#glazy

[biscuit-and-jam]

told myself if I grinded comp and won that moon knight skin, I would let myself change my name to this ridiculous shit... guess who got to gold babyyy

[freightertonowhere]

ok I know the common thing said about kendrick lamar (especially on this site) is that he's a generational hater. sure that’s true, but his legacy should be way more than that. kendrick lamar is the greatest storyteller and possibly the greatest Artist of our generation.

yeah yeah that's a big statement. but no one in pop culture is doing it like him. it's not even close. people often say that he's the only rapper to win a Pulitzer, but really he's the only artist in ANY non-classical genre to win it. and it's so deserved!

his discography feels like an ongoing novel with a consistent core theme: navigating the duality of human nature while searching for salvation (which assumes different meanings and forms across each album). and in this novelistic discography, kendrick has the classic character flaw of pride. at best, this trait allows him to pursue ambitious creative endeavors, and at worst, it fuels a self-destructive savior complex. the dualities he navigates range from overt good/evil war/peace dichotomies to subtextual competing motivations

along the way, he addresses complex topics of institutional racism, survivors guilt, generational trauma, self esteem, and much more- all while making bangers and talking his shit. he strikes a complicated balance of addressing these issues without seeming too preachy because he filters the sociopolitical thought the personal. any commentary is delicately woven into his character and his search for salvation. you get the sense that he's absorbing the world around him with eyes wide open, even if you don't fully agree with his conclusions or how he conveys what he sees

and gnx represents an interesting point in the novel of his discography where he DID finally find salvation- in himself and his pen- and unflinchingly declared 'I deserve it all.' from a narrative perspective, I wonder if the core theme will shift moving forward as his salvation brings him dangerously close to his self-described weaknesses, or if the lessons he’s learned along the way will lead him elsewhere

other point's I can't figure out how to integrate into this essay:

we often view vulnerability in songwriting as telling a really personal and often difficult story, which kendrick does but then takes a step further. he's not afraid to show the worst parts of himself or use his own hypocrisy as a muse. it's really hard to apply modern social media-driven morality tests to him bc he'll often get to the point first

his fans try to decode his his art like he’s the zodiac killer, but the reason they feel like there’s more than meets the eye is because there is. he DOES use layers of subtle storytelling and imagery to convey an idea

people can and do interpret his work in many ways and still be correct because great art is subjective and we process it individually. that’s why scholars can analyze a great novel or composition for a century

he’s very very good at rapping. like that halftime performance was not normal

tldr: if you're just finding out about kendrick through the beef then please go check out his music! you're in for some great generational art!

[utopiasbrood]

The Trolls I designed for OCtober this year!! I didn't finish the matching Set of Humans, but They're there too haha. Everyone is purposefully over designed for my usual standards because they're more for me to play with like dolls then to draw a lot. I have vauge story plans for them and I'm excited to see how things pan out with them!

[owlshellaxy]

J.Co dan Museum Teman Baik.🍩🔖

[itsukia]

Back to experimenting w new glazes I'm alive agaiiiin

[siddyyyyyyyy]

Desire — I'm Hungry

Logan Howlett x Mutant!Reader

MDNI wc: 0.6 K summary: Logan goes feral for your unique mutations. warnings: smut, no y/n used, riding, praise, subby Logan a/n: something possesed me again. Hope you enjoy!!

Your pitch-black wings fluttered as you settled on Logan‘s cock, trying to take it all in one go, but he makes sure that you don‘t rush yourself.

With soft pants, you try to calm your breathing but it‘s almost impossible with how his hands keep caressing your feather-filled back, making you even more flustered.

»C‘mon, baby, don‘t rush… I‘ve got ya,« he murmurs against your shoulders, keeping his hands at your back to try and support you more on his lap. With a few final whimpers, you are seated on him fully and still. Logan takes the opportunity to run his hands across your back again, relishing in the soft feathers that run down your spine and muscles.

You always noticed that he seemed to like your mutation the most, always catching him staring across the room or even catch a glimpse of his twitching fingers at his sides, aching to touch you.

So, of course, the moment he gets some alone time with you, he won‘t waste a minute to pounce at you and get his hands all over. Tonight, it seemed like he was extra needy. Logan finally got to tell you about the admiration he holds for your unique features that come from your mutation; a crow hybrid.

A very fascinating thing in Logan‘s mind. And he calls himself a lucky man for having you all for himself. Such rich wings that shine in the sun should be cherished. He tries not to overwhelm himself with your beauty and mysterious looks.

He can‘t help himself whenever his hands land on your wings, gently caressing them while he controls his breathing under you.

Finally, what seemed like an eternity to you, you grind your hips into his own, cock sitting heavily inside of you, throbbing with need. But Logan doesn‘t seem too affected, breathing in your scent from the crook of your neck while he holds onto your hips. A low growl leaves him at the added friction, not quite getting what he needs, but he doesn‘t want to rush you for now.

»Fuck— « you pull your hips up, »ngh— darl‘,« sitting back down with full force. His head falls back, he has to pull himself together so he won‘t hammer his hips into you. Sighing out heavily, he makes sure to watch as you fuck yourself open on him and get a steady rhythm.

Using him as your support, your hands land on Logan‘s broad shoulders, leaning into him so you can properly ride on him. His eyes swell, becoming glazy while he lets you use him as you like. The room starts to fill with heavy pants from the both of you, low groans and slight whimpers. Your rhythm becomes faster with time, making your thighs tremble on his sides.

»Yeah, baby, jus‘ like that...«

Sharp fingernails digging into his scarred skin, making him groan in ecstasy. You near your orgasm, clenching around him as your light eyes find a bright edge to it, almost shining in the dimmed room. Logan catches the glimpse of it, hips bucking into your own unvoluntary.

That was enough to push you over the edge, feathers fluttering subtly as you cry out for him. Praises fall from his lips like a silent prayer, guiding you through the intense shockwave before you calm down. Settling against his shoulder, you hug him around his neck, releasing him from your long nails. Catching your breath, the room settles into a comfortable silence before he speaks up.

»Tired yet?« »Not for long.«

a/n: Sorry this came out short, I don't usually write for X-Men, but lately..... Anyway, thanks for reading and I apologise for making it short.

[crystal-to-bloom]

Chapter 4: Something Like Family

Grayson family x child reader

𝟙, 𝟚, 𝟛, 𝟛.𝟝, 𝟜, 𝟝

The house was warm and quiet — almost too quiet. The scent of cinnamon and chamomile tea lingered in the air. Somewhere in the background, the radio played softly, its voice distant and unfocused, as if not wanting to disturb the fragile silence.

Debbie stood by the stove, pouring hot water into a teapot of chamomile. It was her way of trying to feel in control — of the moment, of herself, of whatever was happening in the next room. But her thoughts kept slipping upstairs… to that room where, just a few hours ago, something unknown had hatched.

And now that something was lying in her son’s lap.

Debbie stepped out of the kitchen, cradling her mug in both hands, and peeked carefully into the living room.

Mark was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out, face deeply focused. Curled up in his lap, wrapped in an old blanket printed with faded robots, was a tiny figure. White and turquoise hair spilled like a fan over the fabric. Two little horns peeked from under soft strands. A tail, the same pale color, was wrapped loosely around one of Mark’s legs, twitching gently with each breath.

“…and triceratops had these really big horns, you know?” Mark whispered. “But he wasn’t mean. He ate plants. Like a cow. And cows don’t bite. They just lick.”

The little one didn’t respond. But she listened. Her eyes were half-lidded — not fully asleep, not fully awake. Sometimes she blinked, and every time she did, Mark smiled like it was a gift. Her tail gave a little flick. Her ears twitched ever so slightly. It all seemed to say: I hear you. I’m here.

Debbie stood quietly in the doorway. Her heart tightened with a strange, warm anxiety. She didn’t understand why the sight moved her so deeply. It was… wrong. Strange. Impossible.

But also beautiful.

— “He’s calling her she,” — Debbie whispered to herself. “Like she’s already one of us.”

She walked in slowly and sat down on the couch. The mug warmed her hands, but the warmth inside her came from somewhere else entirely.

— “Mark” she said gently.

— “Yeah?”

— “Aren’t you scared of her?”

He looked at her, almost surprised by the question.

— “No. She’s cute. Like a kitten. Just… weird”

— “Very weird,” Debbie chuckled, leaning back against the sofa.

Mark went quiet for a moment, his eyes still on the little girl. His expression shifted — thoughtful, serious, like he was seeing something deeper in her than just a strange creature.

— “Are you gonna be her mom?”

A simple question. Childlike. No pressure. But something clicked in Debbie’s chest, like a gear that hadn’t turned in years.

— “I… I don’t know, Mark”

— “If you don’t want to… I can”

Debbie laughed. Not nervously — truly laughed, with warmth. It was her first real laugh in days. And it helped.

— “You think you’re up for that?”

— “Sure! I’ll be a great big brother. I’ll teach her how to draw… and tell her everything about dinosaurs. Even ankylosaurs”

Tiya shifted slightly. Her nose scrunched up, a quiet breath escaped her lips, and suddenly a thin line of frost crept across the edge of the blanket. The air cooled for just a moment, but neither of them flinched.

— “She did it again” Mark whispered.

— “Yeah,” Debbie replied softly. “But she doesn’t seem afraid of us.”

Mark sat up straighter, looking down at her.

— “She needs a name”

— “A name?” Debbie raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it a little soon?”

— “No. She’s already here”

He started listing names: Luna, Snowflake, Glazy, Izzy, even Sky. Debbie winced at every second one. Then she paused.

— “Y/n?”

The little one let out a tiny hiccup, her ears twitched, and her tail gave a sleepy sway. Another faint shimmer of cold passed through the air.

Mark froze.

— “Did you hear that? She likes it.”

Debbie whispered it again:

— “Y/n”

And then… the baby opened her eyes. A soft, turquoise glow lit them from within — gentle, not blinding, but unmistakably alive. She looked at them — first at Mark, then at Debbie. And then… she smiled.

It was small, uncertain. And at the corners of her lips, tiny, sharp teeth glinted like ice.

— “Hello, y/n” Debbie murmured. “Welcome home.”

Y/n sneezed — a puff of frost escaped her mouth — and then she giggled. She rubbed her cheek against the blanket, then pressed her forehead gently to Mark’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her, not knowing that in that moment, he was making a choice. He just knew — she didn’t feel like a stranger.

Zubble, the plush dinosaur, lay beside them. Y/n curled up against it and Mark both, nestling into a tight, peaceful ball.

And Debbie, still holding her mug, watched them — her son, and the icy little girl with trembling ears full of joy — and thought that maybe… maybe family doesn’t begin with blood.

Maybe it begins with acceptance.

Nolan touched down softly outside the house, silent as falling snow. The porch light was on, casting a warm glow across the steps. He paused before opening the door, his hand hovering just above the handle.

The meeting with Cecil had left his thoughts tangled. The Global Defense Agency had detected something strange—energy fluctuations, subtle but growing, centered around his home. Cecil hadn’t said it outright, but his expression had been clear: You’re hiding something, Nolan. And I don’t like it.

And maybe, Nolan thought grimly, he was

He opened the door

The house was quiet. Not empty, but filled with a strange, unfamiliar stillness. The air smelled faintly of chamomile and cinnamon. Somewhere in the background, a radio murmured, its voice distant, like it didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace.

Nolan stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

He hung up his coat, his thoughts still spinning from the meeting with Cecil — words, silences, half-hints. Something unsettling in the man’s tone. But now… unease came from somewhere else. From within the house.

He heard Mark’s voice.

“…and if you want, I can show you the pictures. I have a dinosaur book — you’ll like the ankylosaurus!”

Nolan moved down the hallway, slow and careful. Mark’s voice was warmer now, filled with joy — but he was talking to someone. And no neighbors had been over. No guests.

He stepped into the living room — and froze.

Mark sat on the floor, legs stretched out, a look of complete focus on his face. Curled up on his lap was a small figure wrapped in a faded blanket with old robot prints. Wisps of white and turquoise hair spilled over the fabric. Two tiny horns peeked out from the strands. A tail curled around Mark’s leg, gently twitching with each breath.

Nolan stiffened. His breath caught.

He took a step forward — and at that moment, the creature looked up at him.

Her eyes were turquoise. Bright, otherworldly, and yet… aware.

A dragon. A girl. A being.

She stared straight at him.

“You’re back,” Debbie said softly. She was sitting on the couch, strangely calm. As if this sight didn’t surprise her anymore. “We thought you’d be later”

“Who is she?” Nolan’s voice came rough, caught between disbelief and something heavier.

“She’s… her. From the egg.”

He turned to look at Debbie. Then back at the girl. He had expected something — a monster, a threat, something unexplainable. But not this. Not this quiet, almost tender image of his son holding a childlike creature with sleepy eyes and trembling ears.

“She looks like… a child”

“Because she is a child” Debbie said.

The girl blinked once. Then — yawned. A soft puff of frost left her lips.

Something in Nolan's chest tightened.

He knew she wasn’t Viltrumite. But she was different. And he didn’t know whether to fear her — or himself, for the part of him that didn’t want her here.

“You knew?” Debbie asked, not accusing. “That she was alive?”

He looked at her. Long and hard. Then finally nodded.

“I… had a feeling. But I didn’t know it would be this”

Mark looked up at his father and smiled.

“Dad, this is y/n”

The name settled in the room like snow.

Tiya turned her gaze to Nolan again. Not as an enemy. Not as a threat. Just… someone who was supposed to be there.

“Is she yours?” Debbie asked. “You found her. You brought her home. But now… she’s here”

Nolan stood still, like crossing into the room would mean crossing into something bigger. His eyes held something tangled — guilt, fear, confusion. And something else, too. Something quiet. Something warm.

He didn’t answer. Just stepped forward and knelt beside Mark.

Y/n reached out. Her hand landed on his.

It was cold. And small. And real.

Nolan exhaled — and for the first time that day, he stopped thinking

Chapter 5

( I didn't expect to get 100 likes on chapter 2. To be real, I didn't even expect 10 likes at all (^○^)

i'm very glad you like it ( ≧∀≦)ノ

i hope you like this part too :3)

[midnightquips]

What We Never Were

Jake Seresin x Reader

Summary: Y/N needs a fake boyfriend for her sister’s wedding. Jake Seresin, her childhood best friend, is all too happy to play the part—until pretending starts to feel dangerously real. One bed. Old feelings. A week of dancing around the truth. She thinks he’s out of reach. He’s just been waiting for her to see him.

Themes: fake dating, bestfriends to lovers, pining, slow burn, fluff

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, jealousy, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

💫 What We Never Were Masterlist 📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Author's note: HAPPY MONDAY & Finally SMUT!!!!! I always feel really unsure posting smut. I just feel I don't write it very well so please do let me know your thoughts.

Chapter 4

Part IV – You Were Always Mine

Your back hits the bedroom door with a soft thud, the sound muffled by Jake’s mouth crashing into yours again. There’s no hesitation now—just hands and breath and heat. He kisses like a man deprived of oxygen, like your mouth was the only source of life. Every kiss feels like he’s making up for every night he stayed silent, every time he didn’t say what he felt. A silent confession with every stroke of his tongue against yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against your lips, voice hoarse. “Tell me you want me.”

You grab his face, kiss him harder, and whisper, “I want you, Jake. I’ve always wanted you.”

That’s all he needs.

His fingers are already tugging at the zipper of your dress. “Take this off,” he growls, voice dark and rough in your ear. “Now.”

You tremble as you reach behind you, sliding the zipper down, the dress loosening instantly. Jake steps back just long enough to watch it fall to the floor. His eyes drink you in—hungry, reverent. His tongue drags over his bottom lip slowly. 

You’re in barely anything but lace and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees.

You bite your lower lip. “You’re still overdressed.”

Jake smirks. He tugs off his coat first, then unbuttons his shirt. You watch his hand drift down to unbutton his pants and your mouth involuntarily opens. Eyes glazy, breath held. Just knowing the anticipation is reciprocated has Jake on the edge.

Once he steps out of his pants, he immediately grabs your waist one more and lifts you like you weigh nothing. Your legs instinctively wrap around him. He kisses you again—deep, possessive—while carrying you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re precious. Like you’re his.

Because you are.

“Jesus, Y/N,” he whispers. “you’re unreal. I’ve thought about this—about you—for so damn long.”

Jake’s mouth trails down your neck, your collarbone, between your breasts. He doesn’t rush—he lingers, kissing the underside of each breast, sucking lightly until you’re gasping. He murmurs things between each kiss—

“So soft… so sweet for me...”

You writhe under him, heat pulsing between your legs, every word tightening the coil inside you. His kisses move lower while his hands stroke your hips, your thighs, reverent and possessive.

He lightly kisses your inner thigh, to tease,then bites down just enough to make you gasp.

“I want to hear you beg, baby,” he says, voice dark. “You’re gonna ask me for it. Let me hear how much you need me.”

Your lips part, already whimpering. “Please, Jake. I need you. I need your mouth—need to feel you—please.”

He grins against your skin. “That’s my girl.”

You arch under him, a moan slipping out, your fingers tangling in his hair as his mouth reaches the lace between your thighs.

He pauses, eyes meeting yours.

“Admit you’ve been thinking about this too.” he murmurs, lips grazing the edge of your panties.

You nod, breathless.

“Good,” he growls, “because I’m about to ruin you for anyone else.”

His mouth is on you before you can answer, his tongue sliding against your clit, slow and devastating. Your hips jerk, but his strong hands pin you open, keep you right where he wants you.

“Stay still, baby,” he murmurs, his tongue flicking expertly. “Wanna make you fall apart on my tongue.”

You gasp, clutching the sheets, helpless under the rhythm of his mouth. The heat builds fast—too fast. You try to warn him, but he doesn’t let up.

“Jake–GOD!” You come hard, thighs trembling around his head, a strangled cry muffled against your arm.

But Jake doesn’t stop.

He slides two fingers inside you, curling expertly, his mouth back on your clit. You sob out his name.

“Again,” he says, voice like gravel. “I want to see you fall apart for me again.”

You do. It rushes through you like a wave, your whole body clenching, falling, spiraling. And still, he doesn’t let up.

Your second orgasm hits you before you even realize it’s coming. You’re shaking, wrung out, tears in your eyes from the intensity. Jake finally pulls back, wiping his mouth, eyes blazing. “Fucking perfect. Better than I dreamed. Makes me wanna keep you here forever, just like this.”

You reach for him, desperate. “Jake—please.”

He quickly removes his boxers and moves over you, settling between your thighs. Stroking his cock, he runs the head through your slick folds, groaning low.

“No condom,” you gasp.

He stills, eyes searching yours.

“I’m on the pill,” you whisper. “I want to feel you.”

Jake’s jaw tightens like he’s holding back.

“Christ,” he breathes. “You’re gonna be the death of me. You know how long I’ve dreamed of this?”

He pushes in slowly, stretching you inch by inch, watching every part of you open for him. You both gasp.

“Sweetheart,” he groans. “You’re so fucking tight. Like you were built for me.”

You grip his shoulders, nails digging in as he bottoms out, full and perfect and overwhelming. He starts to move—deep, slow thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you.

He kisses you again, more gently this time. “You feel that?” he whispers. “That’s me. That’s what it feels like when something’s real.”

You moan his name, your hands sliding up into his hair. He groans as your walls flutter around him.

“Mine,” he pants, fucking into you deeper now. “You’ve always been mine.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back. He holds your face, watching you unravel beneath him.

“You belong to me,” he growls. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Jake.”

He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers with his as he keeps moving inside you. Your eyes lock with his, and it’s too much. The intimacy. The emotion.

“Don’t ever run from this again,” he says, voice cracking.

You don’t answer with words.

You flip onto your stomach, rising onto your knees. He takes the hint immediately, hands gripping your hips, guiding himself back in. He thrusts deep, hard. The angle has you crying out, fingers clawing the sheets.

One hand slides around your front, rubbing your clit in tight, ruthless circles.

You fall apart again—your third, trembling orgasm ripping through you like a storm.

Jake holds on just long enough to follow, slamming deep one final time as he spills inside you with a hoarse, broken moan.

He slumps over you, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, your back, your neck. You both collapse sideways, tangled in each other.

His chest is still heaving, his face buried in your hair.

“You’re mine, Y/N Y/L/N,” he whispers again. “You always have been.”

And for the first time—you believe it.

You don’t argue. You just pull the covers over both of you and press your forehead to his.

“Yours,” you whisper back.

And fall asleep with his arms around you.

Taglist: @kvmitchell @mrsevans90 @natureartisian @purplefluffycows @eolsens @lunatygerqueen @deadlybeauty16 @ronniesreverie @anony1080 @vicky199625 @teacupsandtopgun @dizzybee03 @stillinracooncity @7dreambaby @pogueprincesa @jackiehollanderr @cozyjess @mrsnikolestan @midnighttithe @Lynnevanss @laserpente @cheyrenee @malindacath @girlypopmymelody @antheiagoddessofnarnia @yellowjm @itllbefineeeeee @dancethroughthethunder @ravenmourningstar @coldmuffinbanditshoe @ifilwtmfc @AnglophileForLife @violet-loves-to-write @itsmaytimetosaygoodbye

[bunnyinvanilla]

(I don't remember if I sent this kind of plot or not, but—) Bear hybrid!John x Baker! User, please ><

young bunny hybrid baker fem!reader x old man brown bear hybrid!john price, laaarge age gap as always cause its my sweet treat 🥧🍰🐻🐇 although i write about a bunny reader, this is my first fic where she’s an actual real rabbit hybrid!

”wha—what?”

john finally glanced back at you, darting his eyes away from the honey covered pastries behind the glass. your bunny ears perked up, a clear sign of curiosity, and even surprise.

a slow smile made its way through his dark, thick facial hair, even his fluffy, short brown bear ears tickled in response to your own surprise. “yeah, sweet thing. I’ll have all of your honey pastries, please.”

“but—“ you certainly hadn’t expected that. usually, the only large orders that you’d packed had been acts of big donations, preparation for big events or parties, but no one had ever ordered the entire selection of a specific pastry.

you blinked innocently, caught off guard, from behind the counter. that man was huge, a mountain body of a big, buff brown bear, imposing, muscular and broad. his facial hair was thick, dark and littered with gray in all the right spots. “are you sure? this is not a mean prank…right sir?”

he chuckled. you were the most adorable and sweet bunny he’d ever laid eyes on, your soft ears now were slightly downturned, a sign of hesitation, shyness and an innocent that smelled better than the treats you’d baked.

“no, sweet’heart, s’not a joke. gotta store up food at home for the hibernation” he spoke with quiet dominance, a tone of both confidence and tenderness, as if he was amused by your sweetness.

“oh, right..” you blushed, your cheeks red and warm, but you gave him a shy smile, realizing how silly your doubt must’ve sounded — he was a bear hybrid, obviously he’d have to store up some food for his long slumber, “right, sir, sorry, i’ll get them for you”

you leaped, almost jumped, to the back door, gathering as many paper bags as you could, and john’s eyes fell on your uniform skirt, catching sight of a soft, round white fluffy mass of fur on your lower back — your bunny tail, twitching with your every move.

a short, deep sound vibrated from his throat, like a low little growl of acknowledgment. you were sweet, small and delicate, with your red cheeks and twitching ears as you carefully packed the glazy pastries in the bags. you tried to mentally keep count of how many treats you were giving away, but you almost lost count.

he definitely loved honey, you thought. he remained silent, keeping an intense, attentive eye on you, making you flustered and embarrassed, trying to make haste. when you’d finished off filling those bags, your hands were sticky and smelled like honey, and you mindlessly brought one hand to your lips, licking away and sucking the honey off your fingertips.

john's ears twitched, it was almost imperceptible, but his eyes were glued on your fingers. he bet you tasted so much sweeter than honey, sugary and velvety. a young, too young, sweet little thing.

he tucked his hand in the pocket of his trousers, it was large, thick and hairy, and folded some money, that immediately seemed to be way too much more than the actual price he had to pay.

“thank you, doll. keep whatever change there’s left.”

you smiled kindly at him, “oh, thank you, sir—“ but immediately shut your lips when you opened your hands and saw how much money he’d given you. it was too much of a tip. “sir, it’s too much, i can’t accept it”

“of course you can, love, let this old man thank a sweet bunny like you properly” he muttered back, a deep, low and rough tone that fueled your blush, painting your whole face red.

you gently picked the bags and handed them over to him, fluttering your lashes at him with an innocent, gentle smile. “thank you so much, sir, hope you like them. come back if you do!”

he smirked, giving you a wink, noticing how your bunny ears turned backwards and your face flamed red. your heart fluttered and a rush of warmth spread over your belly, and he could smell it, in the midst of all that sugary air, coated with all kinds of cream, biscuits and cookies — your growing arousal.

when john walked outside of the little bakery, he opened the first bag, ready to indulge in one little treat before going home, but before his hand could dwell into it, he noticed a little thin note attached to the bag — he removed it, and his mustache twitched with entertainment when he saw a little sketch of winnie the pooh, next to a little ��thank you, come again!’ and your name, ending with a heart.

oh, he was definitely coming again. he wanted to taste more than just your pastries.

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

req'd by @leap-of-faithil

mmm brussie spouts

text: Lazy lazy balsamic-glazie

[sodaneko]

COLDER, CLOSER ; Oikawa x f!reader

“You’re always leaving,” you repeat and this time around your voice cracks as loud as your heart does.

contains: Oikawa x f!reader, hurt/comfort (more hurt than comfort tbh), ldr goodbyes, mild angst and a lot of yearning, not proofread bc this came over me like a fever dream

word count: 777 (angel number lets go)

“You’re always leaving, Tōru.”

It’s easy to say. So easy to let the words fall out of your mouth between two kisses. They’ve been scratching and clawing at the back of your throat the whole time, begging to be let out. You could turn them into a dagger, you think. Twisting them into his open palm, or carving your name on the walls of his heart. 

Make him hurt as much as his absence does. 

Oikawa sighs. He’s not annoyed, not by you. Never by you. He already knew this was coming, from the way your hand slipped from his grasp during the cab ride to the airport and your glazy eyes whenever you stole a glance at him. From the small wobble of your bottom lip and the crescent shaped marks you dig into the heels of your hand. 

“Don’t give me that now, sweet girl,” he murmurs and taps your chin, begging you to look at him. He sounds defeated, the usual chirp of his voice dying on his tongue like a broken record. There’s no use in putting up a mask in front of you; not when you can see right through him as if he was made of glass. 

When you refuse to do so, his hand wraps around your wrist, dragging you in a quieter corner of the airport. He’s caging you in between the wall and his broad figure and for a moment it’s like you’re both seventeen again and stealing kisses behind the club room before volleyball training starts. 

But you’re not teenagers anymore and all the love notes you exchanged in class sit in a box under your bed, together with a bunch of old boarding passes and wrapping paper from Argentine candy that Oikawa pushed between your lips before kissing you the first night you visited him on the other side of the world. 

“You’re always leaving,” you repeat and this time around your voice cracks as loud as your heart does. Your fingers twist into the front of his shirt, your head falling against his chest in defeat. Oikawa sighs a second time, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, pressing a few kisses to the sliver of skin there. 

“I’m always coming back to you, too,” he murmurs, knowing his solace is as hollow as your eyes when you glance back up at him. He thinks about the small velvet box that sits in his nightstand drawer back home, about the ring he got for you before he left for Argentina after high school. Sometimes he’s not even sure anymore if you’d say yes if he asked you now, or if it would only bring more tears to your eyes. 

Because in the end, he’s always the one leaving. 

“I hate loving you,” you murmur against his lips when you kiss him farewell, small hiccups making your hands on his cheeks tremble. Your kisses taste like salt and that one summer when nothing hurt. “Every time you take a piece of my heart with you and you never give it back.”

Oikawa wraps his arms tighter around you and kisses you back softly. He’s afraid either of you will shatter otherwise. 

“I’ll bring it back, if you’ll wait for me one more time?”, he rasps and draws your hand to his lips, kissing the back of it. His thumb rubs absentmindedly over your ring finger, and you cry a little harder, knowing you’d rather ruin your already bleeding heart some more than ever saying your final goodbye.

After all, it’s always been him and you, laying in the wild grass by the riverbank after school, cloud gazing and pinky promises and kisses that tasted like cherry cola. For one summer, you didn’t feel any pain when loving Tōru and maybe, if you hold onto it long enough, you can go back to how things once were. 

Maybe one day, you can love without swallowing shards again, without tearing yourself apart to make room for the absence of him, without looking at the sea and wishing it would take you. You could go back to how things were, and you’d realize he didn’t break all of his promises; he was just gone for a little while but he came back for you, right? You’d wake up like from a bad dream, and he’d be next to you, brushing your hair from your face and telling you that it’s all okay now, that he’s here, that he’s not going anywhere. 

You kiss him goodbye and the sweet taste of a lie lingers longer than he does.

a/n: did you know that i'm an oikawa kisser uwu

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[junedenim]

it's three in the morning

for the long haul

warnings: piv, eating, pregnancy piv, mild dad!alex, and probably some other stuff too

word count: 8.8k

There was an attitude when you first met that you each would hold a sense of permanence in each other's lives. It wasn't completely romantic at first. You and Alex met through a series of shared friends.

This was 2013 and you were both otherwise occupied with separate relationships. His was longer and much more stable. Yours was a short passionate fury that ended by early 2014. Coincidentally, as did his.

But still, it wasn't a direct rebound. He was touring and when the band stopped in New York—your home at the time—you stuck around at the after-party with Alex. Nothing much happened there other than a questionable conversation three rounds in.

"It's all speeding up," he said. It was drunk talk and you weren't paying attention to the idea he had spoken before it but you tried your best to follow after. His body came closer and huddled so close to yours, which was excusable in the February chill, but debatable with the indoor heating.

He slung an arm over your shoulder and, with great camaraderie, you slid your arm behind his back; a "friendly" side hug. "Time is weird," you said.

Alex looked at you. His eyes were alcohol-glazy but his soul was bursting to say something. You could both feel the unsaid left lingering and his head moved forward at one point as if he were going to kiss you but it was then decided he would hesitate on that front.

He chuckled through his nose as if some joke had been made before turning his head to look at the buzzing partiers. He nodded at something and you weren't sure if it was related to your statement or not. You took another sip of your vodka Coke and he said, "Timing is everything."

He slipped away from you after that and it's possible he slept with someone else that night but you aren't sure. You don't even know if he would remember. He slept with a lot of people in 2014. It was a messy time.

Later in the year, toward the end of July, he called you from Iowa. Despite the hour, somewhere in the early morning, neither of you was drunk. Alex's sleep schedule had little idea of the concept of time with the mad case of severe jet lag he could be diagnosed with and you, well, you were asleep but you acted like it was normal for him to wake you up at 3 AM.

"Where in Iowa are you from?" He asked. Neither of you had really gotten to know one another. Not those small details. You knew he was from Sheffield but you don't know what college he went to or his parents' names or if he's ever broken a bone. Your relationship had never been built on knowing each other. It was always just about feeling each other. You had always gotten on well, never fought, always laughed, slung arms around one another, and thought about the maybes.

"Why do you ask?" You laughed at the idea of him calling you in the dead of night, sitting outside his tour bus, smoking a cigarette, talking about your tiny hometown.

"We're playing there tomorrow. Council Bluffs or something. You're the only person I know from Iowa." You told him that the first night you met and he latched onto it like it was some lie you told to impress people because people are usually so impressed with the concept of being a Hawkeye. Although, he never got more information about it. He didn't know that you grew up on a corn farm and you learned how to drive your dad's truck at 9 years old.

You scoffed, "Council Bluffs. You might as well just be in Nebraska."

He chuckled. "Sorry. I'll plan it out better for you next time."

"I'm from Beaman. It's close to the center. Very small town," you told him. "But there's a library and a basketball court that becomes an ice skating rink in the winter. It was dull but I liked it."

"Sounds like a nice place to grow up." You shrugged, not that he'd be able to see it. An air of silence hung over the conversation and you're not sure if he was waiting for you to say something in return. And then he suddenly said, "I've been thinking about you. Not just in Iowa."

You weren't sure what that meant. He was still so new to you and a one-on-one phone call had never been done before. You couldn't yet tell what he was trying to convey through the tone of his voice if this was some playful thing, a joke or something serious, a flirtation. "Why?" You questioned.

It was silent and you imagined him shrugging but you'd never know for sure if he did or not. Eventually, he answered, "Guess I just missed you. Is that allowed?" It was rolled in humour and tucked in a laugh so you took it as a joking sweetness. Some sense of sincerity lingered but it wasn't packed with desperation.

So, you told him you missed him too and hopefully you'd hang out again soon. The conversation ended and soon wasn't around the corner. You kept in touch, by text and through friends, but he didn't return from the road until November and you weren't yet one of the people he would hang out with as soon as he was back, especially since you were in New York and he was in LA when he wasn't on the other side of the pond.

But then you moved to LA, right at the beginning of 2015. Truthfully, it was for your boyfriend. It was an awful idea and you knew it. You had only been dating the guy for a few months and retrospectively it was never serious but in the moment fantasy and blurred visions came to mind and they took the wheel from you. Besides, you had a career that you could do anywhere, most of your friends were in LA, and there was, of course, Alex.

At a shared friend's birthday party, you saw Alex again through a barrier of smoke. Your boyfriend was off in the bathroom and Alex was pushing himself off the wall with a drunken stumble and throwing his arms around you.

"Huck told me you'd be here. Told me you're out in LA. How come you didn't tell me?" His words were rolling out of him quickly with little care where they ended up.

You did your best to reciprocate the hug and follow his sloppy manner as he leaned back against the wall. You stirred your gin & tonic with the flick of your wrist, still sober having just arrived. "It's all been hectic. We're just starting to settle out here."

His eyes drifted away, looking behind you, and when the cold hand touched your back you realized what he was looking at. "Yeah, well, once you are, we should get together or something. Alex, by the way." He waved to your boyfriend, staying against the wall this time. He looked like he was having trouble keeping his eyes open but his speech was clear with no slurring sounded.

You put your arm around your boyfriend's back, returning his hold. "I'd like that. We'll probably have some housewarming party at some point so..."

Alex hummed his acknowledgment like words were becoming too much work. He brought the spliff to his lips and the smell of marijuana began to give you a headache and a craving at the same time. Someone tapped him on the shoulder, pulling him away from you. It took a moment of staring before you moved to find residency on the couch, but more lingered in the air than just the smell of weed. Uncertainty persisted.

A month later, the house had been settled and a housewarming party occurred but Alex didn't attend. He had said he was out of town but you're not sure where out of town. It didn't matter much. You didn't live in that house for very long.

It would seem like fate stepped in at some point or a mere happenstance that the night you and your boyfriend broke up everyone in the world seemed to be busy. Friends were away for the weekend or had guests staying with them or simply didn't pick up their phones at 2 AM. But Alex did.

When you arrived at his house, he was peculiarly waiting in his driveway. His hands were on his hips and his head cocked in a way that some might interpret as pissed but you knew it was just his resting position.

Your unaffected nature could also be misinterpreted. You didn't feel the urge to cry, and though you were upset at the demise of a loving relationship, it didn't provoke your tear ducts and you remained indifferent.

After exiting your car, he asked, "Are you okay?"

And it was easy to nod and answer, "Truthfully, yes." It's probably easier to feel this way when you are the one who initiated the break-up.

It's also easy to feel that way when instead of going to bed you're accompanied by Alex and drinks. No rejection was involved when downing a bottle of hard liquor, especially when Alex seemed to have it stockpiled. You both operated better drunk, which could have been alarming to an outsider, but for you and Alex it was understandable. It wasn't used as coping, each other was used for that. The alcohol was just an additional treat.

"It's hard to not feel like I'm wasting away my youth," you told him, leaning your head on the back of the couch.

He was on the opposite end, cigarette stuck in his mouth as he spoke, "You're still young."

"Not forever," you lamented. "I guess that's the thing. I'm not particularly pissed it's over. I think I did us both a favour but I'm pissed about running out of time for these things. I mean, I moved across the country for this guy. I used to have fun with guys! Now I'm just following them places and desperately trying to play the role of wife. Like, who am I?"

Alex openly laughed in response.

You giggled in return, "Don't laugh at me."

He shook his head, removing smoke and cigarette from his lips. "I think you're getting worked up over nothing."

"Maybe." You shrugged. "But I don't think so. I don't know what I'm saying. Wait, yes, I do." Alex laughed again. "I'm saying I want to have fun again."

"Right." He nods.

His eyes locked with yours and once his cigarette was stubbed out and the bottle you had been clutching was placed down on the coffee table, his lips then locked with yours. It was harsh and rough like every drunk kiss that had occurred before in history.

It must have been around 4 AM at this point and everything felt hungry. Like this was—he was—your midnight snack. This is when desperation occurs. The quick need for satisfaction with no care about the journey to get there.

Alex's arms clutched around your lower back up to your shoulder blades, pulling you on top of him. Her hands grasped around the endpoints of his sharp jaw making it impossible to be stuck in a heated makeout. You straddled him but it was hard (in two ways) to not feel frustrated quickly.

You reached down, swiping your hands along his chest, and landing on the button of his jeans. Everything must come undone and he understood that perfectly. You didn't even bother to pull his zipper down, instead reaching your hand into his underwear and letting the force drag the zipper apart.

He pulled your hand out just so you could get your top off of you and while your arms were up in the air, you grind on him and soft moans escaped, swallowing it up when your lips reunited. He was a master at unclasping a bra and had easy access to your pussy through your small skirt made up of flowy material.

Your hand made small movements around his cock and his fingers grazed through your folds and he seemed to want to do a version of shared masturbation but you ached for something stronger. You lifted yourself off of him to remove your skirt and panties. He shuffled just enough to kick his jeans and underwear off the bottom of his feet. You finished reaching nudity at the same time.

Alex didn't allow you to straddle him again, pushing you onto your back as he took off his shirt. His nude body hovered over you and the back of your head hit the arm of the couch. You curled your legs around him, pushing his hips toward yours. Everything is non-verbal, all performed through signs. You've always been on the same wavelength and it feels like words would have ruined this and made this all seem questionable.

He quit the foreplay of kissing your neck and pinching your breasts and became rough like this is what you wanted, now shut up and take it. He was in you and on top of you and it's exactly what you wanted: fun. He could be described as a pleasurable jackhammer as he moved in and out of you. Everything was hard and skin was slapping but you're both moaning and none of it was silent whimpers. It was shouts of "Fuck!" and "Harder!" and "Holy shit!" and "Right there!"

It's all responded to correctly. You nipped at his neck and toward the end, he reached down to rub your clit. It's all masterfully done on both of your parts. Your walls clenched around his dick and he stretched you open to a degree that has you grasping at the couch cushions until you've come. Then, he pulled out of you, letting it all go, straight onto your stomach.

Exhaustion and complete silence fell. Alex laid back on his side of the couch, panting. A few breaths passed before he rose and grabbed a rag from the kitchen, wiping his cum off you.

"Is that your cum towel?" You joked.

His face broke a smirk and he nodded. A question hung in the air of what to do next, stuck in the middle of his hot living room. He towered over you as you sat up, slowly adjusting. He folded the rag up in his hand and then asked, "You wanna use it again?"

Laughter erupted from you but you did end up using it again the next time in his bedroom, which allowed comfort and greater sensuality. It was less rushed but left you both exhausted by the end of it. You slept like rag dolls, limbs hanging over one another, and powerful sleep.

In the morning (or afternoon, you're unsure), with your bodies connected, you both awoke around the same time, blinking away sleep and finding his eyes doing the same. Your unsaid nature returned and you weren't sure if you should even leave the bed or if you should be racing out the front door.

"Thanks for letting me stay," you whispered with tired vocal chords.

He shuffled closer, sheets rustling, and licking away sleep. "Course," he croaked. "You could stay forever."

It might have meant more, especially after fucking each other, but it felt more like a favour than a request. You ate breakfast together before you left, no goodbye kisses, and he said goodbye at the door instead of walking you to your car. Two weeks later, he joined you and a group of friends for drinks where you shared light small talk and he bought a round. You left for New York two days later with no acknowledgment of anything more. It just was what it was and neither of you was hurt by that, but both of you still felt longing for it to be otherwise.

In the heat of summer, you visited LA and met up with Alex for dinner. The LA visit was more for business but you decided to sort out the personal while you're there. His hair was longer, cut around the ears, no longer greased back. It's a reminder of that morning when everything was thrown about without care. He was dressed in a white button-down that was unbuttoned enough to have a clear view of the chain that hung around his neck and his seductiveness was so clear you have a hard time believing he didn't know exactly how this night was going to end.

There was small talk but Alex was quick to cut through the bullshit and get to the heart of things. "We've never had dinner together before," he said. "Not just the two of us." A smirk played on his face and lewd images flashed in your mind.

You sipped your wine as a coping mechanism and leaned back in your chair. You needed to be far from him, at least for now. Playing it cool was the main goal. "Are you telling me you don't want to hang out with me?"

"Oh, I want to hang out with you but I was thinking of something much different."

Intentions were clear and things were laid out on the table so when he invited you back to his house for drinks, you had no issue with him stopping in an abandoned parking lot so you could fuck each other.

Because fucking was easy and you always felt things together instead of knowing things together. So, when he takes you in the backseat, confined, and hot & heavy, it feels romantic for something usually so drenched in the word "dirty."

The leather seats stick against your sweaty back while he undoes his belt and then his trousers before sliding your underwear aside and going into you. The AC is blasting but you don't feel it and there's a lightheaded feeling likely from wine and dehydration but you blame the way his cock hits that spot in you.

The rest of the drive isn't awkward and that's when things started to feel different. It became clear that the sense of permanence with one another wasn't a platonic coincidence of sharing friends but something much more loving. You laughed that his car radio was stuck on the sports channel and made fun of the baseball announcers shouting over the Dodgers losing to the Phillies.

Before this shift, you expected to continue your intense rush to instant passion; fucking in the hallway, fucking in the living room, fucking in the kitchen, fucking on the bathroom floor, fucking in the shower, fucking in his bed, fucking against a wall, fucking on the washing machine, fucking on the ceiling if you could. Instead, you watched the rest of the Dodgers v. Phillies game, despite knowing little about baseball and Alex's knowledge reliant on Bad News Bears and high school phys ed.

Besides, little attention was paid to the game itself. He drank a beer and made you a vodka Coke and baseball is boring and Alex had suddenly become everything.

"There's a reason baseball is America's pastime," you commented. "Who the fuck wants to sit and watch this all day?"

Alex shrugged, a smile playing on his cheeks. "It's fun when they get a home run."

"It's fun when I get a strike in bowling, doesn't mean everyone wants to sit and watch me," I struck back.

He chuckled, wiping his beer lip. "You like bowling?"

"Yeah. My dad used to set up empty cans and have us play. The nearest bowling alley was 45 minutes away so we went there on special occasions."

Alex smiled, completely charmed, and that's when you started knowing each other. Later, you walked to his bedroom and had sex and while it was passionate, it had lost its spontaneity quality, which didn't lessen it, instead changing it into something new.

The following morning, you took his old words of "stay forever" to heart and never left LA. Your return move to LA was mocked by your friends for your coming-and-going nature and moving everything all over again was a pain in the ass but Alex flew to New York and helped pack your things. When you moved into your new place, Alex helped you unpack and helped "Christen the place," as he put it by going down on you on those marble kitchen counters.

Separate places felt ideal not to rush things, but soon it seemed wasteful as most nights were spent at Alex's. You weren't a big fan of your new place in comparison to Alex'ss, which wasn't shocking. Alex had a pool for Christ's sake.

Although, it still felt like the best fit. You didn't like how much Alex smoked and Alex didn't like how messy you were. While technically not living together, you fought over these things like you did.

Smoking usually went:

"It's my house. I can do it however much I want to!"

"You're going to ruin the house by smoking inside it!"

"I paid for it!"

"You're killing yourself!"

"It's my lungs!"

"I'm gonna die from secondhand smoking!"

Messiness usually went:

"You can't come over and trash my house!"

"It's barely anything! If you let me have a drawer this wouldn't be a problem!"

"It's not just your clothes! You leave dirty dishes everywhere!"

"I get to it eventually!"

"So do the rats!"

But all and all, it always ended relatively positively. Alex took to smoking on his balcony more and you would join him from time to time. You didn't really clean up more, but Alex did give you a top drawer in his dresser.

At the beginning of December, you both attended a Christmas party, where you and Alex wore a Santa hat you bought at Party City because neither of you owned anything festive. However, everyone at the party considered it to make you the cutest couple there. You both thought it was rather cheesy but you leaned into the cliche of it and got drunk off eggnog and roleplayed Mr. & Mrs. Claus at the party until it verged on too creepy.

Over a shared cup of eggnog, Alex asked you, "You want to come to Sheffield?"

Meeting the parents had never been discussed. It was easy when his parents lived in another country and your parents were scared of planes. Though excitement and nerves bubbled, you answered, "Sure" before taking a sip.

He chuckled, now accustomed to what your reactions meant. "We could do Christmas there."

You said, "Sure" and sipped the eggnog again because it helped fight against those nerves in your stomach.

Alex chucked again because he was charmed, now completely lost in you.

Christmas in Sheffield was cold. It rained heavily the whole time you were there. You and Alex only braved walking around town once on the 23rd when the rain had stopped momentarily. The city centre was time for sightseeing all his old haunts. You walked arm-in-arm with Alex in an effort to combat the cold but still keep your hands in your coat pockets.

You got a half hour in before it started pouring rain and you were left feeling like idiots for not bringing an umbrella with you. The car was far away and you both debated ducking into a bookstore but you were both already too soaked and cold and decided just to head back to the car. He grabbed your hand, leading the way, as you raced through the unbearably cold beating rain.

On the way back to his childhood home, the rain had increased even more making it nearly impossible for Alex to see properly while driving. "This is how you end up killing someone," you said.

Alex put his hand on your shoulder but kept his eyes steady on the road. "Relax. I know how to drive."

You removed his hand from your shoulder and placed it back on the wheel. "Then, keep both hands at 10 and 2," you ordered.

He laughed and reached over to kiss your cheek and while the affection made you gain a cavity, your nerves bubbled up as you pushed him away. "Eyes on the road, mister!"

You both made it back unscathed, minus your socks, which had been soaked through. The house was warm and the smell of dinner wafted through the air. The house was quiet other than the pattering of rain and some jazz record his dad had put on. It felt like coming home.

Christmas dinner, however, was hectic. You drove out to his grandparents' place and the quiet 4-person car ride led to a fistful of screaming grandchildren and uncles whose laughs broke the sound barrier.

It had you turning to him. "This is your family?"

"Yeah. Hard to believe, right?" The calmness of Alex must come from his mum's side of the family.

Once dinner was served, the noise level calmed down as people stuffed their faces and they wished to show a great impression to their American guest of honour. The questions were light and it was clear that you weren't the first American girl Alex had brought home but everyone was welcoming and Alex placed a reassuring arm on the back of your chair. He would occasionally lift his hand and play with the longest strands of your hair, bouncing the curls you had made that morning.

Later, while the young kids played with the toys they had just received as gifts, Alex and you drank tea together. It was a warm distance for the fast nights of Los Angeles. You leaned close to Alex on the settee so he could hear your words. "I like Sheffield a lot."

He turned his head away from watching the kids, meeting your eyes. A smile crept to his lips. "Good." His hand smoothed down your sweater-covered arm. "I'm happy you're happy."

That in turn made you smile. "I like this quietness. You know, of the city, not this house."

Alex chuckled and pushed the front hanging pieces of hair behind your shoulder, eyes sculpting over your body. "It's nice to come back. Feels like a reset."

You took your fancy tea cup off your fancy tea plate and took a sip, feeling like a proper English lady. "You should come to Beaman. You'll probably hate it but it's like no one else in the world exists out there."

He hummed, staring softly at you. His eyes made the ice in you melt. "If you love it, I'll love it," he promised.

"It'll just be you, me, and the chickens," you giggled.

Alex grinned, skimming his thumb over your cheekbone. "Hm. I love you."

It caught all the air in the room and it suddenly didn't feel as cold as it did a minute before. You inched closer to him and smiled because he was smiling. "You've never told me that before, you know."

He furrows his brows, playing up his acting. "I haven't?"

"Actually, you told me when you were drunk once. Back in October, at that Halloween party."

He squints seriously this time. "I don't remember this."

You coyly smile. "I know. It was when Miles and me were carrying you inside and I couldn't figure out if you were saying it to me or him."

He leaned forward, his arm pulling you toward him as he laughed in your ear before kissing your cheek. "You. Always you."

"Good." You clapped your hands. "I'll hang this over Miles's head for decades."

That night, Alex fell asleep quickly, allowing you to realize something. You nudged him awake, making him groan. "What?"

You curled your arm around him. "Nothing. I'm sorry I woke you."

His arms moved around your waist, laying you on top of him. His eyes stayed shut, not wanting to lose his sleepiness. "It's alright," he mumbled. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." You leaned into his ear, whispering, "Love you."

A grin spread across his lips, enticing you to lean over and kiss the corner of it. He hummed. "Love you too. Night."

The following year, Alex went away on tour. You stayed, he went, but it never felt like it placed a strain on the relationship. There was longing and missing but never any resentment and as Alex would put it, "It always makes for great reunion sex."

You briefly joined them in August when they played California: Santa Ana, San Diego, and Outside Lands in San Francisco. They were all one after the next and left you exhausted and though Alex was much more well-adjusted to the pace of touring, it was reaching the tail end and he struggled with the comedown on it all.

Those were the only times you grew frustrated with one another. You never really yelled or fought—maybe because you didn't want to or maybe because you were in close quarters with other people—although, you had tiffs.

Much like your annoyances at home, traveling or touring only amplified what truly annoyed you about each other but in a way—a super corny, cheesy way—you loved Alex even more for that.

"I like that you're not perfect," you said late to him one night. He was smoking a cigarette and though the weather was hot, there was a nighttime breeze that settled over the two of you.

"Gee, thanks," he quipped, puffing away.

You knocked a shoulder into him. "I'm being sweet. If you were perfect then I'd feel inadequate all the time in comparison but since you've got these flaws and vices that make you more real, in a roundabout way, you are perfect. For me, at least."

Alex grew amused with every passing word, tucking an arm behind you. "Well, you're perfect. I hope you feel that."

You shifted your body to get a full look at him. "Maybe not perfect but I feel worthy or something. You always make me feel adequate. I appreciate that."

He shrugged, unsure of how to respond. "You're easy to love. I've never struggled with that."

That's always been the word: easy. From the moment you met, it was a clear link holding you two together, and with time doing its thing, it only grew slowly into what it should be. There was never a force of change, you held onto each other until you clicked at the right time. After that, there was no way to disrupt it.

You moved into Alex's in September. After the tour (and even before), you spent all your time there anyway. He decided over breakfast one day to make it official.

He pulled out a pan to make eggs but before he could place it on the stove, he stared at it. "This is your pan," he said."

You looked up from your cereal. "Oh, yeah, you don't have small pans so I brought mine over. It's better for your eggs, you know. Heats up quicker."

Alex began to laugh, placing the pan down on the stove, and his hands on his hips. You chuckled along with him, even though you were confused. "What's so funny?"

He shook his head, trying to shake off the laughter. "Do you even have anything at your place anymore?"

"Um, I don't know." you thought aloud. You shoveled a pile of cereal in your mouth.

"Why don't you just sell the place?" He suggested. "Move in here."

You shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" He questioned.

"Yeah, I mean, I like my place."

Alex snorted. "You're never at your place."

"I still like it," you insisted.

He moved over, coming behind you like a snake, and hugging your waist tightly. "Come on, move in," he whispered in your ear.

"I'll think about it," you said as he kissed your neck.

Alex decided on other plans for breakfast. You stood up to clean your bowl but his arms stopped you from making it to the kitchen sink. "I have a convincing argument," he said, taking the bowl out of your hands and setting it down.

You laughed at his bravado but you were soon overpowered by it. He bent you over the counter harshly with a kiss to your left shoulder blade as a form of salvation. He kneeled down on both his knees and grazed his hands on your butt, playing with the fabric of your shorts. He squeezed and pulled and yanked, eventually dragging the material off of you and having it lay at your feet.

Alex's slow nature in the morning took hold as he danced his fingers around your cunt. The tips of his fingers edged on the lips of your pussy. The thumb on his other hand, touched over your asshole, making it pucker up with tension.

"Your teasing is only making me want to say no," you said, desiring relief as soon as possible.

Alex only hummed and muttered, "Interesting." He placed a light kiss on your inner thigh but it only felt like he was moving further away from the point of release. He moved up and kissed your left butt cheek, his hand squeezing the right.

His touch became light and he moved his hand back down to your lips. "I know how to get you there," he insisted. He tapped both your knees. "Spread. They're so close together. It's like you don't want me to touch you."

"It's called being bored," you retorted.

Then, Alex slapped your ass. He'd never done anything more than a pat and it was usually more in a casual setting, not when you were butt naked and not that hard.

You turned your head around, looking down at him with a squint. "Did you just slap my ass?"

"Yeah," he quickly admitted. "Why? Did you like it?" A smirk presented as if he already knew the answer.

You didn't want to give in to him. This was frustration, it wasn't supposed to be satisfaction. You wanted him begging for you, not the other way around. But you couldn't help it. You bit your lip and turned away, not wanting him to see the pleasurable smile on your face. "Maybe."

But then he overwhelmed you, diving straight in and placing his mouth directly on your cunt, dragging a long moan out of you. You could feel the coldness of the counter through your shirt, erecting your nipples. Your hands made a fist, unable to grab onto anything, thwarting you.

His tongue plunged into you and then moved up to your clit before pulling away again, making everything unbearable. His mouth moved to kiss your inner thigh before he left completely to slap your ass again. "You alright?" He asked to make sure, even if you gasped in delight at every feeling.

"Go back down," you demanded.

Alex listened and returned to your core, licking his way through your fold, and reaching his tongue up to your clit. He continued the game of agony, moving back and forth from the pleasurable, but slowly the edging made for a great build-up and he began to lay it on thick, never abandoning your clit until your legs were shaking and you were practically pushing him away from you.

He stood up and slapped your ass. You moved in on Tuesday.

Not much changed. You already had drawers in his dresser and space in his closet and pans in his kitchen. You had already infected his house with your essence and the only difference was you weren't paying rent on a place you were barely ever sleeping.

As the new year began, things slowed. Alex started growing his hair out, stopped shaving, and became far more reclusive. He had grown tired from the road, was now in his 30s, and, most importantly, settled. At times, that thought was terrifying for you, staring down the barrel of this being the rest of your life. Other times, it was comforting, usually waking up in the morning next to Alex.

But there was a lifestyle shift in Alex that you weren't yet aligned with. He rebuffed the idea of going out, talked about leaving LA, and locked himself away in his music room. You weren't particularly annoyed at the latter other than it sometimes felt like he was locking you out of part of him. The idea of leaving LA wasn't unappealing, but he longed for England more and you were American through and through. Going out, well, maybe that's where you got into trouble.

Alex's newfound life as a hermit wasn't horrible now that you were living together but you started to go out more and more without him. Usually with various groups of friends, sometimes for work, two times with Miles, and one time by yourself. Alex said no to going so often that you stopped asking. Soon, you weren't spending many nights together. He'd stay up late working on music or you'd stay out late drinking. Like everything else, it eventually came to a head.

"I think I'm going to Beaman next week," you told him while getting ready to go out one night.

He was in the shower. He was staying in. "Why?"

You furrowed your brows toward the shower curtain. "I haven't been back in a while. My mom's birthday is at the end of the month."

"Alright," he said over the sound of rushing water.

"Do you want to come with me?"

For a moment, only the shower made a noise. It didn't even sound like Alex moved an inch. You stared at the shower curtain and thought he might pop his head out. But he didn't and you didn't move to open the curtain either. Finally, he answered, "No, no. I think I'll stay here. Jamie's coming into town soon."

You thought about fighting it or asking him if he was going to do anything with Jamie, instead, you said, "Okay. I'm leaving now."

"Alright," he said, "Have fun. I love you." He never came out from behind the curtain. When you came home he was asleep.

Upon your return from Iowa, Alex picked you up at the airport. The car ride home was pleasant and he made dinner. You were scraping your fork along the plate when he asked, "Would you ever want to live in Iowa again?"

You snorted at the ridiculousness. "I left home when I was 18 and have only lived in New York and LA. Does that strike you as someone who wants to move back to the Midwest?"

 Alex shrugged and thoughtfully looked down at his nearly empty plate. "I just never knew if you thought about it."

"Are you thinking about it? About England?" You leaned on your fist, eager for the answer.

He shook his head. "I'm just homesick, I guess." He then stood up and took his plate to the dishwasher.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You shouted into the kitchen.

You awaited an answer from the other side of the wall. You heard the dishwasher shut and his feet pad across the wooden floor, he stopped in the archway, facing you. With certainty, he said, "I'm happy here."

You stayed seated. "Would you want to move back?"

He looked unsure but answered, "I don't think so."

"You can be honest," you assured him. "If you think I'm worried or going to shoot it down. I mean, I'm not saying yes, but if you're thinking about it I think we should talk about it."

He shook his head. "I'm not saying I want to be here forever and maybe that's something we should talk about since..."

"Since?" You questioned, clueless of where his words were leading.

Alex laughed at you, turning away, not bearing to make eye contact. "Since we're us. You and me."

"I'm confused," you said, crossing your brows. "What's this have to do with England?"

He laughed again, nerves tackling him. "We're not just fooling around here anymore. This direction..." He motioned a straight line and though you were catching on you still wished to hear him talk in full.

"This direction?"

He rolled his eyes with a smile, exasperated by your questioning. "Look, we've talked about it."

You playfully raised an eyebrow. "It?"

He wagged his finger at you. "Quit playing games with me here."

"Oh," you nodded enthusiastically, "the marrying me thing. You talk around it like it's a curse word."

"'Cause it makes me nervous." He played with the ends of his hair as a soothing mechanism. 

You shifted forward, leaning your head onto your hand, resting it on your knee. You genuinely asked, "Why does it make you nervous?"

A nervous smile played at his lips as he calmly said, "Why the fuck do you think?" He laughed, feeling overwhelmed, both of you.

"You tell me," you egged him on.

Alex threw his head back, exhausted from you toying him. "You do the laundry. I know you've been in my underwear drawer."

You giggled, remembering the sight. "Well, you put it in your underwear drawer, how cliche are you?"

"At least I didn't do my sock drawer!" He shouted, trying to insist he wasn't such an idiot. "I didn't think you'd go digging around in there."

"Hey!" You assert. "I didn't find it. It found me."

You both laughed and soon the room fell quiet. "Hey," you said. "You got me a princess cut." It was dainty like you wanted, no giant diamonds, and no uncomfortability. A simple, classic look. He did good.

He kept a small smile, despite both of your racing hearts. "Well, that's what you wanted."

You grinned back, sitting up straight, and leaning your side into the back of the dining room chair. "You got my ring size right too."

He raised his eyebrows. "You put it on?"

"On my right hand that way I didn't break any rules."

Smiles were plastered on each of your faces. "Should I just go get it?" You'll probably cry if he does go get it.

"Yes. And yes to your next question too."

"I haven't even gotten down on one knee."

You shook your head. "You don't have to get down on one knee."

"I want to." He does. And the ring fits just as well on the left as it did on the right.

Just like moving in, being engaged isn't that much different either with the exception of getting your mother off your back and a nice new piece of jewelry. Alex enjoyed calling you "fiancée" when introducing you.

You started to go out less but when he did he came more often. It was a non-verbal comparison and with a new album on the horizon, you started to stockpile time together. Any wedding talk was limited but agreed upon to take place after the tour so you could enjoy married life together. Alex also heavily enjoyed the in-between state of being engaged and what you thought would be the dull before the actual excitement of marriage, turned into its own new game.

You accompanied him more on tour, mostly because it was much longer this time. You joined him for branches, attended the US shows, made him shave his head in Texas, and made your way over to London. There were bigger breaks this time with things not packed so closely together. You spent Christmas in Iowa with Alex for the first time. You went to Hawaii for his birthday. You went bowling for Valentine's Day.

When the tour ended and there was an actual wedding to plan, everything felt stuck. It was either too cliche or too underwhelming. It became easier to just get married and worry more about planning a party. So, you got married at a cute small inn with sycamore trees with a small number of guests. Those who would be willing to sit through a wedding without getting antsy.

The reception party grew in numbers and the loveliest part is you didn't have to worry about cleaning any of the mess up. Alex got cake on his suit and you went to the bathroom more times than you can count. But overall, it was a simple, sweet night. 

Honeymooning (fucking) in Fiji and then resuming life two weeks later. "Wife" became Alex's new favourite word but everything else stayed the same. Well, for about a month.

You just had a feeling. You woke up one day and felt it. You nudged him awake, it was early before the sun was up. "Alex."

He hummed in acknowledgment, shut-eyed.

You burrowed into him and nonchalantly said, "I'm pregnant."

"What?!" His eyes were wide and his face wrinkled in confusion. "Seriously? When did you find out?"

You flopped onto your back, turning your head to the side to look at him. "Just now. I can feel it."

"So, you feel like you're pregnant?" He questioned.

"Yeah."

"But you don't know it. You didn't take a test?"

"No, but I know. I'll take one in the morning, I just wanted to let you know. Night." You turned over into your pillow and closed your eyes.

Alex sat with his mouth agape. "Yeah. Night." He didn't fall back asleep.

And you were right. You shrugged and said, "Told ya." Alex laughed. Then, he cried. Then, he hugged you. Then, he kissed your stomach, but you thought that was too weird so you told him to stop.

Being pregnant definitely changed things but things felt the same just with one more thing. You fucked. A lot. Your sexual appetite increased but you had always been horny for Alex. It's just a given. But there was a point where things did change.

It was the first ultrasound. You felt it when you entered the room. The air was cold and there was a shift, everything suddenly becoming real. You enjoyed watching Alex twiddle his thumbs while you waited for the technician. 

When they started to move the wand around your stomach, he became fascinated with the machine, continuously asking questions. More of them were about the machine rather than the baby. 

And, well, then the whole twin thing happened.

"Like two of them?" Alex held two fingers up like he couldn't quite comprehend it. 

The technician nodded and you still couldn't think of a verbal response to the news.

Then, Alex said, "We've been having a lot of sex, did we like make another baby when we—"

You interrupted, "Are you the dumbest person alive?"

Alex pinned the ultrasound to your fridge and kept a copy in his wallet. He held an affection for it that you didn't. Maybe because you were the pregnant one. The proof came attached to you. Nonetheless, you were charmed by Alex in his fatherly role, even if he stressed you out with the need to be super-ultra-prepared. His nervousness about what you could and couldn't do got annoying by the second month. He calmed down after you yelled at him.

Although, it was nice for him to take on the extra work. You picked out the design for the nursery and he did all the work, citing that you couldn't paint because of the toxic fumes and everything was a heavy load.

He knew you were full of bullshit but he didn't care. "I like helping out. Being the man in charge."

You told him not to get too full of himself. His insistence on doing everything led him to break his index finger.

But after everything had healed and two babies became two girls, you both relaxed into your final months of solitude, which really just meant lots of sex. You fucked and he went down on you but sometimes you felt too sore down there from all the pelvic pressure and though Alex insisted that no sex was fine, you insisted that release was release, even if it wasn't your release. Alex still fondled your breasts too, saying that's where all his horniness came from.

"How can I not be turned on when they're just staring at me?" They were bigger and Alex was always insatiable.

"I feel like a cow," you whined. You were bigger with two babies and the only way you did have sex was doggy style with everything hanging.

"You're not a cow," Alex said, climbing into bed. You were under the sheets, exhausted at 9 PM. He curled up behind you, whispering in your ear, "You want me to fuck you on your side?"

You thought about it, felt the ache, and said, "Okay."

You were already underwear-free because they hurt your vagina too much when you slept. You had returned to your old days of quickness. Alex pulled himself out of his boxers, gave himself a few pumps, and slid into you. You softly moaned as Alex pushed into you slowly at first before his thrusts grew quicker. He knew you were tired and needed a quick release. 

"Fuck," he harshly whispered as his speed picked up, skins slapped, and sweat beads formed. He clutched your hipbone tightly and you fisted your pillowcase. Every action rushed and a final slam resulted in you falling apart and him emptying into you. His hand caressed up your bump and you knew he was very turned on but the whole pregnancy sex things and not just because of the boobs. However, he did love those too, and gave them a quick squeeze before cleaning up.

The final change came in an expected way. Labour was shorter if only for the epidural and the C-section. You wanted to resist the idea until the thought of pushing two babies out set in and the pain became too unbearable and Twin A was breached and then a C-section seemed like the best thing, even if it was surgery.

Alex liked wearing the medical gear and kept adjusting his mask. Oh, Alex, sweet naive Alex. Luckily, everything was smooth, except for the fact you couldn't hold the babies until they had sewn everything up. But Alex cut the umbilical cord and got to hold them, which was a sweet enough sight.

When you were placed in recovery and finally got to hold them, then came the hard part. "What do we name them?" You asked.

Alex shook his head. "I got no fucking idea." Names had been discussed but you never really landed on one let alone two. "You should name them. You carried them and they're getting my last name."

"It's too much pressure," you whined.

Alex sighed and concluded, "Thing 1 and Thing 2 it is then."

Eventually, you decided on Wren and Willow. You initially hated the shared first initial but Alex liked it and it became too frustrating to think of any other names.

The first month was harsh. Your body was slowly healing and you ached all the time. You had backup with both sets of parents but then everyone went back home and everything shut down and it was just you, Alex, and Wren & Willow. It didn't actually feel like much had changed. It's not like you would have left the house anyway.

Alex takes to having the girls nap on him. Sometimes one at a time, sometimes both. Sometimes he will let you nap in his arms too. The days are long but the weeks move fast.

One day, Willow laughs. It's the first time either of them has laughed. It took you both by surprise. You were feeding Wren while Willow laid on her back with Alex loomed over her. Usually, when he would blow raspberries on her stomach she would just gurgle and flap her arms and legs around, but this time she laughed, and it’s the loudest sound you've ever heard.

Alex looked down at her, completely engaged, not bearing to take his eyes off, scared to miss the sight. It gets him laughing too with tears in his throat. He leaned down again and blew more air against her tummy. She shrieks this time, giggling, and you want to capture the sound forever. Run and have Alex record it.

But you looked down at Wren and rubbed your finger against her tiny baby cheek, deciding that there was no need to move from this comfort.

They aren't easy babies. There are two of them too. They both wake each other up, which means both you and Alex have to get up because it's 2 v. 2 and they're small but mighty. They eventually get on a sleep schedule and a routine and trade-off between you and Alex is set into place.

By the end of the year, it's the new normal and you don't remember a time when they weren't around. You want to be with them all the time just like you want to be with Alex all the time.

They're great. But then they wake you up at 3 AM.

*

a/n: so...this slowly became a prequel to my dad!al fic and i decided to just finish it that way. i also have not read through it because i'm tired so any mistakes you did not see.

[scentedpepper]

Guilty Pleasures

AEGON II TARGARYEN X SERVANT!GN READER

Part 2: The Cockcrow of Dalliance

Summary: Aegon II Targaryen seeks out his servant in the most desperately pathetic of times.

Content Warnings: Implicitly explicit sexual speech/themes, drunkeness, established relationships, complicated dynamics, may come off as reminiscent of non-con at some points(?) but was written without intent of such nature, friends (not really) with benefits (also not really), aegon ii targaryen, touch starved (reader and aegon)

Other Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x GN! Reader

AUTHOR NOTE(S):

Is this brainrot?

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

"Please, please. "

You're not sure what about this situation perturbes you more.

The situation itself, which contains that of a drunken Prince Aegon clinging onto your red tunic in the midst of a dimly lit corridor as you attempt to carry dirtied dishes over to the others in the kitchen, falling over himself and pleading.

Or the fact that there is, inexplicably, no one around to witness this outrageous display of drunkenness occurring before the very eyes of the prince's subjects—not even the knights you'd passed on your way here, it seems, as the hall leading to the kitchen is practically empty.

There's almost a feeling of being stranded out at sea, out in a thick, harsh, uncaring, overpowering fog as you find yourself drifting aimlessly to and fro in the absence of a guiding beacon, desperate to return home; a sense that those who came down these halls are surely gone, or somewhere else altogether, but the general, indescribable loneliness this leaves one with still persists in clinging onto your skin, and it isn't a pleasant feeling.

You don't want to know how or why you're being required to look at this god-awful display, yet here you are, with the Prince himself, grabbing you and holding you closely.

You can smell his breath.

The Prince Aemond had advised you many times to stay clear of his brothers line of sight when he was like this, stupid with drunkness. It was always the same warning he'd pass quietly to your ear, gesturing from across the throne room, as if you couldn't see the wine become of him yourself.

His breath is a putrid mix of fruity, sweetened wine and rotting meat, the stench alone just about ready to have you empty your stomach right into the corridor—you want to move him off, or away, or something, but in the near darkness, he simply holds onto your clothes and lays against you, pathetically.

As you fidget to find a way to escape his steel vise grip without causing him offense, he clamps a hand to the side of your face, firmly, not a slap but rather a moment of stillness. His gaze snaps up, meeting yours and flashing his glazy, violet eyes.

You slowly come out of your squint, out of your hunch. He has only taken a very short few seconds to simply gaze through the dark at you before making a wet snort noise. A cough follows it.

A repulsive sound.

He giggles then, almost, or moans? It could be an admittance of his intoxication, as he rests his weight into your side, but the way his hands are tightening into a fist in the fabric of your tunic isn't very encouraging.

"My Prince..." You start, but he forbid you from continuing.

"Please. " He says again, swaying, sniffing, slurring. One of his hands gently traces up the material of your sleeve. "Please, Y/N. "

It is not particularly surprising that he calls your name. Despite yourself, you have come to know both princes more than you would have wished yourself to when you first came here, from Dorne. But somehow, hearing the sound of your name fall from his lips in this particular tone isn't as familiar as you'd hoped.

Nonetheless, its an otherwise strangely sober utterance from his mouth, except for the mild stumble over each syllable, and an oddly solemn cadence. You'd think by now there was not a shred of lucidity left in him, judging from his actions and words prior, but there's a certain formality to it that rings all too clear in the hazy atmosphere.

"Please. " He says again, in your silence.

And you're really not even sure what he's pleading for, anymore.

At first, you'd assumed his call had been one akin to assistance; to carry his belongings–or rather him–to his chambers and pull the covers over him, like you always did. But this has transpired into something far more...unfamiliar. And you're not certain that it should even be a possible interaction between the two of you, even if he had become thoroughly entrenched in a state of drunken obliviousness.

And you are not eager to determine the sincerity of his pleas.

"My Prince, you are much too given away. You do not know what you ask of me..." You say, gripping his wrist away from your face and furthering yourself backward as to give him space. "And I do not know what you request so vehemently from me. "

He stumbles forward and you do your best, with the dishes shifting to one arm, to catch him. The food falls from atop the pile and bounces twice and rolls to your feet as the dishes and cutlery clatter to the ground. Displeased sounds pass your lips.

"You need not worry for the plates. " He slurs, unbothered by the loud crash nor the glass crunching under his feet.

It's an awkward position; his arm locked around your neck, pulled up toward him and stumbling as if to drag you along as well. He can hardly support his own weight yet is unwilling to free himself from this strange embrace.

"My Prince. " You utter in exasperation, your arm curled around his waist. In hopes that he will be steady enough to lean on his own feet, you try to let go. But his grip only tightens. "Allow me to help you to your chambers and I can see you go undisturbed. "

"I don't want to walk. " He sniffs, bringing his face closer to yours. With your hand still wrapped around the crook of his elbow, you lean back. It was a routine situation you've found yourself in, but certainly not a pretty image that anyone would hope to stumble across.

As you lean back, so does he and his dead weight pushes you harshly into the wall. "Y/N, please. " He breathes out dramatically.

Perhaps if you remain quiet, he will tire and slip away just as he did the last dozen times.

He tries to rest his cheek on your chest, eyes growing misty and drooping, but unable to find a comfortable perch because of his drunken inclination to muss and disrupt the space he occupied.

Frustrated, you tap him lightly and try to roll out from under his weight.

He doesn't budge.

"My Prince, you burden upon me too heavily with such unseemly behavior..." And there was more you wished to say, but the burning at your cheeks and across the bridge of your nose has stifled your speech.

"I couldn't care. Less. If I tried. " The Prince mutters.

He adjusts his arm around your neck, a drunken repositioning of limbs, and tugs your head closer to his. Your skulls mingle there in the dark, cold air in the most unspeakable manner.

There is no way, no chance in all the heavens above, that your actions have been even a grain of worthy. And despite the temptation you feel for motion against the foolish, insolent, ridden of capacity to think man before you, you know nothing will come of it other than pain to be regretted for the rest of time, probably.

"You must remove yourself from me, My Prince. So that we may return to our respectable places. And not disgrace each other's positions before the palace. "

"Fuck the palace. Fuck my place. " He spits, swaying and throwing his other arm around your neck, pulling himself even closer.

It clicks then, as his body pushes fully against you.

"If you're asking for me to give you relief, My Prince, then there's nothing I can do for you–"

"Y/N. Please. It's getting painful. Please. "

"Is your hand insufficient?"

You swear, if there were light, his skin color would match perfectly with your crimson tunic.

It is such an inappropriate, improper conversation that you would scarcely wish to have. Least of all here. Where anyone could walk by.

"It would...not be the first..." His voice is weak and quiet. You can hardly hear him. "The first time you..." He doesn’t finish, too consumed by his indulgences.

"My Prince. " You reply sharply, though you wished to say so much more. "Your hand is sufficient. This is unspeakable. I have never sought you in such treacherous ways. "

And though you could not see his face, could not read the thoughts that crawled through his foggy, drunk-muddled mind, you could hear his sighs of displeasure. As if he were the one suffering through all this nonsense.

You take his silence as a plea for your goodwill and pry his hands off your neck, leaving him against the wall of the hallway while you crouch to collect the discarded tray and its broken contents.

"If that is all, My Prince, then will you not go to your chambers now?"

He stares up at you in utter defeat. His eyes are wide and vulnerable and uncertain, a stark contrast to the iron-willed royal who had dismissed you without a second glance no less than three moons ago.

He has that look in the irises, those violet pearls, that you recall seeing a handful of times in the other nobles of House Targaryen. A fleeting moment, a window into something far greater and more complex than a single second could reveal. A deeper and darker emotion that stirs within you pity. You believe the color would be similar to what is felt when someone is terribly remorseful, regretting what they said or did in a time that is long past.

"Please do not start crying, My Prince. " You say and the vexation has not left your tone. "You'll have forgotten the conversation within the hour, a tear will do you no good. "

Your tone was harsh, unkind, not quite vicious. But it is curt and strong enough, from a mere servant no less, to strike like a whip to his spirit. He blinks once, and looks away, not a sound leaves his throat as he stiffens, and waits.

And then his lips pull up, he goes rigid, and he sniffs and wipes his nose with the cuff of his blue shirt. And finally, without another word, his eyes well up and the tears burst forth and run down his face like twin waterfalls.

"My Prince. " You whisper. But he's not listening to you. He's red in the face and sobbing uncontrollably. "Stop. Why are you-please stop. "

"I've known it. " He manages out, his voice thick with mucus. "You-dislike me so much. I apologize. " His body is like a loose feather floating in the air and you know that he is soon to make it to the ground if you do not intervene.

It pains you, somewhat, to watch him unravel. It's like observing a bird unable to find its wing. Or the crumbling of a home, a castle that has stood for lifetimes but not strong enough to bear the weight that has piled upon it.

But nevertheless, you are used to such outbursts. Such grand feelings of pity.

You set the tray accompained by shards of glass down on the floor and wipe your hands off with a sigh. Wordlessly you maneuver yourself to the prince's side, scooping him gently with your arms around him and drag him toward the exit.

He whimpers at being jostled, but you suspect it's from surprise rather than true hurt. He doesn't do anything else for a long few seconds until his legs finally unlock and he manages to fumble into a somewhat coherent position beside you.

He is still crying.

"My Prince-" You say, worried, slightly alarmed, as you've heard no noises yet from the people of the palace, but the walls beg to wake them. "Please, I implore you. It would not behoove the both of us if the servants saw you like this. "

He sniffles and sniffles and lets out another trembling sob as his pace lurches a little closer to a stagger rather than a stand. "You didn't even deny it. "

"Deny what, My Prince?"

"That you hate me. "

Your frown deepens.

"My Prince, why would you presume such a thing?"

"You are so cruel. Cold, even. "

"I beg your pardon, My Prince. "

"And I cannot get it out of my head. The idea that..." He trails off and hiccups. You gently guide him away from the banister of the walkway to the stairs, pushing him softly to continue his disheveled wander.

"Shhh, " you say, "keep going, My Prince. "

"Please...can we-please ta–talk. " He stutters out.

You contemplate for a moment as his fingers dig into your arms.

"Yes, My Prince. But your chambers are more befitting this conversation. "

He seems content enough with this, for now, to shut his trap and allow you to escort him down the long, twisting path. You can feel his heart pound through his ribs against your arm. It stirs a deep, familiar, and unnerving feeling in you.

"Almost there, My Prince. "

He mumbles something under his breath, too quickly and too choked-up, to understand. You focus more on the wet sniffle his nose emits afterwards than the actual words that have passed his quivering lips.

As you guide him further in the direction of his chambers, the distance between the both of you stretching even farther, his eyes dim, and his lips curl down, and he releases a long, audible sigh. But there's no tear that follows with it; his sobbing is under control once again, even if just barely.

Thankfully, the chambers aren't as far now, it should take only a few minutes, five at most, to make it there. When you eventually see his door come into view, he stops you abruptly.

You pause momentarily and look back, taking notice of his expression as a troubled frown plagues his normally semi-collected features, giving him a more somber and saggy aura. Something in your chest feels hollowed out as he glares down at the ground, his purple eyes looking incredibly sad.

"Why...Are you forcing me to go in there...? " He mumbles, slightly dazed.

"My Prince, the night is late and all those around have gone to sleep. I am sure you are fatigued by the wine, and that is why your thoughts have become so out of order. "

He allows himself to be dragged closer to the room. You make fleeting eye contact with the knowing knight posed stiffly at Aegons doors before you release him, moving to open the oak yourself.

As he stumbles in, mumbling still under his breath, you turn to walk away but the hand that suddenly comes to snatch at the sleeve of your tunic causes you to take pause.

You glance back towards him, trying to convey a question through your unwavering eyes, but his entire attention is drawn to the floor.

"I am only closing the door, My Prince. " You say simply as the wood slides closed behind you with a loud click.

Silence.

A long silence, followed by a quick gulp, and then, at last. "Don't leave. "

But his eyes are shut, his head cast to the side as he slumps forward, barely managing to stay on his feet, leaning heavily on you for support.

"I won't leave, then. " You say and pat his shoulder sympathetically.

Still silence. Another swallow. "Good. "

"Very well, My Prince. "

You begin pulling him toward the bed; he lets you, swaying and stumbling and rubbing his eyes with his fists. As you maneuver him down onto his comfortable sheets, he lets out a weak giggle.

His eyes flutter open, cheeks rosy red and wet. He blinks twice.

"Goodnight, My Prince, " you say softly.

He is frowning.

You wipe the stray tear tracks off his face, careful not to scratch the delicate, wet skin, before bringing your hand away.

He reaches out and catches the sides of your palm.

His skin is soft and warm and slightly damp. He smiles hesitantly. His eyes slowly come up to meet yours; they're glazed and watery with tears and a deep sense of vulnerability and uncertainty as his lips quiver ever so slightly.

"You hate me, don't you?"

Your eyes close briefly as you sigh. "My Prince, this conversation can wait until you awaken with a clear mind. "

"But you hate me, " he accuses. "How can I let it be...if you hate me?" He grits through his teeth.

You remove your fingers from his, stroking his jaw instead, comfortingly. "I could never hate you, My Prince. " You say it, but it is only pleasantries and both of you know that.

"Please answer me. Please...don't..." His cheeks are wet again, fresh new lines of salty tears streaking down his red face and dripping into his collar. Your thumb catches one, halting its miserable descent.

"I must protest, " you say smoothly. "You will awaken without any recollection, any trace, any hint that I existed. We will both forget this conversation, as so much of our time has been forgotten. And my feelings will return to nothing of note, My Prince. "

"Please don't. " He shakes his head and scrunches his face, pouting. His cheeks flare darker with his pathetic frustration. "You can't...Can't tell me these things and-"

He hiccups.

You lay the hand on his cheek, tenderly, letting his face lean into it.

"Can't it just be that?" You ask him in a whisper.

He's nodding fervently, his legs quivering a little, still in a woozy state of mind; the warmth is radiating off his pale, drunk skin in strong, overwhelming waves and you bask in it while you're able. He hums after a few seconds.

"Y/N, please come closer. Please. " He pleads, quietly, urgently, his entire being seeming almost distraught at the request.

It is so hard, and yet somehow so easy, to deny him the thing he wants the most right now.

"What, My Prince?"

He doesn't speak or move.

"Will you try to kiss me again?" You wonder.

At your words, his breath hitches and he parts his lips. Though, if the flicker of violet within his gaze reveals anything, it is more a case of an impelling reluctance. His eyes dart away, anywhere else in the chamber.

"Would you permit me a kiss?"

You do not answer, and his whole body stiffens, his hand slipping to encircle your wrist. The grip itself is too tight to be truly pleasant, an unhappy emotion he can't quite reign in completely.

You think, to yourself, that it would be no use to try to speak reason to him now, even if you wanted to. It would fall upon his wine-heavy ears and make little sense.

You wrap your free hand against his back, feeling the subtle movement of muscles and the bone of his spine. His hair is soft and frizzy and nearly glossy when the two of you reach an emotional equilibrium with one another. You hold onto him, breathing slowly in tune with him, savoring the rise and fall of his chest under your touch.

Your heart beats in perfect unison with his, echoing his every breath and shiver. He's a heavy weight on your leg where he has apparently found rest, your clothes rustling against his equally silken shirt.

His arm, heavy with sleep and wine, hangs at his side as you quietly push the sleeve of your tunic over his shoulder, pressing your mouth against his forehead.

In moments, the air is silent and there is no sound except the soft breathing of the two of you. You withdraw your lips and look at him with the same, unabashed expression you always carry when he begs like this.

"A kiss for bedtime, if you'd like one. I doubt any more will stir a useful reaction from you. " You comment, amused, as the back of his skull falls against his pillows.

"Please. One more. " He requests weakly, sloppily pulling himself up against your side to meet your daunting gaze. His grip on your wrist eases a bit but it doesn't let go, nor do his eyes and only do they close briefly for a small but content sigh.

"No, I don't think so. You are beyond exhausted and drunken. A proper rest will do you well. I am not your mother, I will not sing you a song and rub your belly. " You laugh at his pout. "Though, you'd probably like that, My Prince. "

"Perhaps, if it's from you. " He stutters out a second too late.

He pushes against your wrist, and it is such a smooth, deliberate movement that you are thoroughly thrown off guard. His eyes flutter half open, a sliver of dark purple and a dash of white. His sclera, despite their usual pinkness, shine somehow brighter in the cold moonlight.

"One more. " He says. "A goodnight kiss. You're not leaving after just this. "

And how could you deny him what he was asking for? He still looked so fragile. So torn, not apart but not together, either.

He was waiting expectantly for your next move.

You press forward and push your lips to his, very gently, sliding your arm free of his grasp so that you can hold his face. His nose is cool and blunt where it presses into your cheek.

And before you can taste the strange mixture of his drink and his supper on your tongue, he pulls back and swoons.

Just before his body collapses back onto the mattress, though, you manage to nudge him with both hands. He goes willingly, letting you rearrange him onto his bed, the beddings around him, and covering him with a blanket or two.

He hums softly, smacking his lips as he gets comfortable, eyes already shut.

"Please close the curtains before you leave, Y/N. I sleep...better in the dark." He sighs out the last few words, exhaling loudly, like a long, relieved breath he'd been holding in for years.

"You ought to rest now, before you sober up and get me whipped. "

"Do not fret. " He whispers. "For you will always have a place at my side. " He lets out a puff of amusement.

"I thought I was cruel. Cold. Not fond of you in the slightest. "

"You had a..mo..men...tary lapse of poor judgment. " He says with a bit of struggle but he gets it out, nonetheless.

"Mmm. Rest now, My Prince. Your whims will be satiated tomorrow. "

He reaches out, an arm trying to cross the expanse between the two of you. An invitation, but you've never taken it, never dare to lie beneath the silk sheets beside him.

You pull away.

He lets his arm drop.

"Aegon. " He mumbles out to you.

It stops you in your tracks. Your expression smoothes. "...What did you say?"

"Aegon. You haven't called me that...long time. " His murmur is barely a coherent sentence.

You stare at him for a moment, a light sigh of resignation escaping you.

"Goodnight, Aegon. "

He watches you stride across the carpet with barely open eyes.

"Goodnight. " His voice goes soft and sweet. The mirth in it is quiet but genuine.

A smile washes away the frown he wears most days, and his eyes snap shut as soon as his head falls completely to the mattress.

Like a light being extinguished.

He'll awake just fine.

As will you.

Your duty to the family awaits, as does his.

[roseglazedlens]

Okay let's forget about all the agents Kennedy, alcohol and trauma in RC, Ada...ect,and turn to Leon s Kennedy as Your husband's policeman 36years is receiving a promotion to Chief Police Officer cuz I can't see my bbguy suffer more :(,you can add some nsfw if you want to

thank you for requesting lovely! i'm sorry i write so much angst hahhaha, but here is a change of pace! i've never written anything purely fluff (lol) and so many characters, so this is a challenge! i hope you enjoy!

⦑ take me home ⦒✶.*

pairing(s): leon kennedy x gn! reader synopsis: you throw a surprise party for your boyfriend's last day at work after his job promotion. content: pure fluff, established relationship, flirting, alcohol, leon is tipsy, but he's cute & not depressed ab it. claire, rebecca, jill & chris works in RPD. « 1 k words┇masterlist┇ao3┇reblogs appreciated! »

Today is an unusual sight for the usually hectic police department in Raccoon City. The office is adorned with balloons, garlands, and laughter, celebrating not just the promotion of a well-loved officer, Leon S. Kennedy, but also his farewell as he relocates to a new precinct.

You should be happy for your boyfriend – and you are – but part of you will miss watching over his figure from your desk, casting flirtatious grins back and forth in attempts to distract each other from the rigorous paperwork.

A banner suspends between the light fixtures, observing the lopsided words ‘CONGRATULATIONS’, strings twisted into the knot. The culprit of this handiwork, Chris, puffs out his chest proudly, while Rebecca looks at him in disbelief.

“Chris, leave the decorations to Rebecca, please.” You break apart the squabble forming between them. Rebecca smirks as Chris descends the ladder, defeated. “Don’t forget everyone, this is supposed to be a surprise.”

“Claire, where is the card?” You interrogate the next person in your line of sight, who happens to be Claire. All whilst you signal Rebecca to tilt the banner slightly upwards. “Has everyone signed?”

“Yep. It’s just you left.” She hands over the card, before resuming to the case files on her computer.

The card scrawls with heartfelt blessings from your team, a lot of ‘good lucks’, ‘we’ll miss you’, and nostalgia when he was just a rookie. He worked hard for ten years to be a sergeant, and you know he deserves this.

You pick up your pen – contemplating the words to express how amazing he is, how you will love him forever, how you will miss the sneaky make-out sessions in the work janitor’s closet.

…Marvin will be so proud of you. Yours, ....

The vibration in your pocket cuts you off mid-sentence – Jill. She is supposed to be on the case with Leon for another thirty minutes. You read the text out loud.

“I can't hold him back much longer, we're on our way. ETA in five minutes!!”

The floor scrambles in panic to finalise their positions. Rebecca quickly secures the banner with some tape. Claire is passing party poppers. Chris is putting away the ladder to the storeroom.

As Jill enters the space with Leon following behind, all the confetti releases at once.

The rainbow plastic ribbons catching in his hair like stardust in sand. You catch a glimpse of surprise in his reaction, following with a light on the corner of his lips.

“To Leon!” your team lifts their glasses high in the air, sipping beers and cocktails all night. Leon is the star tonight – you can barely talk to him without two other people buying him drinks all night along.

You catch him a whole two hours later in the circle booth, after some of the crowd has dispersed, his cheeks redden from the many drinks consumed all in a few hours. You squeeze yourself through three different people to sit yourself next to Leon.

“Having fun?” You try to get his attention by nudging at his forearm. “Don’t get too drunk though, I have to take you home.”

Leon lifts his gaze, when he sees you right by him, a grin tug at his face almost immediately. His cerulean eyes somehow more glazy than usual.

“Thank you for doing all of this. You are so good for me.” Despite the scent of beer merging with his breath, the grin on his face remains childlike. One that you only see in his drunkenness, which he lets down his guard to show more of his emotional side.

“Everyone helped. Not just me.” You are thinking how cute Leon looks when he’s drunk. “You are well-loved in here. I’m just the facilitator.”

“How about you work for me?” Leon brings the back of your palm to his lips. “I can pull some strings, now that I’m sergeant.”

“Sergeant Kennedy, using your influence for personal goals? It’s not even your first day.” You quip with a slight chuckle.

“And what if I am?” He peppers kisses from your palm to your fingers, the faint heat from his lips sizzle through your nerves. “Sure you’ll enjoy less time on the field, and more time in my office.”

“Well, if that’s the case.” You decide to let this banter go on a little further. “I expect to be well-compensated for my extra duties.”

“That will depend on your performance.” He raises a sassy eyebrow, pulling you closer until your noses touch.

“Good thing I always hit my KPI’s.”

“I do like a hardworking employee…”

Eyes fluttering shut slowly, you smile into the kiss. His lips lay gently on yours, sucking slightly at your cupid’s bow. Your bodies move closer, so close that you rests your hand on Leon’s thigh for support. The kiss deepens further, sloppier, tongues intertwined until…

“Ahem.” Chris clears his throat loudly, snapping you back to the present.

You open your eyes to find the whole table staring at the two of you. Your gaze finds its way to Jill, which she immediately, most awkwardly, rolls her eyes to the ceiling as if there is something to see there. Claire is nonchalant, sipping her beer and simply enjoying the scene.

You retract the tongue that is still shoved in Leon’s mouth. A hint of pink is running up your cheeks, you don’t need to see it to feel it. Leon, however, is unphased by the attention from his coworkers. Perhaps it’s the alcohol, perhaps it’s knowing that he won’t be seeing these guys next Monday.

“So… next rounds on me. Who’s in?” Chris attempts to diffuse the awkwardness, which earns a few curt nods from the table.

Leon holds you by the hand, picking you up from the seat. “Sorry Chris, we’re gonna call it. It’s been a long night. Thanks for the party, everyone.”

You two shuffle past Chris and Jill out of the booth, after a round of hugs with everyone, you can practically feel Leon sprinting out the bar.

“How ‘bout we continue where we left off at my place?”

Your cheeks turn a deeper red. It seems like he will be the one to take you home tonight instead.

thanks for reading! come check out my other works. ––yours truly, rose. tags: @carlosgf @sporeghost (pm me for tags) © roseglazedlens - please do not repost, plagiarise, or feed to ai.

[lynk-zee]

i've been looking at your posts recently and i am in LOVE. is there chance you could do a spanking scenario? like the main 3 possibly but if not then just one of them! don't stress if not 🩷

Sweet Peaches

Added ass grabbing so I don’t repeat myself too much! SPICY but marked NSFW

You were being a brat again. Dancing on his nerves like a little ballerina, fluttering your eyelashes at him as if you weren’t acting up. Well this is what you get.

“Someone could have walked in…” He growls into your ear as he has you sprawled over his lap. You were in his office, wearing nothing but his lab coat, waiting for him in the most tantalizing pose he’s ever seen. What if he had a colleague with him? Perhaps a patient? What were you thinking, waiting in such scandalous attire. He had to teach you a lesson.

“Count.”

Before you could protest, he swung his hand down onto your ass, making you yelp. “I said count.”

Again. “O-One…”

Again and again. “T-Two…ThrEE-AH!”

“Speak clearly or you’ll have to start over.”

“F—OUR!! Five…S-Six…”

By the time you reached your twenties, you were so far gone.

“Twenty-four…..Ugh-huh….Twenty-five…”

“Good.”

He pulled you up to sit in his lap, tutting at the glazy look in your eyes, thumbing away your drool.

“Good…Let me reward you now, sweetheart…”

I feel like Rafayel always has a hand on your ass anyways. It’s his favorite place to hold you when you hug, when you kiss, when you fuck… Spanking is kind of a given. At the worst possible moments. You could be at his art exhibition, doing your job as his body guard when he notices how good your ass looks in those pants. Like, mid-sentence, he will smack and squeeze your ass, continuing to converse with his patrons like nothings happened. And no, he will not be letting go anytime soon.

Also squeezes your ass like a stressball when he’s having a hard time concentrating on his art. He’ll be like “Baby can you come here?” just so he can fondle your ass as he tries to figure out what color would look best for his painting.

Keep this man away from your ass!! I’m warning you! Letting Xavier know what it’s like to hold your ass can result in some intense consequences. Especially when he slaps it for the first time. It’s over. He doesn’t spank to punish, he spanks to mark.

Most of the time he uses his hand, he like the skin to skin contact despite the sting. It feels more personal. But, if your up for it, let him use a riding crop or a paddle. Maybe not a belt (baby doesn’t want to hurt you too bad), but it can get pretty intense with him (I tried to warn you). You just look so pretty covered in his marks.

No matter his weapon of choice, Xavier will always give you superb aftercare. You were so good for him, he has to be so good for you. He’ll rub a soothing balm on your skin as you whine into his chest, whispering praises in your ear.

[somewhereincairparavel]

Nico Di Angelo never liked hugs.

He wasn't used to that sort of affection in a long time, yet he could never bring himself to hate Jason Grace's embrace. Jason would always pick nico's frail body up and squeeze him in a rib crushing bro hug. Whether it be after they won capture the flag, or if Nico was feeling down, or simply when Jason felt like it. It was a subconscious habit of his. Those hugs just had a healing effect in them, Jason's hugs were always sincere and filled with genuine affection.

Nico had grown to do more than just tolerate those hugs, he'd eventually learned to hug back. And each time Jason's face would brighten like a puppy, his chest would be filled with warmth. Is this what it felt like to have a friend? Is this what it felt like to have a loving older brother?

'See you later, Grace" Nico said, pulling away from the hug Jason had given him, except this time, the hug was unusually melancholic, As Jason still held on tight, for a few extra seconds, though for what reason, Nico didn't know. Jason merely smiled, with glazy eyes and patted Nico's head gently.

And here Nico was, sobbing and thrashing in the inky depths of the underworld, yelling for the damned sunshiney son of Jupiter, the son of Jupiter who totally wasn't dead. no. of course not. Nico hadn't been hugged yet, Jason can't just leave without a last hug. He would never do that, unless he had no other choice. Each time he took a jittery step forward, his mind would be plagued with gruesome images of Jason's chest leaking with blood as the spear pierced his heart.

Nico realized with a pang, why the last hug they shared was melancholic.

That damned Grace knew it would be their last.

Jason Grace's chest, where Nico used be squeezed into a hug, was now a chest covered with blood.

Nico yelled in despair as the cruel fates forced him to accept that Jason Grace had truly left Nico Di Angelo forever, without a final warm hug. Nico had never longed for that once annoying rib crushing hug any more than he did right now.