#going beyond that falls under 2

[trophygony]

Wooow guys look at these two characters confessing their love to one another that is sooo hashtag friend goals hashtag nemesis hasht

[incognit0slut]

Angel

PART 5 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Single Dad!Spencer x Nanny!Reader Spencer likes having you around to look after his daughter, in fact, he likes you a bit too much.

content: (18+) 5.4k, breeding kink, fingering, fem oral, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, overstimulation, d/s dynamic but he still tries to be a gentleman although reader doesn’t want him to, mutual pining, body worship with slight religious metaphors bc he’s down so bad, and of course sweet aftercare a/n: 1) i know the gif isn’t spencer but i just had to; 2) i changed the title from the original plan bc i was listening to angel baby while writing this; 3) if i have the chance to describe his happy trail and tummy i will in a heartbeat; 4) this fic is basically the epitome of D-I-L-F!

“I want you to understand,” he mutters against your skin, kissing the sensitive spot just below your ear, “that I’m not trying to take advantage of you.”

A hand creeps up the back of his neck. “What if I want you to?”

“I’m serious.”

“I am serious. I’m not the one hesitating.”

His hand glides slowly up your side, fingertips barely ghosting over your skin, and a soft, shaky breath escapes his lips. “I’m trying to be responsible."

“I think we’re past being responsible,” you counter as his fingers trace your waist. “What are you so worried about, anyway? You’re not forcing me into anything.”

“I want to make sure you don’t feel like—” his fingers twitch, lingering over your bare skin, “—like I’m taking advantage of the situation.”

“I’m literally naked under you,” you remind him. “If anyone’s taking advantage here, it’s me.”

His forehead drops to your shoulder, and you feel the slow rise and fall of his chest as he exhales. “You’re making this really hard, you know that?”

“That’s kind of the point.”

And it’s true, Spencer realizes with a rush of heat, because he’s incredibly hard, the heavy length of his cock pressed against your stomach while he braces his weight above you. His lungs tighten, squeezing around breaths that feel too thick to swallow as his teeth graze his lower lip. It takes everything in him to keep from losing himself when his mind is already slipping.

How could he have ever imagined it would go this far?

Spencer can’t quite make sense of how this quiet, unassuming crush that crept in the first time he saw you with his daughter has led to this. It wasn’t anything grand or sudden, just this slow bloom that unfurled every time he caught you reading to Violet or laughing with her over some little joke in the living room. There was just something about the way you slipped so easily into his life, fitting into the spaces he hadn’t realized were empty until you filled them.

He’d never let himself imagine it would go beyond that. He’d convinced himself those feelings for you were just something he’d have to live with quietly, a small ache that would fade with time. But somehow, despite his best efforts to keep it hidden, you’d found your way to him. And against all his expectations, you liked him back. You like him enough that you’re now wearing nothing but a smile.

Flushed skin kissed by the moonlight spilling through the window.

Innocent eyes touched with a hint temptation.

It all feels like some sort of surreal dream.

The moment that led to this replays in his mind, clear as daylight even if it happened well past midnight. He’d gotten home somewhere between too late and way too late, running on nothing but caffeine and sugar, and there you were, leaning casually against the kitchen counter like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You started talking about your day with Violet, recounting how you’d taken her to the park, read her favorite book before bed, and how she’d peppered you with endless questions about why the sky changes colors when the day changes into night. But something was different in your voice, a softness to the way you said his name, and your gaze lingered on him just a beat longer than usual. It wasn’t anything obvious, nothing he could point to and say that’s it, but he felt it. An almost imperceptible shift in the air.

Before he knew it, he had crossed the room and kissed you. He should’ve thought it through or paused to consider the consequences, but the way you responded made it clear you’d been waiting just as long for his attention.

His shoulders fall with a quiet exhale.

“This could get complicated,” he continues, as if reminding you (and maybe himself) that there’s a line between employee and employer that he’s about to cross. A line that could change everything between you both once it’s blurred. “We should think about what this means.”

“We’ve had plenty of time to think. If you wanted to stop, you would’ve done it already.”

“I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to say.”

“Then please enlighten me.”

Instead of answering right away, he leans in, his lips finding the curve of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, and then he’s gently pulling the tender flesh between his lips that draws a sudden moan from your throat. The sound seems to fuel him, and before you can even register what’s happening, his fingers are already slipping lower, exploring the soft space between your thighs.

“What if I want more than this?” His fingers inch closer, teasingly brushing against your heat with a slowness that borders on torment. “What if I want everything?”

Your hips buck against his hand. “Everything?”

“Everything,” he confirms. “Not just tonight.”

The words send a ripple of electricity that blooms deep in your core. When his fingers finally slip between your folds, a sharp gasp escapes your lips before you can hold it back.

“You… you mean you want… more than this? More than just us… here?”

“Yes,” he replies, his voice catching like gravel in his throat as his fingers trace over the slickness he’s found. “Does that scare you?”

For a moment, words fail you. The slow, coaxing rhythm of his fingers pulls you deeper into a haze where coherent thoughts are hard to grasp. There’s a pause, a heartbeat where he stops. Waiting.

“No,” you confess, the truth slipping out more easily than you expected. “It doesn’t.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “It doesn’t?”

Your lungs expand, filling with a rush of oxygen and a nervous flutter that lands somewhere in the pit of your stomach. “I think this is the right time to tell you I’ve had a crush on you for a while.”

Spencer stays motionless for a beat. Then something shifts—his gaze softens, and a small, almost incredulous smile curves his lips. “You have a crush on me?”

“Yeah.”

“As in… you have feelings for me?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So you’re not just… turned on right now?”

“Well, that too,” you admit with a grin, your fingers brushing the back of his neck. “But it’s more than that. I really like you.”

His smile widens, and his fingers begin to move again, circling your clit with just the right pressure to pull a sharp intake of breath from you. It’s as though your confession is a final green light he’d been waiting for. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Your teeth catch your lip, struggling to hold back fragments of breath. “I thought it was obvious,” you manage between heavy exhales. “Why do you think I always stay late?"

"To avoid traffic?"

You huff. "I tried to be around you as much as possible, Spencer."

His fingers toy at the edge of your entrance, tracing the slick, warm wetness that clings to his skin as a quiet hum rumbles in his chest. “You know I’m not always the best at picking up social cues.”

“You’re a profiler.” Your breath catches halfway between a gasp and a sigh when he slides a finger in. “You're supposed to notice everything."

He lets your words settle, eyes narrowing slightly as he turns them over in his mind.

“I guess I was too focused on trying not to cross any lines to see the ones you were trying to draw."

A soft moan escapes your lips as another finger slides in.

“I'm… glad you finally caught on."

"I'm catching on now.”

His eyes drop to the way your body greedily takes his fingers. The sight alone sends a rush of heat straight to his gut like a line of fire winding up through his chest and spreading into his limbs. You’re dripping, the slick sound of your arousal nearly derails him as he continues to watch the wetness coat his fingers with every slow thrust.

“Since when have you had this crush?” He asks curiously.

There’s a beat of silence, only punctuated by the soft, breathy noises escaping you. When he finally looks up, he catches the way your face scrunches in pleasure, brows furrowed and eyes barely open, and he can’t help but find it almost unbearably adorable. The corners of his lips twitch with a quiet laugh before he leans in, pressing the softest it’s okay, you can tell me kiss against your lips.

“Since when?”

You blink your eyes open at his question, and there’s a flush of embarrassment in your cheeks.

“Since—” you start, but your voice catches when he curls his fingers slightly, and you bite down on your lip to keep from moaning. He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a barely-contained grin.

“Since?” he prompts again.

You swallow the lump tightening in your throat. “Since you interviewed me for the job."

He absorbs your words. "That’s… more than a while."

"It was innocent at the time," you confess, trying to regain some control over your thoughts. "Just a silly little crush."

His pace quickens, fingers plunging deeper, and whatever sense of composure you had left is slipping away piece by piece. “What changed?”

Desperation claws at you with every passing second, your hips moving against his hand as you scramble to gather your thoughts. But the way his fingers are mapping every sensitive spot makes it nearly impossible to articulate anything coherent. He doesn’t miss the way your breath stutters, or how your words break apart into fragmented attempts to answer.

“I-I—” you stammer, wincing as the words catch in your throat before you finally manage to continue, “I probably shouldn’t say…”

“Why not?”

“It’s embarrassing."

He lets out a soft laugh. “Tell me anyway,” he urges. “I want to hear it.”

You fall quiet again, and the only sounds that fill the space between you is the ragged pull of your breaths and the slick rhythm of his fingers pumping lazily inside you. The words sit heavy on your tongue, threatening to disappear if you don’t say them quickly enough.

"Remember when… you taught Violet how to… ride her bike?”

He tilts his head slightly. There’s a furrow in his brow as he searches your face. “You’re going to have to be more specific, there were a lot of lessons.”

“The very first time.”

“Ah,” he muses. “Around June, then.”

You nod. “When I… saw you with her that day, I-I�� I got curious.”

His fingers falter, just slightly, the subtle pause enough to show that you’ve grabbed his attention. “Curious?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You were so adorable with her… and I started thinking about what it would be like… to have your kids.”

If there was ever a moment to leave him utterly speechless, this was it. His brain seems to stall, the gears grinding to a halt as the reality of what you’ve said settles in. He’s spent so much time trying to be the one holding it all together, but now? Now all he could picture was you holding a baby—his baby—and the thought sent his mind reeling, knocking him off balance in a way he didn’t expect.

“You… thought about that?”

Your fingers trails his shoulder before slipping up into his hair, curling gently at the nape of his neck. “It crossed my mind more than once.”

“That’s—” wow. He leans his forehead against yours. “Not embarrassing. At all.”

“Really?”

“That’s probably the hottest thing I've ever heard in my life.”

You let out a soft chuckle, gently pulling on his curls before drawing his bottom lip into a gentle suck. “It’s never been innocent since then.”

Goosebumps rises along his skin, and the heat pooling low in his stomach tightens as he grows impossibly harder. “Yeah?”

“I’ve wanted you to fuck me for a long time.”

His jaw clenches.

He’s so close to completely losing it.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he mutters, pressing his fingers deeper inside you.

“Why.. why not?”

“Because I might give you exactly what you want.” When he feels you clench around him, he huffs in amusement. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

There’s a tender spot he finds deep inside, one that feels achingly sensitive, and your mouth falls open, a soundless gasp escaping before you can catch it.

“You really mean it,” he says, more a realization than a question, as he watches your body go pliant beneath his touch.

“I do,” you manage to say.

“You want me that way?”

You nod frantically. “Want your cum in me.”

The second those words leave your lips, his groan rumbles through his chest, and you swallow it down as his mouth crashes into yours. The kiss is messy, teeth clashing and tongues tangling in a chaotic rhythm that’s both desperate and needy. When he finally pulls away, you’re left panting, your lips swollen, his forehead resting against yours.

“Never would’ve guessed you had such a dirty mouth."

"There's a lot of thing you don't know about me."

His breath brushes against your lips as he whispers, “I’m starting to figure that out.”

When he slowly withdraws his fingers, you can’t help the soft whimper that escapes your throat. Your eyes follow his every move as he sits up and settles between your thighs. You’ve always thought Spencer was an attractive man, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t admired the way his shirts fit just snug enough to hint at what was underneath. But seeing him naked like this? That was a whole new level of breathtaking.

Your gaze trails down his frame, landing on the soft curve of his stomach, something you'd secretly adored every time it pressed against his dress shirts. It was even more captivating without anything hiding it now, especially with the trail of dark hair leading down. Soft, scattered strands, drawing your eyes right to the place where you can’t help but stare.

He gives himself a slow pump. Once. Twice. And then, finally, you feel the firm pressure of his tip pressing between your folds.

“Are you sure?” he asks, the head of his cock sliding over your sensitive skin. “There's a condom in my drawer."

Your body tenses at the thought of him pulling back, and without thinking, your hand reaches between the two of you, wrapping around his cock before he can pull away. “When was the last time you got tested?”

He exhales sharply. “A few months ago,” he mutters, hips twitching against your grip despite himself. “If there was any risk, I wouldn’t even consider this without telling you.”

“I got tested last month,” you assure him quickly. “We’re both safe.”

He nods absentmindedly. “We can… still grab the condom if you want…”

“Spencer,” you interrupt, gently brushing the bead of precum that had formed at his tip. “I thought I made it clear I want you to cum inside me.”

He can only stare as your delicate finger trails along the thick vein. It feels like all the oxygen he’s desperately clinging to has been sucked from his lungs.

“I know you said you don’t want to take advantage of me…” you continue, guiding him right to your entrance. “But I really want you to.”

He finally lets out a low, gruff sound, something between a growl and a sigh as he slowly pushes himself in. His eyes are locked on the sight of your walls stretching to accommodate his size, watching as your body struggles to take him.

"You should stop talking like that," he rasps through gritted teeth. "I’m barely holding it together."

"Here's another thing you should know about me.”

He ruts gently into you. A push. A pull.

A heartbeat in between.

“I really like it rough."

That’s all it takes.

He slams his hips into yours.

Intense doesn’t even begin to describe what he feels. It’s more like a surge, a rush of heat and desperation that floods every inch of him the same time you cry out. His throat tightens, constricting around breaths he can’t seem to catch as he resorts to inhaling sharply through his nose.

“Jesus… you feel so—” His words falter, his voice rough and breathless as his fingers figs into your skin. His chest rises and falls with each labored breaths, and his eyes squeezes shut for a moment.

Tight. Warm. Wet. That’s exactly how you feel.

"Perfect." His large hands grips your waist. “You’re perfect.”

You mewl at his words, the sound spilling from your lips before you can stop it, and the soft, needy noise is enough to make his eyes flicker open. He begins to pull back, just enough to make you whimper from the sudden loss of contact, but before you can catch your breath, he snaps his hips forward with a rough, powerful thrust.

Your hands fly to his arms, holding onto him tightly. "Spencer… Please…”

He lets out a sigh.

No man is immune to that tone of desperation, least of all Spencer. Not when you’re offering yourself to him like something out of a dream. Not when your eyes lock onto his with a look that belongs more to an angel—if angels could be so helpless and desperate. Because what angel pleads with every breath for more?

What angel cries out as he holds your hips firmly in place and thrusts with a force that drives you to the brink of sanity?

He’s mesmerized. His eyes track the way your breasts bounce with each snap of his hips. There’s something almost greedy in the way his gaze roams over you, but it’s when he locks onto where your bodies meet that he really loses himself. A glossy ring coats his cock each time he pulls out, and when he pushes back in, the friction between your bodies creates a lewd, wet sound that fills the room.

He laughs. Not out of mockery, but out of sheer delight.

You’re an angel wrapped in sin.

“I can’t—oh god, right there—” Your nails leave little crescents moon on his skin. “You’re so… so deep.”

You’re really testing his limits, and Spencer knows he’s very far from a violent man, but right now, the temptation to cover your mouth with his hand is becoming dangerously real. Although with the way you’re writhing beneath him, rolling your hips to meet his thrusts, he’s sure you’d probably enjoy it.

“Spencer…”

His balls slaps your ass as he slams into you.

“O-Oh—fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

He squeezes your waist tightly. “Already?”

“Ngh.”

Your grip loosens on his arm, and before he can fully process what’s happening, your fingers dance along your clit. It takes all his willpower not to spill into you right then and there when he feels you tighten around him in response. But he holds on, because he needs you to cum first. He needs to feel your velvety walls flutter along the rigid veins of his cock, needs to watch the way your body tenses with pleasure.

He needs to feel it more than once.

He lets you have your first orgasm. Although letting seems like the wrong word. There’s nothing passive about it. He’s making you cum, driving you to it with each calculated thrust. You’re toying with your clit, rubbing in frantic circles just like you do whenever you touch yourself with the thought of him, but this time, it’s even more intense. This time, he’s inside you. And this time, it takes only a few moments for the tension to snap.

You clamp down on him. Hard. So hard that his movement falters for a second, but he quickly recovers, thrusting into you with a relentless rhythm. Just as you start to catch your breath, he pulls out, and you’re left in that delicious, dizzy haze, but your mind is even more disoriented when his face suddenly lowers between your thighs.

“Oh, you’re gonna—” you moan as his shoulders nudge your legs apart, opening you wider for him. “Spencer, you don’t have to—”

Before you can finish, before you even take another breath, the tip of his tongue flicks out.

“I want to.”

And he means it. He dives in with a hunger that leaves no room for doubt. His tongue starts firm and flat, pressing against you before dragging slowly upward, gathering your slickness in one deliberate sweep. Then he changes rhythm, the broad strokes shifting into something more focused, alternating between gentle flicks and deep, hungry pulls, and it’s doing things to you that no amount of late-night fantasies could have prepared you for.

Your head is all over the place that you reach out blindly, trying to find something solid, but the air merely glides over your skin. You stretch for the edge of the bed, fingertips just skimming the surface before your arms flail helplessly in the empty space. He notices your struggle almost immediately, and without missing a beat, he pulls back, lifting your legs to rest on his shoulders.

“Here,” he says, reaching out his arms toward you. “Give me your hands.”

Gladly. The second your fingers lock with his, a sense of grounding floods you, though it does nothing to ease the intensity of what he’s doing. If anything, it sharpens. You can feel the muscles in his shoulders flex under your thighs as he positions himself. And sure, your legs somehow feel weightless, like they’re floating in the air, but the rest of you?

You’re a mess of nerve endings on fire.

It’s impossible to think clearly when every cell in your body is buzzing. Your thoughts scatter the second his mouth moves in that devastating way, driving you out of your mind. You try to hold on to some semblance of control, but who are you kidding? He has officially turned you into a puddle of desperate, needy nerves, and you don’t even care.

It doesn’t take long before that coil snaps, and when it does, your entire body trembles. It’s always the second orgasm. The first is a tease, a little warm-up. The second one is the worst—or the best, depending on how you look at it. It doesn’t just tug at your edges, it tears right through, leaving you gasping and shaking and completely undone like every part of you has been pulled apart and put back together very wrong.

His mouth is glazed with your slick when he finally pulls away. “Good?”

You can barely feel your legs.

“Speechless,” is your answer.

His nose twitches in amusement as his hand leaves yours only for them to slide down your body, gently coaxing your legs to wrap around his waist. “Continue?”

“Please.”

A palm slips down your thigh. “Did you mean what you said earlier?”

You swipe your tongue across your bottom lip as he hovers above you. “About what?”

“About taking advantage of you.”

You huff out a sigh. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”

“Say it again,” he urges, guiding his cock smoothly along your folds before your whines travel into his ears. Ah, there it is. This is the sound that would greet him in heaven, if such a place existed for someone like him. Men who’ve taken lives to save others. Men who carry too many regrets to count. Spencer knows he’s not the kind of person heaven was built for, but if it were, he’s certain it would sound exactly like the breathy moan that escapes your lips.

And he’s tasted the afterlife, once, when he was younger—drifting somewhere between consciousness and oblivion with a ghost of a needle stuck in his arm. But nothing about that brush with death was like this. This feels like he’s been pulled back into something he didn’t believe he deserved.

“Say it again.”

He’s pleading now. It sounds awfully like a prayer.

“I want you to take advantage of me,” you say, the words spilling from your lips like a soft, sinful confession, music to his ears. An angel. “I want all of it.”

He takes your hands again. “So you won’t be mad if I get a little rough?”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

That’s all he needs. He gently pushes your hands above your head, pinning them to the mattress, his fingers lacing through yours as his weight presses you into the bed. There’s a sudden rush—like a switch has flipped that it knocks the breath out of you. Your heart skips a beat, but not from nerves. No, this is anticipation, excitement.

You test his hold on you, just to see what happens, but his grip stays firm, almost daring you to resist.

“You asked for this,” he warns as he shifts his hips, aligning himself right to your entrance.

You shake your head. “I begged for this.”

He laughs, a flash of teeth in the dim light. “Yeah,” he breathes, his grip tightening as he presses deeper, “you did.”

A breathless whine escapes your lips as he fills you.

Angel, angel, angel.

He looks at you with a kind of reverence that borders on worship, though his movements are anything but saintly. There’s nothing gentle or innocent about the way he’s taking you, and there’s a quiet madness in the way you respond. Making love would be too tame, too soft for what this is. But fucking seems too crude, too disconnected for the way your eyes meet his, for the way you say his name like a prayer and a demand all at once.

The moment your voice breaks, breathless and needy, something inside him snaps. He feels the tightness coiling in his gut, and once it starts, there’s no stopping it. The pressure is mounting, and with every hard thrust it becomes harder to hold back. He knows he should slow down, give you a moment to catch your breath, but he can’t—his body won’t let him.

His fingers tighten around yours. He’s moving with a single-minded intensity now, pushing you flat against the mattress, your body pliant beneath him. The bed creaks every time he moves and your legs wrap tighter around his hips as you squeeze your eyes shut.

Spencer leans down, brushing his lips against yours, so close but never quite closing the distance, like even the simplest kiss would shatter him too soon. Instead, he rests his forehead on top of yours and whispers, “l’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over, like he’s stuck on some endless loop. It’s not a real apology, not for anything he’s done, but for how much he needs you and how he’s afraid of breaking you with how much he can’t hold back.

He’s so close and he knows he’s not going to last much longer.

“I’m—” He groans as he feels the tension in his body snap, the wave building up in his spine and crashing down with brutal intensity. “I—fuck—I can’t hold it—”

You’re barely coherent yourself, but your voice comes out strong. A little breathless.

“Inside,” you gasp, your legs tightening around his waist. “I want it inside.”

Your words push him over the edge. He shudders, hips stuttering as he buries himself as deep as he can the moment the last thread of his restraint snaps. He can feel it, the way he pulses inside you, filling you completely. Every thrust is accompanied by a harsh groan as his release paints your walls, and the sound of your soft, desperate whines only pushes him deeper into the overwhelming pleasure.

When it finally becomes too much, he carefully pulls out. But the intensity is still coursing through his veins, and he’s too addicted to the sound of your sound, too drawn to the way your body trembles beneath him.

His hand drifts from your wrist almost on instinct, tracing its way down between your legs. He doesn’t need to see the mess he’s made—he can feel it. There’s a fleeting moment where he pauses, almost in awe, before his fingers brush over your clit, and your hips jerk in response. He’s not even sure if he’s teasing you or himself at this point, but he’s too far gone to care.

He slides two fingers inside you.

Your back arches instantly, your nipples brushing against his chest, and you gasp, fully aware of what he’s trying to do. “Oh… I—I can’t…”

He shakes his head. “You can,” he reassures you, watching in fascination as he pushes the white liquid of his release deeper into you. His gaze snaps back to yours. “I think you can give me one more.”

Your body trembles, and you can’t hold back the soft, broken cry that escapes your lips.

“Spencer…”

He loosens his grip on your hand, guiding it gently to rest around his neck. “Please,” he begs, his lips brushing your skin, “for me?”

The way he says it makes it impossible for you to deny him. And he knows it. He feels it in the way your nails dig into the back of his neck, pulling him closer as the tension inside you builds again. His fingers work faster, more desperate now, curling inside you just the way you like.

He’s watching, waiting, and when you finally cum again, it’s like witnessing something so divine. Your body shakes beneath him, a violent, beautiful quake that feels like it’s pulling him into its orbit. He’s unable to tear his eyes away as your head tilts back, lips parting with a choked moan that’s as delicate as it is devastating like an angel’s breath caught on the edge of rapture.

If angels looked this breathtaking in heaven, no wonder people were willing to risk damnation.

Spencer smiles wryly to himself.

Since when did he become so religious?

Another strangled moan escapes your lips. When your orgasm finally subsides, your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, and with what little strength you have left, you reach up and yank weakly at his mop of brown curls.

“…no more.”

He smiles softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your temple. “No more,” he agrees, pulling his fingers from you carefully.

Without saying a word, he slips off the bed and disappears from the room, only to come back with a damp towel in his hand. You expect him to hand it over to you, but you’re surprised when he kneels at the edge of the bed, gently spreading your legs apart.

Your skin tingles under his gaze as he stares at the mess between your thighs.

“That was…” he starts as he begins to wipe the towel over you. “…very reckless of us.”

With a small, tired smile, you mutter, “You don’t seem too bothered by it.”

He glances up at you. “I’m not,” he admits, finishing his cleanup and setting the towel aside. “But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t at least pretend to be responsible.”

You reach for him as he climbs back into bed. “Would it make you feel better if I told you I’m on birth control?”

He exhales a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, his body visibly relaxing as he lets out a quiet laugh. “It definitely helps,” he says, tucking you under his chin, “but I’m still going to try to be more careful next time.”

Your grin is as wide as the warmth spreading through your chest. “Next time?”

He smiles softly. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“Which part? You said a lot of things.”

“You know what I mean,” he insists.

“I know. But I want to hear it again.”

The tip of his nose brushes yours. “I want everything.”

“Everything?”

“Every single part of you.”

You take a deep breath. A whiff of his sweat and the faintest trace of soap clings around your senses until you release a happy sigh. “Do you think Violet will be okay with this? With us?”

His hand slips to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he tilts his head to look at you. “She already loves you,” he reassures you. “She’s more adaptable than you think. And she trusts you.”

“But... what if it changes things for her?”

“It will change things,” he admits. “But all the changes will be good ones."

You mull over his words. “You think so?”

“I know so, because you make her happy. You make both of us happy, an—”

He stops, his lips just barely parted as he catches himself.

He almost said it. He almost called you angel.

“What?”

He shakes his head slightly, a faint embarrassed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I’m just really happy,” he explains, his fingers absentmindedly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face. There’s a curious look in your eyes, but instead of pressing him, you bury yourself into his neck, which he’s quietly grateful for because he’s not sure he could have explained himself without sounding like a total sap.

And maybe he is a sap, but even he’s aware that words like that shouldn’t be thrown around too soon, especially after just one night. Not before things settle in, before everything feels a little less like a dream and more like reality.

But he thinks about it. Oh, he thinks about it. The word stubbornly lingers at the edge of his mind he’s keeping for another time. He imagines letting it slip on some quiet morning, when you’re half-asleep and bundled in his shirt, golden sunlight filtering through the window to cast a warm glow across your skin. Or maybe when you meet him at the door after a long day, and Violet runs up, chattering away while you smile at him with that look that feels like coming home.

He can picture it falling easily from his lips someday, maybe even in a future where you’re holding the baby you had wondered about having with him and he’s standing there, watching you like someone who can’t quite believe his luck.

He’ll say it with a kind of certainty then. Not as a prayer, not as some lofty declaration of divine grace.

And when that moment comes, without hesitation, he’ll finally call you his angel.

[back2bluesidex]

Slide - MYG (18+)

Pairing: Producer!Yoongi X Lyricist!Reader 

Theme: Angst, smut, unplanned pregnancy. Fwb to ?

Word count: 2k+

Summary: 

"I can see the pain in your eyes I don't wanna say that I'm God, but I'll take you to heaven if you die"  

Alternatively, 

You would go back in time and fall in love with Yoongi over and over and over again even after knowing that he would never once be yours in any of the timeline.

Warnings: implied smut, explicit smut, emotional sex, very sad (don't underestimate the angst huhu), depressed yoongi, reader is pining so hard lord!, creampie, unplanned pregnancy, NSFW!!

Listened to Slide by Chase Atlantics

Minors do not interact!!

Series Masterlist | Masterlist | Patreon

A/N: Lemme know if you want a part 2? (even though I already know the answer hehe).

Arrangement.

You would rather call it an arrangement - the thing that is going on between you and Yoongi. Anything you have been feeling for him, outside your usual practice, is your, solely your decision or more likely… fault. 

Hence, it’s a given. A given that you shouldn’t feel your heart dropping to your stomach, crashing on whatever is available inside your body and shattering into a thousand pieces, when you find Gyuri walking inside the room. 

Beside you, Yoongi tenses. His body goes rigid as the air inside the room thickens beyond repair. And all of a sudden you can’t breathe. 

Now you understand why Namjoon has been avoiding to reveal the name of the artist all along.

Lee Gyuri - One of the most successful solo artist as well as Min Yoongi’s one true love, who had left him broken so bad that you once found him on the street, unconscious, vomit all over his clothes - is now back in his life… in your life, which has been revolving around him. 

Where she left - You started. 

You picked Yoongi up, put him into pieces, not that you were able to heal the cracks but you at least conjoined it all together. 

And just like that - one night after a long heart to heart talk and a few beers, you found him seethed deep inside you. Yoongi chanted your name again and again as if it’s a mantra that will heal the cracks of his heart all while he rutted in you like a mad man. 

It started from there - the arrangement. 

At the end of long days and even longer nights, whenever both of you were too exhausted to go home, you spent the nights crammed together on Yoongi’s studio couch. 

Quiet whispers, curse words, wandering hands, secret body parts slick with arousal - everything had made your existence dwindle dangerously through his fingers. 

Yoongi always fell asleep right after but you stayed awake, tracing the slope of his nose, bow of his lips, map of his pale skin glinting in the dark. 

You had made a mistake. 

You fell in love.

Now as Gyuri slides inside the room with natural elegance, you hear Yoongi’s breathing getting quicker in pace. 

He is anxious. 

You place a hand on his knees, under the table. It’s a practiced habit that you adopted over time. Your fingertips help to calm him down. 

Everything is the same. 

Except this time, Yoongi doesn’t relax under your touch. 

“Yoongi, can we talk for a moment?” Gyuri requests with a timid voice at the end of the meeting. Her eyes quickly lock with yours for a fraction of a second. 

You half expect for Yoongi to say no. You pray to the universe for his answer to come as negative even when you know –

“Yes. Sure.” 

That Yoongi never stopped loving her for a moment. Yoongi loved, loves and will love only one woman - and that’s not you. 

Even though you don’t feel your legs anymore, you stand up. You choose to take the stairs to exhaust your body so that your sadness can be masked. 

But even as you climb down floors after floors - your heart stays confined in that room locked with two lovers. 

“She said she wants to work it out this time. She has been missing me terribly... she said.” Yoongi doesn’t look away from the blaring computer screen. 

He probably doesn’t have the heart of looking into your eyes. 

Somewhere he, too, knows of the deepest secrets you have been hiding from him. 

“And? What did you say?” You chew on the inside of your mouth, again praying for him to answer something of your liking. 

“That I will think about it.” you knew he would say that. 

“What is there to think about, Yoongi? You still love her.” you force the words out of your mouth even when your throat closes up. 

Tears threaten to spill from the corner of your eyes but you blink those away.

Yoongi finally looks at you, his own eyes glinting with moisture. 

“But what about you?” The question is rhetorical - metaphorical. 

“Me? I will go back to where I started from.” you lie, heart threatening to leap out of your chest. 

You would go back, but not where you started from, you would go back to the night when you picked Yoongi up from the street.

In simpler terms, you would go back in time and fall in love with Yoongi over and over and over again even after knowing that he would never once be yours in any of the timelines. 

You squeeze your eyes shut tight, pretending not to hear anything at all. 

Even though you have to summon all of your willpower to do so - you stay still in your bed. 

Your tears though - keep falling, rolling down the apple of your cheeks and making a small puddle inside the curve of your ear. 

He keeps rambling on the door. 

Sometimes the knocks are steady, sometimes infused with anger but his voice stays low. You wouldn’t hear him calling your name if you weren’t attentive enough.

“Y/N! Please open the door.” Yoongi requests again. Through the wood of your door it sounds like a whisper, “Please. I- I want to see you once.” 

Every pore of your body woozes out the desire of letting him in, taking him inside your arms and never ever letting him go. 

But you are afraid. 

He has never once visited you by his own will. 

He only tagged along when you asked him to. 

So you are afraid. 

Afraid of what he might say. Afraid that he might say what you don’t want to hear. You already know everything - know enough - if he points it out now that he is going to leave you behind as the love of his life is back then you might as well break down, which you definitely don’t want to do. 

You have always appeared to be nonchalant before Yoongi about this arrangement, about his kisses, his marks, his simple ignorance - and you want it to stay that way. 

However, your resolve breaks when you hear a sob, muffled by the door. 

Is he crying? Why? Why is he crying at your door? 

So you get up, pad towards the door and swing it open. 

Yoongi’s head shoots up and you look at his face. 

He is a mess - a mess that you love. 

With dark hair all disheveled, face smeared with tears, lips chapped, Yoongi says, “I am here to end things.” 

This. You were afraid of this. 

Your insides churn and mold into a ball of nothingness. There are words sitting on the tip of your tongue but you choose to stay silent as always.

“Okay.” you reply, holding the door knob again ready to shut it on his beautiful face for once and for all. 

Yoongi forces his hand at the edge of the door, preventing you from closing it. 

He steps inside your apartment and within a few moments, you are being pushed to the door, closing it with the force of your back. 

Yoongi kisses you with everything he has left inside. You kiss him back. 

You don’t know what is happening but if this is for one last time, then you will accept it. 

Your hands wrap around his neck on their own accord. His chapped lips mold perfectly with your moisturized pair. 

They move in perfect sync, perfect rhythm - the rhythm of destruction. 

“Y/N” Yoongi whispers in between the kiss, “I am sorry.” 

You don’t pay his words any mind, rather you let your fingers get lost in his long dark hair. 

The kiss grows hungrier by every second you spend in each other’s hold. 

Yoongi starts directing you towards your bedroom and your small apartment space takes no time to be crossed. 

You soon feel the edge of your bed behind your knees. 

When you fall back - Yoongi falls with you. 

He looks into your eyes, his own eyes telling a thousand different stories all together. But tonight, you don’t try to read those. 

What’s the point when your own chapter is ending? When memories of you will be left to collect dust on the surface? 

What’s the point when he knows he is going back to the one he has always loved? 

His rough calloused hand comes in contact with your cheek. 

“I’m sorry.” he whispers again as he reaches down to place a kiss on your forehead. 

“I’m sorry.” he kisses your right eye.

“I’m sorry.” he kisses your left eye.

“I’m sorry.” this time it’s the tip of your nose. 

“I’m sorry” and lastly it’s your lips. 

You have never seen Min Yoongi this emotional. 

After Gyuri left him, he became numb. You were never able to thaw the frozen parts of him. 

But tonight you see a completely different Yoongi. Is this Gyuri’s magic? Has her return made him a human again? 

Yoongi - who never touched you or kissed you more than it’s needed, is now apologizing while kissing every small part of your face? 

You take a sharp breath and reply, “it’s okay.” even though you don’t know what he is apologizing for. For not being able to reciprocate your feelings? For using you when you let him? For leaving you behind after tonight? 

He has already started placing kisses around your jaw, throat, collarbones. His hands fist the hem of your pajama top and he pulls it up revealing your naked chest. 

He doesn’t waste time diving down and taking one of your perked nipples inside his mouth. 

He sucks on it softly, sweetly - like a lover. Your tears start spilling from your eyes finally. But you completely lose it when you feel his own tears on the mound of your breast. You let him sob, as you sob quietly. 

It doesn’t take much time for your clothes and his clothes to join as a hip on the floor of your bedroom. 

Yoongi pumps himself, preparing for one last time to enter you. When he lines his cock on your entrance, he takes a quick glance at your face, as if asking for permission. 

Your tear stained face lights up in a small smile - it’s not fake. 

He enters you, takes up every corner of your walls, fills you with himself - both of your body and heart. 

Yoongi doesn’t say anything anymore. He pushes himself inside you, pounds into you with an unusual pace. 

His face comes to rest on the crook of your neck. You embrace him to stay there, stay with you as long as it lasts. 

For the first time ever, Yoongi doesn’t fucks you - he makes love to you. 

The realization makes you shudder. 

Why now? Why now out of all the time? Why now when everything is ending? 

His breath starts getting labored, you feel yourself hanging close to the edge as well. 

And after a few more thrusts, you let go. He fills you up following your invitation. 

Both of you stay like that even after the deed is done - for a moment, an hour? You don’t know.  

You feel his disposal running down your inner thigh, when he finally slips out of you. 

You sneak a glance in his dark orbs for one last time. With a sore throat and an equally sore heart you whisper, “Be happy, Yoongi.” 

You see one last drop of tear slipping down his eyes when he dips down to cage your lips in his for one last time. 

It’s been a month since that night. 

It’s been a month since you last talked to Yoongi beside work. 

It’s been a month since you last saw Yoongi outside work. 

It’s been a month since you withdrew from Gyuri’s project.

It’s been more than a month since you had your last period. 

As you stand in your bathroom, with the tiny testing kit, those two red lines mock you. 

You thought that night was the last time? But this after effect - where will you go with this? Who will you confide in? 

It can’t be Min Yoongi - can it? 

You have let him slide through your fingers after all. 

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[runraerun]

Steddie Amnesia Fic — 3/3

Part 1 | Part 2 | AO3

wc: 3k | rating: T | cw: head trauma, brain injury talk | a special thank you to @dame-zoom-a-lot for betaing! <3

The days following Steve’s Houdini act are fuckin’ tense, to say the least.

Eddie had messed up. Royally.

He could’ve sworn that when Steve took off, he’d ducked into the Recovery Center, y’know, the place he was supposed to go! If Eddie had known Steve took a detour and missed the building entirely, Eddie would’ve ran a lot fucking faster than he had. Especially after…

Well, no point in shying away from it anymore; after Steve confessed his love for him.

And how did Eddie return the favor? By being a total bone head and losing Steve for the entire goddamn day! Not to mention a good chunk of the night. Jesus… It’s no wonder Robin’s still sore.

Now, in Eddie’s flimsy defense, Steve had thrown him for one hell of a loop. One that Eddie was still seeing double from. He’s still having trouble wrapping his head around what he’d heard; Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington, King of Hawkins High, being into Eddie ‘the Freak’ Munson, the drug-dealing ne’er do well hailing from the Forest Hills trailer park. Forgive him for finding the threads a little difficult to tie together! He’s not exactly Steve’s usual fare.

But it had happened.

Things have fundamentally, metaphysically, allegorically and subatomically shifted between the two of them—there’s no getting away from that, no matter how long they try and dance around this.

Steve said he loved Eddie. Love.

That isn’t something you just move on from. At least, it isn’t something Eddie can move on from. Especially when he didn’t even get to say his piece!

The trouble is that Robin’s in all-out guard dog mode with Steve, keeping Eddie at arm's length even after a whole goddamn week goes by. Sure, she’d accepted his apology (albeit begrudgingly), but she isn’t exactly keen on letting Steve out of the house without her by his side—much less with Eddie. It would be kind of heartwarming if it weren’t so goddamn annoying.

Steve isn’t some damsel locked away in a tower, and Eddie wasn’t some knight in shining armor, planning to scale the side of a stone tower to avoid the sleeping, fire-breathing dragon…

But as Eddie stares up at the fire escape attached to the side of Steve and Robin’s brick apartment building… he'd be lying if he said he didn’t sort of feel a little shiny.

Part of Eddie can’t believe it’s really come to this, but… he just can’t stand the idea of wasting another goddamn night tossing and turning, going over and over Steve’s words in his mind. Thinking about the way Steve’s hand felt in his, the way his eyes went all soft when he told Eddie he—he loved him…

Jesus H. Christ, this is way beyond his skill set—he’s way out of fucking league here, but there’s nothing for it. Eddie needs to settle this, once and for all.

So, he takes his bandana from the back pocket of his jeans and presses the flat of it to his forehead while his hands make a tight knot in the back. He zips his leather jacket as high as it’ll go and gives his hands a shake to try and get the jitters out.

It’s not exactly a helmet and plates of armor, but it’ll have to do. Eddie takes a breath, steels himself, then climbs on top of a precariously stacked pile of milk crates that he’d crafted and leaps for the steel ladder. As soon as his feet leave the plastic tower, it collapses under him, clattering to the ground. Eddie knows he shouldn’t look back, but he sneaks a peak over his shoulder and… yep. He really shouldn’t’ve looked. He’s not that high up, but it’s enough that if he falls, he’d be feeling it tomorrow. Might even bust an ankle if he landed wrong.

He turns back to the task at hand; getting to Steve.

There’s a terrifying moment where he’s not sure if he can pull himself up, but somehow, he finds the strength to do just that. If only Coach D’Amour could see him now!

He grunts as he pulls himself up onto the platform, belly getting scratched against the grates as he goes. Eddie scrambles to get his legs underneath himself. Then, he stands, dusts himself off and takes the win, graceless as it was.

The fire escape is rickety and fucking loud as he takes the steps two at a time. It’s cold enough that even the quickest touch of the steel railings drains all the heat out of his fingers, so he just keeps them balled up, swinging at his sides. The wind is especially chilly up here too, something he hadn’t noticed on the ground, but now that he’s up a couple of floors there wasn’t anything for the wind to buff off except the side of the building and, well, Eddie.

By the time he reaches the third floor, his nose is running and no doubt red and irritated looking, and he’s woefully out of breath.

Kind of a pathetic knight, he thinks as he sniffs back the worst of it, wipes the underside of his nose on the sleeve of his jacket to get rid of what’s left.

The light in Steve’s room is on, reaching out to him through the lines of Steve’s shut blinds.

His hand is raised, wind-chapped knuckles knocking against the glass of his window before he can plan out what he’s going to say. He just wants to see Steve. Get eyes on him again. Work this out.

It’s a painful few seconds before Eddie can see movement from inside the window. He bounces on the balls of his feet as he impatiently waits for Steve to let him in. His breath fogs the window.

Then finally. Finally! The blinds are pulled up. He smiles and—

Oh Christ on a cross. That’s not Steve.

Eddie’s stomach damn near falls out of his ass as the woman on the other side of the glass screams, as shrill and high as if she were next to him.

And of course she’s in a fucking towel.

Eddie slaps one hand across his eyes and the other up in surrender, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Shit, Jesus, I—I’m not a pervert, I swear!”

Debatable, his brain supplies, entirely unhelpful in an emergency situation. But hey, what’s new?

“I was looking for my friend, not—Please stop screaming!” He screams.

“Eddie?” A familiar voice calls from below.

The hand on Eddie’s eyes lift and looks down through the metal grates under his boots. “Steve!”

Steve’s hanging half out his window, peering up at him with a bewildered expression on his face. “What’re you doing?”

Eddie holds his arms out like it should be obvious. “Seeing you!” He snaps.

Eddie’s attention is briefly yanked back to the scandalized looking woman in the window in front of him. “I’m—yeah, I’m gonna—” He backs away, and swings around the escape before thundering down the stairs, shouting another apology up in his shameful retreat.

Steve backs up in order to let Eddie in. He climbs in as gracelessly as ever, all knees and elbows, stiff from the cold. He slides the window shut behind him once he’s in, dropping the blinds for good measure.

He wonders if Hopper is getting a call about a long-haired, wild-eyed, deranged looking peeping Tom at this very moment.

“Smooth.” Steve says from behind him, an edge of playfulness.

When Eddie turns and finally gets a good look at Steve, who looks especially comfortable in his flannel sleep pants and worn sweater, hands on hips. “I was looking for you.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Steve snorts softly, “third floor, remember?”

“I counted! Ground floor, first floor, second floor, third floor.” Eddie says, using his hand to indicate his pattern of thought, moving it up a tick with each floor.

Steve scoffs, shaking his head. And even though Eddie knows Steve’s laughing at him, he can’t help that warm feeling that pours through him, filling him up. All his cracks and edges, sealed up with Steve’s effortless being.

“No.” Steve raises his own hand, mirroring Eddie’s. He begins notching as he explains, “ground floor, second floor, third floor. The ground is the first floor, dude.”

Eddie frowns. “What? Since when?”

Steve levels Eddie with a flat look. “Since like, the civil war, dude.”

Huh. Eddie frowns. Mulling over the new bit of information. That would’ve been nice to know.

“Why were you even doing out there in the first place? We have things called front doors. And, y’know, phones.” Steve crosses his arms across his chest, losing a bit of steam as the words left him. Like he’s realized exactly what Eddie being here, in his rooms, meant.

“I had to see you.” Eddie says, like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world, “Face to face, just me and you.”

“Can’t we just—I don’t know, pretend all of… that never happened? Hell, it might drop out of my head one of these days anyway. Lots of shit does.” Steve’s says, sounding so fucking defeated that it sends a sharp pain through Eddie’s chest.

“Hey,” Eddie makes a face, gets in Steve’s space, “don’t be a jerk to yourself.”

He ducks his head in an attempt to meet Steve’s downturned gaze, which he reluctantly returns. He’s got these big, warm eyes, the color of dark honey—the kind that are hard to look away from, so Eddie rarely does. He’a got a staring problem, he knows, but… damn. Can you really blame a guy?

A nerve in Steve’s jaw jumps when he clenches his teeth together, and salt pools begin forming along the rim of those familiar eyes. When he speaks, it’s stiff. Barely above a whisper. “I’m embarrassed, alright?”

“You don’t gotta be embarrassed, man.” Without thought, Eddie’s hands go to Steve’s arms, fingers hovering around his elbows. Eddie tilts his head again to try and keep eye contact again but Steve seems determined to avoid it.

“Easy for you to say.” Steve huffs, and sits down on the edge of his bed, slipping out of Eddie’s hold, arms still crossed over his chest. “You didn’t totally humiliate yourself in front of your—friend.”

The word, one in which Eddie holds in a most sacred of views, sounds distinctly hollow when Steve says it.

“Steve, listen to me, just for a sec, alright?” Eddie gets down to the floor, one knee buried in the carpet while the others bent out in front of him. “This is my fault.” He confesses, voice full of remorse.

Finally, Steve looks at him. His brows twitch together as he makes a face. “Bullshit.”

“No, it’s true! I—I didn’t mean to, but I’m not exactly big on the whole impulse control thing, as you know, and, thinking back on things I probably… I probably let a few things slip.” Eddie explains, his rings clinking together lightly as he gestures with his hands.

Steve, however, doesn’t look any less confused. He blinks. “What?”

Eddie lets his head fall forward in a moment of defeat as he attempts to gather up his fleeting thoughts. It’s like chasing wet, feral cats up there!

Still, he picks himself back up. For Steve.

“What I’m trying to say is…” Eddie puts his hands on Steve’s knees. Feels the warmth under the soft, worn flannel. The hard muscle. Alive, whole. He tightens his grip. “Steve, I’ve been crazy about you since the first time I ever saw you. Don’t roll your eyes—I’m serious! You sat in front of me in math one year and you forgot your pencil. We were having a test that day, and you asked me if you could borrow one of mine, so I let you have the one I was using. You chewed up the end of it, squashed the eraser to all hell, but then when you gave it back to me, you smiled, thanked me and said, ‘I owe you one.’ It—okay, yeah, so it sounds, like, really small, and probably pretty pathetic, but… I was totally starstruck, man.”

At some point in his little spiel, Steve had uncrossed his arms. So Eddie takes the opportunity to clumsily take Steve’s hands, his insides feeling like a kicked hornets nest. Buzzing. He swallows. “I still am.”

Steve keeps his mouth shut, but there’s a knot in him that’s loosening, Eddie can tell. He’s just gotta keep tugging. He squeezes Steve’s fingers.

“The feeling was cranked up a few hundred clicks because of all the, y’know, near death experiences we went through together. But you get it now, right? You get how this is all my fault?”

“Eddie, you don’t have to—” Steve starts, hands stiffening in Eddie’s hold. Slipping away. But Eddie holds firm, decides to just fucking say it. If Steve could, Eddie could too.

“I’m in love with you too.” He blurts out, and now that he’s said it out loud, it’s like there’s a dam that gets busted inside of him; he can’t stop the rush of words that follows the confession. “That’s what you were seeing. That’s what you were noticing. I thought I was being slick, just keeping it friendly or whatever. Flirting, yeah, but I didn’t think you’d ever actually reciprocate. Because, honestly man, I’m not really used to people taking me all that seriously. ‘Zany, pot-head Eddie, can’t trust anything that comes out of his crooked mouth!’”

Eddie shakes his head, scoffing at his own blind spots, “But… you saw right through that shit—right through me. You didn’t make it up in your head, Steve—you felt it. You were right.”

Steve’s got a funny look on his face, but he nods. A lock of hair falls over his forehead, but he doesn’t remove his hands from Eddie’s to fix it. “You love me?”

That’s like asking if the sun would rise tomorrow morning. Of course. Of course.

Eddie pulls one of Steve’s hands and flattens it onto his chest, over the leather.

“Every time my heart beats, it's your name it calls out, man.” Eddie says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when he sees the red creep up on the apples of Steve’s cheeks. “D’you feel it?”

Steve gives a breathless chuckle, hesitating for a split second before he nods, playing along.

Electricity hums under Eddie’s skin, the resulting static snaps in the air around them. Eddie presses Steve’s hand against the wall of his chest a little harder, so that he can feel the pounding a bit better. Then Eddie whispers in time with the rhythm of his lovesick heart, giving it a voice, “Ste-vie, Ste-vie, Ste-vie…”

He keeps chanting until Steve’s grinning, eyes glued to their joined hands. It’s a fleeting thing, though. Eddie watches as that hard-won smile drops and a pinched look takes its place. “Even now? Eddie, I’m not—I don’t think I’m the same person I was before.”

“Are you kidding me? Especially now. In sickness and in health, right?” Somewhere in his brain an alarm sounds, but he doesn’t pause long enough to acknowledge exactly why, lest he lose momentum, “look, Steve, even if you are a little different from the guy you were in high school, you’re still you.”

A beat passes. “What if I never get better?”

“Steve, you will, the doctors said—”

“But what if I don’t? Jesus, Eddie, what if I get worse?” Steve’s voice had gone progressively more hushed as he spoke, as if he were so afraid of its possibility that even voicing it felt risky. Made it real, even in that small way. It’s something Steve’s thought about, Eddie realizes. Agonized over, even.

“Then I’m the lucky son of a bitch that gets to take care of you.” Eddie says, sure as shit. Truthfully, he can’t think of anything else he’d rather do, even if Steve hadn’t done a completely insane thing like falling in love with Eddie. His love isn’t conditional. “S’long as you’ll let me.” He tacks on.

It’s like a wall crumbling. Brick by brick, Eddie watches Steve’s resolve collapse. The rim of his eyes shine with unshed tears, his brow relaxes and his chin twitches. “You sure you want that?”

He scoffs, eyes wide. “It’s all I want.” He answers, quickly. A reflex. Who wouldn’t want to be with Steve Harrington? Eddie thought he was lucky just to be in the same fucking orbit as the guy, but now…

Now, as he watches a smile slowly spreads across Steve’s face—fucking Adonis incarnate—it feels like he won the goddamn lottery.

“Okay.” Steve utters, so softly that for a second Eddie thinks he’d imagined it.

“Okay?” Eddie asks, trying his damndest to keep from imploding. He’s fucking vibrating in his skin.

Instead of answering Eddie, Steve decides to clarify himself by leaning forward and pressing his mouth against Eddie’s.

Fireworks go off inside of Eddie, every inch of him. All lit up. Feels like he’s shining just as good as any knight.

One of Steve’s hands snake their way behind Eddie’s neck, pulling him closer, while the other remains held over Eddie’s jackrabbiting heart. Their lips part, and their kiss deepens. Eddie tries to keep up.

They eventually end up on Steve’s narrow twin bed laying side by side, legs entangled, kissing until their mouths go dry. Eddie swipes a calloused thumb over Steve’s cheek, savoring the feeling of the barely there stubble, the heat from the blush that never seems to subside.

They don’t speak for the rest of the night. Not even a ‘goodnight’ after Steve crawls over Eddie to flick off his bedside lamp, tugging the comforter up around their shoulders as he settles back into the safe harbor of Eddie’s arms. They don’t need words. Not tonight, anyway. Tonight, all they need to do is to rest.

Whatever comes after, they’ll deal with it together.

—

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[lifetimeoftired]

How to Adopt a Dead Kid in Three Weeks or Less (Part 2)

Part 1 || Part 2

As promised; part 2! I would like to apologize to Dick for the trauma I put him through, but honestly it was really fun for me. Also I love the idea of Danny actually trying to leave, but he keeps getting pulled back into family shenanigans because they decided 'mine now'.

Tag list: @tkiesai @sir-ghost-the-green @dreamingaboutsakuratrees @atinygracie @wolfeyedwitch Enjoy<3

Duke squints at the mop of black hair, just peeking out of the blanket. When did Tim get in last night? And really? A couch? He usually at least makes it to the batcave and sometimes even his actual room if he’s going to pass out. And what happened to his sneakers? They look weirdly worn and they’re tucked up under the couch instead of being put away properly. Alfred’s going to be really annoyed when he comes down and finds Tim like this. Duke considers walking away and leaving Dick and Tim to whatever the heck is going on here- it would serve Tim right for being so terrifying about his unhealthy sleep schedule. 

Yet, just as he’s going to walk away again, he notices that Dick’s not moving. He’s crouched there, staring at the sleeping Tim with an unreadable expression on his face. It’s… Unnerving.

“Dick? What’s wrong?”

“Tim’s not breathing.”

Is… Dick okay? The bags under his eyes aren’t as bad at Tim’s but he looks like he hasn’t slept. Duke can only stare blankly at him. Then at the has-to-be-sleeping Tim. Of course he’s just sleeping- it’s Tim! He consumes his weight in poison on a daily basis; there's no way he’s just gone. But the longer he looks at the should be sleeping form, the more Duke realizes the same thing Dick did. There’s no rise in the blanket. No accompanying fall to indicate that the body is breathing and alive. 

Panic wells up where his heart should be- having dug its way somewhere down near his stomach and was now useless beyond a frantic beating. Oh god oh god oh god- Bruce and Jason flash through his mind. Stephanie- Shit. 

“Tim- Tim wake up!” Unthinkingly, Duke grabs for him, unhearing of the noise Dick makes and- It’s only his bat training saves Duke from being flung head first into the wall. 

He twists, feet skidding along the floor and recovers in time to see Tim try to spring up from the couch. Dick snatches their brother mid-jump, and gets wrenched to the side so hard they flip over the back of the couch. Dick bends, ducks and rolls, ends up the other side with Tim in his lap getting the biggest cuddle of his life so easily in a feat that Duke would find impressive later when they all calmed down. 

“It’s us Timmy! Everything’s okay, you're safe.” Thankfully, Tim calms down pretty quickly and waits for his brother to get done with his bear hug.

It’s odd though. Tim doesn’t usually sleep if he’s in a bad enough way to freak out like that. Sure there’s a long list of cases that are ongoing right now, but that usually means so much caffeine Duke can feel his liver cringe in horror. Oh well, the only way to get answers is for their resident caffeine addict to talk, Duke knows he can only wait until their certified Older Brother™ gets it all out of his system.

Duke plunks down with a sigh, and grunts when he lands on something lumpy. Something that turns out to be a ratty old backpack that looked spiritually connected to those cranky old war veterans you see on sitcoms. Was it for a case? Tim’s not exactly a stereotypical rich guy (none of the Waynes were thank god), but any of them would have replaced this thing long before needing to duck tape the corners and shoulder straps like this. He looks over the couch to ask, maybe offer to help and hope Tim actually takes him up on it. But when he makes eye contact, the words die in his throat. Those are blue eyes (icy blue, wide, frozen in fear), and jet black hair (longer than Dick’s, stick up where he’d been nuzzled half to death, scruffy where he hadn’t, bangs styled forward in a way none of them had), but that’s most certainly /not/ Tim.

“Dick? That’s not Tim.” 

“What?”

Dick pulls away from the boy in his arms to get a better look at the wrong boy- Duke himself. Who quickly gestures back at the freaked out, curled up kid. This time, when Dick looks, it’s a much more proper look and notices all the reasons that’s not Tim.

“You’re not Tim.” Dick said stupidly. 

“I am not Tim!” The boy jazz hands awkwardly, his arms tucked close, and adds an even more awkward grin to puncture the statement. “You wouldn’t be the first person to think I’m him if that makes you feel any better.”

There’s a beat where none of them move, then Dick leans back with a long drawn-out groan. Before any questions can be asked, Dick ‘completely unnecessary acrobatics at any given time’ Greyson rocks them both back, laughing at the boy’s squeak, flips forward, and lands on his feet. Only then does he set not-Tim back on his feet with a friendly hair ruffle.

“What makes me feel better is that you’re okay. You gave us a bit of a scare there- I thought you weren’t breathing.” 

“I uh, y’know. Got a deep R.E.M. sleep?”

It’s a really dumb answer. Like, really dumb. It’s clear he never expected to be asked about whatever’s up with him and he doesn’t want to give a real answer. Moreover, it’s clear the backpack really is his because those clothes he’s wearing? Every bit as ratty. The shirt he’s wearing is less ‘white and orange’ and more ‘off white, suspiciously stained, and the logo is cracked to hell and back with very little indication of what it’s supposed to be’. Same with how many tears and faded stains are in the jeans. Also clear, from the way he angles himself, keeping both of them in view, that whoever he is, Duke knows better than he should about all the signs of a street kid.

“You guys weren’t kidding about Bruce’s adoption tendencies.” Duke quickly says. Distracting Dick so he won’t press too fast too soon and scare him off. The others (Jason excluded) are every bit as nosy as said serial adopter is paranoid and it can be a lot. Better to let the new kid acclimate to the manor so he’s not crawling out the window and disappearing into the night. Something Duke thought about doing every time things got to be too much. Which was no less than five times a day.

“I’m not being adopted!” When both Duke and Dick blink in surprise, not expecting the sheer amount of vitriol from Bruce’s latest, he winces and curls back in on himself. “I’m not staying, I mean. I didn’t even mean to wind up here- it just sorta, happened? In fact, I should probably get out of here. If you could just-” He makes a grab for the backpack, and Duke lets it go easily. “Thanks.”

“Hold on hold on-” Dick holds up his hands placatingly. “You haven’t even had breakfast yet! Alfred’s gonna be sad if you don’t join everyone.”

Dick gets a stare that says the kid thinks he’s insane- and Duke kinda can’t blame him. He also thought the Wayne’s were crazy. Because they were. For literally anyone else, random street kids they found pretty much dead on their couch weren’t usually invited to breakfast… At least their particular kind of crazy was nice.

“I know that that sounds, but Alfred really does love it when people appreciate his cooking. I’m Duke by the way.” Duke stands back up, holding out his hand with a smile. Seeing as not-Tim automatically shakes, he guesses the guy did have parents for the better part of his life. “Sorry for not introducing myself sooner.”

“... Danny.” 

Oh yes, a name really does make everything easier. Duke shakes Danny’s hand, and he even gives him a little smile.

“And everybody calls me Dick!”

“Well, people can be cruel.” 

Duke’s laugh desperately wants out both at Dick’s little puppy pout and Danny’s mortified expression, but he chokes it back very elegantly.

“You know, I’ve heard a lot of versions of that joke but somehow it always surprises me.” Dick says with a laugh, and another hair ruffle when Danny grumbles. “C’mon Danny. Let’s get some food in you, you can tell us how you met the old man. Then we get you some new clothes.”

“I like these just fine, thanks.”

“Sorry Danny,” Duke says apologetically. He’s been here long enough to know that stubborn glint in Dick’s eyes. He might insist he’s different than Bruce, and in many ways he is, but Dick’s mother henning is every bit as bad. “He’s going to pout and whine until you let him buy you something. Can we settle on a new backpack for now?”

It’s enough of a compromise for Danny to agree to be herded to breakfast. Bruce isn’t there, but Tim and Cass are. The real Tim is half asleep into his cereal (and grumbles about the bear hug he gets), and though Cass gives the new kid a curious look, she only stays long enough to grab an egg sandwich. Alfred is more than happy to put a big plate of the best food Duke knows he’ll ever eat in his life in front of Danny too- Much to his surprise. Did he really think Bruce would let him stay and not feed him? Hopefully he’d learn that Bruce was a pretty good guy after all and that he was safe here.

-

Over the course of the entire day, Duke learns a few more things about their new brother. 

For starters, Danny could eat. He was surprisingly good at hiding it too. Nibbling here and there and pretending he was eating slow and listening, but the second they pretended they weren’t paying attention, he’d stuff a good portion down his throat and refill his plate. Meaning he was able to eat almost four times the amount they would have reasonably expected out of a starving street kid while making it look like he wasn’t. It could only mean one thing; Duke knew he had to be a meta. No normal person could pull off either the speed or volume. 

The two other things he learned concurrently; That Danny was as accident-prone as he was kind.

Despite originally not really wanting to even go to the mall, with Dick’s good natured pestering and Duke mediating, they managed to convince Danny into not just the new backpack, but several new sets of clothes as well. In that time they saw him run into two separate doors- one of which broke his nose. His response? Crack it back into place and worry far more about the blood smear. Not even a few moments later, he was somehow roped into helping some little old lady carry her bags back to the front (they almost lost him there). Next, in the cafeteria, some unruly children knocked their tray and a good portion of it slapped Danny in the face. All he did was smile, clean himself off, and entertain the siblings with Dick’s help so their mom could take a small break and know nobody was in trouble. On the way out, Danny nearly got hit by an actual car helping some other shop-lifting street kids escape from the mall cop by pretending to trip in front of him. When the guy went tumbling into the street, Danny threw himself forward to push him out of the way of an oncoming car.

Getting back to the manor where Danny was moderately safer was a relief. It meant they could hand him off to a much more capable-of-dealing-with-this-crap Alfred and give Duke a moment alone to discuss things with Dick. The conversation went a little like;

“We need to make sure Danny is never on his own or he’s going to get himself killed. Meta or no meta. Agreed?”

“Agreed. I'll call the others.”

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (1)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!targ reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is firstborn and only son of King Viserys I and late Queen Aemma, is older brother of Rhaenyra and bonded with Silverwing. For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+ (rating will go up)

- Word count: 6 000+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

- A/N: This story is heavily rewritten my AO3 fanfic that was deleted with my account there. The jist is the same, but now it's a reader insert work.

The small council chamber is drowned with anticipation, the grand room filled with the scent of parchment and the low murmur of voices. A fire crackles in the hearth, casting silhouettes across the stone walls adorned with tapestries of dragon lore. King Viserys I Targaryen sits at the head of the table, a rare glimmer of excitement in his eyes as he speaks, the tone of his voice vibrant with pride.

"It has been far too long," Viserys begins, his hand absently stroking the armrest of his chair, carved with intricate dragons that seem to come alive under the firelight. "Three years... three years since my son rode off on Silverwing to defend our borders, and now, at last, he returns." There is a warmth to his voice, a father’s pride that softens the usual formality of the council. "He has done well, our borders are secure once more. The Dornish have been driven back, and our lands are safe. It is high time for a celebration, wouldn’t you all agree?"

Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, leans forward slightly, his shrewd eyes never missing a detail. "Indeed, Your Grace. Prince Y/N’s valor has become the talk of the realm. His presence on Silverwing alone was enough to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies. His return will surely bolster the morale of the court and the realm alike."

Viserys nods, the pride in his son clear on his face. "He is as brave as he is handsome, and wise beyond his years. The gods have truly blessed me with a son who will make a fine king one day."

At the mention of Y/N’s potential future on the throne, the room falls silent for a moment, the weight of those words hanging in the air. It is a truth that cannot be ignored, even as Rhaenyra remains the apple of Viserys’ eye. The King’s heir, the eldest son, would always hold a special place in the line of succession.

Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, clears his throat, his voice a deep rumble that commands attention. "While I share in your joy, Your Grace, we must not forget the threats that still linger beyond our shores. The Stepstones remain a festering wound, one that will continue to bleed if not dealt with. Prince Y/N’s return is a boon, but we must not grow complacent."

Viserys waves a hand dismissively, a rare gesture of impatience from the usually composed king. "The Stepstones can wait, Corlys. We have just won a great victory in the south; the Dornish have been repelled, and my son will soon return to us. Let us not dampen this moment with talk of more war. His nameday approaches, and I will not have the mood soured by concerns that can be addressed later."

Corlys’s mouth tightens into a thin line, but he says nothing further, knowing better than to press the issue when the King’s mind is set on matters of the heart. Beside him, Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws, nods in agreement with the King’s sentiment. "Your Grace is right. A celebration is in order. Prince Y/N deserves a hero’s welcome. His deeds should be sung from the highest towers of the Red Keep."

Otto Hightower shifts in his seat, his sharp mind already calculating the implications. "It will be a grand affair, Your Grace. One befitting the heir to the Iron Throne. The lords and ladies of the realm will flock to King’s Landing to pay homage to your son."

Viserys smiles, the thought clearly pleasing to him. "Yes, they will. And when they see him, when they see the man he has become, they will know that House Targaryen is strong, united. The blood of the dragon runs true in him.

The conversation shifts to the logistics of the upcoming celebrations—feasts, tourneys, and the spectacle that will greet you upon your return. But beneath the surface, other thoughts swirl, unspoken but understood by all in the room. The return of the heir will undoubtedly shift the balance of power, rekindle old rivalries, and perhaps even spark new alliances.

As the councilors discuss the details, Viserys leans back in his chair, lost in his thoughts. His mind is far from the Stepstones, from the politics and the courtly intrigues. Instead, it is on his son—the pride of his house, the dragon who has returned home. 

Though you are not yet present, your presence is felt keenly in that room, a force that commands respect, admiration, and perhaps even a hint of fear. The small council, ever the stage for power plays and whispered conspiracies, is tonight a place of celebration, anticipation, and a father's love.

The fire burns low, the shadows growing longer as the hour advances. But the warmth in Viserys' heart does not wane, nor does his excitement at the thought of seeing you again after these long, hard years. Soon, you will be home, and the realm will be reminded of the strength and glory of the Targaryens—of fire and blood, and of the dragon that you are.

The sky above King’s Landing is clear, a brilliant blue that contrasts harshly with the golden scales of Syrax as she descends towards the Dragonpit. Her powerful wings beat rhythmically, sending gusts of wind sweeping across the hillside, causing the banners of House Targaryen to flutter wildly. The Dragonpit, ancient and formidable, looms ahead—a structure built to house the great beasts of House Targaryen, and today it eagerly welcomes one of its own.

Syrax lands with a graceful thud, her massive claws digging into the earth as she lowers herself to allow her rider to dismount. Rhaenyra Targaryen, resplendent in her riding leathers of black and red, slides down effortlessly, her golden hair whipping in the wind. There’s a fire in her violet eyes, a look of exhilaration that always follows her flights with Syrax. She pats the dragon’s side affectionately before turning her attention to the awaiting figures.

Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stands ready to greet her, his white cloak flowing in the breeze, a symbol of his unwavering loyalty. His face is stern, but his eyes soften with affection as Rhaenyra approaches. "Welcome back, Princess," he says, bowing his head in respect.

"Thank you, Ser Harrold," Rhaenyra replies, her voice bright. "Syrax needed a good stretch of her wings. It’s a fine day for flying."

"It is indeed, Your Grace," Ser Harrold agrees, though his expression remains stoic. "The city is bustling with preparations for your brother’s return. The people are eager to see their prince."

Rhaenyra’s smile broadens at the mention of her brother. "As am I. It has been too long."

As they speak, a carriage pulls up near the entrance to the Dragonpit, its polished wood gleaming in the sunlight. The door swings open, revealing Alicent Hightower, her gown of pale blue perfectly complementing her auburn hair. She steps out gracefully, her green eyes lighting up as she spots her dearest friend.

"Rhaenyra!" Alicent calls, hurrying forward, her face a picture of delight.

"Alicent," Rhaenyra responds warmly, pulling Alicent into a quick embrace. "I wasn’t expecting you to come all the way to the Dragonpit."

Alicent laughs softly. "How could I not? The court is abuzz with news of your brother’s return. It seems everyone is eager to see him again." She steps back, regarding Rhaenyra with a knowing look. "And what of you, Rhaenyra? Are you excited to see him after all this time?"

Rhaenyra’s eyes soften, a fond smile tugging at her lips. "Of course I am. I’ve missed him terribly. He’s always been my closest confidant, ever since we were children. The realm may see him as a warrior, a dragonrider, but to me, he is simply my brother."

Alicent smiles, though there’s a hint of something more in her eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or something deeper. "I’ve heard the ladies at court whispering about him," she says, her voice light, almost teasing. "They say he’s become even more handsome over the years."

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow, amusement dancing in her gaze. "None of those ladies have seen him in the last three years. He was always handsome, even as a boy, but I suppose the tales of his exploits have added to the allure."

Alicent nods, her expression thoughtful. "It’s the word from the Dornish border that precedes him. They say he cut a striking figure on Silverwing, that he was a beacon of hope for our men and a terror to our enemies."

Rhaenyra’s pride is palpable, her chest swelling with affection for her brother. "That’s the brother I know. Always strong, always brave. I’m not surprised the tales of his deeds have spread far and wide. But I’m more eager to hear them from him, to see the man he’s become with my own eyes."

Alicent smiles gently, seeing the deep bond Rhaenyra shares with her brother. "The two of you are much alike, you know. Dragons in human form. It’s no wonder the realm speaks of you both with such reverence."

Rhaenyra looks away for a moment, her thoughts lingering on her brother, before she turns back to Alicent, her expression lightening. "Come, let’s return to the Red Keep. I’m sure there are a thousand things waiting for us there. Besides, I need to freshen up before I see him. I want to look my best for his return."

Alicent chuckles, following Rhaenyra as they make their way towards the carriage. "As if you ever need to worry about that. But I understand. Today is special, after all."

The two young women climb into the carriage, and as it begins its journey back to the heart of King’s Landing, the conversation shifts to lighter topics—gossip from court, plans for the upcoming celebrations. But beneath the surface, there is an undercurrent of anticipation, a shared excitement for the return of a beloved brother, a dragonrider, and a prince who has been away from home for far too long.

As the city comes into view, Rhaenyra’s thoughts are filled with images of her brother—of the last time she saw you, of the stories she’s heard in your absence, and of the reunion that awaits. Soon, very soon, the Targaryen family will be whole again, and the dragons will once more soar together over King’s Landing.

The morning sun had only just begun to cast its golden light across King’s Landing, illuminating the bustling preparations already well underway for the day’s grand celebrations. In the Red Keep, servants and handmaidens hurried through the halls, their arms full of silks and jewels, the atmosphere buzzing with the anticipation of the prince’s one and seventh nameday. The tourney grounds outside the city walls were already alive with the clashing of swords and the cheer of spectators, but within the princess’s chambers, a quieter preparation was taking place.

Rhaenyra Targaryen stood before a polished mirror, her golden hair cascading down her back as her handmaidens worked to braid it into an intricate style fitting for the occasion. Her gown, a deep shade of Targaryen red, had been carefully selected, the rich fabric adorned with subtle embroidery that caught the morning light. Yet despite the attention to every detail, Rhaenyra’s thoughts were elsewhere.

Suddenly, a low, resonant horn echoed across the city, its deep tone vibrating through the very stones of the Red Keep. The sound was unmistakable—the return of a dragon. The call stirred something deep within Rhaenyra, her heart leaping in her chest as she pushed away the fussing hands of her handmaidens.

"Princess, please! We haven’t finished—" one of the servants protested, but Rhaenyra was already moving, her eyes bright with excitement.

She rushed to the balcony, her breath catching in her throat as she leaned over the edge, searching the skies. For a moment, all was quiet except for the distant hum of the city below. Then, she saw it—a glint of silver against the blue, a shape growing larger as it approached. 

Silverwing.

The great she-dragon cut through the sky with powerful, sweeping strokes of her massive wings, her silver scales gleaming like molten metal in the morning light. Her wingspan cast a shadow over the city as she soared over the rooftops, the people below stopping in their tracks to look up in awe. The sun seemed to dance upon her scales, turning her into a living beacon, a symbol of House Targaryen’s might and majesty. 

As Silverwing approached the heart of the city, a roar of cheers erupted from the streets below, followed by the blare of trumpets signaling the return of the King’s heir. The sound swelled and spread, filling the air with the jubilant energy of thousands of voices raised in celebration. From her vantage point, Rhaenyra could see the figures of people flooding the streets, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the dragon and her rider.

And there, atop Silverwing, was you. Even from this distance, Rhaenyra recognized your figure, sitting tall and proud in the saddle, your pale blond hair whipping in the wind, your violet eyes sharp as they surveyed the city below. You guided Silverwing with the ease of long familiarity, a natural extension of yourself. There was a power in the way you commanded the dragon, a grace that spoke of years spent in the saddle, and a bond forged in fire.

Rhaenyra’s smile brightened, her heart swelling with pride and affection. Her brother had returned, the prince of the realm, the heir to the Iron Throne. And now, the whole city knew it. Silverwing let out a triumphant roar as she flew low over the city, a declaration of your presence that sent another wave of cheers echoing through the streets.

As you guided Silverwing toward the Dragonpit, Rhaenyra watched in breathless anticipation. The dragon angled her wings, banking smoothly toward the massive structure where the dragonkeepers awaited her. The escort wagon, finely adorned in Targaryen red and black, stood ready at the entrance, flanked by members of the Kingsguard in their gleaming white armor. The sight of it all—the dragon, the city’s response, the return of her brother—made Rhaenyra’s pulse quicken with excitement.

She turned back from the balcony, her voice ringing with urgency as she addressed her handmaidens. "Hurry! I must be ready in time to greet him."

The handmaidens, who had been momentarily frozen by the excitement of the dragon’s arrival, snapped back into action, their hands flying over the final touches of her attire. They tightened her bodice, pinned the last of her braids into place, and secured the Targaryen emblem at her shoulder with swift, practiced movements.

One of the handmaidens, a girl no older than Rhaenyra herself, smiled as she adjusted the drape of the gown. "You must be eager to see him, Princess."

Rhaenyra’s eyes sparkled as she met the girl’s gaze in the mirror. "More than you can imagine. It’s been three long years. I want to be the first to welcome him home."

Alicent entered the room just as Rhaenyra was giving herself a final once-over in the mirror. "I see the excitement has reached you too," she said with a smile, noting Rhaenyra’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

Rhaenyra grinned back at her, unable to contain her joy. "I’ll never grow tired of seeing him return. I need to be ready. He deserves a proper welcome, don’t you think?"

Alicent nodded, helping to smooth a stray lock of Rhaenyra’s hair into place. "He’ll be just as eager to see you, Rhaenyra. The bond you two share is special."

Rhaenyra smiled, touched by Alicent’s words, though her thoughts were already racing ahead to the moment when she would finally see you up close. "He’s been away too long. Today, we’ll be together again. I can’t wait to hear everything he’s been through, to see how he’s changed."

Alicent chuckled, gently teasing. "Just don’t keep him to yourself for too long. There’s an entire court eager to see the heir to the throne."

Rhaenyra gave her a playful look but nodded. "I suppose I can share him. But only for a little while."

The final adjustments made, Rhaenyra took one last look in the mirror, her excitement barely contained. The morning had begun with a dragon’s roar, a herald of what was to come. Soon, she would stand by your side once more, the dragon prince and the dragon princess, united in the heart of the realm.

With a deep breath, Rhaenyra turned and made her way towards the door, her handmaidens following closely behind. The day had only just begun, but it already promised to be unforgettable. As she stepped into the corridor, her heart raced with anticipation. Soon, she would be at the welcoming ceremony, ready to embrace her brother and celebrate his return to the world they both cherished.

The throne room of the Red Keep was a magnificent sight, its grand scale and ornate decorations a testament to the power and history of House Targaryen. Banners of black and red hung from the high ceilings, the three-headed dragon of the Targaryens prominently displayed. The Iron Throne itself, forged from the swords of defeated enemies, loomed at the far end of the hall, a jagged symbol of absolute authority.

King Viserys I Targaryen sat upon the throne, his posture tense with anticipation. His eyes, the same violet as his children’s, were fixed on the massive doors at the other end of the hall. Courtiers and lords stood in silence, lining the path to the throne, their eyes darting between the King and the doors. The room was filled with a barely contained excitement, the air thick with the importance of the moment.

Viserys shifted in his seat, trying to maintain his regal composure, though it was clear to those who knew him well that he was impatient. It had been three long years since he had last seen his son, and the waiting was almost unbearable. His fingers drummed lightly on the armrest of the throne, his thoughts racing with memories of the boy who had ridden off to war and the man who would return.

Just as the tension in the room reached its peak, the doors to the throne room creaked open, and a late arrival hurried through. Rhaenyra Targaryen, her cheeks flushed and slightly out of breath, slipped in as quietly as possible, her eyes immediately seeking out her father on the throne. She exhaled in relief when she saw that she had made it just in time. She quickly moved to join the courtiers, standing beside Alicent Hightower, who gave her a sympathetic smile.

The doors opened fully with a deep, echoing groan, and the room fell into a hushed silence as Ser Harrold Westerling, flanked by the Kingsguard, stepped inside. "Prince Y/N of Dragonstone, heir to the Iron Throne," Ser Harrold announced, his voice carrying across the hall.

All eyes turned to the figure that stepped through the threshold, and the sight was nothing short of breathtaking.

You stood tall, your presence commanding the room as you entered with the easy confidence of a man who had faced both war and dragons. Your short, pale blond hair, tousled by the wind of your flight, caught the light, glinting like spun silk. Your deep violet eyes, so reminiscent of your father’s, scanned the room with a quiet intensity, taking in every detail. The armor you wore was finely crafted, a blend of polished steel and dragon motifs, but it was the Targaryen sigil emblazoned across your chest that drew the most attention—a bold reminder of the blood that coursed through your veins.

As you strode forward, your movements were smooth and measured, a dragonrider’s grace evident in every step. There was a power in your gait, a strength that spoke of the battles fought and won, of the years spent defending the realm. The courtiers and lords bowed their heads as you passed, acknowledging the prince and future king. Whispers followed in your wake, the court abuzz with murmurs of admiration and awe.

Rhaenyra, watching from a distance, felt her heart swell with pride. Her brother had always been strong, but there was something different about him now—an air of authority and purpose that had not been there before. She couldn’t help but smile as she watched you approach the throne, her eyes glistening with emotion.

Beside her, Alicent Hightower blushed deeply as you passed, her gaze dropping to the floor before sneaking another glance at you. There was a palpable tension in the air, a mix of admiration and something more, as she tried to compose herself. Rhaenyra noticed, but said nothing, a small smile playing on her lips.

Your focus, however, was solely on the man who awaited you at the end of the hall. King Viserys rose from the Iron Throne as you approached, his expression shifting from regal formality to one of barely contained joy. The distance between father and son narrowed with each step you took, and by the time you stood before him, the room seemed to hold its breath.

Viserys paused for a moment, looking you over with the eyes of a father who had missed the growth of his child into a man. His gaze was proud, but there was also a trace of sadness for the time lost. "My son," he began, his voice formal but thick with emotion, "you have returned to us a hero. The realm owes you a great debt for your service."

You bowed your head respectfully, your voice steady and warm as you replied, "Thank you, Father. It was my duty to defend our lands, but it is good to be home."

Viserys nodded, but the formality of the moment quickly gave way to something more genuine. His stoic expression broke, a broad grin spreading across his face as he stepped down from the throne. Before the courtiers could fully register the shift, Viserys crossed the remaining distance between you and embraced you with a hearty, almost crushing hug.

"My boy," he said, his voice choked with emotion as he held you close. "You’ve grown so much. It’s been too long."

You returned the embrace just as fiercely, your own voice betraying the depth of your feelings. "I’ve missed you, Father."

The hall erupted in applause, the sound echoing off the stone walls as the courtiers and lords showed their approval. It was a moment of unity, a rare and cherished sight in the often fractured world of court politics.

Viserys pulled back, his hands still on your shoulders as he looked at you with a father’s pride. "Come," he said, his voice lighter now, almost eager. "There’s so much to tell you, so much you’ve missed in these three years. The court, the realm... you must hear it all. And I want to hear every detail of your time in Dorne."

He clapped you on the back, turning to lead you away from the throne, his excitement palpable. "But first, let’s get you out of that armor. We’ll talk as you prepare for the feast. The entire court is eager to see you again, and your sister has been counting the days until your return."

As the two of you began to walk down the aisle, Rhaenyra watched with a smile, her heart full. She followed at a discreet distance, blending in with the other courtiers, but her eyes never left you. Alicent, still by her side, looked after you with a softness in her gaze, her earlier blush still lingering.

The doors to the throne room slowly closed behind you, the applause fading as the court returned to its usual murmur of conversation. The welcoming ceremony had ended, but the day was just beginning, and it was clear that it would be filled with moments to remember.

Rhaenyra, watching you disappear through the doors with your father, knew that the bond between the two of you was as strong as ever. Today, the Targaryen family was reunited, and the city of King’s Landing would celebrate in grand fashion. 

But for Rhaenyra, the true celebration was in the simple joy of having her brother home again. The dragons of House Targaryen were together once more, and nothing could dim the brightness of this day.

The echoes of the applause still lingered in the halls as King Viserys I Targaryen led you away from the throne room and into a quieter, more private part of the Red Keep. The ornate corridors, lined with tapestries depicting the history of House Targaryen, gradually gave way to more intimate surroundings—the King’s private chambers. Here, away from the prying eyes of the court, the formalities of royal life could be set aside, if only for a short while.

As the door to the King’s chambers closed behind you, the weight of the last three years seemed to melt away. Viserys gestured for you to sit at the table near the window, where a light breeze drifted in, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city’s celebrations. The table was set with wine and bread, simple fare for a king, but comforting in its familiarity.

Viserys poured two goblets of wine, handing one to you before taking a seat across from you. For a moment, he simply looked at you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face, noting the subtle changes that time and experience had etched there.

"You’ve grown, Y/N," he said, his voice soft, almost in awe. "I knew you would, of course, but seeing you now... it’s different. You’ve become a man in these last three years. I’m proud of you, more than words can say."

You took a sip of the wine, savoring the taste before replying. "Thank you, Father. It wasn’t an easy task, defending our borders, but it was necessary. The Dornish were becoming bolder by the day. They needed to be reminded of our strength."

Viserys nodded, his expression serious. "I’ve heard the reports, of course. Your presence alone was enough to turn the tide, or so they say. Silverwing must have been a sight to behold on the battlefield."

A small smile played on your lips as you recalled the days spent soaring over the arid Dornish lands, the wind whipping through your hair as Silverwing roared her defiance at the enemy below. "She was magnificent. The Dornish learned quickly that Targaryen fire is not to be trifled with. But it wasn’t just about the battles. The men needed leadership, someone to rally behind. I did what I could to be that for them."

"And you succeeded," Viserys said, his voice filled with pride. "The realm is safer because of you. The people know they have a prince who will protect them, a future king who will lead them with strength and honor."

You inclined your head, acknowledging his praise, but there was a wistfulness in your expression that Viserys did not miss. He reached across the table, placing a hand on your arm. "What troubles you, my son?"

You hesitated for a moment, then spoke, your voice tinged with a quiet sorrow. "I was just thinking of Mother. She would have been so proud to see this day, to see how the realm is at peace because of what we’ve done. I’ve missed her, every day."

Viserys’s face softened, his own grief mirrored in your words. "I miss her too," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Aemma, of what she would say, how she would guide me. She was my heart, and I know she was yours as well."

He took a deep breath, steadying himself as he continued. "I regret that she is not here to see you thrive, to see the man you’ve become. But I believe she is watching over us, that she sees you and is as proud of you as I am. You were her joy, Y/N. She would be so very proud."

You lowered your gaze for a moment, the memories of your mother flooding your mind—her gentle smile, the warmth of her embrace, the way she had always known just what to say to ease your fears. "I’ve tried to honor her memory in everything I do," you said quietly. "Every decision I make, every battle I fight, I think of what she would want, what she would have done. She’s never far from my thoughts."

Viserys smiled sadly, his hand still resting on yours. "She lives on in you, my son. In your strength, in your kindness, in your sense of duty. Aemma’s spirit is with us, even if she is not."

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, the weight of shared loss hanging between you. It was a grief that had shaped both your lives, a void that could never truly be filled. Yet, in that silence, there was also a sense of peace, a shared understanding that you both carried her memory with you, honoring her in your own ways.

Viserys broke the silence first, his voice lighter now as he sought to lift the mood. "But let us not dwell too long on sorrow. Today is a day of celebration, after all. The court is waiting, and I hear you plan to compete in the tourney yourself."

You chuckled, the sadness easing from your features as you looked up at him. "I do. It’s been too long since I’ve had the chance to test my skills. The Dornish provided plenty of real battles, but there’s something to be said for the honor and tradition of a tourney."

Viserys grinned, a spark of excitement in his eyes. "You’ll make quite the entrance, I’m sure. The court will be watching closely. It’s not every day they get to see the heir to the Iron Throne in action."

"I’ll do my best to give them a show," you replied with a grin of your own. "But it’s not just about the spectacle. It’s a chance to remind the realm of our strength, of the unity of House Targaryen. We’ve faced threats from the outside, but there are always threats from within as well. The court needs to see that we are strong, that we stand together."

Viserys nodded, understanding the deeper meaning behind your words. "You’re right. There are always those who would seek to undermine us, to sow discord. But today, let them see that House Targaryen is united, that the blood of the dragon runs true in you."

He raised his goblet in a toast, his eyes filled with pride and determination. "To your nameday, my son. To the future of our house, and to the memory of those who came before us."

You clinked your goblet against his, the sound ringing softly in the quiet room. "To our future," you echoed, your voice steady and sure.

As you both drank, the atmosphere lightened, the bond between father and son reaffirmed. The burdens of the past were still there, but for now, they were set aside, replaced by the promise of the day ahead.

Viserys set his goblet down, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Now, tell me—are you planning to win this tourney? Or should I place my bets elsewhere?"

You laughed, a genuine, hearty sound that filled the room. "I plan to give it my all, Father. But I suppose you’ll have to wait and see if that’s enough to claim victory."

Viserys leaned back in his chair, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Very well, I’ll keep my bets close to my chest. But I’ll be watching with great interest."

The two of you continued to talk, the conversation flowing easily as you recounted the events of the last three years, the battles fought, the alliances forged. Viserys listened intently, asking questions, offering advice, and occasionally regaling you with the goings-on in King’s Landing during your absence. The weight of rulership was ever-present, but in this moment, it was simply a father catching up with his son.

Finally, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, Viserys glanced out the window, noting the time. "The feast will begin soon, and the tourney will follow. We should make our way back to the court."

You nodded, standing as he did, your heart lighter than it had been in a long time. "I’m ready, Father. Let’s go and give them a day to remember."

Viserys clapped you on the back as you walked to the door together, his smile full of pride and affection. "That we shall, my son. That we shall."

And with that, the two of you stepped out of the King’s private chambers and back into the grand corridors of the Red Keep, ready to face the celebrations that awaited. Today was your day, a day to honor the past, celebrate the present, and look forward to the future. The dragons of House Targaryen were united once more, and nothing could dim the brightness of the day that lay ahead.

The grand corridors of the Red Keep were filled with the rustle of fine fabrics and the murmur of anticipation as courtiers made their way towards the tourney grounds. The air vibrated with excitement, the prospect of watching the finest knights in the realm compete thrilling everyone. The ladies of the court walked in groups, their laughter and whispers echoing off the stone walls as they discussed the events of the day—and the prince who had returned after three long years.

Rhaenyra Targaryen and Alicent Hightower moved among them, their own excitement tempered by a more personal interest in the proceedings. They had just witnessed your return to King’s Landing, and the image of you standing tall and proud before the Iron Throne was still fresh in their minds. As they walked, Rhaenyra’s mind buzzed with thoughts of you, while Alicent seemed quieter than usual, her expression contemplative.

"You haven’t said much since we left the throne room," Rhaenyra noted, glancing at her friend as they walked. "What are you thinking, Alicent?"

Alicent blinked, as if pulled from her thoughts, and offered Rhaenyra a soft smile. "I was just thinking about your brother. It’s incredible how much he’s changed. I almost didn’t recognize him when he walked in."

Rhaenyra nodded, her lips curving into a fond smile. "He has changed, hasn’t he? When he left, he was still young, still learning how to lead. Now... now he seems so sure of himself, so strong." There was pride in her voice, but also a hint of something else—an undercurrent of longing for the time when the two of you were younger and life was simpler.

Alicent’s eyes flickered with understanding. "You’re proud of him, Rhaenyra. Anyone can see that. But I imagine it must be strange too, seeing how he’s grown in your absence."

"It is," Rhaenyra admitted, her voice quiet. "I’ve missed him so much. We used to spend all our time together. Now, it feels like he’s returned a different person, someone who belongs more to the realm than to me."

Alicent gave her a sympathetic look. "That’s only natural. He’s the heir to the throne, after all. But that doesn’t mean he’s changed in how he feels about you. You’re still his sister, Rhaenyra. That bond doesn’t just disappear."

Rhaenyra nodded, though her heart still felt heavy. She knew Alicent was right, but the feeling of being left behind, of losing the closeness you once shared, gnawed at her. "I know," she said, forcing a smile. "But sometimes I wish we could go back to the way things were, when it was just the two of us."

Alicent was about to respond when the soft murmur of the ladies walking nearby caught their attention. The two of them slowed their pace slightly, enough to overhear the conversation unfolding around them.

"Did you see him? He’s even more handsome than the rumors said," one lady whispered excitedly.

"And did you notice how he carries himself? So regal, so commanding," another added, her voice tinged with admiration.

"I heard he’s competing in the tourney today. Can you imagine how thrilling it would be to watch him fight? I’ll wager every lady here will be hoping for his favor."

The ladies giggled, their words filled with admiration and excitement. Rhaenyra’s chest tightened as she listened, her earlier feelings of pride mingling with a sharp pang of jealousy. She had always known you were admired, but hearing these women fawn over you, imagining themselves catching your attention, stirred something possessive within her.

Alicent, noticing the change in Rhaenyra’s expression, touched her arm gently. "Rhaenyra... you know they’re just infatuated with the idea of him. They don’t know him like you do."

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened slightly as she nodded. "I know, but it still bothers me. It’s like they’re trying to take something that belongs to me." Her voice was low, almost bitter, the jealousy she felt hard to suppress.

Alicent gave her a thoughtful look, choosing her words carefully. "It’s understandable, Rhaenyra. You’ve shared something special with him, something no one else can claim. But he’s the heir, and as much as it pains you, others will be drawn to him. They see the prince, the dragonrider, but they don’t see the brother you know."

Rhaenyra sighed, her shoulders relaxing a little as she processed Alicent’s words. "You’re right," she said, her voice softer now. "It’s just... it’s hard to watch. I miss the days when it was just the two of us, when I didn’t have to share him with the rest of the realm."

Alicent squeezed her arm reassuringly. "I’m sure he feels the same way about you, Rhaenyra. He’s always been devoted to you. Don’t let the chatter of the court make you doubt that."

Rhaenyra managed a small smile, her earlier jealousy easing, though not entirely disappearing. "Thank you, Alicent. I just need to remind myself of that."

As they emerged from the shadowed corridors and into the open air, the roar of the crowds from the tourney grounds greeted them, the excitement palpable. The stands were already filled with lords, ladies, and smallfolk alike, all eager to witness the spectacle. Banners fluttered in the breeze, the sigils of noble houses displayed proudly, while the smell of roasted meats and the sound of trumpets filled the air.

Rhaenyra and Alicent were escorted to their seats in the royal box, a prime position that offered a perfect view of the lists. As they settled in, Rhaenyra’s eyes scanned the grounds, her thoughts still partly on you, wondering what you might be thinking as you prepared for the tourney.

The ladies around them continued to chatter excitedly, their conversations now shifting to the knights who would compete, but Rhaenyra’s thoughts remained on you. She couldn’t help but wonder how you would perform in the tourney, whether you would acknowledge her in some way, and what it would mean to see you in your element once more.

Alicent, ever observant, leaned closer to Rhaenyra. "You’ll see him again soon, you know. And when you do, you’ll have his attention. The bond you share is something these other ladies can only dream of."

Rhaenyra nodded, a determined look settling on her face. "You’re right, Alicent. I’ve spent enough time longing for the past. Today, I’ll celebrate the present—and the fact that my brother is finally home."

Alicent smiled warmly at her, proud of her friend’s resolve. "That’s the spirit, Rhaenyra. Now, let’s enjoy the tourney. I have a feeling it’s going to be one for the ages."

As the trumpets blared once more, signaling the start of the day’s events, Rhaenyra allowed herself to relax, focusing on the excitement of the moment. The tourney grounds were alive with color and sound, and for the first time in a long while, she felt a sense of contentment. You were home, and that was what mattered most.

The day was young, and there was much to celebrate. Rhaenyra settled into her seat, ready to watch the tourney unfold, knowing that no matter what, her brother would always be her closest confidant, the one person who truly understood her. Today, the dragons of House Targaryen were united, and nothing would take that away from her.

[animasola86]

👻 A KNIFE TO REMEMBER

ghostface x f!reader 🔥 very explicit 🔥 words: 3.8k

As you try to find your way through the mysterious house, someone finds you first...

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Masks/costumes! Knife kink/knife play! Fingering! Anonymous sex! Creampies! (READ ON AO3!)

A/N: This is part 2 of my CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE smut series! 1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7 This is OPTION 1/PART 2 - but can be read individually, let me just set the scene:

CONTEXT: You were invited to a Halloween party in a mysterious house, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, and on your search for the bathroom, you come to a long hallway full of doors, and you decide to reach for the door closest to you.

Just when you reach for the door knob, you feel someone coming up from behind, and before you know it, a pair of hands blocks your vision. You gasp in shock, but a low voice vibrates in your ear as you're being pulled against a firm body.

“Shh, no need to panic,” the male voice drones, making you stiffen in his hold. It sounds a little muffled. “I won't hurt you. Unless you're into it...”

You reach up and grab onto his wrists, squirming against him. “Let me go,” you plead, but he only shushes you.

“Ah, come on, little Red. You're here for an adventure, aren't you?”

His hand moves to your mouth now, and you blink into the dimly lit hallway. He holds your face tightly, making it impossible to turn your head and look at whoever has you in his grasp, but you can still see that he's wearing a black costume, something like a robe. No gloves, though, just big veiny hands. Strong, and very adventurous.

With one still on your mouth, muffling the noises of protest, his other hand roams along your body, rubs up and down your side, gropes at your breast, grips your throat and gives it a light squeeze, before moving back down, teasing under the hem of your skirt. You must be in shock, because you can't find the courage or willpower to fight whatever is happening. This guy is clearly taking advantage of your confusion, and without another word, he pushes you forward, opens another door and guides you into the dark room beyond it.

You stumble, and when he finally lets you go, you fall onto something soft. A bed. Scrambling on your hands and knees, you're not quick enough as he grabs you again, pushing you flat on your stomach. A garbled scream escapes you, coaxing a low chuckle out of him. He has his hand on your nape, a tight grip, and you whine and struggle, but he's strong, and when you suddenly feel something cold press against your neck, you freeze on the spot.

“Tsk, tsk,” he makes. “Be a good little victim now, okay? I really don't want to make my shiny new toy dirty too soon. Can you feel it? The cold blade?”

You don't even dare to breathe at this point, because, yes, you can feel it, see the large knife in your mind's eye as it teases against your delicate skin. He eases the pressure slightly when he curls one arm around your middle, pulling you back and flush against him. You'd expect his breath on your ear with how close his voice is, but you can't feel anything – except something hard like plastic pressing against your cheek. He's wearing a mask.

“So, let's have a bit of fun first, yeah?” he whispers and leans around you, and even in the dark room, with only the moonlight falling through the window, you can see the long white face with its wide open mouth and droopy eye holes glaring at you. Ghostface. “Hi,” he says, tilting his head menacingly, a low chuckle in his muffled voice. “Or would you have preferred a different sicko with a knife? We do have quite the selection tonight.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. The sight of that face, frozen in plastic, gives you the chills, but you can't deny the little flutter in your stomach. May it be your sensitive guts or something else entirely, but whatever the case, you are rendered immobile by this strange encounter.

“So, how would you like this? Shall I chase you through the house first?” he continues in a mocking tone.

You blink, trying to calm your thundering heart. “Just... let me go?” you gasp out when he raises his knife again, poking the sharp tip against the side of your neck. “Please!” you cry out with a whimper, tilting your body away.

“Aw, baby, don't worry, I won't kill you,” he says quietly, pressing his other hand against your stomach. “I just want to have some fun! And I'm sure you do too. I saw you come in, all alone, lost and lonely. Won't you like some company? Isn't that why you came here on your own? To meet people? Let loose?”

His words have the desired effect as you find yourself agreeing with him. Maybe not like this, but then again, this is a Halloween party, spookier things have happened than having some fun with a masked stranger (who teases you with a very real knife...). You can't deny that your body is already accepting whatever may happen next. The man behind you seems to sense its willingness too as his hand suddenly slips down your stomach and under your skirt and curls right between your legs, eager fingers pressing against your underwear.

“Ah, yes, see? You're so ready for this,” he hisses into your ear, and you look away in shame. “So wet. Maybe you have a knife kink?” he asks, simultaneously pressing the blade against your throat and his fingers between your wet folds, making you gasp and stiffen. As you fight the urge to squirm, he keeps rubbing along the drenched fabric of your panties, pressing hard and deep, teasing your entrance. “Would you like to have something bigger in that cute little cunt, hm, baby? I promise I brought more than just this pretty knife...”

To underline his words, he presses his groin against your back, and you can feel just how happy he is to see you. Your heart beats faster. It's a strange sensation. This feels wrong, being cornered by a stranger (with a knife no less), forced to have some fun, but then again, maybe you needed the push into the right direction. You only live once, as cheesy as it sounds, and you have to admit you've (more or less shamefully) masturbated to the occasional rape fantasy story before.

Sure it's something else to actually experience this, but your body seems to disagree. It's a thrill, an actual adventure, and the fact that you could have fought more and tried to run away but never actually did speaks volumes. Maybe you want this? And he does seem to ask you for your consent in his own twisted way, even if he has a knife pressed to your neck and his fingers between your thighs – he could have just taken you with how much bigger and stronger he is, but in the good old villain fashion he had to hear his own voice for a bit instead.

“Well?” he whispers, rubbing his plastic mask against your cheek. You can hear his labored breaths through it now, he seems just as excited as the wetness dripping against his fingertips makes you appear.

“Mhm,” you croak out, unable to find your voice or any words to make this whole situation make sense in your protesting mind. You can't believe you just agreed to this, whatever this is, but before you can ponder it any longer, he suddenly pushes you forward and you land on the bed again. Too shocked to move, you let him manhandle you onto your back, and before you know it, he's crawled over you, pushing your skirt up and your legs wide apart, holding them open with his knees.

His hands roam up your body, and you realize he's dropped the knife somewhere, as his long fingers knead your breasts through the fabric of your blouse. You lie beneath him like a stranded beetle on its back, hands palm-up next to your head, unable to even twitch, and all you can do is watch the large shadow above you, with only the white mask glowing in the dark. It's eerily intimidating, but at the same time you feel the telltale tension in your stomach, alerting you just how aroused you are.

“What a good girl you are,” he says, fingers fidgeting with the buttons of your blouse. “So submissive. Are you just as breedable, hm?”

His words make you shiver. You inhale sharply when his rough hands make contact with your soft breasts as they slip right beneath your bra, pushing it up, and you can't help pressing your chest against his touch, wanting more. He's strangely gentle in how he touches you, despite his costume, despite the power he clearly has over you. And it only adds to your arousal, making you squirm beneath him.

“Little Red's excited, huh?” he mocks as he gropes your tender tits until you feel your hard nipples pressing into his palms. “Don't worry, I'll fill you up in no time. But maybe... hmm...” he makes, slowly leaning back on his knees. His fingers grip the sides of your blouse, pulling it open and exposing you completely, before trailing over your stomach until he reaches to the side and grabs the knife again. “Maybe I want you to beg for it...”

You let out a surprised whimper when you feel the cold edge of the knife press between your breasts, teasing at the soft mounds. He's looming over you, his head (and the mask) tilted ominously to the side, the grotesque face staring down at you. You swallow hard, barely daring to move with the blade so close to your skin.

“Come on, baby, beg me to fuck you... or beg me not to kill you?”

Suddenly his hand is on your throat, and you gasp voicelessly as he closes his fingers around it, while pressing the knife firmer against your chest, the blade scratching along your skin with every rapid breath you take, no matter how hard you try not to move.

“Please,” you whimper, a series of shivers crashing down your spine. “Don't... hurt me...”

“Hmm, can't promise that, lovely,” he replies with a sigh. “I'm sure you'll like a bit of rough sex as well, won't you? And what's pleasure without a little pain, hm? Try again!”

The knife pokes a little deeper, and you're sure it broke your skin now, but he keeps holding your neck, that unnerving mask staring down at you. “Please, don't kill me,” you whisper, playing along, somehow not as frightened as you should be. “I'm too young to die!”

His laugh is low and menacing. “And too pretty as well, right? Yeah, you are,” he says with another chuckle, leaning closer until your entire vision is filled with that white face and its black eye holes. “Well, then, whatever else could we do? You know I like to kill people, slash them up real good... if only there was something I could do to you instead...”

“F-fuck me,” you croak out, surprised by your own words.

He leans back abruptly, a triumphant “Ah!” falling from behind the mask. “Good girl, Red. I can do that!”

Your head is spinning as you have a moment to contemplate what you just said, but only until you feel his hands lifting your hips before his fingers pull your panties down. He's shifted to kneel beside you, and you realize he's placed his knife right on your fluttering stomach. Your hands claw at the edges of the pillow as you ground yourself, still not even thinking about fighting back or even escaping. Why would you? You've never felt this exhilarated. Sex with a stranger. Your mother would be so disappointed, but it's all the more incentive to go through with it.

You watch his dark figure, noticing that he's rid himself of the long black robe, and you can see muscled arms and a tight black shirt, and you wished you could see it all in more detail, but it's too dark, so you just have to imagine the rest of his build. Not that it matters much, you're already aroused enough as it is (though the mental image of a big strong guy with bulging muscles pinning you to the bed certainly helps with it).

When his fingers are back between your legs, you gasp in surprise, blinking your eyes into focus as he rips you from your thoughts. His fingertips move expertly, slipping between your labia, teasing at your hooded clit, poking at your hole. All you can do is squirm slightly, moaning softly the more he touches you. He watches you, or so you think, his head tilted comically to the side, that white face leering at you ominously.

Suddenly he moves, hands on your thighs as he pushes your legs wide open, before he grabs the knife and teases the pointy tip down your stomach, over the fabric of your bunched up skirt, until you feel the cold metal against your inner thigh. You let out a croaked whimper, forcing yourself not to move too much. While he teases you with the blade, he puts his hand over your mound, pumping his palm against your wet folds until a lewd squelching sound rings in your ears that makes you blush deeply.

“Nice and wet for me, aren't you?” he mocks quietly, repeating the motions a few times before he pulls his hand back and probes two fingers against your core instead. You brace yourself for the intrusion, but you still cry out softly when he pushes inside you. Big hands with thick fingers, and two of his feel like four of yours, as he stretches your entrance and presses hard against your protesting muscles. You groan in response, thrashing your head back.

He keeps fingering you, his digits slipping in and out in a lazy rhythm that he mirrors with his knife as it scratches up and down your inner thigh, and every time he presses the blade harder against your skin, you feel your walls clenching around his fingers.

“You like that, huh?” he whispers menacingly. “Knife kink confirmed.”

You bite your lip hard to suppress more telltale noises of pleasure, but he only keeps going, teasing you, playing with you, pushing hard and fast into you, and when he curls his fingers just right, you inhale sharply, that tension in your stomach building relentlessly, almost painfully, but it's only when you suddenly feel the cold metal of the blade right against your throbbing clit that you come with a loud howl, hips bucking up, no longer caring about getting cut, as you ride the waves of bliss as if nothing else matters.

“Beautiful,” you hear his distant voice as you slowly come down from your high, bright lights dancing behind your eyelids, and you feel him still massaging your squishy walls as they contract around him. “Can't wait to feel that around my cock...”

You hear a soft clinking sound when he seems to fumble with his belt, the knife back on your belly, heavy and cold even through the fabric. His hands are on your waist then, pulling you down a little until he drapes your legs over his thighs, guiding your crotches together. You barely register any of it, your mind reeling from your orgasm, but also anticipating the feel of his dick inside you. You can't see it in the dark, but with how he is built, you can only imagine it must be equally impressive.

You don't have to think about it for long as you feel its tip pressing between your wet folds when he rubs it against you to gather your slick. Breathing harder, you open your eyes, trying to watch him. The moonlight is enough to show you a big strong body kneeling between your legs, and only the glowing mask makes it all a little eerie, but when he finally enters you, you don't care about appearances anymore. He feels glorious.

Big, oh so big, filling you out more than you would have expected as he presses deeper, nudge by nudge, little rolls of his hips until he bottoms out inside you. His hands dig into your waist, holding you against him, and you feel bruises forming, but you don't mind, you need this. His first thrust makes the knife on your stomach bounce, and you gasp loudly. The second is equally harsh as he withdraws slowly to slam back in with force.

When he finally settles into a slow but steady rhythm, you're mewling softly, overwhelmed by how he feels inside you, how your walls cling to his shaft, sucking him in and dragging along it with every push and pull, rubbing so deliciously you feel a scorching tension building up inside you, burning brighter with every snap, every deep plunge, filling you up more and more.

His hands leave your waist to grab your throat, turning your soft moans into voiceless gasps, as he slowly picks up the pace and really rams into you, using his hold on your neck as leverage to angle his pelvis against you, allowing him to hit all the good spots with ease and fervor. You cry out soundlessly, your eyes rolling back, the last thing you see that ominous white mask above you, before you come hard around him, clamping down on his pistoning cock, your wetness gushing past him as you convulse beneath him.

You feel lightheaded, blinded by bliss, barely able to breathe, but you couldn't care less. He fucks you through your literally mind-blowing orgasm, pushing you higher and higher, until you feel it building up all over again. He lets go of your throat, allowing you to cry out hoarsely as you come a second time (or so you think, not that you could think at all, much less count the highs he's forcing upon you).

He pushes you down into the bed, one hand on your shoulder, holding you steady, while his other hand grabs the knife off your stomach, and you only realize that when you feel the cold blade against your cheek, gathering your sweat on its tip. Or maybe your tears, you can't be sure, your body feels like it belongs to somebody else at the moment, and you're just here to enjoy the ride.

“Open wide,” he tells you, his voice muffled and strained, and you comply, parting your lips before you feel the blunt edge of the blade pressing against them. “Tongue out.” You follow through, still too dizzy to question anything.

He presses the knife flat against your tongue, holding it there while he keeps pounding his cock into your fluttering cunt. You can hear his labored breaths from behind the mask, his movements becoming jerkier as you just lie there, staring up at him, goosebumps rippling over your skin as your legs twitch against his sides.

The white face is looming over you, unmoving, unnerving, while the man behind it gives his all to chase his own orgasm as he thrusts into you feverishly. Your own sounds are muffled with how he holds your mouth open, and you have to really force yourself not to move your tongue against the blade. He leans down more, putting more of his weight on you, pinning you down, his hips snapping against yours in a wild rhythm, until he finally stills, a loud groan echoing in your ears as he falls forward, mask pressed to the pillow beside your head, the hand holding the knife to your tongue shaking slightly.

That last thrust made you whine as he pushed as deep as he could possibly go, bullying your cervix, and before you can even wonder if he's used a condom or not, which you doubt, but again, your mind is swimming in bliss, unable to worry about anything at all, you feel him throbbing inside you, his balls drawing up against your folds as he empties himself in your depths, filling you with spurt after spurt of hot cum. You clench around him, trying to milk him, and the motion only makes you moan into the blade pressed against your tongue as another wave of pleasure crashes over you at the sensation.

He eventually leans back up, propped on his elbow, that mask so close to your face it's all you can see. Slowly he lifts the knife, the cold pressure gone, and all that remains is a numb feeling and a whole lot of spit. You close your mouth and swallow hard, but freeze when he suddenly reaches out and wipes his fingers over your wet lips, a gentle gesture you haven't expected. He traces your mouth with his thumb, and for a moment you're tempted to pull that stupid mask off and kiss him, deeply, properly, but that's not part of your play, unfortunately.

He stares at you a moment longer before he sits up again, his chest rising and falling almost as heavily as yours. His hands trail down your body, giving your breasts a few more squeezes before he grips your hips and pushes you off him, his mask tilting down as he watches his cock slipping free from your cunt, followed by a large warm dollop of his cum spilling from between your puffy lips. He exhales loudly as he slowly gets off the bed and puts his spent cock away.

“Well, wasn't that fun,” he then says, his low voice a little strained. “Thanks for the ride, Little Red. I'll make sure to recommend you to the others...”

His words should have irritated you, but you're still too fucked-out to care. All you reply with is a soft sigh as you sink back into the bed, finally relaxing into the cushions. You watch him out of hooded eyes as he puts his robe back on, hiding those strong arms, then leans closer once more to pick up his large knife.

And then he's at the door, opening it, letting the light from the hallway spill into the room and over your soiled body. He raises his knife, waving at you almost menacingly, then slips out of the room, closing the door behind him, vanishing like a shadow in the night, leaving you alone in the dark.

You groan and thrash your head back. What a ride indeed. Not how you have planned this party to start, but what's done is done. When you eventually scramble off the bed, bra pushed back over your breasts, your shaking fingers trying to button your blouse, you realize you can't find your panties anywhere. He must have taken them. Fuck. If he wouldn't have pumped you full of his cum, you wouldn't even mind, but as you stand, you can feel it dripping down your leg, warm and sticky.

Sighing deeply, you squeeze your thighs together. Just another reason to finally find that bathroom, you think as you slip out of the room and back onto the hallway full of doors.

1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7

YOUR NEXT OPTIONS ARE:

check the door opposite you

go to the end of the hallway

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

KINKTOBER 2024 MASTERLIST

[david-talks-sw]

Dooku didn't leave because of the Jedi.

At least, if you're going by George Lucas' word.

In deleted scenes of Attack of the Clones, when we learn about Dooku's departure and his values, there's no mention of the Jedi or "the Jedi Order as an institution".

And every time Lucas refers to Dooku's disenchantment and reason for falling, he doesn't mention the Jedi.

"When you realize that Dooku is Darth Tyranus, it explains what Darth Sidious did after Darth Maul was killed: he seduced a Jedi who had become disenchanted with the Republic. He preyed on that disenchantment and converted him to the dark side, which is also a setup for what happens with Anakin." - Mythmaking: Behind the Scenes of Attack of the Clones, 2002

"[Dooku is] one of the few Jedi who became disenchanted with the Republic and left the order and he is leading a separatist movement." - Vanity Fair, 2002

"I wanted a more sophisticated kind of villain. Dooku’s disenchantment with the corruption in the Empire is actually valid. It’s all valid.  So, Chris plays it as, 'Is he really a villain or is he just someone who is disenchanted and trying to make things right?'" - Starlog Magazine #300, 2002

He probably meant the Republic/Senate in that last one, but you get the point. And you're seeing the pattern, right?

Dooku's problem isn't the Jedi, it's the Republic.

He's become disenchanted with a system that - according to Lucas' prologue in the 2004 book Shatterpoint - worked for 1,000 years...

"For a thousand years, the Old Republic prospered and grew under the wise rule of the Senate and the protection of the venerable Jedi Knights."

... but has been rendered ineffective because of 1) senators becoming corrupt and 2) corporations gaining political power.

"But as often happens when wealth and power grow beyond all reasonable proportion, an evil fueled by greed arose. The massive organs of commerce mushroomed in power, the Senate became corrupt, and an ambitious named Palpatine was voted Supreme Chancellor."

That's the message Dooku runs on, when he rallies the systems to form the Separatist Alliance.

"By promising an alternative to the corruption and greed that was rotting the Republic from within, Dooku was able to persuade thousands of star systems to secede from the Republic."

The Jedi aren't really a factor in his decision to leave.

Why would they be? Their political status isn't very high, they're virtually powerless, as illustrated by the film's narrative and stated repeatedly by Lucas.

On the contrary, as we already established in this post, Lucas full-on confirmed that Dooku actually carries the sympathies of most of the Jedi. Again:

Most Jedi agree with Dooku, ideologically.

As far as the Jedi are concerned, the politicians are effing up the Republic, and it sucks because the Jedi see this but aren't allowed to interfere in the political process. They have to resort to looking for loopholes in their mandates to actually get stuff done.

That's what that whole "she's a politician" scene is meant to hint at. In the commentary of Attack of the Clones, Lucas uses a similar turn of phrase as he does with Dooku.

"[This scene gives us] a chance to talk a little bit about politics and the Jedi’s disenchantment with the political process, due to the corruption and the ineffectiveness of the Senate." - Attack of the Clones, Director’s Commentary, 2002

Considering all this, it becomes clear that the intended narrative surrounding Dooku's decision to leave the Order is not:

"The Jedi are dogmatic and asleep at the wheel except for Dooku, who is ahead of the curb and sees the system is flawed, so he left."

It's actually:

"ALL Jedi see the system is flawed, Dooku's the only Jedi who decided to take it a step further and leave the Order so he can try to get into politics himself and change things."

That's why they hesitate to accuse him of murder.

That's why in an earlier draft of the Attack of the Clones script, by the end of the second act, Mace STILL has his doubts that Dooku would sign a treaty with the Trade Federation to attack the Republic.

As far as the Jedi are concerned, Dooku is out there fighting the good fight, making noise because whenever they try to protest it falls on deaf ears... until his betrayal on Geonosis.

After all, let's not get it twisted: the Dooku we're introduced to in the films and The Clone Wars, isn't really just Dooku anymore.

He's Darth Tyranus.

A point Lucas makes sure to highlight in his Shatterpoint prologue:

"Unbeknownst to most of his followers, Dooku was himself a Dark Lord of the Sith, acting in collusion with his master, Darth Sidious, who, over the years, had struck an unholy alliance with the greater forces of commerce and their private droid armies."

It's not about doing the selfless thing for Dooku, anymore. He's knowingly part of the problem.

He's all about ambition, now. His personal goals are things like overthrowing Sidious and becoming the most powerful Jedi.

"[Anakin's] ambition and his dialogue here is the same as Dooku’s. He says “I will become more powerful than every Jedi.” And you’ll hear later on Dooku will say “I have become more powerful than any Jedi.” [...] It is possible for a Jedi to want to become more powerful, and control things." - Attack of the Clones, Director’s Commentary, 2002

"If you put two Sith together, they try to get others to join them to get rid of the other Sith. [When revealing the truth to Obi-Wan], Dooku's ambition is really to get rid of Darth Sidious. He's trying to get Obi-Wan's assistance in that and help in that, so that he and Obi-Wan could overthrow Sidious and take over." - Attack of the Clones, Commentary Track 2, 2002

Y'know? Selfish things.

Dooku - like all other Sith, and like the very corporations and Senators he had sworn to destroy - is consumed by his own greed.

[writteninlunarlight-years]

waaaaa your post about falling asleep on Lucifer and Alastor was SO CUTE can you please do a part 2 where they wake up and find that you two cuddled while you were asleep??

When he awoke from his rest, he noticed a heavy blanket thrown on him.

He didn't remember sleeping on the couch. All he remembered was the movie marathon.

He went to roll over, only to be stopped by a figure lying on him.

Turning his head, he saw you resting peacefully on his chest, and memories returned to him.

He was blushing brightly, realizing you two slept together, not in a sexual way but in a friendly way.

Well, what if he doesn't want to be just friends? Not in a sexual or friendly way, but in an I Like You, but I Haven't Told You way.

He slightly repositions so he can cradle your head better and move some fallen hair from your face.

How you breathed under that thick-ass blanket was beyond him; he would have suffocated.

He wrapped his legs around you better and finally rolled on his side to hold you closer.

As he inhaled your scent, he smiled and let out a little fan-girl giggle

You woke up briefly looking at him, which terrified the man in question

He went to move to give you your space, but when you wrapped your arms around him, he just smiled wider

He went back to holding you and fell back asleep, not without hearing a few more deranged aws and photo shutters

When he awoke, he began to move to go about his daily routine; however, a head unceremoniously fell into his lap, stopping him.

He looked down at you and slowly realized he had fallen asleep sitting up with you tucked into his side.

He looked you over. You hadn't seemed to wake at all. You sure were one heavy sleeper.

He brushed some hair from your face trying to avoid hurting you with his claws.

He didn't understand why he was comfortable with this interaction. He hated being touched and people making him vulnerable

something about this moment in the confines of his safe space, though, allowed him to be sweet

He looked at a grandfather clock to see that you two had slept for 12 hours, but that wouldn't do. There were people to kill and places to take over, yet he couldn't bring himself to move you

He sighed, accepting minor defeat as he went back to the work he was doing before the sleeping event

You had slightly woken, starting to sit up and apologize for interrupting his space, only for Alastor to gently place you back down on his lap

He told you not to worry. If there was something to worry about, he would have already woken you or killed you

He played with your hair gently as you drifted back off to sleep, and as soon as your breathing regulated, he smiled down at you

He could get used to this if only it was you and the privacy of his chambers.

[internetskiff]

Something about Gordon Freeman that's extremely fascinating is how he was basically forced into the "Messiah" role by complete accident. Dude was on his way to work, caught in an extremely awful lab accident, and he was just fighting for his life so brutally that he ended up taking down an entire army, making the other less capable or equipped scientists assign him as the one that would go in and take down the Nihilanth - I mean, they basically didn't have many other options, or at least not many better options at their disposal. The whole time he basically doesn't have much of a say in any of it, which means he was practically railroaded into becoming the G-Man's employee by pure circumstance.

Doesn't get any better in Half Life 2 either - the surviving Black Mesa staff have turned this man they potentially sent to die into a legend amongst the resistance movement. The Vortigaunts chant his name as they draw murals on the canal walls. The Lambda - a symbol of both the Lambda Labs but most notably the symbol on the HEV suit - now symbolizes liberation. Therefore, of course, the man who bears this symbol is the liberator. By the ending chapters of Half Life 2, Freeman commands entire squads of rebels, appointed the leader regardless of how good a tactician he actually is - if they die, they died for him, not because of him. As long as he gets to the Citadel and breaches it's wall, all those deaths would be worth it - once again, others send him into a near-inhospitable environment to take down a near-invincible threat.

I think that despite us being in control of Freeman for most of the series, the real protagonists of the story are the Vance family. Eli, too, was right at ground zero when the Resonance Cascade occurred. He is the leader of the Resistance. It's very possible that he's the one who spread word of Freeman throughout City 17. The fall of Nova Prospekt AND the Citadel occurred as a result of Eli's capture. In the Combine's eyes, the Vances are a threat equal to, if not greater than Freeman himself. That, and the Vances have something Freeman doesn't - agency. They're beyond the G-Man's control. They're beyond the Combine's control. Their actions are completely their own, with no third party to control every single step they take. Over the course of the Episodes, it feels as though the dynamic shifts, with Alyx becoming a much more vital figure. The Combine are specifically after her now, because she carries the code capable of disrupting the portal through which the Combine could send reinforcements and finally consume Earth. In both the Epistle 3 script and in Half Life Alyx it ends with her basically taking Freeman's position under the G-Man's employ. She quite literally takes the role of the Main Character away from Gordon. This, of course, is nothing to envy, because it's been repeatedly shown that any character assuming this role in the series ends up being reduced to nothing but a pawn for those who control them. It's an extremely fascinating spin on the linear nature of the games, canonically acknowledging you're doing nothing but marching along a path someone else made for you. Despite being the one free man, you're not offered much of a choice.

[7seas-of-ryy]

I Need You | Part 7

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 8

Author’s Note: I am LOVING all of your comments on each part. So many of them either brought a smile to my face or made me actually laugh out loud, so thank you!!

Summary: You can't hide your emotions anymore and some things aren't what they seem to be.

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Warnings: angst, talks of torture, let me know if I need to add any others :)

Azriel and Rhys came running into your room.

"What happened?" Rhys shouted as you stood there crying

Both of the Illyrians looked over to where the shattered glass laid, realizing what had happened. The shadowsinger gave Rhys a look letting him know he would fix this.

Rhys had everyone leave the house and stayed close by in case Az needed help.

"Hey, sunshine, let me help you" he barely whispered while taking steps towards you.

"You!" you screamed at him "You left me. You didn't care enough to let me know you weren't coming. And you didn't care enough to save me. I needed you and you were gone."

You took a deep breath and continued

"When they showed up to take me, I looked around for you. Thinking you would show up and save me. Now that I think about it, maybe I'm the stupid one. For believing you would choose to spend time with me instead of her for once. How stupid could I be? When I was being tortured all I wanted was to let go, to die. And not because the pain was too much, but because I knew that coming back and seeing the pity on your face would be so much worse. Seeing you finally 'care' about me because you feel guilty would break me beyond fixing." you took steps toward him as you yelled

His back was now against the wall.

"And now I'm broken! Nothing can fix this. And Cassian, poor Cassian was forced to watch while they rid me of my clothes and beat me. Why couldn't you just love me back? I needed you" You were pounding on his chest with your fists and he let you.

You could barely see through the tears. It felt nice to get some of it out. You collapsed into his chest, still yelling and crying. His arms wrapped around you, holding you to him and you both sank down to the ground. You were now resting on his lap and he held you while he cried.

"I needed you, I needed you." you cried "I need you"

"I know, I'm right here. I promise I'm not going anywhere." He spoke with his lips on your head. His own tears falling faster.

You eventually fell asleep on his lap and he carried you to his room. He laid you down on his bed and was about to go clean up the mess when you grabbed his arm.

"Please don't go" you spoke

"You want me to stay?" he wanted to make sure he heard you right.

"Yes" you stated, you couldn't keep the act up anymore. You needed your best friend back for right now. He could explain himself later.

He pulled up a chair next to his bed as you got comfortable under his covers. It was silent for a few minutes, your head was pounding from all the crying you had been doing.

"I always hoped that my mom had got away somehow and was out there looking for me." you whispered, barely audible

"Every time I went somewhere on a mission, I sent my shadows out to look for her, just in case." Azriel confessed just as soft

A small smile grew on your face, and with a million thoughts swirling through your head, you went to sleep.

You woke up the next morning and saw Az sleeping on the chair next to you. As quietly as you could, you slipped out of bed and went to your room. Everything had already been cleaned up and the guilt from the night before started to creep in.

Feyre was sitting on the edge of your bed, holding the note from Elain.

"I promise Elain truly meant well with the flowers." your High Lady told you

"I don't know why I did what I did last night, I'm sorry-" you started but she stopped you before you could finish.

"No, I would have probably done the same thing. Her note was, well, pathetic. But you have to understand that she wanted to apologize to you but was embarrassed. So, she thought the flowers would have been good for now." Feyre explained

"I was tortured and she's embarrassed?" you couldn't understand.

"When you're ready, maybe try talking to Elain? You deserve a true apology but only when you are ready. And while you're at, try talking to Cassian too. You both went through a lot together and it might help you. He won't say it but he's struggling." Feyre spoke while standing and walking over to you.

She pulled you into a hug and you let her. You leaned into her and she hugged you tighter. You were ready to accept help from your family.

You got dressed after she left and were going to head down to the kitchen to see if anyone else was up.

As you left your room, you heard a few voices coming out of Azriel's. You couldn't help but pause and listen.

"And why have you been so quiet? You were there, you saw what she went through. You should be trying to help her. Instead you've been avoiding her" Az spoke

"Alright lets stop-" Rhys started to say

"Why have I been so quiet?" Cassian asked sarcastically "Hmm let me think? Maybe it's because I stood there completely helpless while I had to watch Y/N be stabbed over and over again, dragged by her hair, relentlessly beat?!" His voice rose with every word

"And did you know, on top of all that, as she was about to be tortured in front of me, she comforted me? She told me that it was ok, that she could take it, told me to not worry about her?! He had the knife raised in his hand about to stab her, and all she could think of was to comfort me? I do not deserve her kindness and friendship. None of us do."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that." the shadowsinger told his friend

"It's fine. It's just so hard to look at her and not see the fear and pain in her eyes. I failed her and I don't know how to make that up to her." Cass responded

"Listen, she just needs us to be us right now. She needs love and support. All we can do is be there for her." Rhys told them

"I'm just happy she showed emotion last night. Having her scream at me is so much better than her pretending she's ok." Az said

So Cass wasn't disgusted with you, he just felt guilty?

You opened Azriel's bedroom door and walked straight to Cassian.

"Y/N" the male stuttered, not knowing what else to say

You wrapped your arms around him and after a moment he embraced you too. You stood like that for a couple of minutes before separating, still keeping your hands on his arms.

"If you weren't with me in that dungeon, I would've given up. I wouldn't have had the strength to keep fighting. You were there for me, and that was all I needed." you told Cass

Azriel flinched at that last sentence. He knew you didn't say it to hurt him but he will never forgive himself for what he did.

Cassian sniffled, "Well, I think I could use a drink after these past few days, shall we crack open the most expensive bottles Rhys owns?"

"Seeing as it is still morning, I think we should save the drinking until later." Rhys chuckled

The four of you laughed and it felt good. You missed this so much.

"I'll take you up on that offer, but how about after dinner?" you offered

"Sounds perfect" "I'm in" Rhys and Cass responded at the same time

The three of you looked at Az and the male smiled and nodded.

You were looking forward to hopefully having a simple night just sitting with your family and enjoying their company. But right now, you needed to find Elain.

You were exhausted pretending everything was ok, and you figured talking to her could help.

After checking the kitchen with no success, you headed to your second guess of where she was at. The garden. You spotted her immediately, bent over some beautiful flowers.

"Hello, Elain" You started

"Oh! Y/N, I wasn't expecting to talk to you so soon. Um- I need to tell you, I...well I really didn't know...." the girl choked out

She seemed so nervous and upset.

"Elain, I'm here to apologize" you spoke softly and took a seat next to her. Her eyes growing wide at your words.

"What?? No, you were kidnapped and tortured and all because I was jealous of you? No I need to apologize. I didn't know the extent of what happened to you until after I sent the flowers. I was told that you were hurt but it wasn't until last night that Rhys showed me what you went through.. I am deeply sorry" she told you

"You were jealous of me?" you questioned

"It's stupid.. after everything that occurred with Graysen, I was scared to feel that pain again. When I first got here, Azriel was so kind to me. I started to get that feeling again and was terrified of being hurt. Az was so close to you so I convinced him to stay with me. I was embarrassed that I let myself act like this over a male. I am appalled with myself." Elain admitted

"You couldn't have known those men were after me. Am I hurt that you tried to keep my closest friend from me? Yes, but you should not carry the burden and guilt of my trauma because of that... and the flowers did come off as a little insensitive" you elbowed her playfully as you spoke the last part, hoping she would see it as a sort of truce.

She looked up at you with embarrassment on her face.

"In my defense, Nesta helped me write the card, and you know she's not very good at emotional apologies" Elain said and you both giggled

After a moment, the air seemed to turn serious again.

"He couldn't have known either," she gently added, "have you talked to him yet?"

"Well, I screamed at him and blamed him for a lot of it last night but besides that, no I haven't talked to him. The problem isn't just that he stood me up that night, which led to all of this. He started drifting away from me long before that and it hurt like hell." you admitted to her

"Ask him why. Be straight forward with him and perhaps he will do the same with you." she advised you

You gave the middle Archeron sister a genuine smile and went back inside.

That wasn't as hard as you thought it would be. You felt lighter after all that clarification but there was still something big weighing you down.

You needed to find Azriel next and you had a feeling this conversation wouldn't be as easy as the last.

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[lolokouhm]

Could you rail me? pt. 2

Don’t overthink it. Just let go.

Sounds easy, right?

Not for Megumi, no.

Especially with your body in his T-shirt underneath him. On his own bed, in his own bedroom, way after dark, with some faint sound of an autumn playlist that’s been playing for hours now. 

Right now, there are two problems.

First of all - he’s not a virgin, but he wouldn’t call himself a sex god either, by no means. It’s not like female pleasure has been some sort of black magic he hasn’t learned - the few girls he’s been with seemed rather satisfied and they even tried to contact him the day after, but he rarely replied. Not that he ghosted them, rather politely suggested that he wasn’t interested in exploring the relationship (or situationship) further. That was the truth - he wasn’t. He couldn’t force himself to do that, it would be simply rude. The girls could be nice, but they just weren’t you. And when the thought pops up in his head, he’s shattered. „Rather satisfied” with you won’t do. It just won’t. You need to see stars. Hell, fucking galaxies - which leads straight to the second problem.

Megumi is pretty sure the moment you touch him he will come. Like, straightaway. 

But you don’t mind. Like at all. Because the way he looks at you, so hungry, so messy - it’s so different from his usual IDGAF attire and that honestly turns you on beyond comprehension. You lean in and pull him into a kiss, another one of these incredible ones you’ve shared in the kitchen a few moments ago. These are enough to make you see stars, as his fingers slowly slide down your collarbone.

„Please”, you whimper and he pulls back, startled by your tearful tone. God, you’re so pretty. „Touch me, Megumi. I need you.”

And for the first time in forever, Megumi actually lets go.

He doesn’t hesitate anymore - with a low groan his hands travel under your T-shirt and he closes his eyes when his cold hands finally land on your tits. He leaves a few more kisses on your neck, caressing them gently at first, but getting more and more rougher with every squeeze. They are so soft. He imagined how they would feel many, many times - you’ve even caught him staring once when you went to the beach back in the summer. You made a snarky comment about respectful men being disrespectful, but he brushed it off with such disinterest that you couldn’t possibly know what was going on in his head. But this - this is different. He wants to see them, not in the bikini, not in the bra, and the curiosity wins. He catches the hem of your T-shirt and rolls it up to expose your body, and you don’t even have time to say his name before he’s sucking your left nipple, gently swiping his thumb over the right one.

„Fuck, Megumi. It feels so good.” His tongue is circling over your protruding buds and you’re so impossibly wet that you’re scared you’re actually going to drown. It’s like he’s got some spidey sense or something, because the moment you think about it his hand is already reaching down and grabbing the boxers he gave you. You try to lift your hips to help him, but he’s doing just fine. A silent curse leaves his lips as he feels, on his own fingers, how wet you are and just the sensation makes his head spin. He caresses your clit for a moment, but you really don’t need any additional stimulation. You need him inside. Now.

So that’s what you get. The T-shirt falls back on your breasts as Megumi moves down and slides the boxers off you, full of slick and completely ruined. He hasn’t even taken a single part of his wardrobe yet, he really doesn’t want to stop pleasuring you, no matter how tight his own boxers feel right now - but it’s just too hot, so he finally gets rid of the sweater and you just stare in awe. You’ve seen his bare chest before, but not like that. He’s sculpted in the tastiest way possible. 

„Come here.” You suddenly feel his hands on your thighs as he’s dragging you down the bed, just a little bit so your hips are on the verge of the mattress. „Tell me if it feels good, okay? I… I really want you to feel good. So if it’s not it then you need to say it.” 

With wide-opened eyes you observe as Megumi gets on his knees in front of the bed, placing your legs on both of his shoulders, and you could swear you’re salivating.

„I’m not the one who has problems with expressing — fuck.” You don’t really have time to think about it any further as you suddenly feel his tongue on your clit - he moves it up and down, slowly and delicately, trying not to overwhelm you with the sensation. „That definitely doesn’t feel bad, oh god. W-why are you laughing?” You could swear you heard him chuckle. 

„You’re just so cute” he mutters, slowly sliding his finger inside of you. Your fear is actually becoming reality - if the two of you keep going on like this, Megumi’s going to fucking drown. „And so wet. Oh god.” His voice sounds so hazy and dreamy, as if he wasn’t in his right mind. And maybe he isn’t. You could never imagine him saying these things, but now, with him on his knees in front of you, it’s more than real, even though, at the same time, it isn’t. His left hand is keeping your hips in place, but it’s not the easiest task. Especially with his erection slowly becoming just painful. „And so sweet” he murmurs, and you get the chills - and it’s over. You actually needed his one finger and three compliments to come, and you’re shaking like crazy. 

That’s just embarrassing. 

But Megumi doesn’t see it. He’s in awe. He’s happier the ever, which is pretty ironic, as that’s exactly what plays in the background right now from his speakers. He makes you ride your orgasm out - it’s messy and it gets you a little scared as Megumi really loves to keep things clean - but it’s different for him. He’s high. He’s pussy drunk, no, scratch that. He’s drunk on you. 

You can see that clearly when he’s on top of you again. Not only that - he’s also in pain. And you feel more than determined to help him.

„It’s my turn now”, you whisper, wiggling your way out of his embrace. „You were amazing.” Your hands automatically run to his pants, but before you’re even able to unbuckle his belt, his palm lands on top of your fingers.

„No, (Y/N)…” he mutters, and his gaze is feverish. „If you touch me I’ll come right away.”

„Well, that’s a pity then” you say, still shaking a little from your orgasm. „At least you’ll be coming inside of me.” 

Megumi just groans and his head falls back on the pillow as you continue unzipping his pants, getting rid of your t-shirt somewhere in-between. 

„Don’t say such things.” You feel a squeeze on your thigh as you’re straddling his ABS, his whole body tense with need. „It’s not helping.”

„Just shut up and be my pillow princess now, okay?” You finally manage to get the pants off him and feel nervous again. You expected him to be big, just not that big. And hard. He squirms when your fingers brush against his leaking tip, and then - well, he’s just a moaning mess. It’s still going better than he expected, he thinks when your lips touch him softly.

„Oh, fuck it, just sit on it. Have some mercy.” 

But you don’t. Instead you take him a little bit deeper into your throat and you squeeze his heavy balls, and by that time Megumi’s had enough. The moment his cock leaves your throat he grabs you by the waist and turns you around so you can finally face him. He fixes his position, sitting up and leaning against the bed’s soft headboard, surprising you with his rough movements as you wiggle on his lap.

„I told you” he whispers, fingers sliding from your sweaty forehead to your parted lips. He throws his head back the moment you take his thumb into your own mouth and suck it. „Have some mercy on me.” 

And even though you’d love to play with him more, you just cannot stand the way he looks at you. Like he’s begging. Maybe he really is? 

So you do it.

He still holds you, when you painfully slowly slide down his cock, your walls hugging him so tightly that he’s going insane.

„Fuck” he whimpers. „I didn’t know you’d be so tight.”

„I didn’t know you’d be so talkative”, you purr before leaning in for a kiss. He’s stretching you so much that now you’re grateful for your embarrassing wetness - if you weren’t leaking, you’d have a problem fitting him inside. 

„Are you all right?” he asks, but he already looks so fucked out that the question is just adorable. You finally move, and his head falls back with a moan. „Oh fuck.”

„You need to stop cursing” you whine, trying to set a tempo and then follow it, but your legs feel like jelly. You begin bouncing on him and you’re really grateful for being on top, just for the view - Megumi’s breathtaking. And surprisingly loud. He moans when he sucks your nipples, incredibly sensitive by now and as his fingers brush your clit again, your ability to think logically is completely gone. You chase your next high and then he suddenly stops, grabs you and now he’s on top again, thrusting into you and caressing your pussy in slow, deep strokes. He’s so close, but it’s like a challenge he’s not going to lose - you need to come first, and you need to come on his cock. Megumi is stubborn.

He’s really close to losing, but he perseveres yet again, just to fall apart right after you - your walls squeezing him like that is simply too much for him to handle. Both of you are a moaning, groaning mess as he squeezes your hand so tight you’re definitely getting some bruises from that. Despite being harsh, his touch is full of pure passion and it feels weirdly safe.

His thrusts get more and more sloppier as he’s emptying in you, and it takes a while - you’ve overstimulated him a little too much. After a few final strokes, Megumi’s body finally falls heavy on yours. He should probably pull out, but as his cum is slowly leaking and dripping down the sheets, none of you care. You’re too tired to even move a limb.

„It’s a mess.” That’s a fact, and you just state it. His body against yours. His bed. Your relationship. 

„Yeah.” Megumi nuzzles into your neck as his fingers intertwine with yours, yet again. „But I guess I could live with that.”

masterlist ❤️

[demigodpolls]

calling all PJO fanfic readers!

In the interest of acknowledging great works by fandom writers, DemigodPolls is going to share a big year-end collection of 2024 Percy Jackson fanfic recommendations! In the comment section below or on this AO3 post, leave recommendations for the best PJO fanfics you've read - but there is one major rule: they MUST have been published or last updated in 2024! No exceptions! Reblogs are turned on, but please do NOT leave your recommendations in the reblogs/tags! They will not be considered! Before commenting, make sure that you read the additional specifications below the cut first. If you have nothing to recommend, please do reblog to help support fandom writers and spread the word! Thank you!!!

What we want:

strong grammar

strong writing skills

accurate/interesting depictions of PJO characters

angst/romance/drama/adventure/friendship/character studies/etc

accurately tagged stories (i.e. stories that don't surprise you with untagged triggering content)

stories written with love for the percy jackson universe and its characters

What we DON'T want:

stories that were published/last updated before 2024

stories about ships that would be age-inappropriate in canon, unless the characters are CLEARLY aged up in the story (e.g. no olympians x teenage characters, unless the younger character is explicitly an ADULT when they first meet in the fanfic)

stories that contain non-c*n, inc*st, p*dophilia

stories under 1000 words

stories that fall under "character x everyone"

stories about original characters (stories that contain some OCs in non-protagonist roles are fine, character x reader/self-inserts are fine)

stories that bash other ships/characters (i.e., don't recommend percabeth fics that bash rachel/perachel)

stories that contain non-PJO crossovers (except for RRverse crossovers, i.e. pjo + tkc is fine, toa alone is fine, tkc alone is not, pjo + harry potter is not)

stories that contain gore/extreme violence/extreme bodily harm

stories that contain cheating/infidelity (I just don't want to read those, sorry)

dialogue-only fanfics/texting-only fanfics

stories that contain W*TTG sp0ilers

can I recommend multiple things?

yes! just make sure to categorize them correctly under the relevant prompts.

can I recommend my own story?

yes, but you are highly, highly encouraged to simultaneously recommend at least one other fanfic that you yourself did not write - let's spread the love! (not required)

is smut okay?

yes! but you must specify clearly that the story contains smut in your comment, and please don't use explicit/overly sexual language in your recommendation. I also reserve the right to refuse to consider stories that contain k*nks I don't want to engage with. (ab0, hardcore bd$m, parental name k*nk to name a few)

are non-english fanfics okay?

you are absolutely welcome to recommend non-english fanfics to others in the comments! but I will not be able to put them on the final recommendation list, because I only speak english and I cannot personally vet their contents, cannot observe their grammar, and could be terribly misled by a translator. I'm very sorry! however, if you would like to put together a similar recommendation collection of non-english stories, I'd be happy to promote it on this blog.

is percico okay?

someone asked about this specifically, so here's my stance: percico is a controversial pairing due to the debated inappropriateness of the canon age gap (approx. 3 years). I personally consider 3 years between minors to be juuust beyond my comfort zone (2 years), so please respect my decision to abide by my own comfortability and refuse to consider stories that feature age gaps of this size or larger involving minors. however, you can recommend percico fics where the age gap is explicitly made smaller, or fics where nico and percy are both explicitly adults! this same rule applies to any other ship in a similar circumstance - check the wiki for canon ages if you're unsure! (and to be clear, this is solely about ages, not about the individual merit of the pairing itself. respectfully - this is me drawing a boundary about what I am comfortable with, so do not argue with me on this topic).

is caleo okay?

this pair is even more controversial nowadays, so here's my stance when it comes to weird magical circumstances: within the logic of the pjo universe, some things that seem strange from a mortal perspective are standard within the books. i.e., it's not weird to date fellow demigods, even if the person you're dating is technically your aunt/uncle/cousin/etc. likewise, it's not "weird" for a teenager to date an immortalized or de-immortalized teenager, because... I genuinely don't know, that's just how the book logic works. for that reason, caleo works are accepted. we're going to apply this same logic to pairs like theyna, which could also potentially have murky circumstances (although I do consider thaluke to be especially iffy, because it heavily depends on the situation that people write them in - so if you're unsure, go ahead and submit it, and I'll use my best judgement from there). however, I cannot begin to express my extreme disinterest in discourse about immortal dating ethics - like, I would rather do anything else. not trying to be sassy here, but I'm going to ask you guys to not pick a fight about these topics, for the simple reason that I have zero interest in debating over situations that could never occur in real-life.

are incomplete/discontinued stories okay?

yes! I'd prefer stories that have at least three chapters, but this is not required. completed one-shots are also fine!

If someone already recommended a story that I like, should I vouch for it?

if you would like to, then absolutely!! you can respond to the appropriate prompt from this account in the comments, or you can reply to the person making the recommendation. just make sure to explicitly state which story you're advocating for.

Comments that do not follow these guidelines may be deleted!

How to make recommendations:

There are two places in which you can make your recs! You can click here to leave them on an AO3 mirror of this post, or do so in the comment section below. If the latter, continue reading. Please leave the story name, author username, story rating, main ship, and main characters in your comments - and if you'd like, definitely add some words about why you like it! AO3 direct links are not necessary, but super appreciated. But if it's not on AO3, please ensure that you make clear where exactly I can locate the story. In the comments below, you'll see comments that you can reply to, sorted by ships/lack thereof. Please sort your recommendations by replying to them accordingly (i.e. if you want to recommend 2 solangelo fics and 1 valgrace fic, leave the 2 solangelo recs under the solangelo prompt, then do the same in the valgrace prompt). You MUST explicitly state somewhere if the fanfic contains smut. If you're not sure where to put your recommendations, make your best guess - but absolutely do NOT intentionally mis-categorize your recommendations (i.e, if the pair is not canon, do not put it in the canon pairing section. Seriously. This makes things much more difficult for me while organizing fics, and I'll probably delete your comment anyway.) Lastly, please be mature about shipping. Nothing irritates me more than fighting about percy jackson ships in 2024. If you see fanfics recommended about pairings (or characters!) that you hate, do the mature thing and just scroll past it/do not engage. Character hate and ship hate is not tolerated on this blog. I am very serious about this - if you are starting a fuss about ships/characters, your comments will be deleted and your account will be permanently blocked. Respect your fellow fandom-mates! I will do my best to moderate this comment section, but before looking through them, please understand that I am not responsible for your individual well-being, and there may be fanfic recommendations that are not appropriate for minors/might contain triggering content/etc.

Here's a little form for those of you who find this easier to use, but you don't have to use it!! However, PLEASE do include the following information in your comment regardless:

story name: author: rating: ship: main characters: additional comments (what's it about? why do you like it? etc):

Don't forget, fanfics published/last updated in 2024 only!

Thank you so, so much for participating! The collection won't be published on this blog until late December, so until then, take your time, check those bookmarks, and read new PJO fanfics! Much love to all of you ♡

- demigodpolls

(art by @viria)

(dividers by @cafekitsune)

[drurrito]

A/N: just a little something, words are hard at this time

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: Sparring with Natasha gone awry

Warnings: blood

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

There’s already a slight sheen of sweat covering your body by the time you finish your warm-up. You plop down onto the nearest bench and start to wrap your hands for bag training when a pair of toned legs stop in front of you. You slowly peer up to find Natasha clad in workout gear and a look in her eye that makes your throat go dry. 

“Let’s spar, no gloves,” she doesn’t give you much of a choice, already walking towards a spot on the mats. You wordlessly follow her, and it’s not until you’re square in front of her that you realize there’s a small herd of recruits looking on from a safe distance. 

You both settle into your stances. Natasha charges you with a few punches that you dodge with ease. You both go on like this for about 2 minutes before you decide to throw some combos of your own. Your hand grazes the skin just above Natasha’s brow. Then you throw a kick that should have knocked the wind out of her, but it lands like a tap on her chest. She closes the distance with a snarl, and your noses almost touch. 

“Stop pulling your punches,” Natasha growls, she pushes you away with a shove, “recruits aren’t gonna learn anything from a one-sided fight.”

“Being a good nail makes you a better hammer,” you retort, throwing a few punches that are uncharacteristically slow. You usually give everyone else a hard time on the mats. Even Steve has had to catch his breath after a few rounds with you. She can’t understand why you won’t fight back, and it’s beyond frustrating. 

Natasha can hear scattered whispers among the group of recruits, and decides she needs to provoke you into doing anything other than playing defense. 

Natasha ducks under your punch and moves in, she closes the space with a hook to your face before pulling you into a collar-tie and hip tossing you hard onto the mats. The room is dead quiet, the sound of your ribs cracking echoes. Natasha hears the smallest wheeze beneath her.

“You’re trying to kill me,” you say as soon as your breath returns. You try to sit up and feel blood gush out of your nose. Your hand shoots to your face and try to stand up, but Natasha’s hands land quickly on your shoulders, then your face.

“Let me see,” her voice is eerily gentle, like she didn’t just try to throw you through the earth’s crust moments ago. You move your hand and Natasha inspects your nose. You’re too focused on how close she is and wonder if she can feel how hot your cheeks are right now. After a few moments, she barks an order at the recruits to find the med kit. You pinch the bridge of your nose and attempt to tilt your head back, but she grabs your chin with one hand. 

“Don’t do that,” she’s gentle again, “just keep pinching with your head down.” 

You do as she says, your eyes fall to the small pool of blood between your legs.

“Lotta blood,” you say with a wince, your ribs reminding you that they’re the real victim here.

“M’sorry,” she says, that makes you wince again. You’re the one who wouldn’t fight back and essentially goaded Natasha into ragdoll-ing you because she makes you uncharacteristically nervous.

“It’s alright, Tash,” you sound too sincere for her liking. You almost miss the look that flashes across her face as she takes the kit from a recruit. 

“That’s all for today,” Natasha shoos away the recruits who are more than happy to file out of the gym. You try not to think about how Natasha managed to keep her attention on you the whole time as she plugs your nose with soaked cotton balls and tells you to breathe out of your mouth for a bit.

“Were you a cutman in another life?” Natasha smirks at how extra nasally you’re making your voice sound.

“Learned a few tricks as a widow,” she mumbles, taking the cotton out of your nose and tenderly wiping off the blood above your lip. Her fingers linger for a moment on your skin when your eyes catch hers. Even the sharp pain in your ribs quiet down to a dull throbbing, if only for a second. 

Natasha is the first to look away, your eyes are still fixed on her profile as she closes the kit and stands up.

“We should get those ribs looked at by a real doctor, need a hand?” You reach for her hand and she pulls you up, staying close as she watches you take a few steps. You only wobble for a half second before she ducks under your arm to support. Natasha mutters something in frustrated Russian while you bite your tongue to keep from smiling.

[luv-y0urself]

boynextdoor when they have crushes

boynextdoor x fem!reader genre: fluff, slice of life, mayhaps...? | wc: 2026 words | warnings: all sorts of tropes ahead !! all of the boys are the same age as the reader in the fic, although not mentioned :) 𖤐．thank you to the anon who requested this ! i'm so sorry it took this long to get out... i might've gotten a little carried away (psst... i didn't tell you this, but i might be using this as a small teaser for a future series...!)

boy #1: park sungho

to me, sungho genuinely feels like the type to fall for his childhood best friend. it’s the feeling of comfort that he feels with her that suddenly morphs into something more, y’know? he’s having a casual night out, grabbing a quick drink with his friend for successfully ending the semester in one piece when she shows up dressed with her hair done, makeup immaculate, and a dress that fits her curves perfectly and accentuates all the nice things about her. he can’t help but gape at her form once he lays eyes on her, and is dumbfounded for a few seconds before he’s able to murmur a soft compliment in her direction. she merely laughs it off, telling him that he looked rather dashing that night as well. it was common for them to care for each other in that way; they didn’t think of it much when they were complimenting each other… but on that night, at that moment, sungho meant every word. once sungho is able to fully mull over the situation (and fully realizes that he definitely has a crush on her), sungho would go out of his way to care for her. he’s always sending her texts (much more than usual), usually things like “your class starts soon, are you at school yet?” to things like, “don’t skip lunch even if you’re working.” he strikes me as the type to bring lots of sweets to his gal when mother nature decides to pay her a visit, or for him to cook her some of her favorite broth if she’s feeling under the weather. at one point, i feel like she would realize that sungho has changed a little bit; she asks the other friends in her group about it and her friends can’t help but smack their foreheads at how dense sungho’s crush is, then help sungho set something up for him to actually overcome the fear of losing his friend and confess to her.

boy #2: lee riwoo

to be completely honest, i feel like riwoo is the type to fall for a girl that he met at a dance competition. riwoo would be one of the judges, waiting for the last performance to go on stage and dance their hearts out. he’s beyond tired, having gotten at the site more than six hours ago, and having sat in his chair without moving for four of those six. but once she comes onto stage, riwoo would feel the spinning world stop. all he can see is her, dancing her heart out to the choreographed routine that she and her group mates put together for everybody to see. it’s unprofessional, really — riwoo should be watching the performance for all of the rubric points, but all he could focus on was the way that she moved; the way that she waltzed with the song, her arms elongated and her steps light but strong, hitting each beat with undeniable passion that she must’ve practiced with. riwoo isn’t able to do anything the day of, however — that would be even more unprofessional than how distracted he was during the performance. no, the real time he would be able to do something is when he holds a surprise pop up class with a limited number of students able to attend, and she’s one of them. when checking their form, i feel like riwoo’s eyes would subconsciously stay on her form for a little longer compared to the other students, and if she had a question, he answer it to the best of his ability, and then some. riwoo doesn’t strike me as the impulsive type, but with her in the room, i feel like he would change the choreo that he's teaching to a pair dance, choosing her in the room to dance with.

boy #3: myung jaehyun

god, myungjae would be the loudest guy out there once he has a crush. he definitely strikes me as the type of guy to go shouting in the group chat, saying that he just spotted the “goddess” of their school while walking around. he probably also wouldn’t waste any time beating around the bush; the very next time he spots her, he would probably go up to her and say some cheesy pick up line (“so, aside from taking my breath away, what do you do for a living?”) although the girl would definitely be surprised, and maybe even annoyed at his seemingly insincere ways of telling her, myungjae would do everything he can to regain her trust in him (aka. making her fall for him, according to his boasting). whenever he spots her on campus, myungjae makes sure to make himself known. he often waves at her from hundreds of meters away, running to her from wherever he saw her from (and ditching whoever he was with, which, most of the time, is poor woonhak) just to strike a conversation with her. he asks her about all kinds of things, like what she’s doing today, how she’s feeling, if anything happened to her in the past 16 hours which he hasn’t seen her, anything. (once, she replied back that she was going to go meet a long distance guy friend, and myungjae immediately got sooo jealous. he would ask all kinds of things, like what he looks like, how tall he is, whether she’s ever liked him in the past or if she does now, how long she’s known him for, etc. she would definitely tease him for being jealous before leaving in a flash, purposely mentioning that she needs to “get ready” for her hangout with the said guy. myungjae is absolutely distraught, to her delight.) but, if she’s feeling down, he’s there for her always, giving her a shoulder to cry on if needed. he provides lots of advice for her if she opens up to him in that way, glad that he was able to be of help to his one and only.

boy #4: han taesan

boy oh boy, han taesan. definitely the type to fall for the girl working at the lp shop that he’s a regular at. taesan was just walking around the shop, seeing if there were any albums that were recently added that he hadn’t seen the last time he was there. that’s when he spotted her listening to the legendary nirvana album (in his opinion), bleach (1989), and she was humming the melody to “about a girl” when he couldn’t help but be intrigued about her. the lp shop was old; taesan was close with the owner of the shop, since the old man had cared for taesan like his own son. taesan would definitely ask about her the next time he sees the man (which is very soon), surprised when he mentions that she’s working at the shop now; taesan came to the shop almost everyday following that short encounter, often staying at the shop much longer than necessary when she was around (and leaving the shop quickly when he wasn’t able to see her at her usual spot at the counter), trying to get a better look at what she was doing or if she was listening to anything else that he enjoyed listening to, too.  the first time that taesan would actually make a move is when he catches that she’s sick from the rapidly changing weather. he spots her erupting into small coughing fits, which she suppresses quickly with a quick drink from her practically steaming tumbler. the next day taesan walks into the shop, his pockets are a little heavier than usual; he’s carrying with him some cough medicine and tylenol, packaged nicely in a clear bag, perfected with a clean note inside (which he definitely didn’t take 15 minutes to write two lines of). when she’s not at the counter, cleaning something at a different end of the shop, taesan slips over and places the bag of medicine containing the note next to her tumbler so she can’t miss it, smiling a little as he exits the shop.

boy #5: kim leehan

would it be a surprise if leehan falls for the girl working as a docent at the aquarium? she's all he’s been looking for; an expert on fish that shared the same love for marine life that he did. i feel like leehan would meet her coincidentally at his local aquarium; usually he likes to stay home and just look at his own fish tank, but that day, he felt like going out. it had been too long since he left the house, anyway; the last time he’d left was a few days ago, when he went to go find some new fishies for his fish tank (if leehan has his fish tank and his phone, he could probably stay at home for a whole month without leaving it once).  usually, leehan is the type to walk around the aquarium by himself; he already knew a lot about most of the fish there, and if he didn’t know anything, he was the type to stand in front of the description for a while in order to read everything about the new fish. but, something about her voice stroke a chord in him; her voice was different from the other docents that he had walked by, and he saw himself just trailing the crowd that was following her, listening to her words that were flowing out of her like she was telling the story about the fish for the first time. after the entire tour, when she seems to go on break, leehan would call out to her according to her name that she had mentioned at the end of the tour, letting the people know that she was always happy to talk about fish if they ever spotted her around the aquarium another day. he would then proceed to question her about some of the new species that had recently been added to the aquarium tanks, piquing her interest in him as well. i think they would meet a couple more times at the aquarium itself before leehan would ask if she would like to see his own fish tank at his house ;)

boy #6: kim woonhak

woonhak is the epitome of boyish love. there’s no denying it… he just reminds me so much of the type of guys that would endlessly tease and poke fun at you just because he doesn’t know how else to express himself. i think the person that he would do this to would definitely be a somewhat calm person… like a student volunteer at his school’s library!! he would definitely fall for her when he’s checking out his textbooks at the beginning of the year — he’s never stepped into the textbook room prior to this (since this was all a new system that the school implemented) and woonhak just saw her working hard, interacting cordially with the kids she knew and genuinely looking like she was enjoying her job there. her genuineness sparked something deep inside of him, and after that day, i feel like he would visit the library all the time. he’s going to memorize the days and periods that she’s working at the library and get out of class during those days just to go to the library and try to see her. because he visits her so often, i just know that they would start to talk and that would just make woonhak fall even more for her — she’s such a passionate individual, always working hard for what she wants to achieve in the future. whenever she talks about her ambitions, woonhak just can’t help but be mesmerized about everything around her; her pretty, sparkling eyes, the soft breeze from the window that tickles her hair, being able to easily tune out the bustling of the students around them as if they were alone, and her voice, making him truly wonder if she was born under the extensive care of angels. at one point, though, i feel like she would ask him why he always visits her but never actually looks at any of the books or the library in general. woonhak’s ears would burn a bright shade of red before he clears his throat, finally asking her out on a date (“actually, speaking of which… do you want to, uh, go out this weekend?”)

reblogs + feedback are greatly appreciated ! © luv-y0urself / 2024

[animasola86]

🟩 A SHOT TO REMEMBER

slime x f!reader 🔥 very explicit 🔥 words: 2.8k

After you drank a mysterious green jello shot, you don't feel so good. But don't worry, you'll soon feel a lot better...

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! Slime monster! Tentacles! Triple penetration! Aphrodisiacs! Mind control! Overstimulation! (READ ON AO3!)

A/N: This is part 3 of my CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE smut series! 1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7 This is OPTION 2/PART 3 - but can be read individually, let me just set the scene:

CONTEXT: You were invited to a Halloween party in a mysterious house, dressed as Little Red Riding Hood, and on your search for the bathroom because your stomach is acting up a little, you come to a long hallway full of doors, and you decide to go through the door a few feet away.

ADDITIONAL WARNING: If you're a little squeamish, you should probably pass on this. Mentions of vomiting and slimy things and orifices being filled with the hint of dubcon.

As soon as you pull open the door, you know you're at the right place. The bathroom is huge, though. Dark tiles all the way up to the ceiling, a fancy chandelier in the middle, its light warm and not as bright as you'd expect from a bathroom, a large floor-to-ceiling window showing nothing but darkness beyond the thick red curtains pulled to the side a little. There's a fancy bathtub on clawed feet in one corner, a more modern shower nook with a wide glass door opposite it, large enough to at least fit five people, and then you have a long vanity sporting two sinks and a giant mirror, and a fancy looking toilet on the other side.

The perfect mixture of vintage and modern – but you only have time to look at it for so long before your stomach starts churning badly once more. You stumble to the toilet, its lid opening automatically as you approach, and before you know it, you're hugging the bowl and dry-heaving into it, your whole body shuddering under the exertion. But strangely enough, nothing comes out, despite the feverish attempts of your convulsing body. All you can do is gather the saliva in your mouth and spit it into the porcelain, before you stand up on shaking legs and walk to the vanity, rubbing your hurting belly.

You feel full (and you wonder why). Seeing your messy reflection only makes it worse. After washing your hands, then your face, you decide to wash up completely, and a few moments later you stand in the shower, stark naked as one should, and marvel at the fancy apparatus in front of you. There's a rain shower, but also several nozzles embedded in the wall, and you have no idea which of the many buttons you have to press for it to do something, so you just press them at random, yelping in shock when a few of them send their hard jets straight at your cramping stomach.

You bend over, leaning away from the harsh water spray, and this time you feel something moving up your esophagus as you retch violently. Your head is spinning as you put one hand on the tiled wall, trying to steady yourself. Your lips part as you squeeze your eyes shut under the strain, and it's the strangest sensation when something slimy rubs along your tongue before it falls from your open mouth and right between your feet, splashing down.

The cramps are gone, but the sticky feeling in your throat remains, and when you straighten up and open your eyes, looking down, you almost slip when you try to get away from the little green thing on the floor. At first it looks like the jello shot you forced down earlier, but then it moves, changes form, becomes more rounded before little antennae spread across its body. You stare at it in sheer horror. That thing was inside your stomach? You feel as if you're going to be sick all over again.

But it gets worse. It grows. As you press your back against the shower wall, unable to move or look away, the slimy thing gets bigger, those little protrusions growing longer, thicker, its round form swaying under the constant spray of water from above. It looks almost see-through, the green shimmer growing fainter the larger it becomes. There's an eerie squelching sound as it rubs itself against the opposite shower wall, stretching, moving upwards, using its countless appendages to carry itself higher – until it stands at your height, a shapeless almost-transparent green blob with swaying tentacles, staring at you without eyes or even a face.

And you're frozen in shock, unable to process what is happening, what you're seeing. You must be drunk or high or completely out of your mind. This isn't real. You are not standing in the shower with a strange slime monster. No way. Fighting the reality of it, you don't even move or make a sound when the thing reaches out to you and brushes the tip of one of its tentacles against your leg. The touch is cold and wet, testing, careful. Your eyes follow its many movements, but you soon feel dizzy trying to count its tendrils or make sense of its shape.

More tentacles move towards you, and you stay completely still as they coil around your ankles, your wrists, seemingly holding you in place while others slither up and down your body, exploring every inch of it. It's when you feel them rubbing against your shamefully erect nipples or between your wet folds, that your heart beats faster. You struggle against the soft looking tentacles, but they're stronger than they appear. As the first sound escapes your mouth, a weak little whine, another tentacle rises and quickly pushes between your lips, forcing your head back as it pokes straight at the back of your throat, triggering your gag reflex, causing your body to convulse violently.

Desperate muffled whimpers try to choke past the tendril in your mouth, but that only makes more spit gather on your tongue before it drips past your lips and down your chin. You are utterly helpless, held in place, and all you can do is watch the slime thing come closer until it presses against you, from head to toe, its texture cold and sticky as it engulfs you completely. The strangest thing is that you feel eerily calm as that happens, all panic gone in an instant, and you can even breathe as it closes around your head. Maybe it's that tentacle that's forcing its way down your throat, maybe you are dreaming this after all.

It doesn't feel real, and how should this be real? You are being absorbed by a large slime monster, turning into a blob yourself, even though you feel more like an insect being encased by sap, soon to turn into amber, frozen in time, preserved for all eternity. It's the last conscious thought you are able to think before you feel your body being moved, and you end up on your back, suspended in the air, held up by the large translucent mass around you. It's taking up the entire lower half of the shower now, the pitter patter of the water against its wobbly form almost soothing, with how distant it sounds in your prison of slime.

Even though your mind is empty, spinning slightly in place, you can still feel everything that's happening to you. Despite being enveloped by a firm and wet substance, with the consistency of jello, you don't feel restrained, not that you want to move anyway. You're floating, body reclined, legs hanging in the air, wide open, arms extended in an almost T-pose, but you are relaxed, swimming inside the gelatinous body of the slime. The tendril in your throat is just resting there, supplying you with oxygen, seemingly, it's not even a bad pressure, it's just there.

Just like the other tentacles that push out of the mass and into any orifice they can find. It's literally filling you up, stuffing your ears, leaving you deaf to your own sounds except your steady heartbeat, poking at your nostrils until they join the larger thing in your throat. Somehow you're still able to see, even blink, as you watch what's happening to you in a deep daze. You've never been this calm before, even as you watch more tentacles form out of the unassuming mass that are clearly bound to fill up all your other holes.

You still flinch a little when you feel two of them poking between your ass cheeks, like tiny fingers, pressing against your sphincter before they breach the tense ring of muscles, but they don't push in, they only hold your hole open, stretching it gently, before you are being moved a little lower, allowing the slime to press its form into you. You moan around the tendril in your throat as you feel it hardening against you, assuming the shape of a very thick tentacle that is eager to invade every available inch of your ass – and beyond.

You feel it pushing in, first in little undulating motions to ease your muscles, before it presses harder, forcing its way deeper. You can't fight it, and you don't see a reason to do so either, and it's not as if the monster gives you time to adjust to the sensation anyway as it focuses on your last hole next. A deep thrumming motion goes through the wobbly mass, causing you to shiver and your thighs to twitch, and all you can do is watch with hooded eyes as not one but three tentacles glide against and between your folds in a dizzying rhythm.

Your head is swimming, eyes threatening to roll back, but you want to keep watching as they stimulate you, rubbing and rolling, it feels so good, so gentle, like waves lapping at your skin, a cool sensation against your heated flesh. You'd moan and mewl, buck your hips against them, but you're immobile, gagged, unable to do anything but watch and feel.

Luckily the creature seems to sense what feels good to you (maybe it can read whatever lurks in the depths of your empty mind?), and it starts moving exactly like you want it to move. It lifts your hips, up and down, in tandem to the strokes of its undulating appendages, causing your wetness to gather between your folds, and you wished you could hear the squelching sounds or at least be able to moan properly without anything blocking your throat. No matter. It still feels too good to be true, and when one of the tentacles slips beneath the hood of your throbbing clit, a deep shudder crashes through your body as you convulse on the waves of bliss.

The slime seems to feel your ecstasy and doubles it efforts, rubbing and prodding harder, firmer, faster, until you come properly, your eyelids fluttering shut as lights explode behind them, your thighs twitching, your still empty cunt clenching around nothing. You do squeeze around the thick tendril in your ass that stopped moving when it reached your bowels, just resting there now, deep inside you, filling you out, holding you up as if you were a mere doll impaled on a ventriloquist's fist.

Your orgasm subsides slowly, and when you open your eyes lazily, you notice just in time how the tentacles between your legs meld into a particularly large one before its tip presses right between your puffy labia, poking at your entrance, and you'd scream if you could as it plunges into you, forcing its soft form into any crevasse it can find before pulling back and impaling you again, and again, until your tense muscles give way for it to penetrate you deeper.

It's a strange sensation. It's clearly a heavy mass inside you, pushing against your squishy walls, pressing deep until your cervix stops it, but it's also soft enough to mold itself to your shape, filling you out, and in doing so stimulating all the sensitive spots deep within you. You are a writhing mess as it starts moving inside you, pulling back and pushing in, in and out, back and forth, moving alongside the tendril in your ass as it guides you into its thrusts, and you're like a boat in a storm, pushed and pulled, that way and this, unable to do anything but feel.

It feels too good to complain. Head empty, just bliss. You can't even focus on your orgasms because they just come like you do, gentle at first, a soft wave crashing over you, then getting more intense, more and more, until your whole body is spasming in the slime's hold, your juices seeping into its body, getting absorbed, and it seemingly feeds off them, grows bolder in its movements, faster, harder, more relentless.

And it never stops, or so it feels. You are floating on that incredible high, disconnected from the world, it's just pleasure, no pain, orgasm after orgasm, and you'd think you'd faint from the exertion, from how your heart pounds in your stuffed ears, but somehow the slime keeps you conscious enough to feel it, over and over again. And how you feel.

All its tendrils move in a synchronized rhythm, in and out, the one in your cunt hammering into you, the one in your ass undulating as it feeds more and more of itself into your body, and the one in your throat moves as well, gently up and down, like little vibrations that thrum down your esophagus, and you'd think it would reach your stomach soon, to be met by the other one pressing from the other side, but you can't think about it, can't think anything, just feel...

You're drifting, slipping in and out of consciousness, but you always come back to another wave of pleasure, held up by the slime's mass and its unrelenting tentacles, head spinning, eyes hooded, drool dripping past your lips and right into the gelatinous mass encasing you. The same happens every time the thing in your cunt makes you squirt by pummeling into your g-spot with vigor, when the heat from deep within pushes out of you with force, only to be absorbed by the monster holding you captive.

It's an endless cycle of coming and being let down only to be propelled back up again, over and over, and every time you orgasm the thing around and inside you moves faster, vibrates more, seemingly grows stronger and bigger, putting its new strength into ramming its tentacles into your holes more fiercely, and it's when it finally reaches what can only be its max capacity that a sudden jerk goes through the wobbly mass.

It's only a second when it pauses, but it's enough to allow you to watch out of tired eyes as its massive body presses against the glass door of the shower, spilling over it, losing some of its dense form, and you feel yourself slipping in its hold, its tendrils impaling you but unable to hold you up any longer. It even slips from your ears, unplugging you, and the first thing you hear is the shattering of glass as it pushes out of the shower, making the door explode into tiny shards that get stuck in its outer shell.

It slips through the large opening, pulling you with it, and you glide out of its mass like a newborn calf, wet and slimy all over, shivering as the cold air of the bathroom hits your exposed skin. Its tentacles withdraw from your holes, and you feel strangely empty without them, your muscles still trying to clench back into their original form. The one in your throat is the last to leave you, and once it does, you feel the sudden urge to cough, to inhale sharply, to get as much air into your burning lungs as possible.

With the need to breathe comes the need to think, and when your mind restarts from its forced slumber, you blink in confusion, trying to make sense of your position on the floor, why you're so wet, why the shower door is broken, why you feel so weird all over. Weird, but also... good? Filled even though you're empty? Satisfied beyond belief?

Slowly you sit up, wiping at your face, pushing a strand of hair out of your forehead. As you scramble to your feet, which proves difficult with how much your legs are shaking, you see something out of the corner of your eye, a motion, something green disappearing out of sight. Frowning as you turn your head to look around the bathroom, you wonder what happened, having no recollection whatsoever.

Apparently you slipped in the shower, broke its door and woke up after who knows how long, just lying on the floor? Perhaps. Doesn't explain the sticky feeling between your legs, but maybe you just had a wet dream, stranger things have happened. Nothing to worry about. Let's wash up and move on, hm? you think to yourself as you step back into the shower, not even wondering where all the glass shards of the broken door have gone.

After you cleaned up properly, you dry off with the provided towels and get dressed again, before you check your reflection in the mirror one more time. Looks good enough. Time to get back to the party. Because that was why you came to this house. Where they gave you this strange jello shot... Before your memory comes crashing back down on you, you turn to the door, shaking your head to clear it, feeling as if you were in dire need of some fresh air.

Because whatever you think to remember happened, could have never actually happened. Nope. Not in a million years. You just have a very big imagination.

So you slip out of the bathroom back onto the hallway, hoping nobody would notice the missing shower door or the mess you made on the floor.

1 🔸 2 🔸 3 🔸 4 🔸 5 🔸 6 🔸 7

YOUR NEXT OPTIONS ARE:

reach for the door opposite you

good to the end of the hallway

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