage. He used ancient magic and made it so as long as the warriors sung they would be impervious to harm of all kinds.”

“So the warband grew in fame and glory as they went conquest to conquest, emerging from battles against impossible odds with nay a scratch on them. First across the northern seas, then across the continent of Europe, and then soon the entire world knew of Osmond; which is when they finally drew the attention of the king of the gods, Odin.”

“Odin watched these powerful warriors and wanted them in his hall for the eternal battle, yet despite every challenge they faced they emerged victorious. No matter what enemy Odin placed in their path or scheme he unleashed on them they refused to fall. Odin knew of Bragi’s patronage and tortured the god to reveal his secret and after seven days and seven nights Bragi told Odin of the spell he had cast and how it could not be undone.”

“But that was all Odin needed to secure his warriors.” The human said with a devil’s grin.

“During the midst of the most recent battle Odin took the form of a mighty warrior and stalked the fields for his prey. He waited for each warrior to catch their breath and cease their song before striking and slaying them, one by one. By day’s end only Osmond remained to fight Odin and though he sang long into the night he too eventually gasped for air and was slain.”

“So that is why you sing?” I asked the human. ‘Because you believe your gods will protect you?”

The human chuckled and nodded to the three pyres. “Did you not say that Moris was only slain after he ceased singing?”

I wanted to counter him with some logic, some reason grounded in reality, but I could not. I left that human area with a profound new perspective of myself in the grand scheme of the universe.

The next time I was in a combat drop my comrades laughed when I began singing. I wasn’t sure if it was good or not, but I hoped that in some way the human god would at least find me amusing and let me live another day.

[lola-writes]

Diagnosing Desire

Pairing: Tom Bennett x nurse!reader

Word Count: 5,6k

Themes & Warnings: pov first person, use of Y/N, swearing, fluff, drinking, smoking, eventual smut

Synopsis: Working as a wartime nurse, you’ve been charged with seeing to the physical exams of new recruits. It’s not until Tom Bennett shows up that you realize just how physical the exam can get.

A/N: Not surprised so many people wanted more Tom Bennett. Some inspo taken from Pearl Harbor. Not everything is medically accurate for the sake of the plot. Found this picture (bottom right) of a soldier getting an exam during ww2 that looked just like Ewan from behind!

Song: Angel Of Small Death & The Codeine Scene - Hozier

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3

Likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated ❤️

Enjoy the read!

“Efficiency is key,” my uncle declared, rustling through the recruitment papers with a grim determination etching his features. “We need to be swift yet thorough.”

“How about I take the main parameters from the start,” I offered. “Leaving you more time to fill out paperwork. Then, I hand them over to you and fill out their files as you examine?”

A thoughtful crease furrowed his brow. “That might just work,” he said, tapping his finger against his lips in contemplation.

The car rattled upon the cobblestones as we lurched onto Manchester’s main street, shuddering us into silence. Every window, lamp post and building were decorated in posters and placards of soldiers with brandished rifles, blaring red pronouncements reading ‘RECRUIT NOW’, ‘EVERY FIT MAN WANTED’, and ‘RALLY ROUND THE FLAG’. 

Neville Chamberlain’s haunting voice echoed in my head, a remnant of his crackling announcement on the Home Service. 

This country is at war with Germany.

A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. 

I despised war, the very notion of violence solving anything. Yet, here I was, about to be thrust into the heart of its machinery.

But if war was inevitable, I would steel my resolve, seeing to put my expertise to good use. 

Fresh out of basic nursing training at King Edward VII Hospital in Sheffield, I’d been dispatched with my uncle and a contingent of colleagues to Manchester. As an NHS nurse, we were tasked with overseeing and assisting in the physical examinations of the city’s new recruits. My uncle, Dr. Benjamin Clark, a seasoned veteran with ten years under his belt, would lead the examinations, while I served as his right hand.

The car turned a corner, then another, before coming to a grinding halt at the curb. I nudged my uncle, yet engrossed in paperwork. Once he glanced up, a gusty sigh escaped his lips. 

“Plan B then,” he muttered, his voice laced with resignation.

The queue leading into the induction center stretched for what seemed like miles. Tracing its path with a sinking heart, a chilling realization dawned on me and settled in my stomach. 

There was endless work ahead of us.

The induction center hummed with activity and crackled with a nervous energy as we entered. Sunlight streamed through high ceilings, illuminating rows of tall, numbered privacy screens. Each makeshift booth held a white-clad nurse and a trepidatious recruit clutching a folder. 

The Manchester center pulsed with a daily influx of hopeful faces, each ushered through a chaotic dance of physical exams, fingerprints, fitness tests, and dreaded vaccinations. My days blurred into a whirlwind of vision checks, height and weight measurements, and the familiar sting as I administered countless injections.

Most of the men I examined were models of civility, enduring the process with a stoic resolve, a wince of pain at the stick of the needle their only betrayal. Yet a few shattered the façade, their bravado crumbling into crass jokes and unwanted advances. Thankfully though, my uncle was a fortress of composure, and would swiftly shut them down, but each encounter left me with a residue of unease and a tear in my patience.

I wasn’t unused to being flirted with. Now, however, it felt like a relentless barrage, a desperate grasping for normalcy in the face of oblivion. By the end of each day, I felt like I’d fielded more marriage proposals than a fairytale princess. I could hardly blame them, though. These men were teetering on the precipice of war. Desperation hung heavy in the air, clinging to these men about to face the unknown. They would depart with no guarantee of whether they’d ever return. 

While I couldn’t offer them a forever, I could offer a gentle smile and as kind of a rejection as I could muster. A disarming act for some, but for others, it wasn’t enough, their misplaced advances requiring security to escort them out.

“Go on, love, give us a chance,” this one man wheedled at my desk after completing his examinations.

I skimmed his file splayed open before me, everything appearing to be in order. ‘Keith Worsley’, it read. 

What a cruel joke, I thought, as I stamped his papers for approval, plastering on my most saccharine smile. He practically vaulted the desk, arms outstretched like he was about to give it a big hug. 

A firmer approach perhaps, a harsher deflection, would expedite his departure. The insistent line of restless faces behind him fueled my resolve.

“You’ve passed,” I announced, my voice clipped, as I shoved his folder shut, thrusting it towards him. “And there’s a queue.”

He ignored the dismissal, looming closer, his breath a noxious cocktail that I could almost taste on my tongue, threatening to crack my carefully constructed façade.

“You gonna deny a soldier his one shot at happiness?” he pressed, his voice thick with misplaced entitlement. 

I sighed internally, a silent scream trapped in my chest.

Efficiency is key, echoed my uncle’s voice in my head. What a struggle that turned out to align to.

“I might die fighting the Nazis,” he continued. 

I started to think it funny just how common that sentence turned out to be. And how these men begging for my hand, publicly liked to expose just how self-absorbed they really were. Pathos disguised as romance.

“Let’s live life to the fullest tonight, baby,” he drawled, desperation clinging to his words like a bad cologne. The urge to laugh was a battle I nearly lost, but the bile rising in my throat solidified my resolve, and I leaned in closer, a sugary smile plastered across my features.

“I’m afraid I’d rather be fighting the Nazis,” I quipped. 

He clamped onto my arm, a jolt shooting through me.

Perhaps not the best candidate for my newfound ‘ice queen’ persona, I thought. 

“Think you’re clever, hm?” he snarled. 

Before I could respond, or seek refuge beneath my uncle’s wing, a voice sliced through the tension.

“Get yer coat, mucker, it’s not gonna ‘appen,” it drawled, its tone snarky, dripping with playful menace, and with an undertone of complete and utter disregard for law and custom. 

Keith rose from the desk, my hand still hostage in his grip. We saw him simultaneously. 

A tall, wiry figure, all straw-blonde hair and icy blue eyes stood behind him in the queue, a scowl twisting his features as he sized Keith up and down, eyes rimmed with lethal venom.

“The fuck you say?” growled Keith, his grip tightening on my arm.

“Y’ heard me.” The blonde dipped his chin. “Now, let go of the lady’s hand. She’s done nothing but take care of ya.”

Kieth obliged before lumbering towards the blonde, towering over him, fixing him with an unwavering glare. But the thick tension ran thin when the blonde suddenly erupted in laughter, his eyes sparkling with mischief. 

“Something funny?” Keith snarled, nostrils flaring.

“Keith? That’s yer name?” the blonde derided, amusement lacing his voice as he nodded at Keith’s dog tag.

A beat of stunned silence followed.

“What about it?” asked Keith hesitantly.

“Well, Keith was always the name of that kid who wore a balaclava till’ April, candle wax snot angin’ from his nose.” The blonde grinned widely. 

My jaw clenched to stifle a snort of laughter. What a cheeky fucker, was all I could think, before Keith’s fist met his face with a resounding blow. The blonde was on the floor before anyone could stop it. 

Security materialized in seconds, hauling both men out the door in a flurry of limbs and shouted obscenities.

I rubbed a hand over my forehead, the day’s stress settling into my bones. I sighed deeply, before waving forward the next recruit. 

_

The next day was no different. Another deluge of recruits. Hundreds lined up to get their vision checked at my desk, their anxious energy buzzing through the air.

Another folder slapped onto my desk as I was finishing up with the one before. The pen slipped around in my clammy hand, still getting used to the rhythm of work. 

I opened the new folder with a practiced flick, my eyes scanning the documents. To service the Royal Navy, HMS Exeter (68). 

“Tom Bennett,” I read aloud, already filling out the form.

“Yes, ma’am,” a voice replied promptly, a hint of salt-laced amusement clinging to the words.

“Read row eight for me, please,” I instructed, pointing at the Snellen’s chart over my shoulder, my focus remaining on the papers.

“D-E-F-P-O-T-E-C,” he declared, rather fast, considering the small size of the letters.

“Steady on, sailor,” I chuckled, glancing up. 

My breath hitched in my throat. 

The tall, straw blonde mischief with the quick wit, a deep purple blooming around his left socket.

“Goodness,” I gasped, my mind scrambling for a more eloquent response.

He flashed his infuriatingly charming grin, pointing at the damage with his thumb. “Y’ should see t’other bloke,” he winked, coaxing a giggle from my lips. 

He towered over the desk, his hands folded in front of him, assuming a casual, almost nonchalant posture that somehow commanded attention. His sharp, protruding chin and aquiline nose dominated his features. 

But it was his lips that truly captivated me. They were set in a sort of perpetual pout, settling him into a curious air of sensuality that contradicted the hint of arrogance in his demeanor.

Suddenly, my mouth felt dry. Words seemed to evaporate as I looked up at him, a nervous flutter awakening in my chest, and a pulse settling in my core.

“Thank you,” I managed, a wave of unexpected gratitude washing over me at the thought of this stranger taking a punch for my dignity. “For yesterday, I mean.”

He dipped his head a fraction. “Come on,” he lulled, wetting his lips. “Who wouldn’t lend a hand to a lady in distress?”

A hesitant smile touched my lips, sweeping a glance around the room before meeting his gaze again. “A lot of people,” I countered.

He scrunched his nose and curled his lips. “Bunch of wankers, the lot of them.”

I offered him an amused smile as his eyes settled on my face, a playful smirk slowly tugging at the corner of his mouth as our gazes lingered a beat too long. The intensity sent a blush creeping up my neck. Flustered, I ducked my head to his file, though the words swam before me, my eyes failing to comprehend regular English.

“No worries like,” he said, pointing at his papers. “I’m mint in my file, healthy as a horse.”

“Right,” I replied, checking off the twenty-twenty vision, hearing, and speech. “Procedure demands a full exam, though,” I said, rising from my chair.

“Ey?” He cocked his eyebrows, his eyes following me towards the privacy screen. “Y’ gonna examine me?” he asked, almost in disbelief.

“Please, step behind here,” I said, gesturing behind the screen.

His eyes sparked with satisfaction as he rounded the desk towards me, his gaze fixed on me with a mischievous glint, his hand brushing me in passing as he slipped around me behind the screen, sending a warm current through my body. I followed suit, my mind suddenly a blur, as I attempted to regain my composure, busying myself with sterilizing equipment, discarding used needles, and filling new syringes with vaccines, all the while feeling his gaze on me.

“Alright, so… how’s this whole exam thing gonna work then?” he asked, restless fingers exploring my equipment. 

I gently swatted his hand away, a wry smile playing on his lips. 

“We’ll start off with a quick height and weight measurement,” I explained. Tom nodded and started towards the scale. “Then, you’ll need to undress and I’ll…”

“Whoah…” he countered, stopping in his tracks. “Undress?” he repeated, his voice darkening beneath something amused.

“Well, yes,” I confirmed, raising an eyebrow. “Were you never briefed beforehand, Mr. Bennett?”

Tom curled his lips.

“Did they not tell you what to expect?” I clarified.

“Never stuck ‘round for that long. Just thought it’d be a quick look in me gob and I’d be sorted,” he drawled, a sly grin spreading across his face. “But if y’ want me to get me gear off, just say the word,” he rumbled, looking me up and down.

The audacity of his suggestion both flustered me and strangely titillated me. I fought back a laugh from the utter impertinence of his man, channeling my frustration into professional courtesy.

“I appreciate the enthusiasm, Mr. Bennett,” I said, forcing a politeness into my voice, though betrayed by a hint of mirth despite my best efforts. 

“For you,” he said, curling his lips. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

I cleared my throat to steady my beating heart, and began to explain the procedure to him, in the most professional way possible. But as I did, his face grew more and more smug.

“Christ,” he muttered, elation sparking in his eyes. “Least let a bloke buy ya a drink first.”

 “The doctor will be conducting most of the physical examination,” I informed him, a faint smile tugging at my lips.

“That’s a shame,” he droned.

I studied him with disbelief, to which a cheeky smirk curled his lips. 

“Yer hands all over me. Mind ya, I wouldn’t complain.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” I said, rolling my eyes as I pulled the latex on my hands.

“Wouldn’t be needing those either,” he said, nodding at my gloves. “Wouldn’t want ya choking your lovely hands on my account.”

“Let’s keep it professional, Mr. Bennett,” I countered, a playful edge to my voice as I slipped on the second glove.

He sniffled. “Mmhm,” he hummed, his lips pursing defiantly. 

“Right,” I said, clicking my pen to the ready. “Let’s get started.”

“Fire away, love,” he drawled, his amusement an inescapable distraction.

I took a deep breath, willing my butterflies to settle.

“Would you mind emptying your pockets and stepping onto the scale for me?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said, and began rummaging through his pant pockets, pulling out a metal lighter, a packet of fags, some pounds, and his ID. He placed them in the bowl I held out and hopped onto the scale. I noted down his weight and height. 

“Excellent. Now, please remove your shirt.”

A satisfied glint lit up his eyes. He clicked his teeth and crossed his arms over his stomach. “Quite like bein’ ordered about,” he said, before pulling the shirt over his head.

“I suppose you have to get used to it,” I replied, my eyes flickering over his toned chest, his dog tag nestling between his pectoral muscles. Turning away to grab the measuring tape, I silently berated myself for the warmth blooming up my neck. 

“Wouldn’t be ‘alf as good from anyone else, though,” his voice, a low rumble, sent shivers down my spine. 

When I pivoted back, his height loomed over me, his hands clasped behind his back in a soldierly posture that accentuated his broad shoulders and chest, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes.

“Would you mind…?” My voice trailed off as I hesitated to make physical contact. Unlike the others I’d processed with practiced efficiency, the thought of touching him set my nerves on fire. “Standing like this for me?” I finally managed, my voice a gentle whisper, my hands reaching out to gently unclasp his from behind his back, raising them straight outward. “Perfect.” 

I drew closer. The scent of him, a mix of clean sweat, tobacco, and bad decisions, filled my senses as I reached around him to fit the measuring tape around his shoulder blades. As I straightened to fix it around his chest, I caught him observing me. The playful glint had softened, replaced by a simmering intensity that sent a warm tremor through me. I half expected him to lay an inappropriate or snarky comment, but a beat of charged silence hung in the air, save his breathing which had gotten slightly labored.

I quickly recorded the measurement and released the tape. “Perfect,” I said, a touch too brightly, charging my voice to attempt to salvage my composure. “You may lower your arms.” Scribbling the numbers in his file, I forced myself to focus on the next task. “I will have a look at your teeth next,” I said, picking up the light source and a wooden spatula.

“Alright,” he said. He dipped his chin for me to reach, his lips pouting with arrogant sensuality, as I approached him. 

His presence consumed me. His scent, the warmth of his body, mere inches from my own, radiated through me like electricity. I hesitated again.

“I don’t bite,” he grinned, to which I rolled my eyes, and placed my hand to his chin in defiance. His timber lowered into a throaty whisper, “Only if ye ask me nicely.”

My breathing shallowed, heat shot through me like licking flames, my heart drumming against my ribs. “Good to know,” I said, attempting to sound unbothered, tilting his head toward me. “Say ‘Ah’.”

“Ahhhhh…”

I depressed his tongue with the spatula and examined his teeth, making a mental note of the slight misalignment of his incisors. “Bite down,” I instructed. Another minor misalignment appeared. “Hmm,” I murmured, and released him, noting it down in his file. 

“Problem?” he asked.

“Did you have braces as a child?” I inquired, setting down the equipment.

He scoffed. “Fuck nah. That gear’s for mugs only.”

His foul mouth was disarming

“I see,” I said, before I turned and started towards him. His eyes had become hooded, the ice melted into a dark sea, holding a challenge I couldn’t quite decipher. His lips inched up into an askew smile that pitted his cheek as I reached for his face again. I felt a prickle of awareness as his gaze flickered down my body, before returning to my face.

I palpated along his jaw, starting below his ears, then down towards his throat. He sighed deeply. His skin was so very warm beneath my fingers.

“Been experiencing any fever or illness of late?” I asked, my fingers continuing the path down his neck. His gaze flicked to my lips.

“No,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

He was extremely warm. Borderline feverish. 

“Currently on any medications?” My fingers continued down his broad neck, down to his collarbones. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, and his ‘no’ came out hoarse and shaky. 

I systematically checked the rest of his body for abnormalities, checking for any bruises, hernias, anything deviating. His breath hitched as my fingers grazed his arm, then the other. Then I took a turn about him, checking his neck, shoulders and back. My eyes travelled lower, and something fluttered through my stomach. 

He had a very cute butt. 

He tilted his head to the side when I came around him, a devilish grin on his lips. 

“What d’ya reckon, doc? See somethin’ y’ like?”

“Everything seems to be in order,” I announced, going to stand in front of him, ignoring his blatantly rude comment. “Just like you claimed, healthy as a horse.”

A satisfied grin tugged at his lips, “Told ya.”

“Now for the really tricky part,” I continued, watching Tom’s smug grin slowly fade from his face as my uncle emerged from behind the privacy curtain.

“How are we doing in here then, Y/N?”

“All done, Dr. Clark. He’s all yours,” I confirmed, a hint of amusement dancing in my eyes. Tom’s confusion was a welcome change to his previous arrogance.

Dr. Clark cleared his throat and flipped through the file. “Mr. Bennett,” he addressed and looked up. “For the lower body examination, please remove your trousers,” he said, smacking his gloves into place.

Tom looked to me, a silent plea I readily understood, and I flashed him with a sweet smile.

“Good luck, Mr. Bennett,” I sang, tearing the gloves from my hands.

He turned to my uncle, then hesitated. “Could I…” Then he cleared his throat, his voice lowering to a whisper, though loud enough that I could hear before I vanished behind the screen. “Could I have a moment?”

_

The next day, a familiar name landed on my desk at the vaccination booth.

As I looked up, intense blue eyes met mine.

“Mr. Bennett,” I greeted him professionally, though something stirred within my chest.

“Y/N,” he said with a charming grin which made my heart trip over its next beat.

Fuck. He must’ve heard my name from my uncle yesterday. 

“And please,” he continued. “Call me Tom.”

“Alright, Mr. Bennett. Right this way,” I said, rising from my chair. 

He hesitated at first, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before he obliged and rounded the desk, following me behind the screen.

“Pull down your trousers and lean over,” I instructed before he could manage to land some witty remark.

“Actually, I-,” he started.

“Chop chop, sailor,” I interrupted, ushering him to the table. “We haven’t got all day.”

“Right uh… Like this?” he asked, his back turned to me, his cheeks exposed before me.

I looked him over. “That’s right…” I said absently, my eyes travelling.

Focus.

As I readied the vaccine, a beat of awkward silence stretched between us before Tom spoke again, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. 

“So, listen uh…” he began, clearing his throat, an unfamiliar vulnerability lacing his voice that unsettled me. My gaze drifted to the way his jaw clenched, a flicker of some apprehensive in his eyes. Was he scared of needles or something? “I know a lot of these other blokes been causing ye trouble and that, and uh…”

Gosh, he was so fucking cute when he was nervous. 

“I was wonderin’ like…” He rubbed his chin in his hand. “Would you want to like…” His fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm on the table, attempting to urge his words forward. “Maybe…” His voice trailed off, searching for the right turn of phrase.

Oh god, he was about to ask me out. 

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I loaded the syringe in a nervous blur, and tapped out the bubbles at the top.

“Like… wanna go out with me – argh!” His whole body cramped up as I stabbed the needle into his butt cheek. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I poke too deep?” I asked with feigned concern.

A throaty groan escaped his lips. “Clattered me bones, I think,” he wheezed, his head bent over the table, swaying slightly as he held onto it for support.

“Go on, sailor. You can take it,” I said gently, patting his back as he pulled his trousers back up, groaning as he went. 

I thought he must’ve forgotten what he was about to say, because he started staggering out of the booth, one hand rubbing his arse.

“Nah, hang on,” he said, turning on his heel, his jaw ticking with determination. “Listen, I really wanna take ya.”

My cheeks flared red. “Excuse me?”

Alarm sparked in his eyes, as if just realizing what he’d said. “Out!” He corrected. “I’d really wanna take y’ out. That weren’t meant to come out like that.”

Suddenly he started acting very strange. It started with staggering. He steadied himself on the IV pole at his side, the metal rattling under his weight.

“Mr. Bennett?” I asked, approaching him slowly, “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head to his senses, “Just gon’ a bit… wobbly, is all.”

Something dawned on me. I snatched his file from the table and opened it. ‘Andrew Howarth’ was hidden beneath a sticker of Tom’s alias.

I slammed it back down on the table, my voice sharpening. “Have you already had this shot?” I demanded, turning back to him, venom lacing my voice.

“Well,” he mumbled, his eyes fluttering. “Just t’ once.” Then his head hit the floor.

_

Exhaustion gnawed as I exited the doors to the induction centre, the hours of work settling heavy on my cognition. The golden glow of lampposts cast long, spidery shadows across the slick cobblestones as I descended the stairs. The memory of Tom swam up before me, his handsome face against the cold floor, concern flooding me after his fainting spell. I recalled him muttering incoherently in my lap as a crowd gathered, my uncle eventually pushing through to help.

A warmth, unexpected and foreign, bloomed in my chest. He’d taken a punch to the face during our very first encounter, then nearly experienced an anaphylactic shock trying to ask me out on a date. Underneath that snarky, arrogant mask, I believed, was something so much deeper. 

My heels clicked against the stone as I approached the car. I opened the door and slid inside, just starting to pull it shut when a voice echoed from outside. 

“Y/N!”

A jolt of adrenaline shot through me as I saw a figure jogging up the street towards me, hands shoved in their jacket pockets. 

A thrill sparked in my chest as they drew closer. I flung the car door open again and stepped out. 

“Hello, Mr. Bennett,” I uttered, attempting to hide the shakiness in my voice as he approached. “How are you feeling?”

“Made up,” he said, flashing a lopsided grin, and I noted that the purple around his eye had deepened somewhat. “You?”

A laugh, tinged with delirious exhaustion, escaped my lips. I shrugged. “Pretty knackered, actually.”

Tom’s grin diluted slightly, as a concerned frown etched his features. “Course y’ are! Made up you’re knackered after all that!” There was a soft concern in his voice that spun in my ears like silk. I smiled at him as a comfortable silence settled between us. But when I turned my heel slightly on the cobble, he spoke up. 

“Listen, uh…” he began, putting honey in his voice. “Before all of that with the fainting,” he said, drawing closer. “I wanted to ask ye out.”

I smiled, nodding. “I know,” I admitted softly. “It was pretty obvious.”

A cheeky grin lit up his features, and he tilted his head. “So…” He pursed his lips. “What d’ya say, doc?” His voice lowered into a gentle caress, and I felt his fingers brush against mine ever so lightly. “I need someone lookin’ after me while I recover,” he winked.

I couldn’t keep from smiling, my gaze drifting down to the cobblestones, as I considered his request.

“I’ll be a good boy, I promise,” he said, grinning, coaxing a laugh from me. 

Exhaustion threatened to pull me under, but a different kind of weight settled in my stomach as I met his gaze. He was off to war, soon to be on a ship across the Atlantic, with no notion of when he’d be back. If he’d ever be back… 

Dread coiled in my stomach. 

If he was going to die, we should at least live tonight. 

I winced internally at the cheesy quote from that Keith bloke. But it was the only thing that seemed to fit the urgency in my heart. 

“Alright,” I heard myself say.

“Yeah?” Tom’s voice dripped with elation, a melody that tugged at my already strained emotions. “C’mon then,” he said, offering me his arm. “Everyone reckons a cold brew sorts ye right out after a dizzy dossin’.”

_

A honeyed glow emanated from The Old Wellington, pulling us like moths to a flame. Inside, a vibrant symphony of voices rose and fell, punctuated by the melodic clinking of glasses. The air thrummed with the mingled aromas of spilled ale, aged leather, and an undercurrent of cigarette smoke. Tom, a whirlwind of charismatic energy, navigated the throng, his smile as familiar as the worn grooves on a favorite record, his banter bouncing off patrons like playful echoes. Their easy camaraderie spoke of a shared history, a hidden world I longed to decipher. Here, in the heart of Manchester, I was an explorer in a land of unknown faces and customs, adrift but not entirely lost. But when he grabbed my hand and pulled us towards the bar, none of it mattered. 

“A pint and a gin martini, if y’ would, Kristina,” he tossed over his shoulder to the bartender.

The cheek of this man. Did he just assume what I’d be drinking?

“A gin martini? Really?” I arched an eyebrow, a playful challenge in my voice. 

He pivoted towards me, a smug pout plastered on his lips, one hand casually tucked in his pant pocket as he leaned against the worn wood.

“Thought y’ might need a touch of sophistication, ya know, a taste of the high life,” he drawled, his eyes twinkling with something akin to a dare. 

And I was up for the challenge. 

I snorted and mirrored his stance, my arms crossing atop the bar in a playful imitation. “Do elaborate,” I replied, my voice laced with amusement.

A genuine grin erupted across his face. “Well, gin martinis are for proper ladies like, the kind with a bit of mystery and that,” he said, his voice dropping a touch lower. “Like yourself,” he finished, wetting his lips as his eyes flicked briefly down my body.

A shiver danced down my spine and vibrated in my stomach.

“So, a woman of intrigue is defined by her choice of beverage?” I countered, cocking my eyebrows in defiance, a playful glint in my eyes.

He shook his head ever so lightly, a flicker of something deeper gracing his features, like I’d totally missed his point. “Nothin’ could ever define ya, love. Y’ more than a drink,” he said, his voice growing suddenly serious. 

A warmth bloomed in my chest. This cocky charmer held an unexpected sweetness beneath the surface, a complexity that piqued my curiosity even further. 

Kristina placed our drinks on the bar and Tom slid a bill across to her. “Cheers, Kristina.”

I nodded at his pint. “So, you’re a lager then,” I joked. 

He tilted his head, a dimple flashing in his cheek. “A simple brew for a simple bloke,” he said, placing the rim to his lips and taking a swig. 

I laughed and shook my head. “You’re anything but simple, Tom.”

 “Seems my theory holds some water, then,” he grinned, mischief glittering in his eyes.

He pulled his packet of fags from his pocket and lit one with a practiced flick, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked in. Smoke curled from his lips in a grey cloud, momentarily obscuring him in a hazy veil. In that moment, a strange desire flickered within me – to be the tobacco stick consumed by his flame. 

“Fancy one?” he offered.

“Why not?” I said, watching him already pull a second one out of the pack, putting it to my lips, the subtle graze of his fingers against me singeing my skin like hot coal. 

“So, what d’ya think of the war then?” he said, flicking the lighter shut. 

I exhaled, tapped the ash, and pursed my lips. “That there must be a better way to solve conflict.”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. He pointed at me with the cigarette wedged between his fingers. “You and me dad would get along,” he stated.

Intrigued, I leaned in. “How so?”

He took a blow of his cigarette before he answered. “He’s a conscientious objector,” he said, breathing a plume of smoke.

“You clearly don’t share his sentiment,” I said, stirring my drink with the olive stick.

Tom curled his lips, a furrow etching between his brows, his finger flicking ashes into the ashtray. “Let’s just say it was either this or a stint in Her Majesty’s finest accommodation.” He rubbed his nose, a cocky sniff escaping him, as if the topic was bothersome. “Not exactly dad’s proudest moment.” His voice lowered somewhat, his fingers tapping atop the bar.

My eyes skimmed his fidgeting hands in contemplation. He’d enlisted for redemption, though I wasn’t exactly surprised he was a troublemaker, lacing him with even more intrigue than I had expected. 

The liquor flowed freely as he unraveled his story – his pacifist father, the ache of losing his mother young, his spirited sister who appeared to have stepped into their mother’s shoes. With each revelation, an invisible thread tightened between us, drawing our bodies closer, a silent conversation blooming beneath our skin.

By the time I finished my second martini, a reckless glint danced in my eyes, my fingers feeling daring and loose. They brushed down his arm while he was talking. My gaze flickered to his lips, a silent invitation. Tom, immersed in some topic I’d failed to keep up with, trailed his hand up my side absently, his fingers grazing my hips, up to my waist, his body radiating into me, my mind consumed by his scent as I attempted to focus on his words. 

A husky chuckle grazed my ear. “A bit bevvied, are we?” he whispered into it, his voice laced with amusement.

“Not any more than you,” I countered. 

“Pfft,” he said, frowning theatrically and pursing his lips. “I’m off the wagon.”

His hand drifted down my back, a single finger tracing a tempting path to my tailbone, the motion sending sparks downward. Desire flared within me, a wildfire consuming my inhibitions, fueled by the euphoric buzz of the alcohol. I leaned into him until I could feel his breath mixed with liquor and tobacco upon my lips. My fingers came up to his chest, my lips savoring his every breath like it was life itself. I just needed him to make a move. Close the gap between us. Draw his tongue into my mouth so that I could taste it. But he was still, ragged breaths fanning me, his muscles drawn taut beneath my fingers. 

“Fancy a change of scenery?” I whispered against his mouth. 

“Bet,” he mumbled, his voice thick, before creating distance between us, the electricity cut, sparking like static. His hand in mine, he steered me out of the pub, the night air a stark contrast to the heat that had been building inside me...

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Divider by: @saradika

A part 2 is planned soon!

[my-thyla-my-captain]

the way that izzy is inexplicably entwined with the blackbonnet sex scene. the way that izzy is singing a love song for a man who will never love him the same way as he does the man he lays with now. he's singing his vulnerability to a man who's not only not listening, who's not present, but whose very happiness is contingent upon all of the sacrifices he's made (deterring Edward from shooting himself on the deck by focusing his mania onto himself thus losing his leg right after confessing his love to him, refusing to shoot him below deck, saving the crew when he nearly ended them all in the storm, keeping his body on board despite their mutiny) but will never likely truly thank or apologize to him for. it's all the same - without izzy, the rose colored bliss of their time together wouldn't be, accompaniment or otherwise.

[skzdarlings]

the kingsguard ; jisung x reader ; part vi

part one| part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | tba | ao3 link

pairing: han jisung/reader summary: You are a queen. He is a kingsguard - a member of a holy order that vows to defend the king in the name of the gods. They forsake all earthly goods and swear a vow of chastity to avoid all worldly temptation. When he stands in as proxy for the royal wedding, all those vows are tested.

content info: reader described with curly hair. this is the second to last chapter.

content warnings: the previously established story dynamics continue in this chapter. this chapter has a very explicit sex scene with reader/jisung. desperation, vow-breaking, grinding, making out, cunnilingus, piv, secret forbidden love affair, having to be quiet to not get caught, covering each other's mouths, generally lots of description of worship in a sexual context.

chapter word count: 14000 words.

enjoy <3

-

You dream about Han Jisung.  As if he has not entirely consumed your waking thoughts, he has even stolen into your dreams.  He is there with a smile, a song, and so much tenderness that you are aching from the moment you open your eyes.

“Oh,” is all you say, a whisper in your empty bed.

You rise and dress yourself, already mentally bracing for the long day ahead. Though you are determined to navigate yourself through the viper’s nest that is the king’s court, you must be very cautious while doing so.  There are real, deadly ramifications for what you did – for what you want to do again.  Though you will strive to maintain whatever possible liberties, you must not become complacent in the meanwhile. 

You do not want this to end before it can truly begin. 

You fear the light of day will reveal everything that transpired.  You feel a revolution in yourself, not just in the literal aches and tingles, but something in the very core of your being.  You feel like someone will see it a glance, in the way you move or carry yourself.  How could they not?  It changed everything. 

Your first encounter is Changbin.  There was another guard switch in the early hours of morning, sparing Minho some rest before due departure.   You are glad.   Minho heard everything last night and you were not keen on starting the day with that confrontation.   He has proven himself to be reliable, having returned the sleeping draft with little reservation, and he is clearly an intimate companion that Jisung trusts wholeheartedly so it is not doubt for his stalwart dependability that makes you hesitate – just pure embarrassment. 

Changbin does not seem to notice anything untoward.  He does not make a single remark against your disposition, so you safely exhale as he escorts you through the camp. 

The king is still sleeping and no one is brave enough to prod him awake.  He will probably be angry in either scenario, so it has been decided to let him lay until he stirs on his own. 

It feels as though the entire contingency has released a long-held breath.  There is chatter and some games, people wandering about, eating and ambling without the stress of a holy gaze and its accompanying vocal thunder. 

Foot soldiers mill about the camp.  Chan guards the king.  Seungmin and Jeongin scout the perimeter for dangerous activity, on greater alert because of the assassination attempt. 

That leaves the remaining few kingsguards nearby.   Minho is slouched against a tree, peeling an orange and laughing at Hyunjin and Jisung who are locked in a very theatrical swordfight.  Changbin is clearly eager to join so you get some food then happily head in that direction. 

“Yah, you call that fighting?” Changbin teases.

Jisung turns, just a brief glance of acknowledgement until he sees you and stumbles.  His sword is loose in his grip, like he has forgotten all his training, like he doesn’t even remember being a kingsguard. 

You forget yourself too.  Your mouth is open with some pleasant greeting utterly obliterated in the face of his longing gaze.  Last night should have tempered all this quiet yearning but it seems to have exacerbated it. 

This exchange is only seconds, though it feels like hours.  Jisung might have forgotten himself but Hyunjin has not.  He knocks Jisung on the back and Jisung falls over, sword flying and palms skidding across the forest floor.  He coughs through the little puff of dirt that bursts under impact. 

“Tsk, task,” Changbin continues to tease.  “You make it too easy.” 

“Ah-ha-ha,” Jisung says, clapping his hands to clean them.  He stands then bends at the waist, bowing to you.  “My queen.  Good morning.” 

“Good morning,” you reply, dipping your head respectfully in turn.  You greet Hyunjin as he bows too. 

You look at Minho long enough for him to bow his head then smile.  It is not taunting, at least not with any true malice.  An amused dimple indents his cheek and there is a sparkle in his eye.

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “I hope you slept well.” 

“Quite fine,” you say, feeling very hot in the face. 

“Ah.”  Minho wiggles an orange slice.  “Just fine, hm?”  He looks at Jisung and cackles maniacally at his exasperated expression.   He pops the orange slice into his mouth and smiles while chewing. 

Hyunjin looks at him funny but Changbin is non-plussed, unintentionally diverting the conversation when he says, “The king is sleeping more than fine, hey.” 

This distracts Hyunjin who immediately scoffs. He tosses his sword, spinning it with a flick of his wrist, and catches it just as smoothly.  He opens his mouth to speak. 

Changbin interjects, “Ah, ah, ah, you watch your pretty mouth.  You’ve blasphemed enough, kingsguard.” 

“Kingsguard.”  Hyunjin looks at his sword, runs his finger up the shiny reflection with a contemplative regard.  “There’s no king here right now,” he says.  “That makes me a queensguard, doesn’t it?” 

“It’s the same thing,” Changbin says, diplomatic. 

Hyunjin smiles, though it lacks amusement, just a dry upturn of his lips. 

“If you insist,” he says. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jisung sings, wiggling into the middle of their rapport.  “King, queen, god, man – a vow is a vow.  We all know why we’re here, right? Right. Right. Awesome.” 

“I know why you’re here,” Hyunjin says, tapping Jisung with the blunt flat of his sword.  “It was to lose against me, as usual, wasn’t it?” 

“Ohhhh-ha-ha!” Jisung slashes his sword through the air with an ostentatious flourish.   “The pretty boy has jokes now.” 

“Bard boy,” Hyunjin retorts, teasing.  He curls his fingers, gesticulating for an approach.  “If you dare.” 

The boys return to their fighting, as playful as it is impressive.  You seat yourself beside Minho, though the sight of the queen on the forest ground does make Changbin squeak.  Regardless, he does not protest and Minho seems to understand your character well enough that it does not surprise him at all.  He simply hands you an orange slice. 

You watch Hyunjin and Jisung, smiling as they parry.  Minho and Changbin explain some of the manoeuvres, bringing an understanding to the harmony of their frantic steps and slashes. 

It is not surprising there is so much detail in even the simplest action.  The kingsguards do not fight with half-hearted swings, nor do they stumble with overemotional, retaliatory strikes.  Every step, every parry, every breath, is so carefully planned, so meticulously practiced, so utterly engrained in their every movement. 

In truth, you see it even when they are at rest.  Chan is the most natural with his authoritative air and quick reactions, having trained for so much of his youth.  Hyunjin moves with a dance-like fluidity even when he is not fighting, as if his long limbs are cutting through water.  Minho has a limber quick-footedness, sometimes disguised in an insouciant slouch, but quick to action when the inclination so strikes.  Every action that Changbin makes is a powerful one, as precise as it is strong.  Jeongin and Seungmin both have keen eyes and quick reflexes, their training and perseverance plain in every dedicated movement. 

Han Jisung is good at everything.  He can play at unassuming, so much so even the king does not see his utmost capabilities, but it is obvious that he has a vast repertoire of skill to call upon at any given moment.

Watching him and Hyunjin fight is exhilarating.  As you begin to understand their footwork and motions, it becomes even more impressive. 

“Show her the double knot,” Minho says, calling out like a spectator at a show.

He clearly delights in pestering his friends but Jisung and Hyunjin are having fun.  They both relish the opportunity to flaunt their skills so they happily indulge his request. 

With wide eyes, you watch their swords clash.  Sparks burst where the metal scrapes at the angle of collision.  The men whirl around each other and bring their swords together again.  They continue to weave and parry, every step lightning quick.  It appears to be a defensive manoeuvre rather than an assault, but it is an extraordinary feat of speed and fortitude regardless. 

“Well done,” you say, applauding. 

Jisung sweeps into an exaggerated bow only for Hyunjin to kick him over.  You laugh as he chases after Hyunjin as if he intends to clobber him with his sword.  It makes Hyunjin laugh too, his face so bright when overcome with delight.  He clearly feels all his emotions very strongly.  You believe all these brave young men fight with as much as emotion as skill.  The kingsguard service is not just about soldiership, but faith and all that which is contained in the heart. 

They deserve a far better companion than the tyrant king.  That is what their monarch should be, a companion, a friend, a being more heart than ego. 

“I am duly impressed,” you say when the boys finish another bout. 

By now, their breathing is a little heavier. The morning is creeping toward noon, the heat intensifying with each passing moment.  You are tucked in the shade but the kingsguards move in and out of sunlight, no doubt warm in their black robes.  Still, they do not remove it. 

Not right now at least, you think, looking at the swish of Jisung’s cloak, remembering as it fell from his shoulders and he fell into your arms.  You feel flustered, letting the memory of each touch wash over you.  When Jisung finds your gaze, you swear you can see his own recollections teeming. 

“Show her the Levanter,” Minho calls, interrupting your shared daydreaming. 

Jisung snaps out of it.  He looks at Minho with a sardonic quirk of his brow. 

“Oh, now he’s got jokes too,” Jisung says, pointing to Minho while Hyunjin laughs. 

“The Levanter,” you repeat the word slowly, letting the weight of it linger.  “Levanter – like the god?” 

“The god of guardians,” Hyunjin says with a blazing look in his eye.  He tips his head back, gazing heavenward as he points with his sword to the skies.  “Levanter stands guard at the gates of the heavens.  The eternal vow-keeper.  He has never surrendered his post.” 

“Yes,” you say, nodding respectfully.  “I imagine the kingsguard revere him most of all.” 

“All the scripture is important,” Changbin adds, nodding too.  “But yes, the kingsguard order prays to Levanter for guidance before the rest.” 

“You do him a service,” you say.  “I suppose the Levanter manoeuvre must be particularly noteworthy to be named after him.” 

“You can say that,” Jisung says with a little laugh.  He runs his fingers through his hair. 

You feel like a prepubescent girl again, warm and flushed just watching his dark hair feather through his fingers, watching those fingers come down to his sword hilt, watching the movement of his hand as he grasps and twists. 

Truthfully, you forget your question – or was it a statement? – and it takes Minho gently nudging you to remember. 

“Levanter,” you say, shaking your head.  You smile politely.  “What is the manoeuvre then?”

Minho cackles.  Changbin reaches down to cuff him across the back of his head.  Minho snaps his jaws in return, like he intends to gnaw on Changbin like a disgruntled kitten. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Changbin says.  To you, he speaks more politely, “The Levanter is not a manoeuvre that can actually be performed.” 

“Well, it can be,” Jisung corrects, slashing his sword through the air.  He grins, a big, theatrical smile, wiggling his eyebrows.  “But it can only be performed once.” 

“Only once,” you say.  “What do you mean?” 

“All kingsguards are trained to master all manoeuvres and operations,” Hyunjin says, speaking a little more seriously than the others, still with that reverent look in his eye.  “But the Levanter has only been used a few times over the centuries.  It’s an… honourable death and killing.”

“Death and killing,” you repeat.  Your stomach twists with a little bit of anxiety, the weight this implication landing.  Though you know there is no real danger right at this precise moment, considering such dramatic circumstances makes you uneasy.  “You mean…” 

“It kills your opponent,” Jisung says, voice a little softer, perhaps seeing the unease on your face.  “It just… also kills…”

“Yourself,” you say, to which they both nod.  “Surely, there would never be a reason for such a manoeuvre?”

“Not necessarily,” Hyunjin says, a little less attuned to your discomfort, more excited to explain himself.  He sheathes his sword while speaking.  “It’s the last and final option for a kingsguard, when he has no other choice in front of him.  If death is inevitable, there is no dishonour in ending your own life if it means fulfilling your service to defend the crown.  So… in example… if a kingsguard was taken by an enemy who meant to torture or use them against heaven’s earthly sovereign, then it would be appropriate for the kingsguard to take action, to kill his opponent and himself so he could not be used.”

“My goodness,” you say.  “That – that’s very – ”

“It looks like this,” Hyunjin says. 

He draws a dagger from the folds of his robes, a weapon you did not even realize was concealed in the swathes of dark fabric.  In a blink, he draws back his arm and hurls the dagger.  It whizzes past Jisung and thuds into a tree.  You do not even have the chance to gasp before Hyunjin has drawn his sword and turned it towards himself.  He slams onto his knees, sliding the sword safely along his side and tucking it under his arm. 

You understand.  The kingsguard would throw a dagger at his opponent, killing them with a fatal injury, and he would just as swiftly fall on his own sword.  It would not slide past his side, but through his ribs and into his own heart.  He would kill both of them in one stroke.  It would take a lot of precision, but that would be easy for a soldier like Hyunjin, who is primarily a bowman.  Aim and precision is his specialty. 

You don’t want to imagine it, though. Jisung is right; this manoeuvre can only be performed once.  Hyunjin’s demonstration is harmless but you understand the visual. 

“My goodness,” you say again.  “I knew the kingsguard was devout, but that… that…” 

“Like we said before,” Jisung says gently.  “It’s easy to be devout when the queen is true.  Your Majesty, you are worth that.”

You are worth dying for, he means, gazing at you with those shiny dark eyes.  It is an extraordinary proclamation.  It makes your breath catch. 

“I appreciate the sentiment,” you say.  You manage to speak softly though your heart thumps heavily.  “But I would prefer my queensguards live for me instead.”

“Your Majesty,” Hyunjin says, bowing.

The conversation is swiftly halted by a familiar raging voice.  The king has risen and he is not happy. 

What a surprise, you think.  Though no one vocalizes the sentiment, the frowns and sighs reveal a similar thought in your guards.  Despite the obvious reluctance, the king must be greeted, so the guards sheath their weapons and compose themselves. 

Changbin offers his hands and pulls you to your feet.  You accept his arm as he escorts you towards the centre of the camp.  Servants are bustling about, frantically tearing down what remains of the encampment.  They were taking their time as the king slept, but now it is well past departure time and he has no patience for dithering. 

Chan is beside the king, looking gloomy and austere.  His hand flexes on the hilt of his sword.  He stares at the king and only moves when he sees you.

Flanked by guards, your approach is difficult to ignore.  The king stutters in his speechifying.

“You.”  He hurls the word. 

You do not match his conduct.  You remain stoic and graceful, simply dipping into a respectful bow of greeting.  You say nothing and hope nothing is all he sees.  His glare is so fiery that you believe he might suspect you are responsible for his impromptu slumber.  However, he clearly cannot comprehend how that would be.

You are not forthcoming.  You simply stand before him, eyes downturned, with no answers to be given. 

He takes a breath.  It sounds like preparation to bellow. 

Before he can shout or accuse or even blink, there is a mad disruption in the camp.  The kingsguards grab their sword hilts, forming a protective circle around just you.  Chan grips his own sword hilt, striding forward to see what is causing the commotion. 

It is Seungmin and Jeongin, riding into the camp like there are devils on their tails. 

“Assassins,” Seungmin says, stopping just in front of Chan.  It takes him a second to calm his excited horse, trotting back and forth as he looks down at the kingsguard captain.  “We were scouting the perimeter, behind and ahead,” Seungmin continues.  “Some of the bandits from the unit the other day – they were camped not far from the main road.  They know we’re travelling that way.  They know—”  He looks at you, solemn.  “They know we have something they want.” 

“The queen is in danger!”  Jeongin blurts.  He looks a little more frantic than Seungmin, his horse equally agitated.  His expression is screwed up tight with lines of anxiety.  “Chan – Captain – We have to do something.” 

“Ridiculous,” the king says.  “There’s no more bandits on these roads.  The queen is not in any danger.  We cannot waste more time with delays.  I want to be back in the capital by—”

“Your Majesty,” Chan says, facing him squarely.  “Can you confirm unequivocally there are no more bandits waiting in those trees?”  His expression perceptibly darkens, downright menacing with the intensity of his stare.  “And if so, would you mind explaining where and how you acquired that knowledge?” 

The camp feels very silent.  Only the horses dare to make noise, plodding back and forth.  Seungmin soothes his animal, brushing his hand along the mane.   He, like everyone else, is looking at the king. 

Chan’s accusation is plain.  He looks at the king and challenges him.  He outright dares him to admit that the previous attack was targeted against you and that he arranged it.   Of course, the king does not admit this, but he has no other answer prepared either.  He stumbles over an aggrieved retort.  In the time it takes him to think, Chan shakes his head. 

“There is only one road between here and the capital big enough for a caravan to pass,” Chan says.  “It doesn’t surprise me enemies would wait on it.” 

He approaches you.  You hands began trembling from the first mention of the assassins, but your fear is somewhat assuaged by the protective circle of your guards.  Chan looks at them, then bows his head to you. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “It’s obvious these roads are not safe at this time.  If I may, I would like to separate you from the rest of the royal train.” 

The king scoffs indignantly but you feel relief regardless.  Chan is separating you from the royal retinue.  More importantly, he is separating you from the king.  It feels like a weight slides right off your shoulders.   You have won some more time and distance. 

“There are faster paths to the capital,” he says.  “But they won’t fit the wagons. Changbin, I’ll leave you in charge of leading the train back to the city without me, and I’ll personally take the queen ahead.  You continue as planned and be mindful of any attacks.  We’ll be long gone before anyone realizes we’re not with the caravan.” 

“You will do such thing!” the king snaps.  “Am I to be used as bait to lure these assassins while you protect that disobedient creature?  Remember your vows, captain!” 

Chan is facing you, his back to the king.  You watch his expression contort with frustration, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he holds that anger within.  You do not remotely blame him.  It is preposterously insulting for the king to accuse him of disrespecting his vows after everything the king has done.

Despite his aggravation, Chan maintains composure, turning to face the king. 

Chan is not especially giant, not in physicality.  The king is technically taller than him.  However, the kingsguard captain has such a domineering and confident air that it somehow dwarfs other men in relation.  The king has to make a point of holding his head up, but Chan overwhelms him with his sheer presence. 

“You’re right, Your Majesty,” Chan says, an edge to his voice despite the respectful address.  “I’ve sworn a vow as kingsguard leader to always stay at your side.”

“Precisely,” the king says.  He looks at you with a smug little smirk, clearly feeling that he has wrestled back his control. 

It takes a great deal of effort not to return a glare.  You let a breath shudder past your lips.  Hopefully it is mistaken for nerves and not irritation.   

“Yes,” Chan continues.  “That’s why I and the lower soldiers will stay behind to take you back to the capital.”  He looks at the guards gathered around you.  “And the rest of the kingsguards will escort the queen.” 

“What!”  The king reacts like he was slapped. 

You try not to laugh, swallowing the sound.  Hyunjin barely restrains it as his shoulders jump.  Jisung bites his bottom lip and looks at you sidelong.  You look back, smiling the subtlest smile you dare. 

“It’s the only choice of action, Your Majesty,” Chan says to the king, speaking with saccharine sweetness, as if explaining a complicated concept to a child.  “The gods-chosen queen has to be protected.  And because I have to stay with you, it goes without saying that the remaining guards have to stay with her.  We can’t allow any harm to come to her, can we?  Because that would be a violation of your vows.”  With that, Chan’s expression turns menacing again, brows slanting into an angry furrow.  “And you don’t want to be the first king in centuries to stand in violation of his vows.  Do you?”

The king has no reply.  The blatant threat stuns him into uncharacteristic silence. 

“Good,” Chan says, smiling.  “I’m glad we agree.  It’s the will of the gods, after all.  Seungmin, Jeongin.”  He turns to the guards.  “Pack the horses accordingly.  Bring a tent and bedroll for the queen.  Pack lightly, though.  Speed is imperative. Changbin, Minho, come with me and we’ll map your route to the capital.  If something happens, you’ll send a rider out to me.  You should arrive at least a week ahead of us if you maintain pace.” 

The king flounders, his mouth open with an interjection, but he is not afforded a moment to speak.  Chan is moving from person to person, issuing orders. 

“Hyunjin, Han,” Chan says.  “Ensure the queen has everything she needs.  My Queen, I apologize, but for the sake of your safety you may not be able to travel in the most comfort, and I would recommend you bring only the necessities.  We will safely deliver the rest of your trunks and belongings within the week.”

“Captain.”  You lay a hand over your heart, full of gratitude.  “I understand completely.  I commend your quick thinking.  You are an exemplary credit to your gods and the crown.”

“I’m glad you think so, Your Majesty,” Chan says, bowing.  “Safe travels.”  He turns to the king and gestures ahead, lifting a pointed brow.  “Well, we better hurry, Your Majesty.  As you were saying before, we don’t want to waste more time, do we?  It’s you and me now.  Without all these distractions, we’ll have opportunities in the nights ahead to pray to the gods for their revelation, provided you don’t fall asleep before we can.” 

Remarkably, you keep a straight face as Chan and the king retreat.  You, Hyunjin, and Jisung quietly make your way to the wagon with your trunks.  When safely out of sight of the sovereign and his clever captain, the three of you exchange a glance and promptly dissolve into laughter.  You try to contain it, desperately shaking your head, but it’s no use.  Hyunjin leans against the wagon, eyes closed while a laughing tear slides down his cheek.  Jisung doubles over, hands on his knees and shoulders shaking. 

“Did you see his face?”  Jisung wheezes.  He stands up, holding his middle like the laughter caused a strain.  “Ohhhh, sweet gods.  Forgive me.”  He makes the gesture of a blessing, crossing the symbol over his body and gazing heavenward.  It doesn’t stop his incessant giggling. 

“Shhh,” you say because it is appropriate, though your own laughter is still flowing.

Hyunjin covers his mouth and releases the rest of his laughter in the cup of his hand.  When you are all settled, you finish your task, only the occasional giggle as interruption.  You pack a small bag of necessities then meet the other kingsguards where they are arranging the horses.  The rest of the camp continues to prepare its own journey, though a few people watch as the kingsguards gather.  They make quite a sight, forming arrangement on horseback, their black robes flowing around them. 

Of course, the king does not see the value of their presence.  He focusses on a ridiculous detail, pointing to Hyunjin as the kingsguard mounts his horse.      

“She is not to ride with that one!” the king says. 

Hyunjin lays a hand over his heart, closing his eyes and looking dramatically sorrowful. 

“Han,” Chan says.  He sighs and gestures to Jisung.  “If you don’t mind taking the queen again.” 

Minho laughs.  He is perched on his own horse, reigns in one hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the other. 

“Of course,” Jisung says.  He bows quickly to Chan then spins towards you.  His hand emerges from the dark layers of his robes, held out to you in offering.  

He is wearing riding gloves, leather covering each finger to the knuckle.  You gaze at that hand and remember every tender touch. 

You lay your hand in his.  Even with the leather barrier, sparks ignite where your palms touch.  A frisson ripples all through your body, a still pond brought to life by a dropped pebble.   

He smiles at you.  The tips of his ears are more than a little red but no one else looks for that detail.  The king is glaring at Hyunjin who is simply staring at his own nails.  Chan is speaking with Minho who has assumed position at the front of the little contingency. 

Jisung holds your hand and takes the reigns of his horse with the other.  He guides you to the middle of the protective circle of guards.  Minho takes the lead, Seungmin and Jeongin flanking either side of you, with Hyunjin and Changbin defending the rear. 

You nod at them, smiling.  Jisung squeezes your hand as he turns you around to face him.  Your breath catches yet again when your eyes meet.  You fall into those dark eyes so easily, deep brown and fathomless.  You like his face so much, the softness of his features, the openness of his expression. 

He takes your waist in his hands.  There is a swooping rush in your belly as he lifts you.  So distracted with his eyes and face, you almost forgot what strength is hidden in the layers of holy black cloth.  He helps you onto the horse then smoothly swings up behind you. 

He lands with a soft little bounce, comfortably settling himself.  He flicks his robes with an unnecessary flourish and you bite your bottom lip to keep from giggling. He puts a finger to his lips, playfully scolding you. 

“You are incorrigible,” you murmur. 

His arms move around you as he picks up the reigns. His hips come forward, his chest against your back.  A flush of warmth moves through you.   It starts somewhere intimate, lower than that swooping rush, your body remembering all the ways he touched you and aching for it again.  It startles you, how easily that feeling comes when you never felt it before.  Now it is all you can think about, his body against yours, his breath on the nape of your neck. 

“Am I?” he asks in a soft, light voice. 

“Oh yes,” you answer quickly.  It makes him laugh. 

The king is not pleased with laughter but the king does not have a chance to say anything.  Chan steps back and waves his men forward.  Minho whistles and the kingsguards rear into action.  The guards answer with a shout here and there, the horses kick with adrenaline, then the whole party bursts like lightning, fast as they fire across the earth and away from camp. 

You look over your shoulder, watching as the waiting figures shrink in size.  The king disappears and you smile, safe with Jisung’s arms around you.

-

You ride fast, careening down forest trails and cresting small hills far faster than the royal retinue would lumber along.   

Rest comes sooner too.  The kingsguards dismount to water their horses and themselves. 

Jisung leaps off his horse and holds out his arms to you.  You thank him, sliding into his waiting embrace where you linger just a moment too long. 

His eyes stray to a frizzy curl on your head.  Instinctively, he smooths it out.  You feel it all the way down your body, right to your toes.  You are a little sore from such hard riding and it does not help your shaking, knees knocking as his fingertips sweep down the side of your face. 

“There,” he says, meeting your gaze with a smile. 

“Quite,” you reply. 

It is not what you want to say.  You want to ask when you can touch each other again and if he even wants to, though you suspect he does.  It’s in his eyes, the way he looks at every part of you.  It’s all-encompassing, fond and wanting, lingering too long in the places he dares to look.  He stares into your eyes, studies your expressions, gazes at your mouth. 

Your lips part as if in natural obedience.  His tongue touches his bottom lip and you feel tingles.  You know what that mouth feels like on your skin.  Just the recollection makes your insides melt.  How did you even survive that?  You want to try again and find out.   

Now is not the time.  The king might be far away but the kingsguards surround you.  You trust Minho but it is hard to say how the others might react.  Hyunjin clearly does not respect the king, having decided he is not the true representation of the gods, but it is obvious this feeling derives from a steadfast devotion.  Just because he does not like the king, it does not mean he will be okay with Jisung breaking his vows.  The same goes for the others.  They are your allies for now and you need to keep them on your side before pushing further. 

This attraction is difficult to navigate.  You are not experienced with desire, having avoided it thus far in life.  It suited you then but things are different with Jisung.  You find yourself reaching for him without thinking, brushing some hair across his forehead, then letting the back of your knuckles skim his cheek.  When he makes a light sound, an airy whine just from that simple touch, your poor trembling legs nearly give up altogether. 

Fortunately, you maintain your faculties.  You manage to separate when Jeongin approaches.  He does not appear to notice the intimacy of that fleeting exchange.  His eyes are locked on some distant point, brow furrowed with deeply set anxiety.   His hand is on the hilt of his sword, gripping it so tightly it shakes a little.  His hair is dishevelled and not just from the exertion of riding, but like he has been frantically jamming his fingers in it, tugging at the scalp with fright. 

“Kingsguard Jeongin,” you say with a nod of acknowledgement.  “Is there something you need?”

He shakes his head.  He nods.  He shakes his head again.  

“Uh, you all right, man?” Jisung asks. 

Jeongin abruptly drops to his knees and throws his hands together in supplication.  He closes his eyes but it does not stop the few tears that fall.

“Oh!” you yelp, startled. 

“Whoa, hey!” Jisung says.  “Kid, what’s wrong?”

“Your Majesty, please forgive me,” Jeongin begs.  “And please ask the gods to forgive me too.”

“Jeongin,” you say, touching the top of his head.  It makes him shiver.  “Jeongin, what is it?”

“I lied to His Holiness,” Jeongin whispers.  He opens his watery dark eyes and looks up at you, brows knitting with his sorrow.  “I lied to Kingsguard Seungmin too.  And Captain Chan.  And to you.”  This final syllable is punched out with a sob.  He wipes his eyes.  “I know I shouldn’t have.  I’m a kingsguard.  I always have to make an honest report.  But I – I couldn’t – I didn’t want to watch—”

“Jeongin.”    You sink into a crouch so you can meet his gaze properly.  It makes his eyes widen and you think he might leap away, but your hand on his shoulder seems to steady him again.  “What did you lie about?”

“There were no assassins on the road,” he says.  “I told Seungmin there was.  I lied and I said it was too many for us to fight alone.  I said we had to tell Chan first.  I hoped if Chan thought there was a threat, he would send you down a different path, and I was right.” 

“Jeongin,” you say, rubbing his tense shoulder.  “Jeongin, it’s all right.  If I may, I just don’t understand why you did it?”

He obviously did not lie for the sake of itself, given he is so distraught.  It must have been a drastic decision for it to weigh so heavily now. 

He sniffles. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.  “It wasn’t my place.  The king has – the king has rights.  He’s the king.  I know.  I know.  But—”  He wipes his face and looks at you, imploring with his eyes.  “But he was going to hurt you the first chance he had,” Jeongin says.  “But you’re so – you’re so kind.  Your Majesty, it’s not right.  I didn’t want to watch him hurt you.  I couldn’t watch him hurt you.” 

“Oh, Jeongin,” you say.  You are so moved by his emotion that you throw your arms around him.  Though it startles him at first, he slowly returns the embrace.  “You’re a very thoughtful man,” you say, your chin on his trembling shoulder.  “I could never hold any grudge against such a heartfelt action.”

“So I’m forgiven?” he asks. 

“You were never blamed, Jeongin,” you say, leaning back to look at him.  You cup his face and smile, your own eyes watery.   “Thank you,” you whisper. 

He nods and accepts your hands when you offer them.  You stand first and he bows his head to you, forehead pressed to your knuckles, then he rises as well. He bows one more time before he looks at the other kingsguards.  They went silent at his confession, all standing near their horses, contemplative looks on their faces. 

“Do we… go back?” Seungmin asks. 

They look at Minho.  Minho looks at you.  His face is pensive, not at all like that laughing jokester from this morning.  When he wants to be, his face is the most stoic, not revealing a single thought despite the scrutiny of his gaze. 

Finally, he shakes his head.  He looks at his horse, rubbing its nose. 

“There’s no harm in continuing our course,” he says.  “The king would just be agitated, hm?  We’ll spare him the trouble.” 

“Agreed,” Changbin says, though he cuffs Jeongin on the arm.  “You will pray for revelation tonight.  And you’ll take care of the horses.” 

“I will too,” Seungmin says, stepping forward and bowing his head.  “Honestly, I thought something was suspicious with his report.  I should have investigated myself and I didn’t, because I wanted the same thing as him.”

“Fine,” Changbin says.  “Both of you then.”

It is menial as far as punishments go, though you wish there was no repercussions at all.  They both acted on your behalf, but a kingsguard is not supposed to have such an emotional response and certainly never to the end of betraying his vows for even a moment.  Lying is a sin.  Lying to holy king, more so. 

You look at Jisung.  Perhaps surprisingly, he does not look especially shaken.  He exhales heavily, noisily fluttering his lips as if to make a point of his resignation.  When he looks at you, he winks.  It makes your voice catch, mouth open but words caught. 

He smiles and puts his hand on your lower back, guiding you forward. 

“Your Majesty,” he says.  “Come on.  Let me get you some water.”    

If Jisung is not afraid right now, then you will not be either.  Still, you look at Jeongin over your shoulder.  The guards all return to chatting while you let your mind wander. 

You are determined that no one will ever again be punished on your behalf.  You do not know how you will handle the king and the days to come, but you will think of something.  You must think of something.  Things cannot continue the way they have been.  Jisung’s affection has caused a revolution inside of you.  You will use those feelings for good.  Through his bravery and kindness, you will similarly impact your world.

You have spent your life passively receiving your fate.  You were never motivated to seek more.  That has changed.  You have feelings now. 

Things will change.  You will change them.

-

You stop in a riverside clearing just before nightfall.  Though your journey cuts through the forest, you weave back towards the water to make camp.  

Changbin and Minho take some time to peruse their maps and confirm their bearings, meanwhile Seungmin and Jeongin build and organize your little tent.  The boys will sleep on their bedrolls under the stars, the clear summer night permitting it, but it would not be appropriate for the queen to lay on the ground all night. 

You refuse to be totally useless so you go with Hyunjin and Jisung to collect some firewood.  They cut some larger pieces of wood and collect rocks while you gather sticks for kindling.  They show you how to arrange everything, then how to ignite a flame using a couple of twigs. 

The sun teeters on the horizon, a slash of orange darting through the lavender light of evening.  The faintest breath of wind stirs through dark locks of hair.  The boys decide they want to wash themselves while it is still relatively warm enough.  They go in groups of three so you are never left alone. 

The kingsguards may be tasked with watching the royal personage at all times in all circumstances, but that does not run the opposite direction.  It would be rather inappropriate for the queen to sit shoreside and ogle her naked guards as they splash around in the river. 

The nudity of bathing does not carry any shame, but these are kingsguards.  Their black robes feel like a part of them.  Even Jisung has not fully stripped in front of you.  The most skin you have seen came from Hyunjin when he was forced to disrobe for a whipping and that was not consensually granted.    

You are content to sit by the fire and listen to them on the other side of the treeline.  Jisung, Seungmin, and Jeongin bathe first, a rowdy little trio by the sounds of it.  Changbin and Hyunjin chuckle at their theatrics while Minho smiles.  They share some food and conversation with you.  

It is very calm and pleasant.  You feel like you can truly relax for the first time in days.  Even when the king was unconscious, the camp itself was always bustling with so many bodies and animals.  The encampment felt like a small city unto itself.  This is very different, slower and quieter but still very safe.  Yes, despite the darkening woods and the eerie quiet of its shadows, you are not afraid.  Changbin is at your side, Jisung is laughing somewhere, and Minho’s keen eyes are darting to and fro.  You have never felt more secure.

Of course, this arrangement is so intimate that you suspect it will be harder to be truly alone with Jisung.  It was easier to slip away in the busy crowd, but there is no where to hide in this clearing. 

You can wait.  Patience, temperance, and self-denial are well-practiced traits of yours.

So you think until Han Jisung jumps some shrubbery and skips towards the fire.  He is wearing his shirt and pants again, though his outer robes are draped over his arm.  He is still damp, droplets of water slipping down the subtle but firm curve of his biceps.  He runs his fingers through his wet black hair, pushing it out of his eyes.  When he smiles at you, it makes you understand how poets like him can write endless songs about a single muse.  You wish you could better articulate just how deeply that smile touches you. 

Certain you will give yourself away otherwise, you do not smile back, dipping your gaze back to the fire and cramming some food in your mouth.  Minho gives you an amused look from the other side of the fire and it makes your face feel even hotter. 

Jisung takes a seat beside you.  A bedroll has been unfurled for your comfort and he sits just beside it, laying his robes on his other side.  He groans with satisfaction as he stretches his arms towards the fire. 

You chew your food with more concentration than it warrants, trying to ignore the flush caused by his unthinking moan.  It might be part of his silly theatrics but you will never hear that sound without thinking of the noises he made when inside you: his heavy breathing and the low pleasured moans exhaled softly into the tender skin of your throat as your bodies came together again and again. 

Jisung glances at you but you avoid his gaze, still too flustered to look at him.  Fortunately, Seungmin and Jeongin arrive seconds later.  They are also in their shirts and pants. While it is undoubtedly strange to see the kingsguards in that state, it does not affect you the same way.  It really is just Han Jisung, with his laughter and poetry, his silliness and seriousness alike.

Changbin, Minho, and Hyunjin leave to bathe.  Seungmin, Jeongin, and Jisung eat their share, continuing some silly jesting they started at the river.  They tease each other and make you laugh. 

Jeongin is the first to stand, sighing to himself.

“I’m going to say my prayers now,” he says.  “Like I was told, until I feel the gods’ revelation.” 

“I’ll go too,” Seungmin says, standing as well.  “Like I promised.”

You and Jisung nod.  You spare the boys a final glance that you hope conveys your gratitude.  You think it does because they both smile back.  They take their robes and venture further into the woods, presumably to be alone with the gods. 

Hyunjin, Changbin, and Minho are noisy but it is in the distance.  In the little space between you and Jisung, there is silence, only the fire crackling. 

You finally dare to meet his eye, each of you shyly glancing at the other.  He seems to have a slight blush but maybe that is the flames. 

“So,” you say.   

Changbin shouts something silly at Hyunjin.  Jisung looks in that direction before smiling an awkward sort of smile.  He rubs the back of his neck as he gazes at you.

You both understand that you are not truly alone.  He knows how precarious the situation is.  He clearly trusts Minho but is not sure how the others will react.  It is safer to keep your distance for now. 

“Are you excited to be back in the capital?” you ask.   

This causes his eyes to light up, bright as the flames.  His smile similarly jumps.

“Yeah, actually!” he says.  “You know, there’s some places I think you would like.  I wish I could take you there.”

You do not want to feel sad tonight, do not want to lament a life you do not have.  You want to imagine a reality where everything is possible.  Although poignancy tugs at your heartstrings, you rise above it, smiling at him.

“Talk to me as if we will go,” you say.

Some of the sadness seeps from his gaze.  The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles, a true smile. 

“There are some amazing gardens, you know,” he says.  “Acres of tulips in more colours than you can imagine.  And an orchard of cherry blossom trees.  It’s – it’s very beautiful in the springtime.”

“Oh,” you say, swallowing.  “I think I will love it.”

“You will,” he says.  “You definitely will.  I can’t wait for you to see it.  There’s a tea house on the property.  They make a cherry tisane.  It sounds like something you’d enjoy.  I’ve noticed you have taste for sweet things.  You were—”  He giggles now, miming licking his fingertips.  “You were licking some sugar off your fingers in the first village when you thought no one was looking.”

“I should have known I would be caught,” you say, laughing. 

“Yes,” he says, still grinning.  “I couldn’t take my eyes off you if I tried.” 

“I know what you mean,” you reply softly.  “There was a bard at the banquet who caught my attention.  He sang so beautifully that it pulled me out of a lethargy I did not even realize I had slumped into.” 

“Oh wow,” Jisung says, his eyes comically wide.  “He sounds amazing.  Was he that good of a singer?” 

“The best I’ve ever heard,” you say, giggling helplessly. 

“Oh wow.”  He shakes his head.  “Was he handsome too?” 

“Mhm…”  Your face feels hot and you fidget with a loose thread on your gown.  “Very handsome, if I say so.”

“You are the gods-chosen queen,” he says solemnly.  “Your opinion is a sanctified one.  He must have been really good looking then, like, stunning, like probably the best looking bard who ever lived.  Fuck!  I can’t compete with that guy!” 

You laugh again, playfully shoving his shoulder while he giggles at his own silly joke. 

“This is probably a foolish confession,” you say, a little shy.  You think the growing darkness and loud flames might encourage your bravery.  “But when you stood in as proxy at the wedding… for a moment… I imagined what it would be like to marry you instead.”

His eyes widen but not overdramatically, his surprise pure and honest. 

“I didn’t know you yet, of course,” you say.  “I couldn’t truly imagine what that would look like.  It was a momentary fantasy.  I just – I imagined a life with music and a smiling face.” 

You stare back at him, your gazes locked.  The boys are still making noise by the water and the other two are off in prayer.  Darkness falls around you and the fire keeps you safe.  All this makes you bold, so you reach across the small space between your bodies and you touch his face.  When your palm cups his cheek, he takes in a breath and holds it. 

“I thought I would stop thinking about it as the days went on,” you whisper.  “Instead, now I see it better.  I think I would like to explore cities with you, and try sweet things.  And I think I would like even more to sit somewhere quiet at the end of the day, and do my needlework while you write songs.  And I think I should stop thinking about it…”  You drop your hand from his face, curl your fingers into your palm, and tuck your hand against your heart.  “Because I’m making myself sad again.  And I told myself I would not be sad tonight.” 

“I wish I could take it away from you,” he says earnestly.  “I like making you smile.  I could write a song about the way you laugh but the sound wouldn’t be half as beautiful.” 

You laugh at that, bashful as you shake your head.  He wags a scolding finger in your face.

“Hey!” he says.  “Don’t laugh at that.  I was completely serious.”

“I know you were,” you say.  “Trust me.” 

“I do,” he says, smiling.  His eyes roam your face, seeming to make a study of you.  He sighs, a sweet sound.  “I wish I could say I imagined marrying you,” he says.  “But honestly, never in my life would I have ever dreamed such a thing would be possible.  That you – that you – would ever look at me like—”  He is trying to be jovial but his tone drops, finishing in utter seriousness, “Like this.” 

“You speak so ill of yourself sometimes,” you say.  “I know you come from a small background, Han Jisung, but that is a testament to your character, not a fault of it.  I feel like I am the clumsy, foolish one, that I will forever be trying to reach the places you go.” 

You lift your hand above your head.  He takes it in his own, lowering it so your clasped hands are between your hearts. 

“I think we’re somewhere here now,” he says. 

“Yes,” you say, swallowing again.  “I believe we are, against all odds.” 

“Against all odds,” he says and smiles.  It is that true smile again, the corner of his eyes so crinkled with joy.  It fills you with a similar happiness. 

The warmth of that delight simmers hotly when he brings your hand to his lips.  Surely, a kiss on the back of the hand is the most chaste kiss imaginable.  It should not summon a torrent of butterflies in your belly, yet you swear they burst so quickly that you could similarly take flight. 

He kisses that soft skin.  Your hand is so unblemished next to his.  You feel a sword callous where his thumb strokes you, a rough touch, though his lips are soft and warm. 

When you are not interrupted, he gets bolder, turning your hand over and kissing your palm.  He looks at you when he does.  His gaze is so penetrating that you feel it thunder through you, right down to your core.  This is not a chaste kiss despite its softness, his eyes and mouth irrevocably claiming you. 

The voices get louder as the three guards approach.   He releases your hand and you take it back, cradling it like something delicate.  You can still feel the place his mouth touched, radiating heat more thoroughly than the campfire. 

He is quicker at feigning indifference, immediately joking with his fellow guards as they approach the fire to dry off.  You smile politely but remain quiet, still so flustered inside. 

You spend the evening by the fire with the guards, talking about the days ahead.  The other guards also speak fondly of the capital and some residents.  You talk about your home too and they listen attentively. 

The day eventually catches up to you.  You yawn and apologize for the impolite action, covering your mouth.  It just makes the guards laugh fondly. 

“I suppose I best excuse myself for the night,” you say. 

You begin to stand and they all move, prepared to rise and help you.  Jisung beats them to it, on his feet in a matter of seconds. 

“Here,” Jisung says, holding out his hand.  “Let me, my queen.” 

You take his hand.  Sparks ignite all over again, tingling all the way up your arm as he helps you to your feet.  Your tent is not far but Jisung walks you to it anyway, holding open the canvas as you step inside.  It is certainly not as big as the one in the encampment, the narrow space just big enough for a bedroll.   It is tall enough you can stand, but only barely. 

“Thank you,” you say, turning to face him.  You smile.  “Good night, Jisung.” 

“Good night, Your Majesty,” he says.  He is still holding your hand. 

A heartbeat passes.  He glances over his shoulder.  The other kingsguards must be occupied because he steps into the tent.  He is fast, taking the scarce second afforded to him. 

He does not waste it. 

He pulls you towards him.  His hand darts past your waist and circles your body so he can haul you up against him.  His other hand touches your face, his thumb on your chin to tilt your head. 

He kisses you.  Deeply, desperately. 

“Good night, Your Majesty,” he breathes, stealing one more kiss before he withdraws. 

It happens so fast but the effect lingers long after he is gone, your heart still racing and body still humming with desire. 

Your dreams the previous night do not begin to compare to the thoroughly involved and deeply sinful dreaming that comes to you tonight. 

-

You wake in a state, still flushed from a stimulating dream.  Your hands fumble on the ties of your dress as you prepare for the day.  You shake out your limbs before you open the tent canvas and step into the early morning light.

The kingsguards took shifts in guarding your tent.  Last night, you woke to some noisy nightingales and recognized Changbin’s silhouette outside your tent.  Content you were safe, you went back to sleep. 

The morning is crisp and cool, the air a balm on your warm skin.  That heat has no time to lessen, however, because the kingsguard standing post right now is Jisung. 

You look at each other.  It is very safe to say this regard is blatantly provocative.  He does not touch you but it feels as though he is undressing you with his eyes, the dark depths skimming the loose ties of your bodice like he is calculating how quickly he can unravel it.  It would probably be fast.  He could crook his finger inside the knot and everything would come undone, yourself included. 

He is wearing his robes again.  It should make him little more than a shadow, but your body is imprinted with the feeling of his arms around you, his hands deft and firm where they touch and press.  

He looks over his shoulder.  You follow his gaze.  Hyunjin and Jeongin are still sleeping, dozing atop their bedrolls.  The others are nowhere to be seen but you can hear them in the distance, down by the river.

Jisung looks at you.  You do not doubt your hearts jump in unison with the same thought.

Seconds later, you are back inside the tent, his mouth on yours and his hands frantically squeezing your sides. 

“Jisung,” you whisper, throwing your arms around his neck.  You bury your fingers in his hair, thoughtlessly tugging at it and pushing your body right against his. 

He makes a low sound, passed between your lips.  He pulls you into his arms so your bodies are flush against each other.  Even with the layers between, you feel him as he feels you, the plush curve of your breasts pressed against his flat chest, your fuller thighs against his, the softness of your middle against the unmistakably stiff interest of his. 

“Gods help me,” he curses.

You think he tries to be graceful but you are both intoxicated with the kiss and it makes you clumsy.  You thump down to earth, sprawling across on the bedroll.  It deters you for mere seconds then he is back on you. 

You don’t have time to think, your body commandeering full control of your senses.  You lean back on your elbows, your legs falling open so he can fit his hips between them.  His hands come down on either side of you, leaning you back as he kisses you until you are dizzy. 

“I thought about you all night,” he whispers.

He kisses you again, his mouth open, his tongue on your lips.  You open your mouth for him.  The place between your thighs seem to follow the same command, heat flooding so fast and intensely when he licks into your mouth.  You suddenly feel so empty down there in comparison, your body begging for more.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said,” he continues, then kisses you again, then moans.  “About us,” he says.  “If you were my wife – oh – gods be good—“

You mewl.  It is the only word to describe your whimpering when he lays you out and presses against you intimately, his hips rocking so you can feel exactly what he means. 

“I would have taken you right there,” he whispers, staring down in your eyes as he rolls his body against yours.  “I would have had you under those stars.  I’d have you again right now.  You’d never know anything but happiness and pleasure.  I’d make you feel so good.  So, so good. Always.  If you were mine.” 

“I am yours,” you whisper back, at least halfway delirious but nonetheless passionate.  It is your only coherent sentence before your head tips back and your eyes close, your hips raising to meet his with a frenetic desperation. 

He whimpers too.  His expression is almost pained, his shoulders shaking. 

“It takes me apart when you say things like that,” he says.  “Do you understand?  How you change everything?  My whole world?”

“Yes,” you say, nodding quickly.  You are certain your own expression borders pain and pleasure.  “Yes, I understand.  Jisung.  Jisung.” 

“Jisung?”  That voice is Changbin from outside the tent. 

It is effective as a bucket of cold water.  You and Jisung look at each other, wide-eyed and panting, then mutely rip apart.  He is the first out of the tent, practically bursting into the morning light.  It startles Changbin who nearly topples over.  He has barely righted himself when you emerge too. 

“Is everything all right?” Changbin asks, looking quickly between you.

“I fell,” you blurt.

“She fell,” Jisung repeats. 

“You fell?” Changbin asks, lifting his eyebrow.  He steps back to look at the tent, then he looks at you.  “Are you all right?”

“No,” you say, then shake your head.  “I mean, yes.  My apologies, kingsguard.  It just really startled me.  I hit my head.”

“She hit her head,” Jisung repeats.

“Jisung tried to help me but then he fell too.”

“I tried to help her but then I – wait—”

“That does sound like you,” Changbin says, frowning.  “Tsk, shame.”  He swats at Jisung before bowing appropriately to you.  “Your Majesty, are you all right?  Do you need anything?”

“Umm, some water if you don’t mind?” you say. 

“Of course,” Changbin says.  He puts a scolding finger in Jisung’s face.  “Try not to fall on her when I’m gone.” 

“I’ll certainly try,” Jisung says.  “No promises.”

When Changbin is out of sight, you playfully kick Jisung.  He feigns immense pain but then he winks at you. 

Your heart skips a beat. 

This might be a long journey after all.

-

Hyunjin and Jeongin wake not long after.  You depart earlier than scheduled. 

Jisung never gets a moment to calm down, still half-aroused when he sits behind you in the saddle.  It provokes your own arousal, impossible to shake the all too clear fantasy of him pressed against your backside, his body moving against yours, not entirely unlike the up-and-down sway in the quick canter of the horse ride. 

“Are you all right?” you ask after some time.

“Ha-ha,” he says.  “Fuck no.” 

It makes you laugh, though it also leaves you feeling very warm. 

Jisung sprinkles himself with water at the next rest stop, dabbing his neck and face while you pet his horse.  Minho and Changbin are conversing over a map, gesticulating and debating something.  Minho nods definitively and rolls up the paper. 

“We’re making better time than anticipated,” he says.  “If we don’t delay at our rests, we may be able to reach one of the outermost villages before nightfall.” 

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Seungmin says, to which everyone concurs.  Finding an inn would be preferable to another night on the forest floor. 

You reach the first town just after nightfall.  The capital, itself, is at least another day’s ride, but towns and villages dot the landscape leading up to it. 

It does not take long to find an inn.  The kingsguards are an unmistakeable order, especially a pack of them, walking into a room with their black robes and shining swords.  The innkeepers fall over themselves, rushing up to greet the holy soldiers as they let themselves into the downstairs tavern. 

The kingsguards do not need to introduce you.  Though you must look a little wild with some undone curls and a well-worn dress, there is only one female figure the kingsguards – queensguards – would be escorting. 

At first, the guards are better received than you.  It is obvious these men have earned a good reputation with the people, regarded as a separate entity from the king.  If the king was unpopular with the common people in the country provinces, it becomes abundantly clear he is even less popular here.  You suppose that makes sense as he is much more likely to visit one of these provinces. 

You let your decency and good nature speak for itself.  The innkeepers warm up to you in no time, happily holding conversation while a couple of the kingsguards give the building a walkthrough.

You are all given some food and board.  The upper level has been cleared for privacy, which somewhat embarrasses you, but the kingsguards claim it is a worthwhile safety measure given the events of the last few days. 

Changbin takes the first shift, guarding you.  It is early and you are very awake from so much socializing, so you invite him inside to sit with you.   The room is not overly ostentatious but it is more than suitable, a decent size with a wide bed and a seating area. 

You and Changbin sit across from each other at the table.  You brought a small embroidery hoop and some thread so you work on that while chatting with Changbin.  He expresses some interest in what you are doing so you show him.  He takes to it as naturally as last time, giggling gleefully at his handiwork.   

The hours tick past.  There is a knock at the door, one of the kingsguards to relieve Changbin from his post.  They will continue to take turns through the night.

Though you mask your thoughts, you are disappointed when the door opens and it is Minho standing there.  Maybe it is for the best.  It would have been hard to explain why Jisung felt the need to guard you from inside your room all night – to say nothing of guarding you under the covers. 

Changbin bids you a good night.  Minho nods to him as he departs, then he looks at you with a rather drole quirk of his eyebrow.

“Try and get some sleep, Your Majesty,” he says, then he bows his head respectfully and closes the door. 

His tone was a little odd but you suppose Lee Minho is a rather quirky character at times. 

Shaking your head, you bolt and lock the door as you were advised.  You hum to yourself as you move around the room, supposing it is an appropriate hour to prepare for bed, though you are still quite awake.

You take your hair down and remove your shoes and stockings.  You have only just grasped the front ties of your dress when there is a knock.  You step towards the door when the knock comes again.  This time, it makes you pause, because the sound does not seem to resonate from the door.  You linger in the middle of the room, waiting and listening.

The knock comes again.  You turn around.  It is coming from the other side of the room.  Is someone knocking at the window?  That can’t be possible; you are on the third and uppermost floor of a building.  

You are about to turn and alert Minho when someone says your name without any title or honorific.  You recognize the voice immediately. 

You hurry over to the window to unlatch the casement and throw it open.  Sure enough, Han Jisung is dangling from the ledge, grinning but sweating and looking rather strained. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper frantically. 

“I’m climbing,” Jisung whispers back.  “It’s romantic – whoa!” 

He nearly slips in an attempt to get his bearing, making you squeak with alarm.  He laughs nervously when he strengthens his grip. 

“Just give me a second,” he says.  “I promise, this is gonna be super romantic as soon as I get up there.  Oh.  Ouch.  Oof.  I really should have taken the robe off first.  Ouch.  Hold on.  Okay.  All right.  Here we go.”

He manages to lift himself onto the window ledge.  It is a rather narrow window so it is something of a comical sight, watching him try to find a way inside.  When he realizes he can’t turn enough to swing a leg in, he opts to tip into the room backwards, landing on his back with a thud. 

“Shhh,” you say, trying not to laugh, putting a finger over your lips.

He puts a finger over his lips too, eyes darting back and forth with joking panic.

“You are ridiculous,” you say, helping him to his feet.

“I thought I was incorrigible,” he replies.  He shakes out his robes, flapping them like wings.

“You’re that too.”  You close and lock the casement, firmly bolting the latch. 

The amusement and giddiness fades, though the adrenaline remains.  You and Jisung look at each other, completely alone in a locked room for the first time in a couple days.  It seems impossible that you were similarly alone in a room at a different inn, just a handful of days past.  So much has transpired in so little time.  You can only imagine what else could happen.  You think the possibilities are limitless, so long as he keeps looking at you like that. 

Even if his gaze does make you feel flushed.  You have already been very intimate and it is obvious you both want to continue that, but it does not get easier to proposition it.  The more you want him, the more tension you feel. 

“Right,” you say with a weak little laugh as you march past. 

His eyes follow you.  You hear him cross the room, the slow thud of booted steps as he moves.  He takes off his outer robe, the swishing slither unmistakable as the fabric sweeps the floor.  

You approach the table with your embroidery, keeping your back to him as you organize your tools. 

“Um, so I suppose, um,” you start and stumble.  You do not know what to say.  There is so much and yet there are no words. 

You struggle another moment, mouth open around empty, airy syllables.

He touches your arm, just the gentlest sweep of his knuckles from your shoulder to your elbow.  You did not even hear him step behind you but now he conquers all your senses.  You feel him even where he is not touching you.  You close your eyes and his face is there, those familiar eyes and that devastating smile. 

“Your Majesty,” he says, his voice light, undemanding yet so seductive.  It makes your core tighten.  “If I only keep one vow my whole life – I want it to be this.”  His hand sweeps back up your arm, across your shoulder, brushing some hair off your neck.  “The gods brought me to you to keep you safe and to serve you.  You have let me keep the first vow.  Please.”  His tone is truly pleading.  “Please let me keep the second vow.”    

It is not a surprise you cannot formulate a reply.  Your voice and breath are caught, no doubt trapped by your pounding heart.  You are captivated and glad to be. 

You turn around.  Your eyes meet.  The eye contact alone stirs your arousal.  You remember him looking at you through the mirror, the most he dared, at least until he snuck into your tent and made love like he was writing songs of worship. 

Your eyes remain locked as you gather the front ties of your dress and begin to unravel the knot.  Without looking down, he takes them from you.  He tugs the ends, drawing you closer to him.  Closer and closer until you are pressed between him and the table edge.  You lean against it and surrender, sliding your hands up his bare arms until they are resting on his clothed shoulders. 

He kisses you.  It is different than earlier, not so frantic but just as searching.  He makes a sound like pain, his brow knitting together, mouth opening against yours.

Your dress comes apart in his hands.  You murmur his name as he pulls the material down, leaving you clad in your shift.  You expect him to let the dress fall and lift your shift over your head, but he follows the fabric of the dress down, carefully guiding it over your hips.  He sinks lower, lower, and lower still, until he is down on one knee, still guiding the dress.  It falls past your knees and puddles on the floor, leaving you in your shift. 

“Jisung,” you say, touching the side of his face. 

His eyes are closed.  He shudders when you touch his face.  It makes his eyes fly open, flickering with something like fear until he looks into your eyes and it all goes away. 

“I want…” he says.

Suddenly his other knee drops.  He sits back on his heels, tilting his head so far back to gaze up at you imploringly. 

“I don’t know,” he says, laughing at himself.  His eyes wander down your body, the plain shift that he has seen in so many revealing stages, down the curve of your breasts and their excited peaks, down over your hips, down between your legs. 

Yes, he focusses there, taking a deep breath.  He kneels upright, taking the hem of your shift in hand. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, gathering the material, guiding it up.  “I mean, I do.  I know but I – I don’t.”  He glances up at your face then he looks down again, eyes once more between your thighs as he reveals more and more skin.  His fingers are trembling where they clutch the material.   “I want to, though,” he says.  “Please. Please. Your Majesty.” 

“Jisung,” you say softly.

You run your fingers through his hair.  He positively melts under the gentle ministration, pressing his face over the material between your legs.  His nose swipes somewhere sensitive and it makes you jump, tugging on his hair. 

“Jisung, you can do what you want with me,” you say.  “You know that.  You know—”

“I do,” he says, kissing you through the material, making your thighs twitch.  “I do.  I want.  I want.” 

He lifts the hem up past your belly.  You take the material, holding it as you hold your breath.  His hands skim your sides and the curve of your hips, his eyes nearly crossing each other with his hypnotized concentration. 

You are not sure what he is doing, not when he kisses your thighs, not when he touches you behind the knee and guides it over his shoulder.  You just know the sight of him on his knees makes your whole body weak.  You are glad the table is behind you, offering support, or you would already be a useless puddle on the floor, much like your discarded dress. 

You think he is just kissing you, just teasing you, moving further along your inner thigh.  Then he kisses the place between your legs, no barrier between his mouth and the soft, wet place that is begging for him. 

“Oh,” you say. 

It is the only thing you can say for a while, mouth frozen in a round O of surprise when he continues to kiss there.  Chaste – if they can be called that – kisses until his tongue pokes through.  His fingers press into your thigh as he moans and buries his face between your legs, his open mouth ravishing you. 

Your head falls back, chest rising and falling rapidly, not a coherent sound crossing your lips as he puts his tongue inside you and coaxes all those half-mad noises from within you.  It goes on until you are so hot and dizzy that, when he takes your leg off his shoulder, you must fully slouch against the table to stay standing. 

You look down at him, so desperate for more that you must look feral with want.   He wipes his face, glancing down at the wetness that has touched his black shirt.

You realize now why he stopped.  He reaches back over his head, taking the fabric in his fists and pulling.  He tugs the shirt off and throws it to the side, exposing all that honey-smooth skin to your hungry, roving eyes. 

Then he dives back in, putting your leg on his bare shoulder and his tongue inside you.  You cry out, gripping his hair, your hips bucking of their own volition as he runs his tongue back and forth, back and forth, tormenting that bead of pleasure until little waves of anticipation start to build inside you. 

“Jisung, Jisung,” you whisper, the roughness of your own voice unrecognizable to you.  He is the one on his knees but you sound like the one in prayer, uttering his name with so much reverence as he takes you over an impossible crest of pleasure.  One hand is buried in his hair but the other you use to cover your mouth, eyes closing as you ride the height of your pleasure on his eager face. 

You both take a gasping breath when it is over.  You look at each other the way romantics gaze at the heavens, full of wonder and awe. 

“How—” he begins then clears his throat.  He wipes his face as he stands, yearning eyes rivetted to yours.  “How do you feel?”

“I feel – I feel—”  You really think about it, following each tingle as it bolts, lightning quick, back to its source.  Your thighs twitch and your body clenches, tightening around nothing, and you know the answer.  “Empty,” you say.  “I feel – I need—”

“Oh,” he says, nudging your legs apart and standing between them.  “Oh, my darling.” 

You grab his face with both hands and pull it to yours, tasting yourself on his lips and tongue.  He kisses your mouth as eagerly as he kissed down there, his hands on your waist, moving up under the shift.  You quickly lift it off, tossing it blindly behind you.  You lean back and he follows you, his mouth in a quick but hot chase, moving down your throat to your breasts. 

You plant your hands behind you, sitting fully on the table now.  You let your head fall back as he stands between your open legs and kisses so many sensitive places. 

“The king won’t see you for at least a week,” he murmurs, leaving little kisses around the stiff bud.  It makes your back arch, offering yourself up to him.  

You lift your head to look at him.  He meets your gaze, his dark eyes turned up as his open mouth descends. 

“Jiii—” is the only syllable you manage, biting your lip to stop because it was too loud. 

It is hardly fair, though, when he bites the tender skin only to love at it with his tongue. 

“Oh, sweet gods,” you say, watching, hips bucking, as he does it again.  “I thought you were a chaste virgin.” 

“I am,” he says, then smiles.  “Was.  But—”  He leaves another love bite, then kisses his way back up to your face.  He smiles at you.  “I’m good at everything.”

“Oh, I see,” you say, laughing at his playfulness.  “Vanity is a sin, you know.”

A laugh bursts out of him, louder than all your previous moans.  You both slap a hand over his mouth, barely stifling the giggles that follow. 

Smiling at each other, you take your hand off his mouth.  You tuck some of his hair behind his ear.  His neck is already a little sweaty and there is a line of sweat in the middle of his bare chest.  You trace it, your finger circling his pectoral, almost as sensitive as your peaks given how his eyelids flutter and get heavy with want. 

“Jisung,” you whisper.  “I want you.”

“You want me,” he says, all at once intoxicated with desire.  “I want you.” 

“Have me,” you say, wrapping a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him to you.  “Jisung, I’m yours.  Please.  Please.”

“Oh gods.” Despite his playful cockiness, his hands are shaking when they go to the ties of his trousers.  He fumbles with them like last time, needing your help to undo the knot.  Your fingers weave through the string, loosening it, and he releases a breath when he can pull the front material apart. 

You wrap your legs around him, guiding him towards your centre.  He nearly topples you and the table, practically falling into your arms.  He laughs nervously, then closes his eyes as you put your arms around him.  He groans with deep-set pleasure when you drag your fingernails from his shoulders all the way down his back. 

He has himself in hand and he is shivering as you scrape your nails down his back.  It makes him as wet as he is hard, the tip of him gliding along your wetness in a way that leaves you shaking. 

“You’re torturing me,” you whisper, grinding against his tip, shuddering when he rubs up and down over that still-sensitive bead of pleasure.   “What are you – what are you—”     

“I’m not torturing you, ‘m not,” he says, slurring just a little, kissing your cheeks and your jaw and your neck.  “Majesty.  Queen.  You.  My – Oh.  I’m just – I want to see you – I want to feel you—”

He wants to make you reach that climax again, which he does, just by grinding against you.  It washes over you with so much intensity that you rear up then fall back.  It causes a table leg to crack.

You look at each other with wide eyes, glancing beneath you to see the damage.  You both fail to stifle another giggle, exchanging a shocked expression, then mutely changing location. 

Your feet touch the ground for mere seconds before he picks you up, hands on your waist, the same gentlemanly touch when he helps you onto his horse.   This time he puts you on the bed, crawling up after you as you scoot to lay in the centre of it. 

His pants are still on but low slung.  He pushes them further until they are around his thighs, nothing more than a useless hindrance as your legs open for him.  He hooks his arms under your knees and pulls you to him.  You are so wet and so open and ready. 

It is easier than the first time, but still a momentary sting as he enters you, one that disappears as he sinks in deeper until you are as intimate as two humans can be. 

“Yes,” you say.  It feels so good that you release a tear.

“Oh, my – my darling, my queen, I—”  He kisses that tear track, then moves his arms so he can plant his hands on either side of your head.  He moans at the depth afforded to him in that angle, rocking against you with an energy more needy than calculated. 

“Be – be careful—” you say with a little laugh, because he is thrusting so haphazardly that it is making the bed squeak.  “Unless you want everyone to know what you’re doing to me.”

“Well,” he says with a laughing exhale.  “Maybe I do.  I mean, I don’t, that would be very bad.  But also—” 

He moves slower, mindfully, counting each stroke and measuring its impact by the look on your face.  He is slow, then a little faster, but not enough to squeak the bed again – just enough that you forget how to speak, staring at him through dizzy eyes as he takes you so deeply and so precisely. 

“No one else has you like this,” he whispers.  “You are – so beautiful – and composed – and gr-graceful – but for me—”

He covers your mouth when you moan too loud, but it just makes you whimper pathetically into his hand.  Your eyes close as he rolls his hips into yours, relentlessly riding you to an entirely different precipice of pleasure. 

“For me,” he says.  “You’re like this.  I know you.  I know you.”  He emphasizes this with a hand between your bodies, stroking that place again as he takes you. 

It’s no wonder the kingsguards are considered deadly; his coordination is truly fatal, never faltering for a second.  He is even quick enough to cover your mouth when you reach that crest, sobbing into his palm with nothing but sheer pleasure. 

“Yes,” he says and kisses your wet face, down your throat.  He puts his face against your neck and rocks his hips a little more frantically.  “You feel – you are – I never want to stop – I want – oh gods – it’s you.  It’s you.  You’re everything.  You’re my – you’re mine, you’re all of it.  Fuck.”

He pulls out before reaching his climax.  This time you finish him, taking him in hand.  It takes only one stroke for him to come to you, his face twisted up with his pleasure and a whine in his throat as he releases himself all over your thighs. 

He falls on top of you after, his head on your chest and his eyes closed.  You run your fingers through his messy hair, then down his spine and back up again.  He trembles a little but every exhale sounds like relief. 

Eventually, he lifts his head.  You are not sure who initiates the kiss, only that you fall into it with the same all-encompassing desire as all the others. 

“Will you stay a while?” you ask. 

He nods.  His dark eyes are a little shiny and his laugh is a little watery when he says, “I’d stay forever if I could.”

“I know,” you say, swallowing down the same emotion as you take him back into your arms.  “I know, Jisung.” 

You really do.

It is for that reason, you will make it happen.   

[pedrito-friskito]

hello my dear!! 🫶🏼

🌸🌸🌸

eddie with smut prompts 10 & 1 pls 🥵

hello my love!!!!

I apologize in advance for this (well, kinda but not really…)

patience (or a lack thereof) - eddie munson x fem!reader

word count: 2k

warnings: the horny really jumped out on this one. drug use, cockwarming, unprotected p-in-v, fingering, dirty talk, soft dom!eddie vibes (I think)

The problem here, is that weed makes you horny.

Like…really horny.

Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem. Friday nights at Eddie’s place have a pretty repetitive flavour, and it’s one you now crave. You’ve been seeing each other nearly six months now, and your friends have all given you shit for it, but you don’t care. Fridays are for Eddie.

More specifically, Fridays are for getting stoned in Eddie’s bedroom and cumming so many times you lose count. 

By now, you’d usually be between his sheets already, two or three rounds down, a quick breather in between. But tonight, something’s thrown a wrench in your usual plans. Really, it’s your own fault — you’d shown up unannounced at Eddie’s place Wednesday night, the night he usually reserved for D&D planning. Wayne had taken an extra overnight shift, leaving the place to the two of you, and well, you made the most of it.

But with Wednesday night planning out the window, Eddie has a Saturday session and nothing prepared, which you know is not a good thing.

But weed makes you horny.

You’re sprawled out on his bed, your pants long discarded, wearing only one of Eddie’s Hellfire shirts, flipping through one of his music magazines. You’ve tried reading the book you keep in your bag, tried distracting yourself by changing the records on the player, you even tried taking a quick cat nap. Nothing has worked. The ache between your legs is ridiculous.

He’s been at it a couple hours now, and you know he takes his time when it comes to D&D. He’s meticulous with his planning, thinking out every possible outcome and coming up with a contingency for each, even having a few throwaway plans just in case his players come up with something completely outrageous. You don’t mind it at all; it’s quite the opposite actually. His passion is…sexy, in a nerdy kind of way. It just adds to his charm.

And right now, it’s not helping matters. He’s perched in his desk chair, flipping through the Dungeon Master’s Guide, a pencil between his teeth. He’s wearing an old Hawkins High Phys Ed t-shirt, sweat shorts, and his hair's a mess. Unable to stop yourself, you roll off the mattress and onto your feet, crossing the room and standing behind his chair. He makes a little noise as you gather his hair in your hand, sweeping it over his shoulder so you can fit your face in the curve of his neck.

“Eds.”

“I know, baby,” he replies, the words muffled by the pencil between his teeth. “I’m almost done, I swear. Gimme like five minutes, and then I’m all yours, yeah?”

You whine, closing your lips around his pulse. You left a nice hickey there the other night, and your cloudy mind yells at you to make it bloom against his pale skin even brighter this time. Your arms hang over his shoulders, pressing your palms against his stomach, humming into his neck.

“Eddie, please?”

Your hands move lower, one glancing across the crotch of his shorts. The pencil falls out of his mouth. “Sweetheart,” he sing-songs, a halfhearted warning. But you do it again, fixated on the way his cock twitches to attention, even with just the lightest of touches. You let your teeth graze his throat, nipping at the same spot until the bruise starts to reform. Eddie tilts his head back, a low rumble moving through his chest, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When they open again, his pupils are blown, and he lifts his hand, burying his fingers in your hair. “Someone’s needy tonight.”

“You know that weed makes me ho—”

“Weed makes your horny, I know, baby,” he finishes, dragging his nail lightly against your scalp. “I’m almost finished, I promise. Come here.”

He turns in the chair, swinging around until you’re standing between his legs. Eddie drags his hands up your thighs, the cool metal of his rings making you shiver. He’s fully hard now, shorts tented, and he hooks one thumb in the waist of your underwear, pulling it down slightly. It makes you throb.

“You can sit on my lap till I’m finished,” he says, squeezing your hips. “That make you feel better?”

Your eyes widen slightly, feeling yourself melt into his touch. “You mean…?”

“Come here,” he says again, his tone more assertive this time. He pulls your underwear down further, lifting the hem of your shirt at the same time, and swoops in, pressing a sloppy kiss to your hip. Your underwear drops to the floor and you kick the fabric away. Everything in you goes tight as he hooks his fingers in the waist of his shorts, pulling them off and settling back in his chair. The sight of his cock curving towards his belly makes your mouth fill with saliva. “You need something else first?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly. “Need me to open you up a bit, pretty girl?”

He pulls you closer, one hand back on your hip, and the other slides between your knees, moving up to the inside of your thighs. He moans when he feels out wet you are, dragging his fingers through it, pushing them past his lips a second later as he pulls your body even closer. You move quickly, lifting your legs and planting your knees on the seat either side of his hips.

Eddie grins as you lower yourself slowly, reaching around to take himself in hand, guiding his cock into your nearly dripping pussy. The feeling is overwhelming, to say the least, and you bury your face in his neck again as you sink down, your breathing coming faster as he fills you up. 

Fully seated, your first instinct is to move, rolling your hips into his, but Eddie grips your waist tightly, clucks his tongue at you. “Ah, ah, ah, not yet, sweetheart. Let me finish first, and then I’ll take care of you, alright?”

When you don’t answer right away, he lifts his hips slightly, the tip of his cock nudging at that delicious nerve inside you. “Shit.”

“Gimme five minutes, baby,” he says again. He takes your hands, draping your arms around his neck. A soft kiss is pressed to your mouth, and you have to stop yourself from chasing it, taking what he gives. “Just five minutes.”

It’s fucking torture. Five minutes feels like five hours. Every tiny movement makes the pleasure spark, but it’s just shy of not enough, leaving you wanting more and more and more. If it’s driving Eddie just as crazy, he doesn’t let it show, giving you a broad grin when you settle deeper into his lap, resting your forehead against the dip of his shoulder. 

Finally — fucking finally — he flips his notebook closed, tosses his pen aside, and puts his hands on you. He grabs your hips again, guiding you along him, and the sudden movement sets your whole body alight. You toss your head back, your mouth dropping open as he lifts you up, pulls you back down. He fills you so perfectly, leaning in to suck a mark at your collar.

“There she is,” he murmurs, dragging the tip of his nose along the underside of your jaw. “C’mon, my needy girl, tell me how bad you want it.”

Eddie slides his hands under the hem of your shirt, fingers tapping along your rib cage. Your fingers chase his, reaching for the edge of the fabric, pulling it up and over your head. You toss it away, and Eddie groans, instantly lowering his head, scraping his teeth along your tits, your nipples pebbling at his attention. Your hips roll, dragging yourself along his cock, the pleasure making your eyes roll back.

“Look at you,” he moans, sucking a bruise beside your nipple, his other hand coming up to toy with the other. “You just need to be fucked so bad, don’t you?”

“Eds, please,” you manage to mumble out, a whine trapped high in your throat. You can feel how wet you are, the slick glide of your thighs against his. He grins, pulling his face from your chest, tilting his head back so his nose pokes yours.

“Almost there,” he says, his voice goading. “Use your words. Tell me.”

“Eddie—”

“Tell me specifically,” he mutters, pinching your chin in one hand, rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip, “how bad you want it.”

You start babbling. His request opens the floodgates. Your words are in time to the movement of your hips, and Eddie is grinning like the devil he is. Please, Eddie, I want it so bad, I want you so bad, fuck me please, I want it hard, want it fast, wanna feel you tomorrow. Please, please, please, please, please.

He gives you what you want.

You squeal when he scoops his hands under your thighs, lifting you as he moves out of the chair, keeping himself buried inside you. He aims for the bed, you think, but gets thrown off course, and instead you end up sprawled on the floor of his room. He hikes your legs over his hips, grabs your waist and pulls you down onto him with every thrust.

Back arching against the floor, you’re climbing higher and higher, and the weed buzzing in your veins only makes it that much more thrilling. You’re probably going to have carpet burn on your ass, but you don’t fucking care.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Eddie coos, and when your thigh starts to shake, he drops a hand between your legs, tracing his fingers over where he’s disappearing inside you before drawing a perfect circle around your clit. “Give it to me.”

You nearly shout his name as you cum, and Eddie rides you through it, his own orgasm not far behind. He pulls out at the last second, cums hot against your stomach, and flops down on the floor beside you. His hand lingers, tracing the curve of your tits, making them peak harder just for him. You curl your hand around the back of his neck, keeping him close while you catch your breath.

“You alright, baby?” he asks, dropping his jaw to kiss your shoulder, still petting his hand across your chest. “You want a pillow or something?”

You shake your head no. “Just…don’t move yet.”

Eddie chuckles, teeth nipping at your skin. “Okay, baby.”

Your body is caught between begging for more and tapping out for the night, but you think you know where the scales are about to tip. Especially if he keeps touching you like that. Your mind whirls, eyes fluttering open so you can look at him.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmur.

Eddie hums the affirmative, sitting up slightly to pull his shirt over his head. He uses it to clean his cum from your stomach and leans over you slightly, mouthing at your tits again. “Anything, baby.”

“Why didn’t you ever make a move on me before,” you ask, “when we were in high school?”

He tilts his head, lifting one brow with his lips still latched to your skin. “Why do you ask?”

“Just realizing how much mind-blowing sex I missed out on,” you reply.

Eddie chuckles. “I wanted to make a move. I really wanted to, trust me. But you had a thing for jocks back then, if I remember correctly.” He bites at you again, softly, dropping his chin to your chest. You can feel his hand roaming lower, glancing over your knees and thighs. Your legs part slightly, letting him in again, your blood spiking when his fingers trace the inside of your thigh. “It sucked, honestly. You have no idea how much I hated seeing someone else touch you, when I wanted it to be me.”

The tips of his fingers prod at you, curling just slightly. “But now you can,” you tell him, your voice turning breathy again, back arching as he pushes his fingers deeper, scrapes his teeth against your nipple.

“Now I can,” he agrees, “and I’m never gonna stop.”

[loki-cees-all]

Space Oddity {Avengers!Loki x Female Reader One-shot}

Cee's Loki Fic Masterlist / AO3 Link

Pairing : Avengers!Loki x Female Reader

Summary : While preparing for Stark Tower’s Halloween party, Loki misunderstands the point of a Halloween Costume. Luckily he has you to help him navigate such tricky waters. 

W/c : 10k words

Content / Warnings : Established Relationship, Fluff, Smut, Loki being a little massive shit and also a silly goose.

Author's Note : Last year a certain LIFE-RUINER (affectionate) dressed up as Ziggy Stardust/David Bowie/Aladdin Sane for Halloween, and it permanently altered my brain chemistry. Because of (or in spite of?) the ensuing brain rot, it took 11 months of me staring at that picture to finally come up with an idea to include Loki in that delicious little mix.

P.S. I do recommend listening to Space Oddity by David Bowie while you read this. If you start the song at "Humanity’s wide variety of music..." then depending on your reading speed, the song's first Verse should start right at the big reveal 🤭

18+ Only - Minors DNI

⊱ ─ ༓ ── ⋅•⋅⊰ ─ ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ∙ ⋅ ─ ⊱⋅•⋅ ── ༓ ─ ⊰

A crisp, hazy mist obscured your view of the ground from the 22nd floor of Stark Tower. Sunrise was yet to fully finish, and the Earth below was quiet, still adjusting to the uneasy transition from slumber to consciousness. Within that ambiguity, it was easy to believe that you’d somehow awoken on an entirely new planet. 

You often wondered what that was like, to feel the soil from an uncharted world give way underneath your boots. To feel a breeze coming off an ocean no other human had ever seen before, or to look up into the night sky and see the stars of a brand new galaxy. How colossal, how surreal, how inferior it must make someone feel. 

On lazy mornings such as this one, you’d often ask your partner what it was like to be an astronaut. He’d hand you a steaming cup of coffee as he rejoined you in bed, and with a contemplative expression, he’d always respond with a brand new answer. 

You suspected the change in response was just due to him recalling his first trip to a different realm, and each time you always listened very carefully. You always closed your eyes and tried to lose yourself in the picturesque descriptions of fantasy worlds you’d probably never be able to see personally. 

Sometimes, if you focused hard enough, you could almost smell the forests of a brand new planet. You could almost taste its fresh water and its different fruit, and feel the immaculate breezes of its unstudied seasons. But then you’d open your eyes again, and when you looked through the skyscraper’s window, the few dapples of orange and yellow leaves breaking through the dense fog would let you know this was still planet Earth. 

But that wasn’t always so bad. Occasionally, there would be several weeks without a world-ending threat breathing down the Avenger’s necks, and that meant you could pretend you were all just regular people. You could sleep in or get up extra early to watch the world come to life, you could rush around and do any of the million things that needed to be done, or you could simply lay there and bask in that sweet silence. 

Today, after having coffee in bed, your only concrete plan was a shopping trip in the West Village with Wanda and Nat. Your only solid goal was to finally settle on the perfect costumes for the Halloween party happening just a few days from now. 

It was no secret that the Avengers had acquired a sizable contingency of cynics over the years, ones who weren’t shy about openly criticizing the entire team. From the collateral damage incurred during battle, to the individual actions of its members both on and off the team - anything they did was suspect, and absolutely nothing was beyond complaint. Thus, Pepper Potts had made it her personal mission to finally correct the planet’s opinions of its heroes. 

In addition to the team’s assistance towards rebuilding efforts after their battles were won and having its members performing very public charity work, Stark Tower was starting to host more “fun” events in order to further boost the team’s positive image. 

“To get your names in the papers without a rising death toll immediately afterwards,” was specifically how Pepper had explained her initiative. And naturally, that meant a Halloween Party was deemed absolutely necessary. 

Anyone who was even tertiarily related to the Avengers was going to be there: from the low-level, but still notable, world government leaders, to the honorary members from all corners of the globe. And of course, plenty of reporters and photographers would be in attendance, all of them ready to document every single fun moment. It was set to become an impressive party, and knowing Pepper, a very classy event - so it shouldn’t have been at all surprising that most of the team had become hyper-focused on winning the party’s costume contest. 

Initially, everyone kept their costumes a secret from one another, and the trash-talking was of a mostly friendly nature. But then rumors started flying around, and gradually, some members of the team started taking the competition far too seriously. Alliances were formed, and subsequently broken. The taunting soon became serious, and then reached devastating levels, which ultimately escalated into a four-day period where Tony and Steve couldn’t even be in the same room together without a physical fight breaking out. 

Thankfully, the girls were far more casual about it, and that afternoon’s shopping trip was planned to be one of mutual support. Wanda was hoping to finalize her couple’s costume with Vision, and even though she hadn’t mentioned it directly, you knew that Nat was attempting a similar endeavor with Bruce, despite his timid insistence that he wasn’t a “costume guy”. It was so adorably endearing that it almost gave you a toothache. 

Unfortunately, things were not so cut and dry with Loki. 

He had yet to mention the Halloween party on his own, nor had he participated in any group discussions on the subject - he even ignored Tony's attempts to goad him into verbal sparring matches, something Loki ordinarily enjoyed. Not that anyone should be genuinely excited about performative media relations disguised as a fun party, but nonetheless, you were starting to become concerned about his lack of interest.

Private conversations with him about finding a costume had gone nowhere. He didn’t understand why he needed to dress up at all, or why you cared so much about it. And while he wasn’t saying it out loud, you didn’t need to be a genius to guess why he had reservations: everyone else already believed he was an actual monster, so shouldn’t he just be himself on Halloween? 

Only a few weeks had passed since you’d moved in together, but it was going really well, all things considered. The otherworldly being you’d fallen in love with still didn’t understand most Earthly customs, and you very much enjoyed being his Midgardian teacher. But coming to terms with what he’d done while under the influence of the Mind Stone was still an ongoing struggle for him. 

Loki had good days, but he also had very, very bad days. He still had nightmares about his past, and frequently his worries about the future kept him helplessly trapped in bed. It broke your heart to witness, and even though he’d probably never reveal the full details about his time with The Black Order and Thanos, he at least never stopped you from offering him comfort in the middle of the night. 

Because he wasn’t the monster his critics or inner demons claimed he was, no matter how convincing they were. He deserved a good and peaceful life just as much as everyone else did, and you wanted nothing more than to help him finally have one. 

When you’d left the apartment later that morning, Loki was lounging peacefully on the living room couch, his nose buried in the oldest book you’d ever seen. A gentle smile had tugged at his lips while you kissed his forehead on your way out, and with tremendous love in his eyes, he said that he’d miss you terribly while you were gone. 

After an early lunch at The Coppola Cafe, the three of you spent the afternoon browsing what felt like every single vintage clothing shop in the West End. It didn’t take long for Wanda and Nat to finalize their costumes, and eventually you did manage to find something for yourself, but deciding on your partner’s costume was another story entirely. A terribly complicated task, one that was impossible to accomplish and rotten with trap doors and landmines hiding within the deceptive labyrinth that was Loki. 

The girls did their best to make helpful suggestions during the shopping trip, offering such innocent and guiltless ideas like a mailman, or a stuffy professor - or perhaps he could dress up as Shakespeare so he could spend the entire party wandering around quoting Hamlet. Or maybe instead, he should just wear a Ghostface mask and a long black cloak, so he had a good excuse to stay concealed and silent all night long. 

You appreciated their efforts, but none of those ideas were quite right for him. You couldn’t really explain why, but they just weren’t…Loki. 

By late afternoon, your mind had turned into a jumbled mess. Unable to think clearly anymore, you resorted to aimless purchases of extra things neither of you probably wouldn’t ever use - cheap makeup sets, bottles of fake blood, a set of vampire fangs, a pair of cat ears. Several brightly colored wigs, a second-hand cape, and a large bag of Halloween candy to stress eat later finally completed your purchases for the day. 

The group came back to the Tower just before dusk, and the living room of your apartment was quiet when you walked inside. A few lamps illuminated on the end tables gave the space a dark, brooding mood, which was greatly appreciated after such a busy and disappointing day. But unfortunately, Loki was no longer on the couch where you’d left him, and that old book was nowhere to be seen. 

“Hey! I’m home!” you called out while setting your shopping bags down by the front door. 

An odd silence was the only thing that greeted you. 

Usually, Loki would be at the front door, ready to sweep you up in his arms whenever you returned home. But the apartment remained unmoving, even as you called out a second time. When he still didn’t appear, you poked your head into the kitchen while shrugging off your jacket and slipping off your shoes. But that room was also completely vacant, with no evidence of dinner being started or already had. 

Loki preferred spending most of his time alone, but occasionally he’d allow an enticing bribe from Bruce or Thor to drag him out of the apartment; maybe he was just studying something interesting up in Bruce’s lab, or perhaps he’d agreed to help his brother play a prank on someone. Grateful for the opportunity to wallow in solitude for a bit, you pulled the giant bag of Halloween candy from a shopping bag and made your way towards the back of the apartment. 

You padded down the empty hallway where there was still no sign of Loki. Everything in the entire apartment was clean, and in its place. There was absolutely nothing wrong, and yet it felt like the weight of the entire world was resting heavily on your shoulders. You tried to reassure yourself that it was nothing that a coma-inducing amount of candy couldn’t fix, but even that was becoming less believable with each step forward. 

As you approached the bedroom, you thought you could hear the very faint sounds of guitar strumming through the closed door. That gave you pause; certain that you hadn’t left anything on before leaving that morning, you cautiously moved closer, until your ear was pressed against the door. 

Yes, that was music you were hearing - familiar music, even though you couldn’t quite place it yet, and you couldn’t help but to smile to yourself. Loki was home after all, and he had been entertaining himself with music while you were out. It thoroughly warmed your heart with an unexplainable feeling of serenity, and pleased that he’d remembered how to use the record player on his own, you waited behind the door to listen for another moment. 

Humanity’s wide variety of music was one of the few things about our culture that he’d expressed genuine interest in - which of course, you happily encouraged. It was so much fun introducing him to everything from the classic composers of the 18th and 19th centuries, to the psychedelic rockers of the 20th century. From the upbeat pop groups of your middle school years, to the angsty singers that made up the soundtrack of your early twenties.

You closed your eyes to focus solely on whatever he was listening to now. The music itself was playing low, the singer’s impassive voice just barely audible to you. But you couldn’t tell if it was a really old recording, or if the sound was just distorted after passing through the door. 

Off in the distance, a punctuated drum stroke marked the countdown to some inconceivable event, and adrenaline suddenly filled your bloodstream. A low hum vibrated underneath the drum, steady until it wasn’t, and then gradually it shifted into a cosmic wail that seemed to be transmitting itself across all of time and space. A cacophony of instruments, from both the planet Earth and of the stars themselves, finally crescendoed together in a powerful array of astronomical declaration. 

A declaration that something was happening at that very moment. Breathed into life with a static kiss, that something was so astonishingly important, and it vehemently demanded immediate witness. 

Your curiosity, overwhelming to the point that you couldn’t take it any longer, forced you to carefully reach for the door handle. Its metal, both warm and cold simultaneously, felt like home. It felt unreal. 

This felt like opening the hatch to an ancient spacecraft. 

This is Ground Control to Major Tom…

You pushed open the door, and immediately let out a startled laugh. Standing in front of the bedroom mirror was a tall and lanky figure, turning himself back and forth while carefully examining his reflection. That part wasn’t surprising; but rather, it was the way he’d dressed himself that was completely unexpected. 

You’ve really made the grade…

Bright red and blue stripes lined the figure’s jumpsuit from shoulder to toe, each one evenly separated by thin lines of white. Familiar dark curls cascaded and twisted down past a pair of golden, glittering shoulder pads that only amplified his already impressive stature. Across his right eye, stretching from well below his cheekbone up to meet with his natural hairline, was a crimson lightning bolt. Its perfectly jagged edges were outlined in shimmering blue, and the leather platform boots on his feet were a brilliant, shining red. 

And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear…

You knew it wasn’t actually Ziggy Stardust standing there; logically, you knew that much to be true. David Bowie had died several years ago, and while you now believed in alien life on other planets, and magic, and superheroes - you still knew the matter of ghosts to be entirely science fiction. 

Rational thought, if you had been capable of it in that moment, would have told you that this was just your celestial partner practicing another one of his illusions. But this mirage was so much more powerful than reason, or fact, or reality could have ever hoped to be. While shoulder-strung spectral harps blared from the record player and the harmonized magnetism of flesh and blood and God stood before you, the only conclusion to be reached was that you’d finally lost your entire mind. 

Now it’s time to leave the capsule if you dare…

Other than his hair, his illusion was categorically perfect: the only hint of Loki underneath this glamour was the flicker of mischievous green hiding behind heterochromatic eyes. But those weren’t Loki’s cheekbones, or his lips, or his nose. 

They were David fucking Bowie’s. 

This is Major Tom to Ground Control…

Your jaw dropped even further when he finally noticed you. He turned someone else’s body, and he lifted someone else’s chin. The illustrious and supernal smile he flashed in your direction tugged at someone else’s lips. But the confidence that radiated out of him, like the infernal rays of an ever-bursting star, belonged to Loki, and Loki alone. 

It was different from Bowie’s, but still somehow the same; despite the oddity of both their ensembles, neither outfit had worn either man. And similar to that ethereal mortal from over 50 years ago, Loki’s aura overrode any bewildered question of why, and instead begged the eternal question of how? 

I’m stepping through the door…

How was he making this look work for him? Just like Bowie, Loki was equal parts striking and ridiculous. He was magnetic and breathtaking, he was pulling you in while simultaneously stunning the oxygen from your lungs. No thoughts, no words, no sounds could ever truly capture the true essence of this scene, and all you could manage was another stunned laugh as you looked him up and down. 

His lips finally moved, but you couldn’t hear what he was saying. A symphony of guitars and keyboards and organs and stringed instruments all crescendoed together to effectively pay tribute to the creation of this universe and drown out his voice. The sound, dizzying and disorienting, overpowered the feel of the floor beneath your feet until gravity was no longer enough to keep you tethered to the Earth. 

And I’m floating in the most peculiar way…

Your mind, completely overwhelmed by the glowing specter just ten feet away, had become entirely blank. You were rendered so totally speechless that you forgot every single detail about your past. You simply weren’t you anymore; you were an astronaut from a distant planet on the other side of the universe, and you always had been. 

You weren’t standing on the 22nd floor of Stark Tower, you were opening the hatch of an imaginary spacecraft, you were taking that first step out onto an unexplored moon. You were leaving the very first footprints upon its previously untouched surface, and you were carving your name into its virgin moondust. You were leaving your mark for future generations to someday gaze upon, in sheer awe of the audacity to wonder what else could be out there. 

And the stars look very different today… 

Without even noticing, you let go of the bag of Halloween candy; whether it also began floating or if it crashed to your bedroom floor was no longer any of your concern. All you could think about was if it felt this surreal, this mind-blowing to look upon the real David Bowie. How did anybody manage to not spontaneously combust in his presence? 

All sense of relative dimensions lost their meaning. Space was completely irrelevant, time was a fictional construct. The universe was never going to stop expanding, so would anyone ever be able to see it all? How could a numerical value ever be assigned to the entire concept of time? Why were any of us here? 

For here, am I sitting in a tin can? 

You had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but at some point, Loki must have realized that he’d broken you. Without losing his proud smile, he waved a hand in the direction of your record player. Its needle lifted, and an eerie silence immediately descended over the room. 

As soon as the music stopped, part of the spell clouding your mind vanished. A rush of oxygen suddenly filled your lungs, and your heart finally returned to its beating. Blood resumed its journey through your veins, and the floor became substantial underneath your feet again. You blinked once, twice, three times and shook your head, trying to clear it so that you might be able to ask just one of the million questions that all popped up at the exact same time. 

“Something the matter, dear?” 

Your eyes flew back open. Unfortunately, his glamour was still in place, and it was Ziggy Stardust that gingerly approached your position by the door. And when he’d spoken, it wasn’t Loki’s voice you’d heard - it was the voice of David Bowie. 

Unsure of what to do with yourself, inundated and engulfed in sensations of the most flustered manner, you squeezed your eyes shut again. Your arms crossed and uncrossed, your knees locked and unlocked as your weight shifted back and forth. You couldn’t help but laugh and shake your head again. 

“Loki, um…What the…” You had to pause to let out a deep, shaky breath, to run your hands up and down your face in a desperate attempt to wake from this very confusing dream. “What, um - are you doing, exactly?” 

The air around you warmed considerably as he stopped in front of you, and the amusement in Bowie’s voice, so smooth and so sure of himself, was more than palpable as he spoke. 

“Preparing for the masquerade, my dear. The same thing you were doing all afternoon.”

A gentle finger tilted your chin upwards, silently requesting that your eyes open again. When you did, it was Ziggy Stardust staring down at you from his impressive height, his expression curious and the unnecessarily tall boots he stood upon just making everything worse for you. 

You gasped breathlessly. Your brain almost melted entirely. The massive crush you’d had on David Bowie when you were 13 years old suddenly roared to life once more. You’d never told anyone about it, because everyone else your age was in love with the much more socially acceptable choices of Nick Carter or Justin Timberlake. Back then, admitting to a near-fatal attraction on an androgynous, bisexual and eccentric musician from the 1970s would have been akin to signing your own death warrant. 

Nowadays, such a crush was far more acceptable to have, but you thought those feelings had faded away with adolescence. There’d been no reason to bring it up, not even when you’d first introduced Loki to Bowie’s music. And now you were standing face-to-chest with the physical embodiment of your lie by omission. 

Overwhelmed once more, you backed away from him and covered your eyes. “Okay, can you - take those boots off, please? You’re already ridiculously taller than me, so you don’t need them…” 

“As you wish, darling.” 

His voice, though sincere, was still someone else’s. Admittedly, it was intoxicating to hear Bowie’s voice addressing you in such a loving, familiar tone - but it was also incredibly intimidating. You were already on the verge of collapse as it was; you didn’t need yet another reason to make a very rapid crash landing to the floor. 

Carefully, you let out a very slow breath to steady yourself. “And - can you also go back to using your voice, please?” 

There was a brief moment of silence, and a part of you wished you could see the enchanting smirk he almost certainly wore at that very moment. When he finally answered, it was in his own voice again, but it was just as amused as Bowie’s voice had been. 

“As you wish, darling.” 

You let out a shuddered sigh of relief, and your body relaxed somewhat. When you cracked open your eyelids from behind your fingers, he was still Ziggy, but the sight was a little easier to deal with now that he stood at his normal height and spoke with his actual voice. 

Now that he was closer, you took in the comforting notes of citrus and cedarwood on his skin, scents you knew to be Loki’s. You swallowed hard, your pupils dilated wildly as you finally allowed yourself to look him over. 

“You did this for the Halloween party?” you asked softly. 

Loki’s expression was much more reserved now, and he nodded earnestly. “Yes, I thought you would enjoy it. Is that not the case?” 

Your breath hitched as you reached out to touch him. Your fingertips brushed along the golden collar around his neck. The material was soft and pliable, not like the polyester you’d find on a cheap costume from a pop-up Halloween store. No, the fabric Loki wore was both real, and it wasn’t. It was the truth, but it was also a lie. He was both mortal and ethereal simultaneously. 

“And what made you choose this version of David Bowie to imitate?” 

The reimagined figure of Ziggy Stardust shrugged nonchalantly. His gaze, as intent and dedicated as ever, remained locked on your expression while your fingers drifted over to his shoulder pads, and then back down to the center of his chest. 

“Well, the other night you remarked on how much I supposedly resembled this particular mortal…” 

A shy smile pulled at your lips. “Okay, go on…” 

He reached out to caress your cheek, his thumb soft and solid against your skin. “And I was thinking about that film you showed me. The one that used music to tell its story…”

You stifled another giggle by pulling your lower lip between your teeth. Both of your hands found their way to his chest, one of them pulling the zipper of his jumpsuit until you could see just the barest hint of his chest hair. 

“A music video. The Space Oddity music video, specifically…” 

Ziggy, or Loki - whomever it was - donned a playful grin. “Yes, of course. With the oscillating, dark-green lines. I quite enjoyed that one…” 

You nodded absentmindedly. Your fingers, like they had a mind of their own, tugged the zipper down just a little bit further. Its metal teeth, crafted with the utmost precision possible, gave way and unlocked so easily to reveal even more of his skin, and your heart hammered inside your chest. 

It was impossible that Loki couldn’t see right through your expression, that he didn’t know about the salacious thoughts swirling around in your head. Like he’d expected you to have this very reaction, he gently slipped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer, until you were pressed all the way against him. 

“Darling, I know that the stress of preparing for this particular soiree has been weighing heavily on your mind as of late…” he continued with a soft murmur as he delicately spun you both around and guided you back towards the bed. “And I wanted to do something to help alleviate that burden for you…” 

Your heart leapt violently into your throat. At first, it was the surprise that he’d noticed your inner turmoil that did you in, but then it shifted towards dismay over you apparently not hiding it as well as you thought you were. 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied with an innocent smile as he slowly lowered you both down to the mattress. 

But yes, of course you’d been feeling tons of pressure lately about the party. The Avengers had all known about your relationship with Loki for a while, but the rest of the Tower still didn’t - and neither did the rest of the world. They were all going to find out at the Halloween party. 

Loki chuckled and allowed his weight to fully settle on top of yours. “What have I told you about good girls who like to lie, my love?” he murmured softly, his lips brushing teasingly against yours. 

While you didn’t really care what everyone else thought about you, what they thought about Loki was many magnitudes of greater importance. He was already in a very precarious situation as it was; depending on the pundit or publication, his every scowl was interpreted as one of disdain for the human race, his every word a threat that he was just moments away from leading another alien invasion. 

They already hated him, and they’d never forgive him for New York, no matter how well he’d behaved since. 

Your breath shuddered, and your fingers couldn’t help but tangle between the dark curls that were so effortlessly Loki’s. “That they should…do it more, probably?” 

Any mistake he made in the field was grounds for his dismissal, anytime he drank a glass of wine instead of a beer was his blatant attempt to dismantle democracy itself. His every move was overanalyzed and deciphered by a bunch of people who had never even met him, who never even cared to know what he was like behind closed doors or in private, when he actually felt safe to be himself. 

They didn’t even care that he’d been corrupted by measures of torture they’d never have been able to survive themselves. Or that it had been entirely against his will, or that even while his invasion was taking place, he was subtly laying the groundwork for the Avengers to be able to stop him in the first place. 

“A valiant attempt, darling, but we both know that wasn’t what I meant…” he whispered hotly, nippling at your jaw. He adjusted the angle of his hips, and he began to roll them against yours. 

You moaned softly in response. Your mind began to melt, this time in pleasure instead of shock. The juxtaposition of Loki and Bowie and Ziggy, though confusing at first, started to make sense. It scratched an itch you couldn’t possibly have guessed that you had, and it created an intense need deep within your soul.

Unable to resist him any further, you captured his lips in a fiery kiss, and he eagerly returned it. His mouth worked hard and fast against yours, in a brand new style of coruscating and devastating passion. Hot and heavy, the kiss tasted just like Loki’s always had, but now it contained an extra dose of stardust. 

Loki's hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones, his hips again rolling against yours. His breath was quick against your skin, his needy groans like music to your ears. This transcendental combination of the past and present, of both the mortal plane and of the stars themselves, somehow craved you this badly and he wasn’t even afraid to show it. 

It was so strange; Loki may have come from the stars, but somehow, he was still beholden to you here on Earth. 

Within moments your legs wrapped themselves around his waist. Your tongue swiped at his bottom lip, requesting entry, and he granted it. Your hands drifted to his neck, his drifted to your thighs, and your bodies writhed together, eagerly, desperately, hungrily. 

The heat between you escalated even further - the kind of heat that usually precipitated the creation of a new star in the sky. Just as you began to yank the jumpsuit’s zipper down further, a shimmer of emerald washed down your bodies, effortlessly and fully undressing the both of you. 

You fucking loved it when he did that. 

Loki could use his magic to do anything he wanted; he could, and had already, used it to destroy, and to maim, and to control. But now he only used it to protect the ones he’d previously tried to conquer. Now he just used it to love - or when he couldn’t handle not being inside you for another second. 

His skin was hot against yours, his hands worshiped your curves. Your body stretched and arched underneath his, taking him in, making love to him like it was the very first time. It always felt that way, like you were floating one hundred thousand miles above the Earth, like the stars were finally within reach and only now could you actually reach them. 

Your fingernails dug into his hips. The sound of the creaking bed was soon drowned out by breathless moans against your ear, of prayers and curses and promises. Your toes curled, your eyelids fluttered shut. Wild movements crescendoed into the purest form of what you knew to be the truth: the Earth was blue, the moon was silver, and Loki’s love would always be with you no matter where he went. 

The orgasm ripped through you like a gravitational force collapsing the entire universe. Your muscles tensed, your body trembled underneath him. Pleasure seeped out of your pores and you cried out for him, incoherent and delirious. It felt like you had left your body entirely - remarkably disconnected from reality, but still safely anchored to him. 

Loki fell off the edge just after you did. His muscles contracted as he clung to you, his voice nothing but shameless groans and heated gasps. With parted lips and a heavy breath, he intertwined his fingers with yours, he buried his face into your neck, and together your bodies finally collapsed within that mutual satisfaction. 

An immeasurable length of time passed during the quiet contentment that followed, and by now, the sun had fully set. Unsure of whether you were just dozing or if you’d actually joined the astral plane, you allowed yourself to remain limp and boneless in his arms. Once again, gravity had no authority here, and you found peace just drifting aimlessly through the ever-growing expansion of outer space. 

“You never answered my earlier question, darling….” 

Loki’s demulcent voice gently pulled you back down to Earth. Your eyelids struggled to open underneath the pressure of the planet’s immense gravity, and suddenly you couldn’t remember anything that had transpired beforehand. 

“No, I’m...pretty sure I answered it already,” you replied with a false confidence, stretching your body against his in an obvious attempt to distract him. 

He chuckled and shifted with you, propping himself up on one elbow. His other hand traced a swirling pattern along your hip. “And I’m quite certain that you didn’t, love…”

For someone called the God of Mischief, he was surely determined to never let you get away with anything. You let out a laughing groan of frustration, and as your eyes opened, as you looked up into his, your breath vanished from your lungs. 

The stars looked so different now. They weren’t Ziggy’s, nor Bowie’s, anymore - they were Loki’s. His glamour had started to fail while you were making love, and now the large constellations of the deepest greens and blues, of Loki himself, were all that stared lovingly back at you. 

Loki grinned when he noticed the awe in your expression. His brow arched in a curious and teasing fashion when you couldn’t answer him. 

“My goodness, she’s turned into a cosmonaut and floated away, hasn’t she…?” he murmured softly, pretending to talk to himself. He took his fingers and made them dance against the sensitive skin of your neck to get your attention. “Hello, darling? Are you still there?” 

Almost immediately you were drowning in a fit of giggles. You scrunched up your shoulders and tried to squirm away, laughing and cursing at him while Loki continued his teasing. But his fingers, tender yet relentless on your sensitive skin, made it impossible to keep your eyes open or coordinate your muscles enough to put a stop to his attack. 

“Yes, hello? I was wondering if you’ve seen a beautiful girl in there?” he continued in that same vexatious tone, his hold on you tightening as he nuzzled his face to yours. “She’s my darling companion, and I’ve been missing her terribly. Can you tell her to come back to me, please?” 

You let out more breathless laughs, you made more desperate wriggles in his grasp. If you’d been able to see anything, you would have seen his cheeky grin and sparkling eyes, all lit up with mirth and devilry. There was absolutely nothing Loki loved more than play, and perhaps that was the true meaning of life anyway. 

But when you finally cried out for mercy, he instantly relented, granting you more benevolence within a single moment of play than he’d ever been given in centuries. And all things considered, Loki was still quite delicate in his handling of you. After all, he had gentleness woven deep within him - the kind that had developed out of defiance, not because it was taught, and that just made him all the more genuine. 

Dutifully, like it was an honor, he shifted your bodies so that he was on his back and you were nestled safely to his chest. Your leg curled around his, and after his fingers completed their soothing motions over the skin he’d just attacked, they moved in wide swoops along your back. 

“I suppose I should repeat my question then?” he murmured softly after kissing your temple. 

His skin, soft and smooth and pale, now smelled like an ancient fire that could burn his way through anything, if he’d wanted it to. It was intoxicating. You wondered if that was the same scent that had once filled the air of Asgard, if you’d ever get to experience it yourself someday. 

“Mmm, yeah. I think you should…” 

Loki cleared his throat, hesitating. His fingertips drifted up to the divot of your shoulder. “Did you truly not enjoy the costume I chose?” 

His voice was so quiet, so tender that it made your heart ache a little bit. You shifted on the bed, leaning up to look him in the eyes. 

“No, I did love it, Loki! It was really thoughtful of you, and for a second, I…” You smiled fondly, recalling the moment you first saw him, while one of your favorite songs ever blasted from your record player. “I really thought it was actually David Bowie, back from the dead…” 

Loki quirked an eyebrow. “And so naturally, your first reaction was to…laugh at it?” 

Your lips pursed together, trying to suppress another one. “Okay, I’m sorry about that. But I wasn’t laughing at the costume, it was honestly just…really overwhelming to walk in and see so unexpectedly…”

“Oh, you found it to be overwhelming, did you?” Loki grinned again, apparently possessing an infinite supply of them. “My poor little dearest, I’m afraid you only have yourself to blame for that.”

“Me?!” you laughed incredulously. “But I’m the victim here!”

So sure of himself, Loki gave a teasing nod. “Yes, you see, darling - I was in the process of choosing the appropriate level of detail for the illusion when you so rudely interrupted me…”

You maintained a playful, sarcastic expression as he explained himself. “Sure, sure. Or you could have just, you know…locked the bedroom door if you didn’t want to be interrupted…” 

Loki chucked and playfully swatted at your hip. “So then tell me, what about it was too much for you? I had already decided that the red hair was a bit excessive, but should I alter the clothing as well? The voice?” he asked, his hand now softly soothing the skin he’d just swatted. 

You silently thanked whatever it was other there that Loki had decided to keep his actual hair; it was one of his best features. Almost automatically, your fingers drifted through those gorgeous strands of caliginous curls, relishing in their strength and fluidity. He let out a tranquil hum when your touch grazed his scalp, and the sound was so effortless, so real, that nothing else could ever compare. 

Unfortunately, your thoughts then drifted towards far less pleasant topics. 

No one in their right mind could ever bring Loki’s capabilities as a sorcerer into question, especially not during battle. In fact, Wanda had previously expressed feelings of inadequacy when comparing her talents to his. But he had spent entire centuries perfecting his craft, he’d dedicated entire human lifetimes to his studies - to the point where most people remained completely unaware of its full extent once an illusion had been cast. 

A large part of that was because he preferred to remain an unanswerable question to everyone else, especially after the attack on New York. He’d rather they looked at his daggers instead of at his soul, or at the black heart he worried was the true source of his seidr. He didn’t want anyone to know what he was truly capable of, lest they fear him even more - or try to use his own knowledge against him. 

But if he wore the illusion of one of Bowie’s personas to the party - not dressed as, but if he actually was the physical embodiment of Ziggy Stardust come back to life - then everyone would know just how afraid of him they should be. You could see the fear-mongering op-ed headlines already - Former Alien Invader Transforms Himself into a Dead Rocker. What’s to Stop Him from Imitating the President Next? 

And the critics who didn’t make that massive jump towards an impossible conclusion? You already knew that if he wore the wrong costume to the party, they’d have even more reason to pick him apart; if they secretly loved his costume, they’d simply accuse him of pandering. There was literally no direction for him to go that wouldn’t result in more needless hatred being spewed at him. 

Even more pressing than all of that, what if they accused him of corrupting an innocent human when they learned about your relationship? You desperately didn’t want to make his life harder than it needed to be, but neither could you face bringing that concern up to him; what if he secretly agreed with them? What if he decided he was defiling your entire life just by existing within it?

What if he decided to leave you, in order to correct that grievous mistake? 

Your fingertips gently traced the angle of his jaw. His eyes drifted closed as he clearly savored your touch, and his expression was just so serene, so peaceful. You couldn’t let him sacrifice that tranquility for the sake of a party; Loki may not have needed your protection on the battlefield, but you sure as hell weren’t going to let him wander into danger back at home. 

“Well, maybe the issue is that you were using an illusion, instead of a costume…” 

His eyes fluttered open beneath a furrowed brow. His pupils widened before fixating on you. “I don’t understand. The goal is to become the subject in question, is it not?” 

You couldn’t help but laugh again; sometimes he surprised you with how human he was, and other times it was because of how alien he was. Letting out a slow breath, you pushed yourself up to sitting next to him. Your legs curled over to the side, and you draped yourself across his chest. 

“I think the real issue is that you might be slightly misunderstanding the point of a costume contest,” you began with a gentle smile. “Using magic to alter your appearance for a contest could be considered…cheating, by some people.” 

His expression was tender, but unrelenting. “I’m still not seeing the problem, darling. If I’m to become someone else in order to participate, then I’m going to become someone else…” 

“But the whole point is how much effort you put into the costume,” you explained with a gentle head tilt. “It’s about how creative you can be with either a limited skill set, or a small budget, or shortened time constraints…” 

You paused for a moment to let your words sink in before continuing.

“And I’m so sorry, but using magic just…isn’t that much effort for you. No matter how amazing or lifelike the illusion is.” 

He nodded, and his eyes flickered with understanding. For a very brief moment, he seemed to be taking your words to heart. But when his lips curved into a cheeky grin, you knew he was about to make another snarky comment. 

“You’re saying Stark will have a conniption if I win the costume contest at his own party? Is that it?” 

You sighed and rolled your eyes while matching his smile. It was actually incredible that he still had this much energy to devote towards acting like a total menace. “Yes, if it helps you to think about it like that, then that is exactly what I’m trying to say…” 

Loki continued thinking about your explanation for another moment, his gaze distant while his hand ran along the length of your arm. Eventually, the grin on his face slowly shifted towards one of true sincerity. 

“Alright then. What would you suggest I do instead?” 

You met his gaze with an even bigger smile of your own. All that remained of his illusion was a jagged, crimson lightning bolt stretching down his cheek, and you brought your fingertips down to gently trace along the bolt’s edges. His skin was so very soft, the transition between alabaster and crimson so seamless. It was only then that you remembered one of the purchases made earlier that day with Wanda and Nat. 

“Well, for starters…I think we ought to actually paint this design on your face.” 

Before he could even respond, you had already hopped out of bed - not that you would have responded to him anyway. And while wearing nothing but a scheming grin, you practically soared across the room, stopping just long enough to grab a few clothes from the bedroom floor on your way to the living room. 

“We ought to do what, darling?” Loki’s incredulous voice called out after you disappeared through the doorway. 

As you hurried into the living room, you bounced on one foot, and then the other, while pulling the pair of panties up to your hips. After clumsily slipping the t-shirt over your head and guiding your arms through its sleeves, you lowered down to your knees next to the shopping bags left by the front door. 

Did you have any experience with painting faces? None whatsoever.

Was that going to stop you now? Absolutely not. His illusion may have been overwhelming, but Loki’s inspiration of picking a David Bowie character for his Halloween costume was beyond perfect, and you were going to do whatever it took to make that idea a more feasible reality. 

Rummaging past the bright pink wig and the fringed flapper dress and the vampire fangs purchased earlier that day, you finally found it: a palette of Halloween make-up. The flat, rectangular box contained a few small brushes and a row of circular discs, each one filled with a different and very bright shade of creamy, metallic make-up. 

It was definitely a very cheap make-up set, and probably had way too many questionable ingredients that you’d never be able to fully investigate, but it should work just fine for this little trial - as long as Loki let you anywhere near him with it. You were sure that he would after batting your pretty little eyelashes at him. 

Back in the bedroom, you could hear him shifting on the bed. You shot back up to your feet. “Don’t get up! Just stay right there, Loki, I’m coming back!”

You carefully ripped into the package as you padded across the living room. Not only was this your first time painting someone’s face, but it might be the first time Loki’d ever had his face painted as well. A twinge of excitement, laced with a hint of unease, swam freely inside your veins; there was a good reason why your skillset had led you towards a career of getting beat up on a professional level, instead of towards a quieter, peaceful career of make-up artistry or hair-styling. 

Complicating matters even more was the fact that Loki was quite particular about his appearance. The last thing you wanted to do was ruin this newfound interest in the Halloween party. 

When you returned to the doorway of your bedroom, Loki was seated on the edge of your shared bed. His long legs were spread wide, with delicious expanses of thigh peeking out between the tousled sheets. His expression was dreamy and brooding as he ran a large hand through his midnight curls, like his thoughts were a hundred thousand miles away while he smoothed and detangled. 

His face lit up when he finally noticed you, but then it dropped when he saw what you were holding. “Please tell me that’s a joke. You’re joking with that, yes?” 

You grinned and shook your head like you were trying to fling your nervous energy into a nearby galaxy. “Not a chance. Scoot!” you laughed, waving your hand to get him to make room for you. 

He complied, but still let out a frustrated groan as he shifted to the middle of the bed and leaned back against the headboard. “Darling, be reasonable. I’m already getting a rash just looking at that preposterous concoction…” 

“Oh, come on! ” you whined, fluttering your eyelashes in a way you know he both loved and hated. “I know it’s not Armani, but you’ll survive a test run with it, right?” 

Loki sighed, and then he softly patted the mattress next to him. “You’re lucky you’re so damn adorable…” 

“I know. It’s a blessing and a curse for you, isn’t it?” 

Having won the first battle, you settled next to him on the bed. Your legs curled up underneath you, and with an innocent smile, you blinked at him once more, a silent request that he drop the final remainder of his illusion. The lightning bolt on his face disappeared with an emerald glimmer, and a playful smirk replaced it. 

“Yes, it is. And you’re going to be so very embarrassed if this folderol does actually kill me…” 

You carefully pried open the palette and dragged a brush through the creamy, red substance on the palette. “Oh, please. Of all the things that could kill you, it’s not going to be drug-store brand holiday make-up…” 

Starting at his forehead, you made gentle strokes against his skin, testing to see how well it absorbed the cream. As expected, it didn’t smear very well, the edges were smudged and uneven. But there was no need to panic just yet - it was still completely fixable. That is, as long as you avoided direct eye contact with him, or else you might become even more flustered than you already were. 

Loki’s gaze shifted as you worked, watching either your hands or your face depending on whether you were gathering color or painting his skin. His features were soft, his eyes still dreamy as he watched you work, but you carefully kept your attention towards the task at hand; his attention was like a black hole of colossal proportions, and once you were caught in it, the only thing keeping you from splitting into a million different strands of yourself was Loki himself. 

When he realized his alluring good-looks weren’t enough to distract you this time, he switched to a different tactic.

“Darling, do you really expect me to believe that Stark is allowing Miss Potts to paint his face for the party?” 

You snorted, expecting nothing less from someone called the God of Mischief. “If Tony knows what’s good for him, he is.”

As you pulled the brush across the bridge of his nose, Loki let out a chuckle and titled his head. “Is that some sort of veiled threat, darling? What happens if I refuse to cooperate with you?” 

That little movement was just enough to ruin what might have been a decent brush stroke, and it made you smear crimson down the length of his nose instead of diagonally across his cheek. 

“Hey, stop moving!” you gasped and laughed at the same time. “Or you’re gonna wind up looking even more ridiculous!” 

“Would it be rude to say that I find that difficult to believe, my love?” 

Ignoring his comment, you licked the tips of your finger and swiped it along the edges of the lightning bolt, trying to smooth it out. When the makeup just smeared instead of erasing neatly, a new rush of panic settled in your chest. You licked your finger again and rubbed it harder over his skin, and then you tried using your other, untainted fingers - but all that resulted in was the tips of those digits, and now your tongue, turning the brightest red to have ever existed. 

“Something the matter, darling?” Loki asked knowingly, repeating his earlier question. He pursed his lips together, just barely attempting to suppress a vindicated smile as he watched you struggle. “Is the inferior product you insisted upon ruining the homemade look you’d imagined for me?” 

Forcing your expression into one of neutrality required a tremendous amount of effort. “Nope. Everything’s going perfectly, my love,” you lied, switching the makeup palette to your other hand. Within seconds, the fingertips of both hands were traitorously stained with the truth. 

“Really? You’re absolutely sure about that, darling?” Loki asked, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he glanced at the make-up palette. “Please correct me if I’m mistaken, but there seems to be more tint on your fingers than what’s left in the container…” 

Your face scrunched up in amused frustration, and the unpleasant taste of chemicals and oils now completely coated your tongue. “Mmhmm, this is a…totally normal part of the process.” 

His comments were just making everything worse, but you were still determined to see this attempt through to the end. At that point, the makeup palette was discarded entirely and soon became lost within the bed sheets as you pushed yourself up to your knees and shifted closer to him. You took the hem of your t-shirt and pulled it up in a desperate attempt to finally fix the bolt’s outline and salvage your work. 

You swiped the soft fabric down the length of his nose, but the make-up must have believed your t-shirt to be a brush, and all you did was push the red deeper into his skin. Silently cursing yourself, you pulled your t-shirt up further and tried to focus on gathering as much color as possible. Secretly though, you prayed that effectively flashing him like this would distract him from making more teasing comments at your expense. 

But that didn’t quite work either, and Loki’s chuckle from behind your t-shirt was both leery and leering. 

“And now you’ve resorted to seduction as a means of distraction from your lies…” he purred, the sound almost a growl as he brought his hands to your waist. “I’d say our relationship might be having a negative effect on your morality, darling, but you’d be much better at this if it was…” 

You were still determined not to let him win, even as a shuddered breath tumbled from your lips. Your heart beat faster in your chest as the entire front of your t-shirt became tinted with red, and your face warmed from the feel of his hands gliding down to your hips. 

“It’s fine! It’s fine, Loki. Trust me, I’ve done this a million - ” 

“Sweetheart.” 

Loki’s voice was kind but firm when he interrupted. He leaned back as he pulled your shirt down, revealing the devastation on his face that your attempts to fix had caused. “Please just admit that you’re not very good at this…” 

You gasped and clamped a hand over your mouth. There was red everywhere - in his eyebrows and his eyelashes, across his right cheek and somehow, underneath his chin. The combination of mess on his both serious and amused expression was a horrifying, delightful sight, and you only barely managed to swallow the giggle bubbling in your throat. 

Loki arched a suspicious eyebrow. He flicked his wrist and produced a small, handheld mirror with his seidr, and he stared at you expectantly - granting you one final opportunity to come clean, as it were. 

“Come on, darling. I will love you no less if you just admit it.” 

But you couldn’t; all you could manage was to laugh, cover your eyes and brace for the inevitable as he finally looked at his reflection. 

“This is absolutely marvelous, darling,” he finally replied in a wry tone of voice. 

You shook while trying to suppress another laugh, but it was all over now. He’d seen the abominable, unskilled attempt at facial decoration you’d left on his skin, and you knew he was never going to let you hear the end of it despite the fact that he was laughing too. 

“And you were absolutely right, this is so much better than using magic. Perhaps I should go into battle like this. I could simply frighten our enemies to death…” 

You let out a heavy laugh of defeat and let your hands fall to your thighs. You were sure there was probably red make-up smudged all over your own face as well now, but you didn’t care anymore. “Alright, so. Maybe I’m not that great at painting faces…” 

“Oh, on the contrary, sweet girl…” Loki chuckled as he tossed the mirror away and pulled you closer, settling you over his lap. He leaned up and nuzzled his nose to yours. “This is impeccable work. Stunning, even…” 

“No, stop it! You’re making a mess!” you laughed and tried to look away, but his face followed yours, no doubt just smearing even more make-up all over each other. “Loki! You’re ruining all of my hard work!” 

His arms tightened around you. He began to kiss and nip at your jaw, your nose, your neck. “Or am I making it more authentic? Did you ever think about that, darling?” 

Resigning yourself to retaliation at Loki’s level, you matched his every kiss and nip with another to his jaw, his nose, his neck. He let out an encouraging chuckle and cupped your jaw with his hands, angling your face properly to his. When your lips finally met, he let out a soft hum, and then his kiss shifted into one of reassurance. 

Your arms slid around his neck as he leaned back against the headboard. His lips moved slowly and tenderly as he held you close to his chest, and they said everything that you needed to know. This was okay, he was okay. Aside from a few errant, washable streaks of crimson on his face, nothing real was actually amiss here. 

He may have been teasing you before, but he was also loving you. The experiment had yielded far less than stellar results, but that was still okay. A suitable ensemble for the party would be found eventually - or perhaps just better make-up products - and the two of you were still going to have as much fun as someone could have at a corporate holiday party, even if there were a few extra pairs of wandering eyes there. 

After another moment or two, the kiss broke naturally. You let out a slow breath and pressed your forehead to his. “Alright, I fully admit that I completely suck at face-painting. We don’t have to go down that route…” 

Loki smiled and nodded. A glimmering wash of emerald erased any evidence of red from all skin and clothing. “Yes, I’m quite certain that we can come up with something else…” 

By revealing his mortal partner to the world, you’d hoped it would soften the rough edges of Loki that his detractors wanted to keep illuminated underneath a hateful microscope. You’d wanted to protect him, to make his life simpler, to possibly ease his troubled integration on the planet he’d once tried to subjugate. 

But the relaxed smile on his lips told you that he didn’t need you to do any of those things. Loki was from the stars, yes, but he only ever clung to one specific thing. He may have come from on high, his perspective and past experiences originating from a millennia away from yours, but he was still here, looking at you. Loving only you.

You were his, and he was yours. No amount of criticism, or any blades held to his throat, or cruel darts thrown at his loving eyes were ever going to avert his gaze. They could make him climb mountains on mountains to get to you, but as long as there were sunbirds to soar back down with, then it was all worth it, wasn’t it? 

Your hands slid into his hair, gently tangling themselves within his dark curls. Your eyes roamed slowly over his angular features and icy blue eyes, admiring the planes of his cheekbones and the true depth of his gaze that simultaneously showcased both the wide expanse of outer space and your own reflection within his irises. 

Loki was timeless. He was broken and hopeful, grateful and almost too intelligent to not know better. He was pensive, and he understood light and dark better than anyone else you’d ever met. The noir shadows of his heart were what had initially drawn you in, but the hidden brilliance of his glowing soul was what had made you stay. 

A new idea coalesced inside your heart, and you settled your hips to his with a sly grin. “Are you by any chance familiar with my favorite David Bowie persona?” 

Loki smiled again, but this time he shook his head. “Are you really only telling me now that the Space Oddity himself is not your favorite persona of his?” he murmured curiously. 

You bit your lip and reached for your laptop on the nightstand, eager to introduce him to something brand new once more.

⊱ ── ༓ ── ⋅•⋅⊰ ── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ∙ ⋅ ── ⊱⋅•⋅ ── ༓ ── ⊰

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[darlingofvalyria]

❝I am going to make him bow to me, brother. Mark my words.❞

[ Jace does not yearn for you. Does not wish for you. Does not want you. But oh, lies are bitter and brittle under a tongue that yearns to taste. ]

[ +18 MDNI ] [ 4,753 ] [ series masterlist ] | jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt!reader (aegon's twin sister), might be small aegon ii x reader but it's one sided on aeg's behalf, sorry.

contains— manipulative reader, targarcest, mild nsfw, angsty - CANON DIVERGENCE - use of bastard, mentions of alcohol and slight phys. abuse (otto's a dick) - sort of non canon compliant, timeline is loosey goosey; in the books, rhae & dae visit kings landing frequently even after moving to dragonstone, so im going by that - nsfw: male masturbation, strong allusions to sex but no actual woohoo, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas. unedited.

a/n— for my boy jace, the prettiest dark haired prince there is. simp!jace you will always be loved by me. comments, reblogs & like at will! + dividers by @danowh0re + accompanied song: SWEAT— HAYZ.

Aegon, under the guise of weighty cups and half-mast eyes, slides beside you, following your gaze as you appraised the entrance of the Strong bastards into the courtyard.

"Are you sure about this, sister?"

"Does wine taste like heaven under grandsire's scolding, brother?"

Aegon snorts. As your twin, the difference between the two of you are more stark than people might think. Though you share the childish, almost babe like features that usually got women to bow down to Aegon— with your doe eyes, the soft cheeks, and the curled pout — where people think Aegon is a horrible mess of a git, your shared grandsire the forefront of this slander, you are quite the opposite. Beloved, dutiful, and innocent in the eyes of many.

It didn't matter that you wore green as prettily as your mother, or that your twin is a mess of wine and women— you were different. You were kind, pretty, and enticing.

A precious flower among green thorns, the smallfolk whispered.

People had even commiserated how, despite the typical Valyrian looks of silver-gold hair and lilac eyes, your Hightower lineage softened your edges. Your looks.

Your personality.

Snort.

"You know Aemond would rather see you insult the little bastard in half, than whatever it is that you are thinking of doing."

You hum as you don't remove your gaze from the dark haired prince, making jokes with his younger brother, Lucerys. From the corner of the courtyard, you and your twin could see Aemond sparring with Ser Criston with more vigour than he usually did, especially at the time of day. Occasionally, he spared the younger Strong bastard a glance that spoke of trying to unearth his insides from his body, no doubt imagining the very same as he swung his blade.

Aegon and you shared a look, stifling laughter, before you focused back on your prey. Jacaerys Velaryon. A name he uses like a shield despite having not a single drop of the sea in his blood. All you had to do was look at the dark hair, the skin and the nose of the First of Men before him.

How your half-sister Rhaenyra can say he was a Velaryon with a straight face is beyond you.

Your gaze might be searing as Jace looks up at the balcony from where you had been idly staring at him for the better half of the time, and you give him a wry sort of smile. A soft sort of smile. An acknowledgement. Just as he makes a nod of hesitant acknowledgement— unlike your brothers, you had not join in on the hostility and mean-spirited comments — you had already turned fully to Aegon as if you are enraptured by conversation.

"It's a contingency plan, my darling Aeg," you say softly as you brush the back of your hand to his face. You are aware of Jace's gaze now focused on you and your twin and you make it good for him. You make a performance. You follow the steps you've practiced so eagerly.

And eager for your soft touch, Aegon's eyes flutter in response. Ever since you were young, and seeing how harsh everyone is of Aegon and his failures, you decided you would be the kindness to him.

Though you do like him, another contingency plan for him wouldn't be so bad, would it? After all, you can bet on a lot of things, but your grandsire's award-winning thirst for power and your mother's malady to anxieties are good tidings to see them planting Aegon on the throne and usurping everything from your dearest, oldest sister.

Aeg didn't need to know that, of course.

What he can know and what he can help with, is making sure Jacaerys was looking as you smiled softly at your brother, your gold and silver spun hair bathed in morning light, and in one of your favourite dresses— a white silver dress lined with black lace and green embroidery of dragons — you were angelic personified. The Maiden come to gather and soothe your dearest brother.

You capture Aegon's face in your hands, ever soft, ever sweet, as you smile at him. He's so deprived of physical touch that doesn't harm him that he sighs against your palms. You do feel a little bad, but you need this plan to work.

"I am going to make him bow to me, brother," you whisper, giving him a soft kiss to his temple. He shudders, hands placing them on your waist, enunciating the kind curves you sport. "Mark my words, that boy king will stifle under my hand and foot. Mother's fears will not come to fruition. All will be well."

"I am older than you," he says softly, half smiling.

A gaze sears at the side of your face, as strong as the concussive heat radiating off a dragon's maw as your thumb brushes across your twin's cheek.

There is that, you think amusedly. No one can deny the little heir is his mother's child. Bastard he maybe.

"And I am better," you whisper, snickering.

"That you are." But his gaze is past you, back at the courtyard, at the reason for the heat in your skin. A spark of jealousy is quick in his mulish blue eyes but you only laugh. Light but loud, echoing.

"Come," you say with finality, taking a step back and offering your hand as you make the conscious choice of not daring even a peripheral glance, and heading back inside the keep. "We shall see them at dinner. The king's orders."

Your brother makes a sound crossbred from a huff and a groan, and you are already making plans to ensure his wine is controlled for the night, lest he makes a fool of himself in front of the King— or gods forbid, your grandsire — and mayhaps ensure the seating arrangement once again with your mother.

But everthing else is background noise; your schemes and your plots, your facades and faces, because a faux Velaryon has made it known that he cannot keep his gaze away from you.

Everything else is moot.

Jacaerys Velaryon, firstborn son of Rhaenyra Targaryen, soon to be Heir to the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone, does not understand himself.

Perhaps you are just eye-catching. Your hair is more gold than silver, but it shifts like a mirage against sunlight. You yourself seem to change under shadows and light, as if you're casting a new spell again and again. Your eyes, your lips, the slivers of presented skin (have you really shown this much skin, all this time?), and your hips.

They sway, like a panther's.

Like a dragon's.

Jace has always known you to be pretty; Helaena has always been his favourite aunt with the fact that she's quiet and doesn't antagonise him like your brothers. Because Helaena simply cared little for him not because he was Rhaenyra's son, or that he didn't look like his father, or because he was a prince of the realm set to become heir once his mother was crowned.

Helaena simply just didn't care about him as a human not as hisn ame or his blood, her thoughts lingering more in her bugs and the fat babes she had with her brother, humming nonsensical under her breath. Not insults.

You were different. You looked. Jace knew you looked but he had never caught you before. It's a dance, he later realises come dawn he is awoken and there is a weight on top of him in rings of gold and silver, breathing softly— alive and so very warm, and from that moment, his — but for now he doesn't know.

Doesn't understand.

Your gaze is weighty, leaving searing imprints like a dragon marking it's favourite horde. But it's so hard to catch.

It started at the training grounds. As if his Uncle Aemond's wasn't enough, there was yours. He knew but could only see once, and even that felt like it was deliberate, a mere nod. As if you controlled how he worked around your sphere, and by gods, were you beautiful. Then you had turned to your twin brother as if he was nothing to you— really, he was, in the scheme of things, you were the secondborn daughter of the Queen, no matter how pretty your visage or blood is, you are a woman and a third child (right after the firstborn daughter and son), and in the other end, Jacaerys was the first son and heir of the Princess of Dragonstone, soon to be Queen. In fact, you should be nothing to him.

He was to become King, and you to be offered to a lord. To be someone's wife, to relinquish your surname and become someone's mother. Rear your new lord husband countless of babes and live your life having fulfilled your sole duty.

It is a fact that tasted brittle and bitter in his tongue, like soot and ash, and he doesn't understand it. You had crossed his mind, idle as it maybe, from time to time, but nothing concrete. You are pretty, you are kind, mischievous at times, playful, and you purposefully don't keep him long in your orbit.

You were just another aunt. Aegon's Twin Flame.

Misbegotten to not even marry your brother.

It was at dinner that night, amongst clinking goblets and fat foods spilling the edges of the table, his grandsire having arrived, even Aegon, rumpled hair and sunken eyes but dressed and suspiciously sober— and you, your mother's favourite, her most affectionate daughter, late.

"Where is she?" Jacaerys heard the Lord Hand asked, but the Queen had no reply, as confused.

And then you arrive, not ten more minutes later, and Jace's entire body had locked.

Though he did not know why or what, he knew you were up to something. You arrived in a new dress from this afternoon— close to it's style, nothing like the Queen's or Helaena's, conservative high necks and pious ever green— no, you came as a surprise with a flutter of a silken hand and an embarrassed laugh, tipping to your father a kiss on the side of his good face.

Even as you sat, it took a good, long while before the chatter would arose again (from your gracious laugh at your father's compliment no less), before everyone's eyes— even Criston Cole's, ever loyal rat — would lift from your visage.

You were ethereal, simply put, in a dress that is not of pious ever green or high collar trim; but in a flutter of what Jacaerys remembers as his mother's gown when she was pregnant with Aegon, and the days got too hot. When the babe inside her, made of pure dragon, had made her a furnace burning from the inside out.

It was the same lightweight material draped over your skins, a thin material bunched up several times so it is not too sheer. Not too inappropriate. Jace doesn't know what the fabric is, doesn't care to, but it looks like flowing water against your body. It moulds to your movements. Your shape is obvious, so are the expose arms, collarbones, your chest dipping low, too low sometimes when you lean over and laugh, eyes alight— Jace's eyes cannot stay away, they are glued to your necklace, to the top of your smooth breasts — and the dress is held together in links of golden dragons, your hair made up in braids, in pearls and small emeralds, with curled strays framing your cheeks and smile, your exposed neck.

It was meant to garner looks, compliments.

But it was the colour that Jacaerys knew it was meant for him.

At the centre of your chest— your bosom that dips, two mounds, so soft looking and the urge to reach over and press his fingers down, see how soft and pliant you really are, hear the kind of noises you make, in pain or pleasure, his thoughts make him hiss, tightening his hold on his wine, pinching nails to skin to ground himself — it starts off a darken green, shifting, blending to a winter green, a bluer green, a seafoam that he is more than familiar with, before escaping the edges in deep water blue.

The colour of his father's house had never looked so good, so charming, so sinful before.

He tears his eyes away from you because it is improper to be staring so, to be looking at you and feel like he is feasting when he is rooted in his chair and still so hungry, especially with the plans of betrothal with Baela, his mother had already asked him if she is ever in his thoughts.

Baela who sits beside him, ramrod straight and keen-eyed, respectable Targaryen lady, a confidant and a good friend. She would make a good queen in the future, he had thought so before. Respectable and fearsome, the best parts of his stepfather and the late Lady Laena.

He shakes his head, swallowing down his slice of veal before he kicks Luke's leg under the table.

His brother yelps, a mournful irritated sound for his eyes had ogled far longer (just like he, but would never admit) on you than was proper, reminding him, and yet when you look up at the sound, your eyes— have they ever been so violet? — lands on him. Again.

When your gazes meet, he is enraptured, but he clears his throat and nods. "You look good, aunt." And because he cannot step, because his thoughts are cloudy and you are looking at him as if you know he can't stop looking at you, as if you can read each filthy thought he tries to stifle, as if you like it, he continues, "The sea green is a nice colour on you."

He can feel eyes on him, even the Lord Hand's. Even Aegon, goblet pressed against his lips, hiding a smirk. He burns, but he doesn't burn as bright when your smile stretches, your lids lower, and he burns so bright he fears he might be on fire.

The flames are licking him and he does not mind, so long as you keep your gaze.

"Thank you, nephew," you hum. "That is so very sweet of you to say."

And Jacaerys blushes, coughing once when he notices his lady mother giving him a look. Knowing. Curious but not probing, not yet. What he doesn't notice is the Queen's perceptive frown as she gazes at her daughter, the Lord Hand's raised eyebrow, or Aegon trying so very hard to stifle his laughter, turning to Helaena as if he is saying something to her.

But what Jacaerys does see is Aemond's intense glare, sharpened and rekindled and suspicious, and Daemon... The Rogue Prince is eyeing you differently. No longer just another Targaryen bleeding Hightower green, no longer just another offspring of the Hightower cunt.

No, Jace can almost see inside his stepfather's brain and see the Valyrian looks. The body of a woman freshly sloughed off the body of a child.

You are pretty and young and Daemon Targaryen is looking at you.

It shocks Jace how much he despises it.

It is for my mother, his thought persists even as he looks at you again and his insides whirl. I am upset for my mother.

Daemon Targaryen can see plainly what you are doing.

You've always hated that about men with good insight, who do not care for what is between your legs, only for your actions. For what it might do for what he cares about.

And Daemon cares for Rhaenyra, for Viserys, for the Targaryen legacy, pure and untainted.

(As if the blood of the First Men is okay to bastardise his bloodline but gods forbid the oldest and greatest of the Great Houses).

And he is now looking at you as if he has noticed the steps and webs you have spun around for his stepson, the direct legacy, and he is amused.

The dinner comes to a conclusion to a small dancing, and your twin, dutiful to you and your orders you had told him as you cleaned and prepared him for dinner; stood up, brushed himself off, and politely asked Baela for a dance— the latter looking so surprised he was fully sober, much less asking for her hand — that she found no excuse, and reluctantly accepted as they pivoted to the centre.

As Daemon continues to look at you, to unravel you as if you are an enemy in a battle map, you stand up quickly and turn to Aemond, smile wide and fake.

Jacaerys won't ask you to dance. He had drawn looks with his compliment, suspicion. Grandsire was right, they are planning to marry him off to Baela to strengthen their cause. Jace will not entertain anything anymore publicly.

Duty bound, honour bound.

But, but, but.

you are not a fool, you know men and their pissing contests. You are a daydream hiding a nightmare.

For the past few minutes, he had noticed Daemon's inquisitive, amused appraisal of you, and his brown eyes (pretty for a bastard's; Ser Harwin's lashes must have been long) had burned a different fire and it gives you an idea, an exhale of relief.

Jealousy can salvage anything.

You just need to push him.

And Aemond is beautiful, a true Valyrian King in visage, the Warrior come alive. You look so much softer when you are beside him.

"Sister?" Aemond looks up at you, curious, confused since the beginning of the night. There is a plot he isn't privy to, and he has been spearing glances at you, at Aegon, at his grandsire just in case he knew anything.

You were unmarried while Aegon had married Helaena. Your time is coming, and he loathes the idea of a betrothal to the Strong Bastard. He had made his complaints known when the missive came from your sister, asking sweet Helaena's hand for your son thinking your mother would have surely betrothed you to your twin.

Neither side knowing you had almost sent back your name, offering your hand.

"It has been a while since you had asked me to dance, little brother," you say, hands behind your back, framing yourself soft and playful. There are so many gazes on you, you play with it well.

"I was ten and one then, mandia sister, a boy."

"Too long," you tease. "Kessa ao daor lilagon lēda aōha mandia, valonqar? Will you not dance with your sister, little brother?"

He hums, acquiescing easily, and standing up. You peel a laughter that attracts a chuckle from the king. This is how you dance around the palm of Viserys I. Men like it when you play a part. Not to cost trouble, not to step over the line.

You aren't the elder sister, the firstborn child. You are means to further a line, not to have any important position. Rhaenyra is the exception only from the womb that bore her. You, like Helaena, are likened to fall in line and act like you like it. Like being a fat, old lord's wife has always been your dream. Bear his babes and suffer the trauma of hanging your life in the balance to produce them into the world.

It makes you burn with rage most days.

"What are you doing, mandia sister?" Aemond whispers against your cheek after having brought you close, dancing through the steps swiftly, keenly. It truly is a shame that Aemond doesn't dance oft.

"Won't you just believe and put your faith in the sister that you adore?" you snipe playfully. It's easy to use Aemond's hair to hide the glance you drop Jacaerys and see the seething glare he burns through your baby brother's head. Lust, yearn, jealousy— they dance and cook in his gaze. You giggle despite yourself.

"Grandsire will not allow you to marry that bastard," Aemond hums, unable to hide his irritation. You roll your eyes. Clever little brothers.

"As much love as I can grasp from my heart for our grandsire, valonqar, I am a dragon. I will take what I want. A tower is nothing to dragonfire. Grandsire oft forgets I am a princess of the realm and he is only a lord." You step back and bow as the song ends, as your father tires and wishes to go to bed. He only stays this long, or even leaves his chambers, when Rhaenyra decides to deign Kings Landing with her presence.

Always more for the heir. More effort, more love, more care.

And what is left for the other daughters of Viserys I?

He remembers Helaena's existence less, and if you do not make it a point to visit him everyday— to entertain him, read to him, laugh at being mistaken for Rhaenyra — you are sure you will be nothing more than a faint dream to him.

Your anger licked dark and green. Inside, it rages.

You watch as Jacaerys Velaryon says something to his mother, a rushed farewell, an excuse— a press of your fingers against your lips as you catch his breeches are tight, that his jaw is clenched — you step closer to Aemond once more, Aegon now drifting away from Baela and back into your orbit.

"Don't worry, little brother, I do not actually desire the Strong bastard. I want his crown."

Aegon giggles breathlessly, eyeing as Aemond's eye widen a fraction before he composes himself. "And what do you need now, sister, to accomplish such a beguilingly easy task?" Aegon snorts softly. There is only a faint scent of alcohol on him. You take it as win. "He's like a green boy from a quick flash of your chest. What more your tits in full display?" He leans close, mean and adorable. "You do not want a husband who is too quick for your own pleasure."

You swat his arm, pinching the soft flesh of his stomach before Aemond fully throttles him.

"Watch your tongue," Aemond hisses, fists clenching.

"It is okay. I take no offense, he is just being silly to rile you up," you placate him, pulling your twin closer to you just as Helaena approaches, shuffling close to your other side, burying her head against your collarbone. You hum, letting her quietly choose which physical affection she can take from you.

The four Green children, missing one. Scales of the dragon they may have, green fire burning from their maws. The four Green children, miss one. Sons and daughters of Viserys I. Nothing more than wombs and seeds for his legacy.

You finally turn to Daemon's probing stare and you keep it. "Keep his family away from him," you whisper to your siblings. You do not care if he understands. At this point, even your grandsire may have an idea for your plots.

And for the crown, for his lineage, no ambition is too small.

If he can send your mother to an old, grieving man after he had butchered his first wife, what ease it is to send a granddaughter willing to dance a scandal?

"I need him alone tonight."

You do not come to him immediately, more than knowing what he is doing. Maegor's Holdfast is a fun little place, with its secrets and tunnels. You had already studied the path to his apartments beforehand, and you are there, against the hidden way, hearing him fuck his fist to the vision of you, your name dripping and spitting from his pretty red lips.

You catching him after the high, chest up and down breathing hard. There is a self-loath, a disgust. You can just read his thoughts. When you enter, he is alarmed, a sword in his hand, guarded replaced to shock at the sight of you.

"Aunt," he whispers, appalled. Lustful. Righteous.

You tilt your head, unsmiling. You guard your thoughts as you approach, hands behind your back, voice soft. "Do you always reach to completion with my name in your tongue, nephew, or is today an exception?"

Jacaerys Velaryon flinches, sword hand dipping. "I—"

You are close, a hair's breadth away. Amusingly, he is struggling with himself. His honour in one hand, his desire in another. He wants to leap away from you and pull you close.

His choice is still open.

You answer for him.

"Would you like to know whose name falls from my lips when I reach completion?" you whisper against his lips. So close but still so far. Your fists are clenched behind your back, nails drawing blood. You cannot fail now. The Rogue Prince might be wandering now, ready to yank you or kill you.

You are a viper in a vipper's nest, and Daemon Targaryen is too late to realise you only want one true victim.

Jacaerys is drawn, the shock of your words melting to make way for the flutter of his eyes and the full shudder of his body as you lick a strip across his bottom lip, staining him.

Break yourself for me, Strong Boy, you think as he opens his eyes and stares at your lips. Break your oaths, your promises.

"Whose?" he asks, voice hoarse.

The surrender is at the hands he has brought first to your hips before he rose it slowly up and up, until his warm palms cupped your jaw, your face, swallowed in his hold. It is a delight to know his hands are bigger than your face, that he is told to tower over you. A boy king grown.

"Yours."

He groans but does not let you go. "I am betrothed."

You still. Such a Good, Strong Boy, resisting until the very fucking end. "I have not heard of such announcements, nephew."

"Mother will announce soon."

"Is that what you want then?" You grip his hands and stride forward until your are chest to chest. Until he can feel every outline of your body against his, until you can feel the hard line of his manhood against your stomach. Until he feels his own body breaking his oath.

"Please, Jace," you whisper, you beg. Your eyes begin to water. "I want you to take me... Only you. I have longed for you for so long. Your mother— my sister betrothed you to me first." He leans back, surprise flitting. "Yes, my love. But my mother had refused. I— I thought you would see it nevertheless. The affection in my gaze, the smile I give only to you. That I am offering my heart, my soul, my body to you. Only to you, Jacaerys."

Your tears are running down now, your voice so soft and so desperate. Where lust had clouded him, it is now tinged with a flattered adoration.

Men are so simple. Boys far simpler.

"I thought you knew," you say at last in a voice as broken as your heart. You take his hands away and step back. He grasps but you turn away, a sob wracks from your chest as fake as when you were a child, trying not to get in trouble with your mother so she can fire the septa that you hated. She had sneered at Aegon's drunken folly and was disgusted by Aemond's fresh wound.

You wanted her gone.

"Aunt, I—"

"It is alright," you cut him off. You turn back slightly, your smile watery, your gaze to the floor. "Aegon did not choose me either, unlovable as I am. Men only want me for my body and nothing more. I-I'll leave you be. Good night—"

You never finish your spiel because he had yanked you, hard, against him, his lips moving against yours— clumsily, not enough practice but aggressive in its desire — pressing you against him as if he is trying to swallow you whole.

Jacaerys is not bowing, not yet. But that night with his seed warm and full inside your womb, his body encased against your own, tightening whenever you made a movement, as if in fear any step you take away from him would slip you so freely from his fingers— his mouth, his lips, bruised by your own making, pressing featherlight soft against the side of your head, your hair — it is not too soon to think the boy king will bend the knee to you and only you.

And maybe the babe you bear him, but there is no need to rush. These steps are delicate but sure.

After all, he has only just cemented the thought that he will whisk you both to Dragonstone at first light, a traditional Old Valyrian wedding.

He will bow soon enough.

For now, you will enjoy your glowing win.

[flamingpudding]

The Ghost King is my Uncle Drabbles #2

A/N: Some more linked to a prompt week writing I did

>>Masterpost

Original this builds on: Link

Rowdy Cousin

Batman swore internally, from the outside he stoically sat in his chair and did nothing to indicate the absolute chaos that was going on in his mind. The Meeting rooms light flickered and the speakers once more started up loudly blaring a song all over the Watchtower. He was pretty sure one of his sons had told him once that playing that song was a meme.

"Someone do something about that kid! He is Rickrolling us!" Green Lantern screamed above the music.

"Constantine is already trying to do something." Superman's hands covering his sensitive ears as the music must sound to him even louder.

Batman very much only looped one thought in his head. -It's only for world ending purpose, I cannot use it right now.-

He had a responsibility to uphold, he was the patriarch of the earth branch family. This was not something that required him to use that. No he would not use it. He refused. This was not a world ending matter. Surely Constantine or anyone else of the Justice League Dark would solve this problem any second now.

The screens flicker and Batman did anything he could in his mind to not let his eye twitch even if no one would be able to see it. Cat videos were playing where second earlier statistics and observatory programs had been running.

No he would not, they could handle this problem no need to involve family.

The music stopped and some of his hero colleagues let out a relieved sigh only for a familiar laugh to echo through the watchtower and a new song starting to play. One that apparently counts all 100 dumb ways to die.

"Why is Klarion even targeting the watchtower like this?!" The Flash shouted over the lyrics before turning to him.

"Did one of your kids piss him off or something?!"

"No." At least not as far as he knew, though considering the recent discovery as well as the surprise visits his uncle had done lately he might have a guess why the witch boy was targeting them right now. Didn't mean he would elaborate this reason to the other heroes present.

Before Wonder Woman could comment John Constantine stormed in the room and slammed his hands down onto the table staring right at Batman with blood shot eyes. "Call him."

"Who?"

"Don't play fucking dumb bats. You know who I mean. This is not the witch brat alone. There is another entity and if you don't want the fucking watchtower crashing into earth you call him right now."

"Bats, he is not talking about who I think he is?" Superman carefully asked while the other heroes looked at him just as questionable.

He held his staring contest with Constantine a little longer before he grunted and reached into his utility belt pulling out a small bat-shaped pendant. A personalized upgraded calling card, his uncle had gifted to him as well as each of his children and extended family members.

This was not how he imagined a meeting in regards to his new discoveries and a possible sure fire contingency plan against world ending emergencies would go. He rubbed his thumb against the engraving waiting for a short moment for it to pulse, before tapping the pendant three times, paused and tapped it two more times. This was a non-emergency call, even if his colleagues might disagree.

He still thought they could very well handle this situation without the help of his uncle.

"BABY BAT, YOU CALLED THIS IS THE FIRST TIME YOU DID!"

The present heroes watched in stunned fashion how a white haired, 20 years old man stepped out of a green portal and instantly zoomed across the room to hug THE Batman around his head rubbing his cheek against the bat's cowl mindful of the pointy parts.

And Batman was letting the man do that only looking resigned.

"We agreed that I would only call on you with this pendant for emergencies."

The white haired man only hummed before his head turned sharply and green glowing eyes narrowed at Constantine, who visibly paled and took a step back standing straight and looking very much like he regretted what he had asked Batman to do. "Trading game is not being rude to you is he?"

The bat only grunted and the white haired man finally let go of him, humming as he took in his surroundings, eyes glinting in mischievously as he saw the flickering lights, animal videos on screen and heard the blaring music over the speaker. "When I okey-ed Klarion to go playing with his cousins I didn't think he would seek you two out. He had been talking about his older cousins starting another game of 'who's the better demon lord' in different dimensions. I thought he was joining their bet."

Wait did he say two? Batman grunted and the white haired guy chuckled. "I will be back in a second."

Not even the Flash could react as fast as the white haired man disappeared and reappeared with Klarion next to him. Clearly pulling on the witch boy's ear like a father would when their child had been naughty. The flickering lights and blaring of music over the speakers had stopped.

"Ow DAD what in the name of chaos are you doing here."

"Your Cousin called me. You are disturbing his work and risking them crashing into earth with Technus' help."

"YOU SNITCHED TO MY DAD?!"

"Hn."

"Technus get out of their network or I will lock you up on a Medieval Island for three decades."

As if the present heroes weren't confused enough a face appeared on one of the screens. Glaring at the white haired man. "You wouldn't dare."

"Watch me, if you stay in there any longer. I will also dig out the old thermos and soup you additionally for a decade or more."

The face on screen grumbled and the heroes nearly flinched back as a ghostly, green skinned man came out of it, looking every bit frustrated and annoyed. "I was just getting a good look at this modern technology, you have banned me from any big shot Industries…"

"We had that discussion 100 years ago, Technus. Back to the Ghost Zone." The white haired man commanded by opening a portal next to them with the wave of his hand and surprisingly, the green skinned guy listened.

"Sorry about this Baby Bat and Little Demi. Klarion will be grounded for a bit and re-educated in how to bond without risking potentially killing any bystanders. Oh and remember I will come by later for Baby Ghost to get his checkup with Frostbite!"

"Dad, please no grounding! Anything but that!"

"I am sure your Grandpa will be happy to have your help during your grounding."

"Dad! NO! I don't want to keep time in order! I live for chaos not order!"

The man was just smiling and completely ignoring Klarion's complains as he turned towards Batman and Wonder Woman, for reasons the hero's didn't understand.

"Well we will be on our way then Baby Bat, Little Demi!"

Batman grunted and the white haired man chuckled, leaving through the portal and dragging along a whining Klarion, who apparently was that man's son.

Just before the portal closed, the man stuck his head back out looking towards Wonder Woman with a mischievous smile. "Oh before I forget! Pops Clockwork sents his regards Little Demi . He doesn't want me saying this, but he is glad about the path you choose. Says you're set on a pretty good timeline!"

The head disappeared into the portal again and it finally closed. Wonder Woman was left blinking at the empty space, her mouth slightly open with the silent question of "What?"

"Bats, who was that?" The Flash was the first to break the silence that had followed as eyes turned to the dark knight.

"His Uncle." / "The Ghost King."

Superman and Constantine spoke at the same time. The JLD member flinched back as he looked at the glowering bat. Muttering something the man took his leave or rather escaped the room as quickly as possible as Batman kept glaring. Meanwhile Wonder Woman was slowly having a crisis of her own as suddenly family relations that had been hinted to her through Pandora made sense. "Clockwork... no, Titan Cronus? The Ghost King... Uncle Daniel?"

Chaos broke among the present heroes.

"WHAT UNCLE?!"