#his faith is finally rewarded

[s0fter-sin]

catholic soap and the church being the rv point makes me absolutely feral. just the church being foreshadowed when alejandro is driving them through las almas, subconsciously you feel the weight of it; you know something about it is important. and then soap is wounded; he’s betrayed and alone and you understand

this is where soap needs to go. this is where he’ll be safe. this is his salvation. this giant beacon he can see for miles, where ghost keeps telling him to go and he fights with everything he has to get to it

but then soap finally makes it… and it’s overrun. it’s been desecrated by shadows. it isn’t safe. but soap still gets this sense of relief; not because he’s at the church but because he’s with ghost. and you realise; the entire time it wasn’t the church he was pushing towards, wasn’t the church that would grant him safety

it was ghost

thinkin about how soap, who grew up a devout catholic, may have felt when he arrived at the church in las almas. he’s halfway to death’s door, committed more sins tonight alone than most do in a lifetime. there’s blood on his hands and only some of it is his own. he can see ghost, his savior, through the gates, and he thinks there’s probably a metaphor there, but he’s too hopped up on adrenaline and blood loss to think about it. for a moment he feels like a kid again, except instead of praying for good grades or sisters that don’t make fun of him, he’s praying that he makes it out of there alive.

then ghost vaults himself over the gate like a fucking cat, and they’re moving again. soap feels a bullet graze himself somewhere but he barely even registers it. he wishes he had had time to go inside the church. he hadn’t been in years- his prayers had long since been confined to his shitty bed in the barracks.

ghost is yanking him by the wrist to cover and it feels like holding hands to say grace over dinner.

[shrikeseams]

When you idly think about Celegorm possibly being most like Nerdanel of all the sons of Feanor, and then you start thinking about Nerdanel getting a post-Darkening moral decay arc all of her own to mirror her son(s)'s.

[hussyknee]

Trying to explain what the fuck just happened in Lankan politics today.

The leftist party has won 159 seats out of 218 in the Parliamentary elections. The single biggest landslide win since we broke from the British and achieved universal franchise in 1948.

Any party achieving a super majority in the executive and legislative is, objectively speaking, bad. It disables checks and balances, which is a catastrophic thing for any democracy, and the only two other times it's happened for us has irrevocably eroded the fabric of civic rights and democratic freedom. Also, the reason the NPP won the North and East is that the colonized, genocided and subjugated people there have no faith in electoralism anymore. The way this government has engaged minority issues has been utterly abysmal and now they've been rewarded for it.

On the other hand:

The winners. Are all. Grassroots. Candidates.¹

We have voted out every single career criminal that's been barnacled into the Lankan political arena since before I've been alive. The fascist party has only three seats.² The other fascists didn't win a single seat. The neoliberal legacy party won none. There are only forty people in Parliament that represent any sort of dynastic political legacy. After 76 solid years of nothing but political dynasties.

This is barely five years after the Rajapaksas swept in and absolutely glutted the Parliament with their family members and cronies end to end.

This is the illegitimate interim government we had for most of the last 18 months. We literally, physically, chased the Rajapaksas out of the country and this fucking demon set up a puppet government just so he could finally sit in that goddamn chair and be the despot he'd always dreamed of in exchange for letting them all come back. He's now gone. His entire circle is gone.

THEY ARE ALL FUCKING GONE.

In US terms, just imagine that, five years from now, when Trump's GOP has control of everything, the entire GOP and the worst of the Dems are all purged from Congress and Senate, the Green Party in control of all three branches of government under a pro-union left-wing President and an unmarried female LGBT rights activist Vice President, and the Dems reduced to barely 20% of the House.

This is my anthropology professor. She joined politics from the small nascent leftist coalition to help keep the government accountable. She's now the Prime Minister and the most popular Parliamentary candidate in the nation's history. (Edit: She was knocked off first place by a dude in the final result. Boo.)

(On the other hand— the woman who helped make me a radical anarchist and literally helped write a book on political dissent and resistance...now is the state. Uh.)

But there are so many women in Parliament! We had the lowest female representation in a South Asian Parliament and some of them were from the list of seats reserved for parties rather than elected ones. Most were either anti-feminist conservative embarrassments, widows and daughters of elite politicians and neoliberal shills. It's still only an increase of a few percentage points (Edit: from the previous 5% to 10% in the final result!) but now we have elected academics, feminist advocates, activists! There Is a representative for Malaiyaha Tamils in the Central Province for the first time in history and it's a young woman! (Edit: now it's two female Malaiyaha MPS!!) This is the plantation community that still live in conditions closest to the slavery the British forced upon them two hundred years ago!

I'm like. Completely mindfucked. To be very very clear, the NPP coalition formed around the nucleus of the JVP that used to be communist but haven't been in 30 years, they're now just social democrats who are left of places like the US and UK, whose "left" is now center-right. They're only threatening to the Western mainstream media for some reason who can't stop bleating about how we have a "Marxist" government now. In reality, the actual chances for radical reform are still quite low, and the opportunity for further erosion is quite high with a super majority government regardless of affiliation.

On the other hand:

What the fuck.

Sometimes living through historical events is really damn amazing.

---

¹ Well, nearly. There are a few career politicians and a nepo baby but they aren't so bad either.

² Goddamn it, Baby Rajapaksa and Sri Lanka's answer to JD Vance have wormed their way in using the list of Constitutionally reserved party seats for non-elected members. FUCK the National List.

[lilacgaby]

title: saved.

pairing: childhoodfriend!katsuki x reader

when all hope failed you two, a twist of fate saved your futures.

alt. ending to this imagine | standalone(?)

note: my sincerest apologies to everyone <3 please accept my heartfelt apology (if i @/ed you it's especially dedicated to you)

katsuki held your hand taut in his, looking for a way, any way, to save you.

he couldn't find one, but he fought to. he was fighting the feeling of grotesque horror that came over him at the sight of your wound, your pain, the smell of your blood.

it was too much.

but he pushed through. he pushed through for you, he had to. he saw how your forced your eyes open, he felt the squeezing of your hand trying to keep yourself there with him.

upon inspection, the wound was piercing your lungs more towards the left-mid side of your body. his prayers now became answered, as a hero with a shattering quirk came running up to him.

they decided the best and quickest force of action would be to shatter the base of the beam, and fly you to urgent care where a team would be waiting.

he could do it, he had to. katsuki pondered, now moving over to address you, with slightly glazed over eyes. "babe, i- i have you. just hold on." you squeezed his hand in acknowledgment.

the plan was set into action, he tried to ignore the sounds of your guttural pain. the whimpers are sounds of choking are ones that'd haunt him for years, he was certain.

as he blasted over the city, little regard for his own injuries, he only had you on his mind.

he let out a sigh of relief as he saw the hospital come into view. the team waiting with a stretcher outside like he'd planned.

"we're here baby, you can rest now. i got you."

"you saved me." is all you said before finally letting your eyes shut. your body went limp with sleep and not death as he feared, the slightest rising of your chest comforting him as they got you on the table.

they immediately rushed you in and got to work, he wasn't able to see because a team was called out just for his wounds as well.

they treated him for a minor would on his arm, a pathetic excuse of an attack that only managed to land because you were on his mind. he laid in the bed, red eyes still alert and ready.

his exhaustion caught up to him, he fell asleep without knowing, only waking up to his mom shaking his shoulder. "hey kid, wife's asking for your dumbass. hurry it up." being the words that greeted him that day.

"whatever hag." he muttered under his breath as he jumped out of bed, directed to your room immediately.

you were still a bit out of it, drugged with pain relief medication. but still, with a dopey smile you greeted him. "kats' you're here."

he let out a smile for the first time in hours, he took your hand in his, his thumb over your heartbeat. "yeah, i am."

while your recovery wasn't fast, you were allowed home after three days. you'd likely never be the hero you once were, but the alternative was death so it's not what you were worried about.

the fight had left you with a hole in your body, your lungs now only at half capacity. katsuki was there every step of the way for you,

the entire ordeal even made him rise in the ranking, so his frequent absences were rewarding in multiple ways.

he'd take on most of the chores around your large home now, even hiring a maid for weekdays when he'd be gone. he was now clingier than ever, asking about you every hour, sending you texts and voicemails chatting about his day and asking of yours.

when you finally were well enough to make your redebut as a hero? he was ecstatic, though it was clear from the fact that he'd never let you patrol without him that he'd be stuck like glue to you for eternity.

he'd be proud of you for this, so eternally faithful to you that he asked to renew your vows for your anniversary this year, excited to gift you the new ring he had made for you.

everything you'd do in the day he'd find a way to be apart of. from laying his head in your lap as your watched shows, sitting by you as he paid for you nails, lugging behind you as you insisted on buying groceries even though the maids were on top of that, putting his arm around your neck whenever you stood by him.

but it's not like you minded,

after all, what's a princess without her knight in shining armor?

(tags: @that-one-fangirl69 @boyfie-hater @miliswrld @pretty-sparkle-bomb @prettyinpikk @rengokuswife2 @unk0wn-us3rr @keylozinzazane @kanvis @rhas-writes @h3ll0-kitti @yuckiman @kovu-bunnbunn @teacakes06 )

[bunicate]

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ 𐙚 ₊˚ BY YOUR SIDE . pierro x fem reader

warning ꒱ྀི incest. ddlg dynamics. daddy kink [ papa + dada ] . size kink. creampie. reader kinda being a litl brat / repost / unedited as always :p / wc ꒱ 2.5k / 18+ / ♡ + ↻ are rlly appreciated ! !

there’s the faintest, most desperate echo of a mewl that can be heard from outside the biggest room reserved for no one other than the first harbinger himself.

fourteen days he was away from you. fourteen days without your touch. fourteen days he was unable to see you. fourteen days without inhaling your scent. fourteen long, bitter, cold days pierro spent missing you and still, finally graced with your presence, he’s as composed as ever.

he leans until his back hits his chair, and he relaxes. with his half-empty wine glass discarded on a nearby tray, he eases himself down from his budding desire with deep and steady inhales and exhales. his eyes are clouded over with lust.

the level of patience pierro possessed was carefully crafted throughout the many years he’s been alive. his resilience has never been more clear than it is right now, as his daughter, whom he loves so dearly, clamored over him half-naked.

he found your struggle to be quite a show. chin resting on calloused fingers, he occasionally rubs the scruff of his stark white beard. It’s become habitual for you to crawl and seat yourself on his thick thighs. pouty and close to tears, your fingers claw at his polished suit to steady yourself.

he’s always been the one to take the lead, but he’s forfeited that control momentarily, allowing you to use him to your heart's content.

your chest bares from the looseness of your clothes, and his facade slips only slightly. your hips swivel clumsily, and his erect cock bounces off the plumpness of your butt. he releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

you raise your bottom higher, placing his cock right against your wet slit that stained the coarse hairs at the base of his shaft. his body tenses at the contact, his eyes zeroing in on the pretty sheen that coated his remarkable length.

“hnnn.”

a strangled moans escape when it skims over the surface of your twitchy button—a gentle caress with enough pressure to make your back arch.

it was difficult prepping yourself for the first time, but you refused his help. you were like him in so many ways. you’re a creature constantly chasing perfection. one attempt after the other until you’d be rewarded with what your efforts promised, but pierro just didn’t want to see you hurt.

“take it easy, little one.”

his hand cups the softness of your ass, lightly squeezing it. you shake your head. brows pulled together and lips trembling as the drag of your cunt wets him further.

he expected you to behave like this.

a recent conflict pulled him away longer than he expected, and he knows that in his absence, you were unsatisfied. your fingers are not nearly as thick and long as his to ease that ruminating ache between your legs, but he was here now to finally take over, and you wouldn’t let him.

holding your chin, he tilts your head up. you see the concern sewn into his mature features.

“I'm not going anywhere; you don’t need to rush.” it’s a very simple affirmation, but it did nothing to relieve your troubles.

‘liar’ you want to retort, but you choose to remain silent. the truth is, he couldn’t promise that. you knew he’d leave again, and each time you were never sure if he’d return. how you managed to have such little faith in a man who’s lived nearly half a millennia and witnessed such catastrophes was unheard of.

to others, he’s feared—untouchable, unscathed, a force to be reckoned with, but somehow a much smaller and weaker girl— his girl worries for him dearly. It's humorous, but he could never, in good faith, hold it against you. It's been too long since he’s felt the delicate touch of another and to be looked after with such care. he’d readily take as much as he could.

you put your hand on his shoulder, and the other grabs his cock by the thickest part as it comes to life in your palm. it’s warm and beads pre-cum that slowly drips, following the path of his most protruding vein. there’s a feeling that shoots through your body, and it’s all too familiar as you watch the milky drops descend.

you have to bite back another broken moan.

hovering over his dick, you cushion it right against your entrance, swaying from the slight loss of balance. finding your footing, you try once again to tuck him between your walls, but the leakiness of your cunt makes the head of his cock slip. your frustration was an understatement.

pierro watched you closely as you moved sloppily. stuck in a mulish state, you’d rather fumble instead of asking for his help.

“you’re going to hurt yourself, love,” he remarks. while aroused by the brief contact of skin, pierro remained humbled at your show of defiance.

you make a noise, brushing off his concern and rolling your shoulders to straighten up.

“don't care, ‘need to have you inside of me.”

you huff your chest every time his smooth tip rubs your slippery opening. tracing it against the silky folds of your cunt, they separate as you struggle to insert him. you begin to brace yourself. it only takes a few more shaky attempts until his cock finally penetrates with a swift and brutal plunge.

“hmmph—!”

you can’t stop twitching around him when he’s buried so deep. your head hangs back, and your bit lip is barely enough to keep the hiss at bay. no amount of rubbing against his thigh could ever prepare you for that piercing stretch that churned your insides. the stretch that forces your legs further apart and makes your eyes tighten in desperation.

your stomach flexes, and anxiety wrecks you. you breathe audibly, finding it in yourself to remain calm, but archons — you were a few thrusts from already cumming.

“do you need papa to help you ?”

his voice stirs you from concentration, and it borders on breaking.

pierro would be a liar if he said watching you take him didn’t bring a sense of triumph. riding him was no easy task. even after countless nights and all sorts of positions, his girth still proved to be a challenge, one that would take a lifetime for you to master, and that was one of the few things he could actually promise you, time.

but you ignore him and the concern in his tone. you’re a big girl, you don’t need his help. you’ll have all of him inside of you even without the wonderful burn of his fingers to help loosen your gummy walls.

you inhale slowly hoping that it will somehow allow the tension to subside and it does. it takes a minute, maybe two until the pressure feels comfortable. you’re still not quite all the way down, there’s another few centimeters left until he’s fully sheathed inside your walls. you’ve been resting your weight on your toes that dangled close to the floor and you know you should in fact take your time, but your body refuses to cooperate.

it's a wet plop from your thighs and ass meeting his groin when you force him in.

“h-hah—!“

pierro’s cock sharply hits your precious cervix and your eyes reel back into your skull. your daddy pats your leg encouragingly. even now he could barely fathom how such a small pussy could be so accommodating.

“there you go.”

inevitably, the praise still made your chest feel heavy. “that’s it, sweet girl.” that baritone voice made blood rush to your cheeks. lightheaded is what you felt. all the fire you once possessed turned into a lovesick, numbing feeling that left you unable to retain any air. especially when he adjusted his hips and his veiny cock bumped your cervix once more.

“ah— f-fuck!” you whine.

the hand on your thigh squeezes your softness as a warning.

“language.”

you're winded up so tight, afraid that if you moved an inch, you’d cum. the tears that brimmed your waterline fall.

“s-sorry papa.” you sniffle, “but it’s so deep, n’ I feel it stretching inside me.”

“does it hurt?" he hums. “would you like to stop?”

you shake your head profusely.

“no! please, I don’t wanna stop, not yet.”

unwilling to be separated from him, you lean on his chest. it’s warm and reminds you that you couldn’t be anywhere safer. slowly, you begin to ride his cock. a messy rhythm that did enough to please you.

his dick presses against your insides as your hips rotate in sloppy circles. your clit brushes against his skin with every move, pulling you closer to the end you missed so desperately.

 you speed up, chasing that feeling selfishly until it grows and becomes too powerful to control.

“daddy . . .” you try to halt your hips, but you can’t stop the desperation. you settle for slowing down even more, but it only seems to drag the pleasure out further.

“I might make a mess” you mumble. you tuck yourself closer to his chest again to escape the burning flush of embarrassment.

pierro knows your body better than you do and even before your own realization, he was able to quickly assess your expression and feel how your cunt pulses around him. he understands what’s happening before you do.

“just focus on me. focus on papa.”

you nod.

it takes a moment to get the courage to move faster, but his cock nestling in your cunt couldn’t placate you. your humps pick up, and your thinking crumbles to know people stood less than 10 feet away, walking past the room. knowing they could possibly be hearing the moist noises of your cunt while you fucked him sloppily. the nervousness wasn't present; instead, a sweltering, mind-breaking urge grew. one that turns your stomach into knots and makes your your knees dig into his hips

“let it out, my dear.”

your legs lock around him, and a disgruntled groan leaves his lips as your pussy clenches.

“daddy. ” your nails scratch him, but he doesn’t flinch nor shy away. his hardened skin from years of ruthless battles could surely withstand the dig of his daughter's nails.

with a petulant whine and submissive arch of your back, your pillowy breasts block his vision while you seize around him. clenching and unclenching, arousal streams down his massive cock and sprays his front in spurts. your hand comes to rub at your clit to ride out the addicting high.

pierro could only watch in awe. how quick and easily you came to make his shaft throb to the beat of dull and erratic twinges.

“pretty girl, you’re going to make this old man faint.”

he presses a kiss on your nipple, holding you while your cunt continues to milk him. he hasn’t yet reached his own high and still he makes no effort to rush your come down. he’s far from a selfish lover, but that was something that came naturally as it’s his job as your father to make sure you are pleased in all aspects.

pierro’s cock remained snuggled inside of you. he pressed light kisses on your skin, as your breathing slows. before you can lose yourself in it, the scratch of his beard makes you pull away. turning up your nose, you make a noise of disapproval.

“you need to shave, daddy.”

he rubs his chin to feel his beard himself. it has been a while since he’s given it a trim. “you don’t like it?”

you take a second to think, staring at the thick gray covering the lower half of his face. “that depends. can I shave it for you?”

his eyes widen a bit, and his head turns away. “that’s . . . dangerous.”

you frown. “then no, I don’t like it.”

pierro laughs, and he rubs the sides of his face against your soft cheek, the hair of his beard uncomfortably prickling your face.

“w-what, what are you doing?” the scratches against your face mushed you two closer. his nose and lips poking you until your lips clumsily collide.

“papa, stop!” giggling, you push him away, but he holds you still. the kiss is uncoordinated at first because of your laughs, but he doesn’t mind it. one peck and then another until your lips are interlocked, moving at a slow pace that manages to steal your breath.

he groans when you move closer, and he guides your hips, hoping to drag more moans out for the rest of the night. feeling his cock throb, you remember he didn’t finish, but it didn’t take long to transition from the playful atmosphere to what it was once prior. the arousal was now thick in the air, weighing you down into submission.

your father picks you up with ease and fucks you like a toy. rough hands resting on your hips drag you up and down on his cock. the schlick schlick of his cum-coated length, plunging so deeply until it kisses your womb.

“cum inside me, d-dada, use me. use me to make you cum.”

“keep talking like that, baby; daddy is so close.” your pussy puffs from his slams. how something so small can manage to swallow his sheer size amazes him. balls slap against your ass, his grip on your body is tight, digging into you, and such a display of strength it was.

“y’r so deep. . my cunny was made for you.” the words are uttered in pauses from the force of his motioning hips. your tits point towards the ceiling—your nipples, perked and moist from his eager mouth, bounce, and the sight makes any remaining coherent thought disperse.

“you’re going to take every last drop of my seed.” it’s not a question but a demand, and like you were taught, you pleasantly comply.

“yes, daddy.” the veins in his arm are pretty and decorative. you look at his flexing muscles the way you’d look at a painting. eyes, absorbing the details that marked his brown skin. sweat trailing down his massive frame.

you want to kiss him, but your wrists are bound by his hand. maybe they’ll bruise later, but it’s not a concern of yours, you only want to see the man above reach his completion.

“make it so full with your cum until it leaks out of my little pussy,” you say barely a whisper, but the effect on him is still the same.

a gruff growl tumbles from his mouth, and his grip grows tighter.

“I'm gonna give it to you. daddy is going to fucking breed you, darling.” he uses your body to pump his cock, losing himself to the massaging of your tight walls.

his cock swells inside your creamy pussy, and then a stream of cum jets out. milky ribbons plugging you to the brim until it spills from the sides.

“ah–thaaat’s it. that’s my little girl .” he grunts. squeezing you tightly, the sound of his mess squelching in the now warm room could be heard. countless nights have ended with him buried in you, and still, your cunt managed to make him feel like a young man.

he rests his head back and swallows audibly to catch himself. you watch him in amusement at his sudden breathlessness.

“just give. . . *whew* papa a minute,” he sighs.

[artdcnaldson]

the ONLYYYY thing on my mind right now is what happened (or didn’t happen 😔) UNDER THAT BLANKET. can’t even imagine the energy in that room. i need a prequel horrendously badly cat 😭

Three’s Company || Art Donaldson x Reader x Patrick Zweig

Rating: E (18+)

Notes: Patrick POV, exhibitionism, very tame descriptions of fingering, sexual fantasies, masturbation

Word Count: 841

Summary: In the Fall of 2006, Patrick just wants to watch a movie with his best friend. Art, unfortunately, gets distracted. Then Patrick gets very distracted.

A/N: Mic…. This was supposed to be short 😭😭😭 but I knew I had to feed you 🩵🩵

Requests are OPEN

Patrick wasn’t paying attention to a single damn thing happening in the movie, and would’ve liked to, considering he was the one who paid the money to rent it from Blockbuster.

He was having a very hard time focusing on Channing Tatum playing soccer when you were panting beside him, hand fisted into the blanket that was covering you and Art.

Your thigh shifted, bumping against his, and you offered a sweet apology that was more of a squeak.

Art was grinning, looking like the cat who got the fucking cream while his hand moved beneath the blanket, finding a home between your thighs. Patrick couldn’t look at him, because making eye contact with Art meant acknowledging that he knew what was going on.

Art was probably doing it on purpose— the fucker. Maybe he was mad that Patrick got to have Tashi, and was making a point about having something the other person can’t. But Patrick wasn’t going around fingerfucking Tashi while Art tried to watch a movie, was he?

“I can’t fucking hear,” Patrick snapped finally, hoping if he turned up the volume on the laptop, it might cover the feeble attempts you were making to stifle pretty gasps and sighs.

He mashed the buttons on the laptop, maybe a little too hard in his urgency, but the volume spiked, barely loud enough for him to force his brain to tune you and Art out.

You leaned into Art’s shoulder, muffling your noises in the junction of his neck.

“What? You don’t like the movie?” Art teased. He pressed his lips to the crown of your head, and it was then that Patrick finally met Art’s gaze.

That smug motherfucker.

He must’ve done something particularly nice with his fingers, because a low moan slipped from your lips that you tried to pass off as… fuck if Patrick knew. It had to have been your first attempts at exhibitionism, because both of you were awful at it.

Art grinned, tilting your face to eye level. “Should we turn it off and do something else?”

“No!” You piped up quickly, eyes wide and glossy.

Patrick tried his best to conceal his annoyance and focus on the movie as Art pulled you closer and closer to the brink. Which was hard, because all of those little noises and the feel of your warm body beside him was enough to make anyone go fucking crazy.

He’d been faithful, even if Art was dubious. He hadn’t stepped out on Tashi— he would probably have a moment of clarity in some foreign country or a shitty bumfuck country club that he loved Tashi.

But it was like Art wanted him to break.

Your body was trembling, breath coming in shaky pants from your pretty, open mouth.

If things were different, he would’ve kissed you. Licked right into your mouth, let his hands wander.

Finish her off, Donaldson.

Art would have the first set, but Patrick could rally. He could always make you fall apart with his mouth. Better yet, he’d fuck you and make Art sit there like a asshole watching the goddamn movie Patrick had rented.

Art wouldn’t like it. He doesn’t like feeling left out. Whatever, Patrick would let you swallow Art‘s cock down your throat as a reward for him being so fucking ballsy in the first place.

A muffled squeak snapped him back to reality. You were panting, giggling softly in the juncture of Art’s shoulder.

Art’s cheeks were pink and flushed, and he wore a smug grin on his lips before he slipped the fingers that had just been buried inside of your pussy between his full lips. And then, like it hadn’t even happened, he reached over and grabbed his Gatorade from the nightstand. Patrick watched as he took a long drink, throat bobbing, and felt like he was going insane.

“What’s happening?” You asked, leaning over to whisper in Patrick’s ear. “I totally zoned out.”

Patrick stood suddenly and went for the door, hyper aware of his cock straining against his jeans. “Start it over, I’m gonna go smoke.”

He made it halfway to the door before Art spoke up. “Patrick?”

His voice was strained. “Yeah?”

“You left your pack.” Art was smug as he handed Patrick his pack of cigarettes— his fingertips still spit-slick when they grazed his wrist.

There was a silent exchange then. An I-Know and an I-Know-You-Know-and-I-Know-You’re-Hard. Patrick almost scowled as he snatched the cigarettes out of Art’s hands and darted out of the room.

He probably should’ve smoked. It would’ve been smarter than… well, anything else running through his brain. He settled on the shared dorm bathroom, a thin curtain of privacy in a mildly molded shower, and a spit slick hand working himself to completion.

Then a smoke.

Ten minutes later, he walked back into Art’s dorm and you smiled sweetly over at him. He sat back down, stole the popcorn from your lap, and glared at Art for good measure.

Art’s laughter made him forgive him for the whole thing anyway.

Thank you for reading!! Hope you enjoyed 🩵 let me know what you think + any other requests in the changeover universe 😚🩵

[plussizeficchick]

Like That | Sleazy Alpha!Kirishima x Chubby!Reader

Warnings: Dubcon(blackmailing)Cunnilingus, P in V, breeding kink, predator/prey kink(Kiri likes the chase😉)

Summary; Reader’s been keeping a secret from her fellow classmates, except Kirishima’s figured it out. You know what they say, when life gives you lemons

“-gonna be soo cute! Just you, hey! Are you even listening to me?!” Kirishima mentally rolls his eyes before turning to face the omega that was talking his ear off. “Sorry, what was that?” He asked. He had a way of disarming people, big glassy eyes, a cute little pout and the person is putty in his hands.

The omega chirps, flustered by the look he gives her before batting her eyelashes, the sight quite literally making Kirishima want to throw up. She giggles and the noise grates on his ears. “I said that I’m excited for the party after you guys win the game. My outfit’s going to be really cute.” She winks and Kirishima knows what she’s implying.

She thinks that by the end of the night she’ll get in his pants but he knows better. He has only one omega on his mind, one that he knows was made for him specifically.

You thought you’d hidden it well, and if he wasn’t a prime alpha you may have even gotten away with it, but his senses were stronger than the average one and your scent made his mouth water.

He knew why you presented yourself as beta, he honestly couldn’t fault you. Prime omegas were extremely rare, so with you being the only one on campus, it would’ve caused quite a stir.

That was the main reason he was even talking to this girl. He’d seen you around her and he was hoping to get an in to talk to you. “Sounds nice, you bringing any friends?” She goes on to list a bunch of names that he doesn’t care to know, only recognizing his heart skipping a beat at the mention of your name. Jackpot.

— —

This was not your kind of party. It was overly crowded, way too many people to fit inside the enclosed space, but that wasn’t your main focus. You were on a mission.

Your mission: Avoid Eijiro Kirishima.

He made you extremely nervous. His predatory gaze always somehow on you, as if he’s studying you. As if he knows something.

You have a feeling he knows what you really are, his senses as a prime alpha more heightened, so you’d understand if he knew.

But that was just all the more reason to avoid him.

You thought you were doing pretty well, trying your best to enjoy your university’s big win, but then you come to see Kirishima standing in the far corner of the room, nursing a drink with a girl by his side, failing miserably at flirting.

His eyes are everywhere but her, and he’s barely giving her a response. And if that’s not the worst of it, as soon as he catches sight of you in the tight bodycon dress you have on, he’s making a beeline towards you, cutting her off mid sentence. You turn to leave, hoping that the sea of bodies will help him lose track of you. You lose faith however, when you feel his warm, calloused hands grip your arm, turning you to face him.

“Hey, pretty girl. I was hoping to see you here.” He murmurs softly in your ear. You feel a shiver run down your spine at the close proximity. You quirk a brow, “Oh really? And to what do I owe the pleasure?” You answer sarcastically.

Kirishima takes a moment to look you up and down, drinking in the sight of your dress hugging your curves deliciously, the thought of finally getting to peel away the small piece of fabric enough to get him hard. “I was thinking that since we won the championships, maybe you’d want to give me a little reward.” He says, pushing a bit of your hair behind your ear. “I mean, wouldn’t it be a real tragedy if all these alphas were to somehow find out you were a prime omega?” He smirks at the shock that etches onto your face.

He wouldn’t.

“You wouldn’t.” You practically hiss. He just gives you a smug grin, hands up in mock surrender before leaning directly into your face, “I’m not saying I would. I’m just saying it’d be a real shame if word got around and no one could protect you if something were to happen.” You frown at what he was implying, but what other choice do you have? If you didn’t, alphas were going to salivate anytime you crossed paths and omegas would feel threatened, especially those mated. And he knew that. “What do you say, omega? Wanna get out of here?” He grins, his sharp teeth glinting in the light.

He would.

— —

As soon as Kirishima got you into his room, he was all over you. The scent blockers that you thought you’d so strategically hidden were ripped off without hesitation, Kirishima burrowing his nose right into your scent gland. He groans at the smell, a mix of honey and cinnamon.

He licks at your scent gland, releasing pheromones that will hopefully push you into heat.

He pulls away slightly to get a good look at you, tweaking your nipples through your top and he notices the slight rubbing in your thighs. You were just too cute.

He leans into you, nipping at your neck. “Aw, what’s wrong baby? Need me? Need your big, strong alpha to make it better, hm? Talk to me.” You whine at his words, the feel of his teeth grazing your scent gland about to send you into a frenzy. When did it get so hot? “Please, Eiji.” You practically beg, but that’s not enough for Kirishima, no. He wants you to need him.

He tsks and gives a slight shake of his head before pulling away from you slightly. You whine at the loss of body heat but Kirishima is quick to shut that down with a searing kiss, tongue swirling with yours before sucking and nipping at your bottom lip. “You need me, baby. Know you do. Jus’ wanna hear you say it.” He whispers into your mouth.

How did you end up like this? He had practically blackmailed you, threatened to expose your secret and throw you into the lion’s den, yet you’re seriously aching to get on your knees for him. Ready to give him anything he wants.

“Need you, Eiji. Need you so fucking bad.” You mewl into his neck, sucking hickies into his scent gland. Kirishima groans at your neediness, ready to devour you completely. “Yeah?” He asks, and you nod vigorously. You don’t know why, but you feel the heat intensifying. And the waves of arousal feel much more profound than usual.

Kirishima seems to notice your confusion, cock stirring in his jeans. You really have no idea how this works do you? “What’s wrong, babe?” He asks you with faux concern. “Heat about to break?” He grins wolfishly.

You feel your stomach fall to your ass.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle.” He says, peeling away at his clothes. “Well, I’ll try anyway.” He chuckles.

The sight of his rock hard abs and muscles has your panties soaking and the way he’s looking at you, like you're a cute, chunky bunny ready to be eaten has your heart skipping beats.

“Well?” Kirishima gestures to your clothes, wanting more than anything to rip them off your body. “Not gonna make me wait, are you?” He asks, stroking the length of his cock. You immediately shimmy out of your clothes, your eyes trained on the motion of his hand. He has the prettiest dick you think you’ve ever seen. It’s heavy, the tip is a nice shade of pink, and it’s drooling pre and you want nothing more than to feel the weight of it against your tongue, but it seems like Kiri has a different idea.

“Next time, baby. Right now,” He hoists you up as if you weigh nothing, and honestly, you probably don’t to him, and he unceremoniously drops you on his bed. His hands find purchase on your thighs, it being one of his favorite things about you. “I need to taste you. You gonna let me, hm? Gonna let me make you cum for me?” He mumbles into the skin, and you know you're done for.

“Please, Eiji. Please make me cum.” You beg, tears welling up in your eyes. The sight has Kirishima groaning. He wants to ruin you.

He spreads your pussy lips apart, running a finger along your slick before sucking the finger into his mouth, moaning at the taste. That only seems to encourage him to drink right from the source. Before you know it, he’s pushing your thighs to your chest and is sucking your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking over the bud in rhythmic strokes. You gasp at the feeling, nobody ever eating you out with such vigor before. He’s moaning into your cunt, lapping up as much of your juices as he can but it’s just not enough! He needs more.

He reaches one hand down and rubs it through your slick before pressing a finger inside. You moan, your cunt clenching around the digit while trying to ignore the embarrassing shlick! sound your cunt is making.

It doesn’t take long before Kirishima pulls an orgasm from you and you barely have time to recover before the second one rips through you.

You didn’t even realize he’d come up until you felt his lips against yours and the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

You gasp as he stuffs his full length in one go, the tip rubbing against your g-spot deliciously with every snap of his hips.

It feels so good, almost too good, the way he’s grinding his pubic bone against you, and when he rubs your clit in tandem with his thrusts, you know you’re a goner.

You’re gushing around his cock, a lewd squelch sound being made every time his hips snap into yours and you’re barely able to form a sentence. “Feel good, baby? Fuck, your pussy feels s’good. S’good to me, baby. So. Fucking Good. Gonna knot you. Fill you up with my pups. Y’want that, baby? Say “yes, daddy.”” Emphasizing his words with each vicious thrust.

He’s fucking into you with vigor, chasing after his own orgasm and at the same time you both reach your climax, your cunt spasming around his pulsing cock as he shoots load, after load into your abused cunt. He’s pawing at your body, the feeling of the soft, doughy flesh somehow intensifying his orgasm.

You cry out, your plush stomach flexing as you feel all your muscles going taut as your orgasm washes over you. Kirishima works you both through it, laying sweet kisses along your neck and chest before pressing one to your lips and cheek as you both come down from your high. You giggle at his softness, knowing he couldn’t keep the act up for much longer.

“Kiriii.” You whine as he blows raspberries into your neck. “(Y/NNNNN).” He mocks back, before pressing more kisses to your face. “We need to shower.” You pout, the sight making him fall deeper in love with you. He sighs, snuggling further into you, “But whyyy, we’re just gonna do it all over again and you smell like me.” He pouts back and neither one of you can help but bust out laughing. “Alright, alright. I’ll get the bath started. You want cookies?” “You have my favorites?” You ask, perking up at the sound of your favorite snack. “Don’t I always?” He smirks. He is your alpha after all.

— —

Taglist: @xogabbiexo @kinq-sleazee @dabilovesme @sintiva @blkchxrryblyss @tenyaiidasslut @luna-indigoduh @bookwormsenpai @bl--ankhaeji @thicksimpx @namjoonswifeyy @nasty-quillz @haikyutiehoe @musicisme333 @unsatisfiedanddisappointed @celi-xxmoon

[nothingbutsweetwords]

ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ꜱᴏɴ, ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ'ꜱ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ!ɴɪᴇᴄᴇ

"…ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ."

Word count: 4,900.

Fandom: House of the Dragon.

Pairing: Aemond x Reader!Velaryon!Niece.

DISTANCE — 10. Him.

When she left King's Landing, it was as if a black shadow had settled over the entire city, a dark suffocating mist smothering any ray of light despite the sun's bright rays. The Red Keep became cold and hollow. It transformed into a labyrinth of echoes from shared memories, now faded in time, like a persistent lament that could be heard in every corner. 

As the days passed, he sought refuge in a rigorous and emotionless routine. Breakfasts became occasions for his mother's presence, and lunches were spent with his sister, though the conversation lacked the vimness it once had. 

It was a comfort, albeit a fragmented one. Alicent was always attentive, quick to notice every visible need. However, her affection manifested in an attempt to keep him safe, shielding him from any perceived dangers, but not from the stormy sea of his own emotions. She was aware of his pain, but they never spoke openly about what truly troubled him, fearing that stirring those deep waters might overflow them. Instead, she offered practical advice and an outward calm that barely touched the surface of his emotional distress. 

Helaena, with her serene and enigmatic nature, was a peculiar source of comfort. Her visions and whispers, often cryptic, seemed to touch the chords of his deepest thoughts, as if she could see beyond the obvious. In her presence, he found fleeting moments of peace.

The loss of her usual brightness after her marriage to Aegon only accentuated the air of affliction in the castle, revealing a wound in her soul that resonated with his own. It was clear that neither of them had wanted that union, but it was she who had suffered a brutal clash between her ideals and a starkly different reality she faced.

Despite this, she often repeated to him that phrase he had heard for the first time so many years ago, accompanied by a small, wistful smile: "Our wait will be rewarded." 

He found it increasingly difficult to hold onto trust in those words. They had become a thin fragile thread, turning his faith into a dull ache and keeping him anchored to a life that felt increasingly distant and unrecognizable.

Her absence left him with an overwhelming void, a sense of loss so profound that it seemed to consume every corner of his being—worse even than the loss of his eye, as if a part of his soul had departed with her, his best friend, his love. 

He wrote to her many times, pouring into the pages a torrent of emotions he couldn't express aloud. Each one contained a silent plea for a response, a sign that she still thought of him. But her replies never came, and with each day of silence, his misery grew like a storm that besieged him without respite.

He immersed himself in a series of mental scenarios, imagining every possible reason for the lack of response. Had she heard about his indiscretions the night before she left? Or was she angry because he hadn't allowed her to visit when she needed him the most? 

He tried to convince himself that she needed space, that time and distance would heal their wounds, but as the weeks turned into moons, the lack of words became an increasingly heavy burden, leading him to question and finally accept that, perhaps, he deserved the silence.

Sometimes, when fate offered a reprieve and luck favored him, he would see her in his dreams, even if they were tumultuous. In them, she would drift away whenever he tried to reach her, her expression distraught at his sullied touch. The pain of her absence mingled with the fleeting joy of seeing her face again, creating a cut that seemed impossible to heal.

There were moments when he nearly mounted Vhagar, to escape the place where his memories kept him imprisoned, and fly to her. But fear and insecurity held him back. His heart, wounded and fragile, couldn't bear the possibility of meeting a version of her who no longer wished to see him. The thought of facing that rejection was too devastating.

His connection with Vhagar was another of the few true comforts he had left. Flying with her offered a breath from his earthly troubles, a sense of freedom and power that he found nowhere else. However, even this source of relief was restricted. His mother feared the dragon, not just for her size and might, but for what she represented: an unbridled power and independence that she could not control. With maternal concern deeply rooted in her, she limited his opportunities to fly, fearing that something might go wrong.

He and his siblings were now only permitted to fly during royal journeys, which had drastically decreased over the years, along with the king's health. 

These limitations felt like heavy chains pressing down on him more and more. His desire to fly, to feel the wind on his face and Vhagar's roar beneath him, was an essential part of his being—a way to feel free and leave his worries behind if only for a brief moment. Every time it was denied to him, the frustration and resentment grew, adding to the tangled web of conflictions that tormented him.

He threw himself into his studies with an almost obsessive intensity, as if each text and lesson could offer a distraction. This rigorous pursuit of knowledge was more than just a means to an end; it was a way to drown out the loneliness that gnawed at his insides.  Instead of confronting his pain, he buried it under a façade of determination, finding in discipline another means of desertion.

Physical training became another outlet. Every sword strike, every grueling exercise, was a cathartic release, a way to channel his frustration and sadness into something tangible. He often pushed beyond the limits of prudence, driving his body to exhaustion. 

The relentless ache became an inescapable companion, following him even in his busiest moments. Despite his efforts to keep his mind focused on other tasks, the image of her smile and the echo of her laughter lingered like ghosts that refused to be exorcized. 

He found himself wondering, with a knot tightening in his chest, if she had forgotten him, if she had found a new life on the island and no longer thought of him. This uncertainty consumed him inside, like a flame that never went out.

The nights were especially cruel, filled with restless tossing and turning as his mind replayed memories and imagined scenarios. The fear of having lost her forever and the guilt for not having done more intertwined, creating an internal struggle that left him exhausted and unable to find sleep. 

As the months stretched into years, he adapted to an existence where her absence was a constant. Yet, he never stopped missing her, nor did he stop yearning for the joy her presence had once brought into his life. It was a quiet, persistent longing that he learned to live with.

His kind sister continued to bring him fresh roses every week, a simple yet constant gesture that tried to fill some of the emptiness. Sometimes, in his frustration and pain, he rejected them, leaving them to wither untouched. Other times, in a fit of desperation, he would throw them away, as if by doing so he could uproot the feelings that consumed him. But there were moments when, with an almost reverent stillness, he would lean over them, breathing in their fragrance and letting the soft petals brush against his skin, searching for a trace of the connection they once shared.

On one particularly lonely night, he dusted off the gift she had given him, a tangible symbol of their bond. He wore it with pride, like a talisman against the encroaching sadness. Next to the cherished case, on his nightstand, he kept a piece of the sapphire. Each time he looked at it, he imagined her, and clinged to the memory of her with all the strength he could muster. It was a small comfort, a glimmer of the love and friendship that had once been his.

He was sitting at the table, engrossed in conversation with his mother. It was a quiet breakfast, one of those rare moments of peace they could enjoy together lately, as she had been increasingly occupied with court matters. 

She was giving him news about Daeron and the impending arrival of some nobles for the festivities in his father's honor. Everything seemed routine, just a simple update on the day's affairs. 

But then, almost as if it were of no consequence, she mentioned: "A raven has arrived from Dragonstone." Her tone was casual, almost offhand, as if she were talking about the weather or some other minor detail. However, the words fell like lead. "Rhaenyra and her family shall be joining us."

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. He stopped eating, his fork halted midway to his mouth, and he sat motionless. His mind went blank, struggling to process what he had just heard. She, the girl who had filled his thoughts and dreams for all those years, would be returning.

Alicent, keenly aware of her son's reaction, watched his face carefully. Despite her attempts to maintain an air of indifference, her eyes showed a flicker of concern. She knew the significance of the announcement for him, and though she tried to downplay it, she couldn't ignore the palpable tension that hung in the air.

He finally set the fork down, his mind swirling. He tried to maintain his composure, but the lump in his throat and the quickening of his beatings were hard to hide. "When, precisely?" he asked, his voice taut with barely suppressed anxiety.

"A few days before it begins, I suppose" she replied, not taking her eyes off him. "Nothing to be concerned about." But they both knew that was far from the truth. The news was anything but trivial. Her arrival was not just another court event; it was an emotional earthquake threatening to shatter the fragile calm he had painstakingly built over the years.

As the days crept closer to the celebrations, the nights grew longer and more sleepless. He found himself going over every possible encounter, every word he wanted to say to her. Anxiety gripped him, a gnawing fear that she had changed, that the woman he had loved and lost might no longer exist in the form he remembered. The thought that perhaps nothing remained of what they once shared was a weight he couldn't bear, leaving him on edge.

The days passed wrapped in a fog of anticipation. The news loomed over him inevitably and followed him wherever he went. The arrival of servants from Dragonstone only intensified this sense of imminence. 

Among these newcomers was Lyra, the lady-in-waiting who, years ago, had wished him a happy birthday with genuine warmth. Now, however, her gaze was tinged with disapproval, her brows furrowed, and her expression hardened. He felt each of these gestures like a small sign of what was to come, amplifying his own discomfort.

He had set aside the books, as they no longer worked; the words blurred in his mind, and he was unable to concentrate. Instead, he spent those hours wielding the sword, until the skin of his palms became rough and calloused. 

One day, waiting for his sister for lunch, he anxiously eyed the usual vase of roses, which already appeared wilted. Helaena arrived with a smile he hadn't seen in a long time, it was bright, contrasting with the gravity of his own thoughts; however, she did not bring new roses as she usually did. 

She noticed his unease and, in a casual tone, remarked, "you shan’t need them for some time, I believe." 

During lunch, she spoke with overflowing energy, filling the silence of the room. He, though less communicative, felt relieved by her presence and liveliness. 

As they finished, he accompanied her to the door. She bid him farewell with contagious cheerfulness and went to her room, leaving him deep in thought. He lingered in the hallway, contemplating the change in her demeanor, wondering what she had meant.

Just then a roar from Vhagar echoed through the air, strong and clear. It was soon followed by another. The sound, different from usual, carried a tone of joy, almost of celebration. It caught his attention, pulling him from his reverie. 

Nervous and conflicted, he closed the door and sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands. He didn't feel ready for what was coming; the feeling of losing control overwhelmed him, it was a sensation he despised more than any other.

After some period of introspection and as the commotion on the floor of the chambers died down, he decided to head to the yard. There, more crowded than usual, he found the usual scene: guards and nobles training fervently. Criston Cole waiting for him, stood ready, morningstar in hand.

"Are you ready, my prince?" Criston asked, his voice laced with challenge and a slight smile playing on his lips.

He nodded, taking a wooden shield and a sword from the armory table. They both faced each other, taking their positions. With every muscle tense and alert, he began to move his body, eager to release the pent-up nerves consuming him.

Criston was the first to attack, his movements swift and precise. He, instead, chose to maintain a defensive stance, blocking and dodging. He heard each clash, the impact of metal against wood and the crunch of the ground beneath their feet. 

As the fight progressed, Cole increased his aggression, launching more powerful attacks. At one point, he managed to hit his shield, splintering and breaking the wood. He threw the remnants aside, adjusting his grip on the sword. Even without a defense, he kept his composure, with more calculated movements. 

They moved in circles, gauging each other's reactions. It was then that he spotted his nephews among the spectators. The sight of him, whom he had not seen since the attack that cost him an eye, ignited a flare of anger within him. He bitterly remembered the injustice of that day, how Lucerys had emerged unscathed while he bore the scar, a permanent reminder.

Criston, sensing the shift in his energy, redoubled his efforts, but he, driven by a surge of emotion, held his ground. With precision, he found an opening in Cole's defense. With a quick and decisive maneuver, he ended the fight with the sword pressed against his opponent’s neck, securing a clear victory. The yard erupted in applause and murmurs.

Criston, breathing heavily, looked at him with a mix of respect and pride. "Well done, my prince. You’ll be winning tourneys in no time" he said, with a playful smile.

He had little interest in such spectacles. He viewed tournaments as mere displays, insufficient to measure a warrior's true worth. 

Aemond, with heavy breathing, replied firmly with an icy tone: "I don’t give a shit about tourneys." Then, with his gaze fixed on his nephews, he addressed them "Nephews, have you come to train?" The question carried a sharp edge, a latent provocation that resonated with the unresolved hostility between them.

The young men remained silent, their expressions serious. Without waiting for a response, he turned back to the armory table and took another shield, determined to continue.

As he walked behind his mother, his gaze was fixed ahead with his siblings flanking him on either side, all heading towards the hall where breakfast would be served. 

The night before, she had been absent from supper, and while he felt a temporary relief that the encounter had been postponed, it was mixed with the sadness of not having seen her.

As he entered the room, his heart skipped a beat. His gaze instinctively sought her among the others, and when he found her, it felt as though time had stopped. He tried to walk with apparent calm, though inside, a battle was raging. 

She was watching him too, and in that brief moment their eyes met, he felt a jolt course through his body. None of the fantasies he had harbored about this moment could have prepared him for the reality. She was completely different, yet unmistakably the same, her essence unchanged. 

She was more radiant than he had ever imagined. There was an air of dignity, confidence and grace in her bearing that left him breathless. There was a dignity in her presence, a poise that was almost otherworldly, captivating him beyond mere words. Her gaze, filled with a subtle strength, seemed to pierce through his defenses, making him feel as though he were standing on the precipice of an emotional abyss. 

He quickly averted his eye, fearing that his emotions might overflow if he maintained contact any longer. He took his seat, and the ensuing silence was almost palpable, heavy with tension and unspoken feelings.

As breakfast progressed, he tried to maintain his composure, but his mind was in turmoil. Every gesture she made, every word she spoke, was a new wave crashing over him. Seeing her after so long was both a blessing and a torment. His hands clenched together on top of the table as he noticed her eyes following him, her gaze inscrutable.

She was even more enchanting than what he thought was possible. The maturity of her features only served to enhance her natural allure, making her beauty more profound. Her face, framed by the dark cascade of her curls, seemed to shine with an inner light. 

Every detail, from the way her eyes sparkled with hidden depths to the delicate curve of her lips, revealed the woman she had become. Her attire, the deep black fabric draping elegantly over her, accentuated her striking features.

Each glance at her was a painful, bittersweet reminder of the time past and lost. 

His mother’s words echoed in his mind: “Nothing to be concerned about.” Everything in him was concerned, everything in him was engaged.

The mere mention of Dragonstone seemed to light up her face; the joy in her expression and the smile he adored were unmistakable. At that moment, he knew her stay would be temporary. She had found a new home, a new life away from him, and the realization was like a dagger.

Upon learning that she had become a dragonrider, he felt a profound joy for her. He recalled the long nights they had spent talking about dragons, imagining what it would be like to fly. He wished he had been there to see her take flight for the first time.

When the king remarked, “The mount of the Good Queen Alysanne. It suits you well” and Helaena, by his side, nodded slightly, a dark fear settled in his chest. It was a gesture laden with foreboding that he was reluctant to explore.

A few hours later, he found himself having lunch with Helaena in her room. The soft afternoon light filtered through the windows, bathing the space in a warm golden glow. Despite the cozy atmosphere, he was lost in thought, his mind still dwelling on the events of that morrow and the memories they had stirred.

Helaena, ever perceptive, noticed his distraction. “Brother” she said softly, her voice filling the room with calmness. When he looked up, she was watching him with a tender expression. “Are you well?”

He hesitated, the words he had kept buried for so long finally emerging. “Will we be together?” he asked quietly, his uncertainty and longing for answers evident. He trusted that fate had its own path, but he needed to know if there was any possibility of a future for them.

She tilted her head slightly, her expression thoughtful as she chose her words carefully. “Some things will depend on you; others are already woven into the fabric of destiny. But I have found that after a long winter, summer is appreciated more” she replied with a wisdom that seemed to come from a deep place. His brows furrowed with a hint of concern. “But you must always keep the door open.”

He nodded, caught between optimism and resignation. He bid farewell to Helaena, each step he took feeling heavier under the weight of her words. As he opened the door, he found himself face to face with the person who had been occupying his thoughts. For a moment, he was caught off guard, stunned by the unexpected encounter.

“Niece” he greeted with a courteous gesture, inclining his head

“Uncle” she replied with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, a barrier he recognized immediately. “I was looking for Helaena.”

“Of course” he said, stepping aside to let her pass and holding the door open for her. With another polite gesture, she moved past him, her presence filling the space of the room. Helaena gave him a small knowing smile as the princess entered.

He let out a long weary sigh as he closed the door, feeling a growing sense of unease. 

That night, after a long bath, he once again found himself unable to sleep. Sitting at the edge of his window, he gazed out at the clear sky while idly spinning a sapphire between his fingers. The distant roar of Vhagar echoed, and the restless tides mirrored his own agitation.

With a long sigh and a sudden resolve, he adjusted his patch back in place, rose and walked toward the fire crackling in his room. Lighting a candle, he moved quietly towards the back door, leaving the sapphire behind. 

It had been years since he last opened it; since that night, he had avoided the path, as if keeping it shut could keep that memory at bay. Now, driven by an unknown force, he opened it swiftly and stepped into the hallway.

A light from the other end caught his attention. It was her, holding a candle, walking toward him with a serious and determined face. Upon seeing him, her eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. They both stopped in their tracks, staring at each other. Words crowded in his throat, unable to be spoken.

“I wished to speak with you” she said softly, breaking the silence gently. He nodded, still silent, fearful that his voice would betray him. “Shall we go to your chambers?” she suggested, her tone firm but laden with silent expectation.

He nodded again, feeling foolish for having been paralyzed. He gestured towards the way, even though she knew it by memory. Stepping aside to let her pass, his heart pounded with a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm. She pushed open the door that had remained ajar and entered with the same familiarity of years past.

He closed the door behind them and approached cautiously. She moved to the window, where the moonlight bathed her in a silvery glow. He noticed then how she was dressed, wearing a robe over her nightgown and her curls disheveled, contrasting with the elegance of the breakfast, yet to him, she looked utterly divine.

She faced him. A pang of sorrow struck him at her expression. “Why?” she asked, showing a vulnerability that made him feel even more guilty.

“Why what?” he replied, dreading what was to come.

“Why did you never come to see me?” The question felt like a dagger, striking with precision. He looked at her, feeling a knot in his stomach.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words escaped him. Finally, he found his voice, though weak. “I did not know if you wished for my presence” he murmured, his words sounding hollow even to himself.

She looked at him as if unable to believe what she was hearing. “Is this some jest? I asked you so many times” she said, her tone incredulous. He furrowed his brow. “Did my letters mean so little to you that you did not even take the time to read them?” she added, her bitterness palpable.

He felt as though the world was swaying beneath him. “What letters?” he asked, trying to process everything, his voice softer, trying not to alarm her further.

“The letters!” she said, her words laced with indignation and sadness. “The ones I sent you” she continued. “I thought we had something special. Did I imagine it?” Her tone trembled with emotion. “I waited for so long, I wrote to you so many times, like a fool.” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands. “I hoped… I hoped for a response, a visit, something to let me know you hadn’t forgotten me.”

He took a step forward quickly, his heart pounding against his chest, feeling an urgency he could not ignore. “You wrote me?” he asked, incredulous.

She lowered her hands, her eyes burning with impotent fury. “Do not mock me” she said, turning away, looking out the window again.

He followed her, overwhelmed by a newly discovered helplessness and a fluttering hope of reconciliation. “I wrote to you as well, hundreds of times” he tried to meet her gaze, seeking some glimmer of understanding. “I swear this to you, by all the gods” he pleaded.

“I never received a single letter from you” she replied, finally looking at him with her beautiful eyes shining under the moonlight, her anger softening momentarily with disbelief.

"Nor did I. Not one. Had I received any, I would have come to you at once. You must believe me," he said, “I thought you did not want to hear from me” he whispered desperately, his deepest fears laid bare.

“Why would I not?” she asked, still with a hint of distrust in her eyes from the revelation. Everything seemed so absurd and cruel, yet he felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. 

She shook her head, her steps carrying her nervously back and forth in the room, her mind working frantically to understand. “It does not make any sense” her voice was a barely audible murmur, more to herself than to him. “Why?” She continued to mutter, her voice filled with a mixture of frustration and anguish, while he merely watched her.

Suddenly, she turned to face him, her eyes searching for an answer he did not have. “Are you not upset about this?” she asked, her voice rising slightly, annoyed.

He continued to watch her, feeling a strange sense of peace amid the chaos. "I cannot find it within myself to be angry at this moment," he replied, "not when you are here before me once more." His voice was filled with a sincerity that surprised even him.

There were so many emotions at play, so many unresolved things, but at that moment, all that mattered was that they were face to face once more.

“I never stopped thinking about you, wondering why I never heard from you, missing you.” He wanted to reach out, touch her, somehow close the distance that had formed between them, but he couldn’t. “I never wanted to lose you.”

“Is that true?” she asked, almost whispering. “Did you truly never stop thinking about me?” She looked at him, her eyes filled with unshed tears. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, and in that shared silence, he understood the magnitude of what they had lost and what they might still recover.

He took another step towards her, his expression sincere. “Never” he said firmly, hoping she could see the truth in his eyes. “Not for a single second.”

She looked at him, her expression softening, and bit her lip, struggling to hold back the flood of emotions.. But the pain and confusion were still present, like a shadow that refused to dissipate. “This is… too much” she murmured, shaking her head slightly.

He nodded, understanding the enormity of what they had just uncovered. “I understand” he said softly. “Take all the time you need.” 

She turned, intending to leave the room, and he followed, prepared to escort her to her door. But just before they could move too far, she suddenly stopped and turned back to him. In an impulsive move, she threw herself at him with force, wrapping her arms around his waist in a desperate embrace. She pressed her face against his chest, her hands clasped tightly on his back, holding him with an intensity that suggested she feared losing him forever if she let go.

He, taken aback by the gesture and despite feeling he didn’t deserve her pure affection, couldn’t help but reciprocate the embrace. He wrapped his arms around her with a tenderness he rarely showed, letting himself be carried away by the moment. He rested his face on the crown of her head, breathing deeply, the sweetest and freshest scent of roses filling his senses, enveloping him in an intoxicating warmth.

It was a silent comfort. He realized how much he had longed for this contact, this closeness, more than he had even admitted to himself.

"I'm sorry" she murmured against his chest. "I'm sorry for everything." Tears began to fall, dampening his shirt. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart against his body.

She lifted her head, her eyes shimmering with something more. He found himself getting lost in that gaze. “What do we do now?”

With a gentle smile, he caressed her cheek with his thumb, wiping away a tear that had escaped. "I won’t let us be separated again" he promised, his voice firm yet tender. “If you will allow me, I wish to mend what has been broken.”

She nodded, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to shrink to the small space between them, where only the two of them existed.

@helaenaluvr @purplegardenwhispers @callsignwidow @squidscottjeans @scarletbedlam @fics-i-love-and-recommend @oh-you-mean-me @fossface @truly-abysmal

[jweekgoji]

iLOVE your works 💗💗💗 a sequel to your most recent would be amazing…

maybe sentinel and starscream come at a close tie so they both get a special treat~…

Sentinel/Prime!Reader/Starscream [TFO]

tw: nsf//w (minors, don't read please), power imbalance, jealousy, competitive behavior, slight posessive behavior, master/subordinate relationships. word count: 1,4k additional tags: Prime!Reader, cybertronian!readr, gender-neutral!reader (but they have valve in this one), double valve penetration, valveplug, threesome, rivalry between Starscream and Sentinel, pre-TFO events, sub!reader, dom!Sentinel, dom!Starscream. a/n: I will forever not stop making sentinel the most pathetic one in this duo. thank you for your request~

Ever since that blessed day, you can't help, but thank Alchemist for the idea he once gave you.

There was no doubt that ever since you had confronted two of the most arrogant mechs you had ever seen in your entire life, you now finally had a chance to have some rest.

The only thing left to do was to lazily keep track of the score, watching as these two faithfully carried out your every slightest errand, eagerly awaiting their reward like faithful dogs.

'One point in Starscream's favor, two in Sentinel's favor...Six points for Starscream, five for Sentinel....'

All it took was to sit in your comfy office, minding your own business while your two assistants ran back and forth, handling your assignments.

Some of these were extremely important; some were just dusting at the bottom of the list, waiting in the dark for their time. Just for those types of occasions, sometimes it's nice to have someone like Starscream and Sentinel.

You could mark the one's success in your notes, and at the same minute, the other would burst in, immediately taking all of your attention away. Such a harmless competition, you didn't even specify what exactly you could offer them for their hard work, but the barely disguised implication in your tone left not that much room for guessing.

Until...

“Congratulations, you have an equal number of points,” you announced, an easy, almost perfect smile on your face, the one you always wear in public.

“There can't be-” Starscream begins, until he is interrupted by Sentinel.

“With all due respect, but there's definitely some kind of mistake here,” he gets in front of Starscream, an almost offended look on his face. Him? On equal score with Starscream? That sounds like a very personal insult.

The member of the high guard only huffs in frustration and shoves the blue-and-gold bot forcibly aside, almost pushing him down to the floor.

“You should do a recount. One has to be the winner,” the jet crosses his servos over his chassis, pede tapping lightly against the floor in a barely concealed display of anger.

“Someone like me, obviously,” Sentinel sneers, his servo settling down at the center of his chassis as if trying to emphasize the sincerity of his words. “I am your advisor, after all, no wonder I'm better at dealing with your errands.”

Your optics only flicker between Starscream and Sentinel, silently observing their conflict. You would probably laugh at this if you hadn't had to endure it for many, many cycles.

“There is no mistake here, my calculations are correct,” you say simply, placing your servos on the surface of your desk. “However, I am not satisfied with the quality of your work. You will still have a chance to...prove yourself, one last time.”

Who knew that your seemingly innocuous game, which was supposed to resolve what seemed to be...an inexhaustible conflict between your two subordinates, could lead to more than unexpected consequences?

You'd be lying if you said you didn't feel an ounce of pleasure in this arrangement.

“Can't you stop twitching for just one minute? You are getting in the way,” Starscream hissed softly, throwing a sharp glare in his rival's direction.

“It's not my fault you're taking up...ngh- so much space,” Sentinel groans, blue optics flickering slightly at the momentary shock of pleasure that runs along his spine.

Your poor, poor advisor can't help but let out another shameless moan as he barely thrusts forward, the tip of his spike pressing against Starscream's own, rooted deep inside you.

“If you have any protests, you can always leave,” the jet hummed. His servos tightened their hold on your thighs, spreading them further apart to make a room for two.

Sentinel's golden wings bristled at these words, and soon after, he leaned closer to you, only to start bickering with the other mech right behind your shoulder. Oh, the sheer audacity!

“Like I would,” Sentinel purred, almost in spite of the leader of the high guard. “As if I can trust you how to properly care for our dear Prime over here.”

That arrogant, self-centered bastard, how ironic— if only you weren't there, Starscream would have wiped that smirk off his faceplate this instant.

“Are you going to do something already?” you, once again, have to be between the two mechs, both literally and figuratively now. “I'll fall into recharge faster, unless one of you actually starts moving.”

That commanding, demanding voice of yours, the one you use to remind them that despite how intimate and vulnerable the position you all are in, you're still a Prime. Their leader.

Until you feel both of their spikes twitching inside you, a light blue blush spreads all over the cheek plates. Primus, help you with these two. You can't even boss around your own subordinates without them getting head over heels for you, and here you thought that would have a negative effect on them.

But are you really that surprised?

Starscream is first to assist your orders, as he bowed his head, close enough to plant a lingering kiss on your neck, teasing the sensitive surface. It's best to focus on your needs now, rather than that too pleased with himself advisor that keeps giving him challenging glances.

“I bet I can satisfy our Prime better than you do, Starscream,” words thrown so carelessly, only pushed the never-ending conflict back to the surface.

To keep his own words, Sentinel pushes his hips forward, igniting a soft gasp from you. Having both of them together inside you was certainly a new experience. If your humble advisor lacked the length that the high guard had, Sentinel had the girth, stretching your inner walls with every single slow thrust.

Starscream on the contrary, compensates for everything that Sentinel couldn't give; with the combination of a consistent feeling of fullness, his spike easily presses against a spot deep inside that makes you see stars.

“Like you ever satisfied them for once,” Starscream snapped back, the red optics dangerously glowing in the poorly lit quarters.

It takes time, at first, for both of them to finally find the pace that actually lets them move without bothering the other. One thrusts in, then pulls out, then for the other to do the same.

 How embarrassing, utterly disgusting, even, the both mechs keep thinking. Even such a short moment of pleasure and intimacy leaves Starscream mentally gagging at the feeling, with Sentinel having pretty much the same thoughts.

 Only briefly, for a short moment, they cooperate to push together in one time, both spikes rubbing against each other in the tightness of your valve.

 The looks of embarrassment and awkwardness are totally worth it, you believe; maybe that will teach them not to cross each other's paths anytime soon, instead of fighting over your attention like sparklings.

Frag, you hiss through gritted teeth; no matter how much they may annoy you with their constant quarrels, they're pretty damn good at working together, sometimes. Maybe you need to organize this more often, just to relax and have a break in their company, which is... a rarity.

The constant stimulation is almost too much to bear, thoughts are too hard to concentrate on, and you barely pay attention to them, as you faintly hear them insulting each other. Primus knows how much they had done it for today.

Finally, you reach for both of them, grasping Sentinel's chin with one servo, bringing him closer, while the other servo gently tilts Starscream's head down to meet your lips, releasing all the buildup of tension in a single, lengthy, hungry kiss.

 Sentinel can be heard practically whining at the sight, begging for the same lovely affection you just had to give his enemy right in front of him, only for you to kiss the needy advisor in return.

As your own overload approaches quickly, your optics begin to dim, and you can barely hold back anymore. That delicious tightening of your valve around the both spikes makes Starscream and Sentinel hold back, just in order not to overload from that sensation alone.

Slowly, you tilt Sentinel's chin slightly back, leaving your advisor panting heavily, glossa out, desperately trying to catch his own breath, and cool down the overheating frame. The soft huffs and puffs of Starscream don't go unnoticed by you, no matter how hard he tries to look all calm and collected behind you.

“I think...I need another round to sum up the scores.”

[arabellasleopardcoat]

No masters or kings (Aemond Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Aemond has issues around sex. The thought of being married to you, an angel, it's not helping.

Warnings: Angst (w/happy ending) Religious guilt, repression around sex. Kissing. Thoughts of sex, but no actual smut. Just angst and fluff.

Requested: Yup! Modern reader falls into Sept x Aemond

For as long as he could remember, Aemond had been alone. He had been an outsider to his siblings and nephews, all with a dragon. He had been an outsider to other noble children, marked apart by his distinctive features. He had been an outsider to his father's family, Rhaenyra and her children.

The loss of his eye had only exacerbated that. The girls at court were frightened by the sight of him, and he often worried about how he could secure a match. No longer activities he had found solace in, like studying and swordplay, came easily. Everything, from reading to being able to walk down the stairs without tripping, had to be relearned.

His faith in the Seven had permeated all of his childhood. His mother was the only person to pay attention to him, even if it was sometimes in a way Aemond could not appreciate. When he thought of her, his mind's eye always conjured her with a seven pointed star hanging from her neck.

Aemond had tried his best to keep her happy. She was all he had. So instead of running from his lessons and incurring on indecent behavior, Aemond had closely listened to the Septons that educated them. He had prayed daily. He had read the Seven Pointed Star and annotated its passages, committing them to memory.

Paradoxically, the time when he felt closer to the Gods was after the loss of his eye. It had been then he had truly understood what it felt like to be favored by the Seven. His faith demanded sacrifices, but always rewarded them. An eye for a dragon. The biggest dragon in Westeros.

Sacrifice will bring good things. It was a very simple lesson, but one he committed to memory regardless.

As a child, Aemond had not prayed for a dragon. Nor had he prayed to the Warrior to make him strong and able to defeat his enemies. When Aemond was a child, he had often prayed for a friend. Asking for the Maiden to send him someone kind. An angel. He had never spoken it out loud, afraid of appearing weak. Children were such cruel creatures, after all. But Aemond never forgot to ask the Maiden for it.

Aemond prayed. And suffered. And prayed, and suffered, and thought that at least this life he was leading, of loneliness and desperation and so much fear, would finally account for something. For the Gods favored those who suffered and sacrificed, and if his reward didn't come in this life, it would come in the next one.

His prayers were always the same. Each morning, before anyone else could rise except for the lowliest of servants, Aemond went to the Sept. He spent equal time in front of each of the Seven's effigy and lit a candle for them. He prayed in silence, asking of them simple things. Aemond knew he already led a privileged life, so he did not dare ask for more.

His prayers were so ingrained, he recited them with little thought. Yet, when he came to the Maiden, Aemond always fumbled. With the other Gods, he knew exactly what to ask for. But with Her, he only felt unease. So he rapidly mumbled his childhood prayer, and moved on. It had become a tradition, even if he was no longer the appropriate age to pray for friends.

Aemond knew it was the wrong thing to do. When you were praying, you were supposed to be present. To think of all the aspects of the Seven with the devotion they deserved. But when you are taught as a child to pray, it turns into instinct.

Just as someone who has trained enough with the sword barely thinks about his next move, someone who prays enough doesn't need to think about what they will ask next. It's too ingrained.

At this hour, the Sept is quiet. Aemond enjoys praying here instead of in the one inside the Red Keep. There are no court ladies around to bother him, nor an Aegon making mocking noises while he tries to pray. Despite wanting to join his mother in prayer sometimes, he just couldn't take the royal sept. It lacked the peace septs were supposed to make you feel.

He leaned down, lighting a candle before each effigy, and muttering his usual prayer.

“Warrior, give me strength.” Aemond whispered. He lit the candle and moved on. “Mother, protect my sister and my mother. Father, bring your justice upon my enemies. Maiden, bring me someone kind. An angel.” And as he kneeled to light her candle, something hit him from above.

The weight of the thing was too great for him to remain upright. Aemond was sent sprawling to the floor. His head slammed on the stone floor of the Sept, making him grunt. A woman screamed. Probably, one of the commoners visiting the Sept. They were few at this hour, most having already begun their labors. Her scream was echoed by one of another woman, and soon, hurried footsteps were nearing him.

Aemond tried to sit up, reaching a hand out to move the weight aside. What he gripped, made him fall back down.

Cloth. Cloth covering something soft, something that yielded under his hands. An arm. You. The Gods had answered his call. There was a woman right on top of him, eyes closed and expression smooth, as if in peaceful sleep. The Maiden had sent him an angel, after years of solitude and sacrifice. You were his reward.

Aemond lifted you and set you aside, on one of the benches of the Sept. A couple of the commoners hurried forward, to gape at you, but Ser Criston stopped them.

“A miracle! A miracle!” Someone was screaming, and you twitched. More and more commoners started to pour through the entrance of the Sept, all gawking and murmuring about the woman who had appeared out of thin air.

The people were bright-eyed, frenzied by the demonstration of the Seven's power. They started pushing at Ser Criston, and trying to touch Aemond and you.

Cole and Aemond exchanged looks. If no one controlled the crowd, they might very well end up being torn to shreds by them, in their frantic attempts of touching the holy being they were guarding.

Aemond unsheathed his dagger.

“I think… We need a Septon.”

You were being carried somewhere. You could tell because your head swayed with the movement, unsupported. It was giving you terrible neck pain.

“If she has fallen out of the sky, and there is no hole….”

“A miracle! A miracle! The Seven have…” Fuck, your head hurt, and the woman screaming was not helping things. You flinched, trying to curl into yourself. This felt like the worst hangover ever, and you had no leverage to avoid the noises, since you were hanging in midair.

“The Prince must be held in high regard, for clearly the Gods favor him. Thousands of people pray here daily, yet the Maiden herself answered his plea.” The man from before continued speaking.

Someone else scoffed.

“Surely, this is a bit much. The Prince is hardly…”

“Shut up, Cole.” The person who was carrying you barked. The movement his chest made when he was talking made you fearful of falling down. Despite the strength in his grip, you weighted more than a few sacks of flour or a gallon of milk. People were not supposed to carry other people for long, unless they were frat boys attempting to impress girls or some sort of soldier.

You tried to sit up, the movement making all your body ache. Where were you? Why were you being carried? The last thing you remembered was going into an occult museum with a friend.

Everyone has that one friend. The slightly witchy one who believes in ghosts and crystals and whose favorite month of the year is October. The one who likes terror movies, and scary podcasts and dragging you to haunted houses and escape rooms.

It will be fun, they said. It's an occult museum, what could possibly go wrong?

Where the fuck were they? You were so going to strangle them for getting you… Wherever you were.

“My Lady.” The man holding you said. You looked up and met a pale blue eye and an eye patch. You startled. He looked straight out of a low-budget pirate movie, all in leather. “Are you alright?”

“What happened?” You lifted your head, noticing everyone was cosplaying as medieval priests and knights. There was a sinking feeling in your stomach. The man holding you looked an awful lot like Aemond Targaryen. You would recognize that ensemble anywhere. You had read enough fanfics for it. “Is this a renaissance fair? A comic con?”

It was worth the shot. Perhaps something happened to you and you had stumbled into a comic con? But was it so easy to stumble into one? You thought the tickets for those were expensive, they surely wouldn't just let you in.

Something had happened to you and these kind cosplayers who were… Doing something decided to help you? That seemed more likely.

“No, my lady. This is Westeros. The earthly one.” The man dressed in the more expensive costume of a priest was speaking. He had an elaborate head accessory, billowing robes and some strange pentagram with way more points than usual. His voice was the one which had been muttering about a Prince, and being favored.

“What is a renaissance fair?” The man had the oddest combination of a white cloak and armor. You looked at the man and froze. He was… Oh, what was his name again? Oranges guy!

“Something they must have in the Seven Heavens.” The expensive priest answered, in a matter of fact tone. “Clearly. The Prince asked for an angel. Angels reside there.”

Your mouth was hanging open. They thought you were an angel. Holy shit. You looked down, at your scuffed sneakers and clothes. You didn't feel very angelic, but like hell if you were going to miss the opportunity of receiving royal treatment in Westeros. If you truly were here, you would rather not learn how the lower class lived.

Another priest turned to you. He was dressed as expensively as the first one, but he lacked the head accessory.

“Tell us, young lady. Were you an attendant for the Maiden? What are the Seven Heavens like?”

You panicked. Perhaps pretending to be an angel from a religion you had no clue about was not a good idea. These questions would continue, you knew it.

“Don't be ridiculous, Eustace. Everyone knows that angels can't divulge that sort of thing. It's basic theology. They come to fulfill their purpose, not to entertain fools.” The man with the head accessory spoke, as if talking to a child.

You did your best to sit up. Aemond held you more firmly, and raised his arm on your back, encouraging your head to loll towards his shoulder. You were moving inside a prehistoric looking building, corridors made from stone and decorated with tapestries. The Red Keep, perhaps.

“And what do you believe the being’s purpose to be?” Eustace asked. You did not like being referred to in such a manner, and you fought Aemond's grip a bit harsher. He merely settled you against him and kept walking, this time going up a stairwell. You squirmed.

“The Prince's wife. He prayed for a companion. That must be it.” The expensive priest, Septons they were called, now that you remembered, seemed to have become an expert on all things you. Wisely, you kept your mouth shut.

“Is that why her attire is so immodest?” The oranges guy spoke, reaching for you. He clearly noticed his Prince was struggling and hoped to relieve him of the burden. You clung to Aemond more tightly. You were honest enough with yourself to know you had many impure thoughts about him, and were not going to lose your chance.

Aemond grunted. Encouraging him to keep carrying you beyond his capabilities might not have been your best move.

“You can put me down. I can walk.” You spoke softly, trying to sound your most angelic.

“We are nearly there.” His voice sounded agitated from the physical exertion, but his tone screamed danger. It would wound his pride putting you down now, you realized. He wanted to look strong. “There is no need.”

“The Gods see all, and angels are pure beings. They do not know of such earthly concerns, for they have not been exposed to the sins of the flesh.”

“What the fuck.” You whispered to yourself, sure that you were dreaming. This was turning crazier by the second.

“That is a crass word here, my lady.” Aemond whispered to you. “You shall not repeat it.”

Safe to say, you were learning your lesson. When an occult museum artifact has a sign that says, “Do not touch” you DO NOT TOUCH.

Marrying an angel was not a part of Aemond's plans. Begrudgingly, he admitted he may have to reconsider his more violent revenge plots. Aemond had to prove himself worthy of you, and for once, worthiness did not mean prowess with a sword or riding a dragon. It meant piety.

Piety. Kindness. All the virtues that the Faith enforced and that you were made of. All the virtues Aemond felt he lacked, sometimes.

Taking his nephew's eye would not be kind. You had explained so, as if you could read his mind. You also said that Aemond should not attempt to force him to pay his debt. It had been an alarming show of clairvoyance.

That you were privy to his most secret inner thoughts should not have surprised him so. It was only further proof of your angelic nature.

Your arrival had the Kingdoms in an uproar. The Citadel had wanted to record the circumstances around your appearance, the Faith had made you pose for a portrait. Some even dared utter that perhaps Aemond was better suited to be King, since the Gods clearly favored him.

The King was displeased, but your miraculous arrival had been witnessed by too many to deny it. Aemond had been authorized to marry you, only out of sheer pressure from the High Septon. You were a hero to the man. Families who had been worshiping the Old Gods for generations now rushed to convert. Only House Targaryen remained stagnant.

Even after your marriage, Aemond struggled to catch a minute alone with you. Anywhere you went, people were currying for your attention. If it wasn't his other asking you to join her in prayer, it was some Septon asking you questions, or near mobs awaiting outside the Red Keep for you to appear on a balcony. People thought your touch was magical, that you could heal the sick and bless the innocents. Aemond had to fight to keep their hands off you.

As the wife to a Prince favored by the Seven, all thoughts of going back were stomped on. You had mentioned it once or twice, before he had married you. Going back home, you had said. Aemond understood that the earthly world was much different than where you had been from, and the homesickness that came with it, but he hoped you forgot such silly ideas. There was no way for you to go home, and if there was, he would not allow it.

In hopes of distracting you, his mother had suggested expediting the wedding. Aemond had agreed, but he had soon realized that it was not enough. While sweet and kind to him, and clearly loving, your mind still drifted to thoughts of your life before. Something stronger was needed. And there was only one stronger bond than marriage. He had to put a babe in you.

Such thing, unfortunately, was much harder than expected. To produce a child, a couple needed to lay together in ways Aemond and you had not. You were loving, pressing kisses to his lips and cheeks every chance you had, but it was a pure kind of affection. You had been told that you were his wife, and what that entailed, innocent being that you were. It didn't mean anything. You were only trying to do what you thought was needed.

Aemond didn't dare touch you. It was his right to do so, but he was unsure if it was the moral thing to do. You probably weren’t too sure of the connotations of the act and all that it entailed. Besides, was it really his right? You were no ordinary woman. You were an otherworldly being, an angel, a perfect woman carved out by the Maiden herself and sent to him to love and cherish. You were not meant to be hurt or tainted in any way.

Intercourse was dirty. It hurt maidens, and it was a sin when practiced outside the marriage bed. Despite always pleasurable to him, and sometimes to his companions, Aemond was not too sure he should submit you to it.

You were heavenly. Asking you to have intercourse with him would be asking you to roll around in the mud while wearing a white dress. It would make you earthly, change you. And you were perfect just the way you were.

Yet Aemond could not contain these… Urges. When you kissed the corner of his lips, all he could think about was grabbing you and deepening the kiss until he got to know every inch of your mouth. When you hugged him close, letting him curl around you at night and hide his face on your neck, Aemond thought of kissing and bitting and sucking the supple skin until you were writhing in pleasure. When your hand innocently grazed against his thigh, he thought of his hands squeezing your own thighs, pulling them apart to reveal your core.

It was a sinful way of thinking. He knew it was wrong of him, but he could not stop. He could not control it. If only his waking thoughts were sinful, things would be different. Waking thoughts could be controlled. Dreams could not.

Every night, without fail, Aemond woke up drenched in sweat, breeches uncomfortably tight. He saw you in his dreams, in all sorts of lurid positions. Your pretty lips parted, your thighs fluttering open and closed like the wings of a butterfly. You on your knees, back, your bosom spilling from your bodice, your pretty breasts, nipples puffy. His mouth, his hands, his cock, on you, in you.

The dreams were pleasurable while they lasted, but as soon as Aemond woke up and saw you sleeping peacefully next to him, the guilt returned. You let out the tiniest puffs of air when you breathed, and always chased his warmth on cold nights. Adorable being that you were, you curled into him, unaware of the turmoil you caused.

Aemond could no longer take it. At first, he tried looking for answers to his dilemma inside of books. He soon found out his studies of philosophy and history had not prepared him for the monster that was theology.

So he asked for advice. To the only person who had to be an expert on the topic. The High Septon.

By the end of the day, a panel with four Maesters and ten Septons had been formed to discuss the issue.

“She is a pure being. The Queen and a Septa have confirmed that she has female anatomy, but having it does not mean she should be defiled.” One of the Maesters spoke, frowning. Aemond nodded along. It had been like he thought.

“It's hardly defiling if the Maiden gifted her to the Prince. She blessed the union.” The High Septon argued, sitting straighter in his chair. He clearly was uncomfortable at the thought of Maesters, of all people, interfering in these matters. What Aemond could not figure out was why the man had invited them if they clearly ruffled his feathers.

“The Maiden is a maiden. That's the whole point.” Another Maester rolled his eyes. It was a sound logic. Aemond felt even guiltier after hearing that. Thinking about you in such a manner was impure. You were a representative of the Maiden herself, here on Westeros. Even thinking of such dirty things near you was disrespectful. It was as if he were thinking them about the Maiden herself.

“Well, yes, but if you ask for a wife, is it not implied?” Septon Eustace chimed in. Aemond had never particularly enjoyed the royal Septon, but he was proving to be very useful. “I do not presume to know how the Prince words his prayers, nor do I think I can know his intentions, but…”

A companion. Someone kind. The prayer had started innocent enough, a child asking for a friend. Aemond had kept it worded exactly as it had been back then, when he was eight years old and dragonless. But he had grown, and so had his intentions. When he spoke of a companion, did he still think of a friend? Or rather, a wife?

The word companion indicated someone that assisted, that served to cater to a necessity. Not quite a friend, but someone to ward off loneliness. A somewhat inferior being, even. It was a term used to refer to pets, after all.

Women were precious beings. Images of the mother, to be treasured and protected, but never equals. Wives were, after all, lower than husbands. It was why they must be obedient to them, why they should mind the children and the home. They were not made to stand on their own. Women were made to stand next to a man.

Besides, wasn't it interesting? The Gods could have sent him a man. A boy. A dog. But instead, they had sent him a woman near his age, with pretty eyes and a tempting mouth.

“Hardly.” A Septon interfered. “There has been precedent of marriages that…”

“Marriages declared null.” The High Septon snapped. His mood was a reflection of the room. The conversation was starting to turn more and more heated, murmurs breaking out among the gathered. It brought uncomfortable memories of the day Aemond had met you and had to fight a frenzied mob. He had the feeling this was going to turn into that quickly.

Perhaps sensing the same, another Maester spoke.

“Why don't we ask her? She must know the Seven's will in the matter.”

Neither of the fourteen other men in the room had thought of that.

When Aemond asked you, timidly, if you wished to consummate the marriage, you could have danced from joy.

You had decided early on that if going back was not an option, you were going to make the most of your stay here. You missed your family and friends, but your life here was so pampered that you didn't feel so bad. Any quirks of behavior that you had were excused as part of your angelic nature, and you had the biggest crush on the man who had married you.

If only Aemond didn't refuse to even touch you. So far, you have tried everything. You have kissed him. Stroked him. Cuddled far too close to him, so you are nearly on top of him. Groped his thigh, almost his cock. Your behavior has bordered on indecent even by modern standards, yet Aemond dismisses it all as innocent. He is either the most oblivious man on the planet or he doesn't want you.

That suspicion had given you pause. If Aemond did not want you, you weren't about to force him to do so. You had stopped with your insistent touching, and went back to light kisses on the cheek. Instead, you had made the mistake of looking around.

You are so horny it's driving you mad. Being married in Westeros is not what you thought it would be. You expected much more sex. Besides, everyone here was insanely good-looking, especially the man sleeping next to you and waking up every morning with a raging erection. Anyone with a sliver of a libido would be frothing at the mouth and clawing at walls from horniness.

In your other life, you had watched HOTD and understood the message clearly. Despite being a common occurrence, cheating was not a good idea. There were no reliable contraception methods and no way of preventing STDS.

Even if you were not aware of all the possibles consequences of cheating from your knowledge about the show, you now knew Aemond. He was terrifying, devout, and hated his bastard nephews. You did not want to see what he would do if he caught you cheating.

So here you were. Into forced chastity and perpetually horny, with your husband asking you if you thought it was a good idea to consummate the marriage.

You could have jumped from the bed in your haste to show him exactly what you thought. But you had to maintain your air of an otherworldly being. Which you technically were, since this was not your world.

“Whichever you think best, my Prince.” You answered, voice soft and patient. Just as you had always spoken in his presence. It had done wonders to make Aemond seek your company. He found you soothing, or so he said.

Aemond reached forward. His hand cupped your cheek, very gently. You looked up at him with your most innocent eyes.

He lowered his hand, shoulders slumping in defeat. You tried not to let it show how much it hurt you to have all you wanted dangled in front of you and then taken away.

“I cannot touch you. Nor should I lust after you. You are…” Aemond’s eyebrows pinched together. His face showed an inner conflict that made your own heart soften. Perhaps he had grown to care for you, in the ways you wished he did. He just didn't think it appropriate.

You stepped closer. This time, it was your hands that cupped his face. Aemond's eye closed, briefly. He seemed to be enjoying the touch, committing it to memory.

“Kiss me.” You whispered, pulling him close. Aemond went into the hug, nuzzling your hair. Despite the sweetness with which he responded, his frame was tense. “Please. I beg it of you.”

“I can't. I can't defile you.” He sounded truly strained. You rubbed his back, gently. “ A perfect being, such as yourself, does not deserve this.”

“It won't hurt. I know how to do it.” You explained, softly. Perhaps he worried about hurting you, you thought. You were no blushing virgin, but Aemond did not know that.

“Of course. You are an enlightened being. But it does not mean you have to put that into practice. You must know of the mysteries of death, yet you have not hurt anybody.”

“Because killing is wrong.” And truly, it was a ridiculous comparison. Sex had not killed anyone, at least that you knew of. It was not meant to hurt.

“Sex is, too. It's only for making heirs, and I am a second son. I don't need heirs.”

And by the look of his face, Aemond really believed what he was saying. The thought of him suffering, of being so deeply repressed, hurt you. You understood well how damaging thinking about sex in that way could be.

It hurts you more to think it might have been exacerbated by you. The thought of you being this perfect soul, someone so pure and easily hurt, and then the thought of tainting you. It said a lot about his mental health.

You vowed then you would aid you in any way you could.

“It's not wrong.” You whispered, and moved slightly back from his embrace. “Let me show you.” And you were kissing him, and Aemond was kissing back. His lips were soft, and he held you as if you were the most delicate glass vase he had ever held. You understood him now. And one day, Aemond would understand this too.

[kissofhoon]

BESITOS !

(>/////< " ) ⠀ ── ⠀ 𝗋𝖾𝗐𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌

𝒑𝖺͟𝗂͟𝗋͟𝗂͟𝗇͟𝗀 𝗌𝗂𝗆 𝗃𝖺𝖾𝗒𝗎𝗇 𝗑 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗀𝗇 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝙜𝖾͟𝗇͟𝗋͟𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝖾𝗌𝗍. 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 𝒘𝗈͟𝗋͟𝖽 𝒄𝗈͟𝗎͟𝗇͟𝗍 𝟤𝟧𝟢 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗌 𝒘𝖺͟𝗋͟𝗇͟𝗂͟𝗇͟𝗀͟𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾 (𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 "𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒"), 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗈𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝒏𝗈͟𝗍͟𝖾͟𝗌 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝖺 (𝗆𝖾!) ( 𝓵𝗂𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗋𝗒 )

─────────────────────────

“ay, no, jaeyun.. repeat after me-“

for what seemed to be the tenth time you’ve repeated yourself, your boyfriend couldn’t seem to pronounce the word ferrocarril properly. maybe you should have given him a word that was much more.. simple, but you had faith he could pronounce it!

“it’s fe - rro - ca - rril.” you spoke slowly, exaggerating each syllable to help jake pronounce the word.

he mirrored your pronunciation in a hushed voice, mouthing it and repeating it in his head until he was certain he got the pronunciation correct. he needed to get it right or else he wouldn’t be rewarded like you promised when first started his spanish lessons.

“fe.. rro.. carril..?” he questioned cautiously, tilting his head to the side in the adorable, puppy-like manner he usually does. his eyes twinkled in expectance as he awaited your response.

and when he’s met with your dazzling smile, he knew he got it correct after what felt like the twentieth attempt.

“you got it! good job, baby!” you praised, your hands immediately cupping his cheeks.

jake gave you the brightest smile, feeling the way you placed a plethora of kisses all over his face, each kiss making his heart flutter to the point it may burst.

you planted one last kiss on his plump lips, letting it linger before you pulled away. your eyes gazed at him with pure adoration and glee, overjoyed he finally got the pronunciation correct.

“now,” you spoke, a mischievous smile forming on your lips. “try to pronounce sinvergüenza.”

─────────────────────────

© kissofhoon, 2024

[justawritterwithideas]

law in pink | s.r

♡ previous part | next part ♡

summary: A case takes them to Massachusetts, where you are reunited with your past and the people who carry it.

warnings: a bit of jealousy on Spencer's part, though overall nothing so far in this part.

this story is spencer reid (season 7) x ssa elle woods!reader

words: 1,185 words.

a/n: after a while, I finally bring you the third part of law in pink, the truth is that I've been wandering a lot about what to write, but I finally found it. I want to point out that this "chapter" will be divided in two or three parts (I'm not sure yet), to reward you for your time. Without anything else to add, thanks for reading.

Working in the FBI field always ended up surprising you.

Not because every day was a new adventure, with new cases that could border on the edge of human sanity, but because it could bring you face to face with people from your past.

A new case had dragged you to Massachusetts, where you saw old faces you recognized on your way to the police station.

The conversation with Emily was what was stealing your attention, and even more so when it was about one of the topics you dealt with the most, besides the criminal code, and that was hair care. You had recommended a new product to the woman and she was talking to you about how good her hair looked, it even looked shinier than usual from both perspectives.

"I know! Plus, it's not tested on animals and their products are 100% natural, it's like a little bit of paradise in your hands." You commented sipping from your coffee, placed your bag to the side as you watched Spencer walk in with a folder in his hands and well focused on it.

It was no secret that after his gift it had caused the two of you to connect a little more than usual, and everyone could tell with the little love language gestures you each had on each side, like how every morning you gave him his coffee the way he liked it because you had memorized them or how he took care to save you a spot next to him on the jet where the sunlight would hit so your skin would get the vitamin D it needed for the day.

You quickly pushed away the chair that was in front of the map the opposite had drawn up and watched him sit down, returning to your conversation with Emily. Spencer thanked you with a silent gesture, causing you to smile as you listened intently to Emily converse about the difference in her hair from week to week.

But, their conversation was interrupted as Derek and J.J were entering the room with a box of donuts.

"The breakfast express had just arrived, ladies... And Spencer." The smell of frying and sugar made you immediately turn to the table to see that they had found just the donuts you had been chatting about a couple of days ago.

"Are those the gluten-free donuts? I haven't seen them in years, they look just as delicious as when I was here." Your voice let out a soft sound of joy, approaching the one glazed with pink and had a flower drawn on top. "These are the best donuts you'll ever taste, and it's also suitable for the gluten intolerant."

The sweet taste of the donut made you stir as you brought a hand to your mouth in surprise, it was as if the past had just slapped you in the face.

You turned in the direction of Spencer, who looked quite immersed in his work.

"Spencie." The man looked up at your call. You brought the doughnut close to his face and smiled, letting the scent of your 'Miss Dior' perfume permeate his nose. "Try it."

"Ah, no thank you. I am at the moment somewhat busy, Y/N..." His hand was trying to push yours away, plus you kept watching him with that look that caused Spencer to give you the whole world. "B-besides! I'm faithful to my chocolate donut with sprinkles-"

"With sprinkles on top... Come on, Spencer, I'm not asking you to eat it all, just taste it."

The tasting-not tasting fight they were carrying on was interrupted when Hotch walked in where his face showed quite a bit of annoyance.

"What's going on, Hotch?"

"The suspect's lawyer is in the interrogation room." Commented Rossi, who simply modulated 'he's a jerk'.

"He's coming to talk to us now." Finished Hotch, who was heading straight for a cup of coffee but didn't quite reach for it when a rather annoying voice interrupted him.

You didn't know if it was your imagination or the memories of that place that made you cough, the smell of expensive cologne and mint made you push the donut away from your hands. You set it down on a napkin, listening as it echoed back to that voice that once spoke honeyed words to you.

"Agents, a pleasure. I'm defense attorney, Warner Huntington III."

Where was the closest place to hide from that character? You thought, but you wouldn't let the man you used to call "teddy bear" get you down at that moment.

" Lawyer Huntington, this is the BAU team. Agent Rossi, Morgan, Jareau, Prentiss, Dr. Reid and Agent Woods."

Your gaze connected with Warner's, who let out a gasp of surprise at the sight of you.

"Y/N... Wow, it's been a while, darli-"

"It's good to see you, Attorney Huntington." You commented as you watched him from your position.

You watched him approach you, plus Spencer's body made it so he couldn't take any more steps than intended, well... Spencer's leg was the one that separated you, as he stretched his legs out, separating you both just enough so that nothing of your bodies would rub together in any way.

A safe distance for both of them, thanks to Spencer.

"You two know each other?" J.J. asked, who watched intrigued.

"We were coupl-"

"We were part of the same Harvard Law generation, actually. We both graduated, but we took different paths." You lied in front of them, and they could read it when Warner's face grimaced.

It was clear that the two of you had a bond that was more than close, but the way you didn't want them to find out was the answer to resolving that which the others had to find out until you decided to talk about it.

"Rather, both of us-"

"Counselor, what exactly is the reason you're here?" asked Spencer, who watched from his position, with that feigned smile you already knew how to distinguish.

"Ah, yes. I was coming to introduce myself as the defense attorney, as well as discuss the legal issues surrounding my client." He turned to look at Hotch, who was drinking from his cup with that face that the situation displeased him. "I'd like to discuss a few things with Agent Woods, since we both graduated from Harvard and have the same degree from-"

"Actually, Agent Prentiss is also a Criminal Justice graduate, you could discuss with her along with Dr. Reid in addition to Agent Woods."

The way Hotch had cut Warner off made you let out a small chuckle, thanking in the direction of the major, who was simply giving you a discreet wink.

"Yeah, right. Three's better than one, you're right." Warner's voice wavered a bit before he opened his mouth again. "Good, then I'll come by later to discuss these details, they're calling me from the firm, excuse me."

Silence immediately settled in the room, but before they could blurt anything out, you immediately turned in everyone's direction and blurted out.

"I have a good explanation for this, I promise."

♡ first part | previous part ♡

If you like it, don't forget to like and repost it.

a lot of love, alme. ❀

[turcott3]

HELLO could you write a story about arber xhekaj you can do want ever you want with it thank youuuu

need it bad

arber xhekaj x fem! reader

warnings?: mild smut, kissing, cursing

masterlist

-

“y/n. these are fucking stunning.” your bridesmaid says showing you the final developed polaroid.

you’d been inspired by a tiktok to take hot photos of yourself in lingerie on a polaroid and have all of your bridesmaids hand them to him throughout, saving of course the best photo for last. with your maid of honor.

“can we do this one last and then the rest of yall can just pick one. oh i can’t wait to see his face.” you laugh, knowing how he already drools at you even when your boobs and ass are covered.

“thank god he’s wearing black pants, he’s gonna be on the dance floor with a hard on.” one of your bridesmaids chimes in, everyone laughing in response.

“i have a little faith in his self control…” you trail off.

“girl no you fucking don’t.”

“yeah….” you admit quietly, laughing.

“well go to bed girl, tomorrow is your big day.” she says as you pull the silk robe back over your mostly exposed body.

“okay well, goodnight girls. i’ll see you bright and early.” you say as you walk them to your hotel door, sighing.

you had to be alone tonight and you could hardly stand it.

-

the following day, you’re sat at your table at the beginning of the reception, the first photo about to be handed to him.

“so id like to make a speech for my lovely sister.” she starts, lightly tossing the polaroid in his lap as he sips his champagne, choking on his sip when he pulls the small picture up into his view, you fighting a giggle.

as the night went on, he received the next few photos, each time growing harder and harder to control himself. scooting your chair closer, placing a napkin over his lap and wearing a harsh smile to distract from the erection that tempted to hit him.

you could tell he was at his wits end, the last photo surely sending him over the edge. the last photo came at the end of the night, after a lot of your older family members had already said their goodbyes to the pair of you. leaving your young cousins and friends.

“ahem.” your maid of honor coughs.

“huh.” arber replies as she hands him the last photo. his hand rubbing down his face before he turned it over, looking down with a sigh. he bit his lip harshly as he slid the photo into his pocket, his hand digging around for a few moments.

“i’m gonna run to the bathroom.” he mumbles in your ear, leaving his hand in his pocket, clearly covering the hard on your photo had given him, a devilish smirk spreading across your face, handing the girl who handed it to him a high five.

“don’t be gone too long babe.” you call after him and he turns around flashing you a mocking smirk.

-

“fuck.” you moan out as you crash out on your, now, husband’s chest. an orgasm racking your body intensely. you knew the sex after your wedding would be good but this was not what you were expecting.

“you knew exactly what you were doing with those photos.” he giggles brushing your hair off your sweaty skin.

“maybe i did.” you said, chest rising and falling intensely.

“you definitely did. and i had to reward you for it. i’m keeping one in my wallet.” he says as you climb off of his muscular body.

“you can keep all of them baby.” you laugh.

“oh i will. one in the wallet, one in the suitcase, one in the backpack, one in the hockey bag. i’ll find a place for the others.” he says, locking eyes with you.

“i love you arbs.” you say, running a soft thumb over his cheek.

“i love you more.” he smiles softly.

“i can’t believe you’re my husband.”

“and i couldn’t be luckier.” he says, pulling you in for one last kiss goodnight.

[ninibeingdelulu]

His biggest fan ✧

bachira’s version here

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Plot: You’re the girlfriend of one of the player of Blue Lock, cheering him up during one of his game.

A/N: 100% fluff. My man, my man. Daily reminder: English isn’t my first language.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The crowd roared with cheers as the final block secured the victory. Rin stood with his teammates, breathing hard after the grueling match.

All their training had paid off with this win against the tough opponents.

As the announcer declared their team the champions, Rin searched the stands. Finally, his gaze landed on her - you were jumping up and down, waving a banner with his name on it.

Your eyes shone with pride for him.

Despite his usual stoic demeanor, Rin felt a warmth spread through him at your enthusiastic support.

You had been there for all his matches, always believing in him even when he doubted himself.

As his teammates crowded around to celebrate, Rin broke away from the group.

He jogged over to where you waited at the edge of the court. Your smile only grew brighter at his approach.

Without hesitating, Rin pulled you into a tight embrace, uncaring who might see this rare display of affection. You hugged him back just as fiercely, so happy for his achievement.

"I couldn't have done it without you," Rin murmured in your ear.

His cold facade melted away in the comfort of your arms. For a moment, all that existed was you and the joy of sharing this victory with the one who loved him unconditionally.

The crowd faded into the background as you both savored the warmth of that celebration hug, a sweet reward for their enduring love and partnership.

As Rin held you close, he was loathe to let go just yet. Your heart swelled at this unguarded show of emotion from him.

Pulling back slightly, you smiled up at Rin, noting the way his dark eyes still shone with exhilaration and triumph.

"You were amazing out there," you told him proudly.

Rin's stoic mask had fully slipped away now, and the barest hint of a smile tugged at his lips in response to your praise.

"It's thanks to your faith in me," he insisted quietly.

Behind you, his teammates continued calling out in celebration, but you and Rin were lost in your own world in that moment.

Impulsively, you stretched up on your toes to plant a kiss on Rin's cheek. A faint dusting of pink colored his cheeks in response.

His arms tightened around your waist then, drawing you even nearer.

You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat where your hands rested on his chest, a testament to the intensity of the match but also to the depth of feelings you both shared.

All too soon, Rin's coach was calling him over for a team huddle. Reluctantly, you began to step back, but Rin held on a moment longer.

"Wait for me after?" he asked, uncharacteristically hopeful.

You beamed and nodded, thrilled by this softer side he chose to show only you.

With one more fleeting caress of your cheek, Rin released you and jogged over to celebrate with his teammates.

You watched on proudly, certain this was only the beginning of great things for the man you loved.

[oddyseye]

Mutiny.

Odysseus and Eurylochus have such a complicated relationship and everyone always dumbs it down to wrong one thing or another. It’s complicated. It’s layered. It’s tragic. And it’s way more than just an argument over cows. Mutiny isn’t just about hunger or leadership — it’s about loyalty, exhaustion, and two men who want the same thing but can’t see eye-to-eye on how to get there. Eurylochus doesn’t really trust the guy anymore. He’s fed up with Odysseus being this godly figure that can do no wrong, while the crew is dying left and right. Every time he calls Odysseus “Ody”, it’s like this little jab. He’s trying to strip away the whole kingly aura that Odysseus has due to this lack of trust after Scylla. Eurylochus still has a sense of duty and respect for him as the leader, but you can feel the frustration in his voice. He’s just done with the whole “heroic” persona Odysseus has created for himself. Like, Eury is the guy who sees the crew as actual people. He’s the approachable one — the “buddy” that the crew can rely on when things go wrong, while Odysseus is their king, the champion of Athena, and the guy who’s supposed to lead them to glory. But Eurylochus is done waiting for that glory. You can tell from how he keeps saying, “We’re never gonna get home,” that he’s already checked out emotionally. He doesn’t have faith in their survival anymore. To him, they’re already doomed, and he’s not just going to let them starve to death when there’s a solution right in front of him. The cows. Yeah, the cows are the tipping point. Eurylochus sees the cows as a desperate measure, and while everyone else is still hung up on the gods, Eurylochus is just like, “Look, we’re not making it home. At least if we eat these cows, we’ll die full.” And sure, everyone seems blind to the fact that killing Helios’ cows is basically a suicide mission, but that’s because they’re still stuck in this idea of “respect the gods, and they’ll reward you.” Eurylochus, though? He’s not playing that game anymore. He knows they’re screwed, so at least with the cows, he can take control of the situation. Maybe if they’re gonna die, they can go out on their own terms, at least with their bellies full.

Now, Odysseus. This guy is like the living embodiment of stubbornness. You can see he is a student of Athena in that aspect lol. He can’t see it. He can’t admit they’re already beyond saving, and he’s too proud to make the hard call. Maybe it’s the godly influence talking, or maybe it’s just Odysseus being too obsessed with his own destiny, but he refuses to see that he doomed them. He wanted to hold onto the last shred of hope — that somehow, they’d make it out. But Eurylochus sees past that. He’s not naive. He’s not going to just keep playing the hero's game. His frustration with Odysseus has been building for a while, and it finally erupts when Odysseus sacrifices six men for his own pride and stubbornness. The key to this whole confrontation is that Eurylochus isn’t just questioning Odysseus’ decisions. He’s questioning his humanity. There’s this raw edge to Eurylochus’ anger. He can’t understand how someone who claims to be a hero could so coldly lead the crew into situations where they keep dying. And at the same time, Odysseus doesn’t have the capacity to understand Eurylochus’ perspective.

As the mutiny shows, he’s not leading the crew as a man anymore. And that’s the core of the tension between these two.

The part where Eurylochus directly challenges Odysseus is when the mutiny finally feels real. Eurylochus’ words cut deep.

“You miss your wife so bad, you'd trade the lives of your own crew?!’’

That’s an accusation, a personal attack. He’s accusing Odysseus of putting his own desires above the lives of his men, of wanting to go home so badly that he's willing to make reckless decisions. Eurylochus knows exactly what’s going on. Odysseus is so obsessed with the idea of getting home, so attached to the end of the journey, that he forgets the responsibility he has to his crew. He’s willing to sacrifice them in the pursuit of that dream.

Eurylochus is the one with enough clarity to call out the emperor’s new clothes. He’s not just upset about the deaths of their comrades. He’s angry because he sees Odysseus as a man who is no longer a leader but a symbol — and symbols don’t save people. They don’t keep the crew alive. Up until now, Odysseus has been their guide, their protector, and their hope. But in that one instant, he becomes just another man — just a man who’s lost his way, and more importantly, someone who has lost the trust of his men. This moment is about more than just the confrontation. It’s about the growing realization that Odysseus isn’t the infallible hero they thought he was. It’s Eurylochus realizing that following Odysseus blindly is no longer an option because the man they’re following doesn’t have a clue how to get them out of the mess they are in.

At the end of it all, Eurylochus and Odysseus are no longer two men working together for a common goal. They’re two men at odds, and Eury's willing to go to extreme lengths — betrayal, mutiny, anything — to take control of the situation. This mutiny is his last stand, his way of saying, "I’m not going to die because of your stubbornness. I’m taking matters into my own hands."

It’s heartbreaking, too, because Eurylochus isn’t doing this out of spite. He’s doing it because, in his mind, it's the only way to ensure that at least some of them will survive.Eurylochus wouldn’t have gone that far if he didn’t care. It’s so easy to say he’s just turning on Odysseus, but this is a guy who, for years, followed Odysseus into every battle, every insane godly encounter, every impossible situation. They were in this together — not just captain and crew, but real partners. How do you reconcile the fact that the person you once followed into battle — the person you trusted with your life — is now the reason your crew is dying, one by one?

The whole dynamic between Eurylochus and Odysseus is like this tragic love story in its own right. They weren’t just captain and subordinate. They loved each other, in a way, and when that love got tangled up with responsibility, fate, and the unrelenting pressure of survival, it destroyed them. Don't bash me btw this is not a ship post, I just said think their relationship reminds me of a certain couple but this isn't what I came here to talk about.

This wasn’t about “sides.” It wasn’t about who was right or wrong — it was about two men who tried to make it, who had fought side by side for years, and then found themselves unable to reconcile the two parts of themselves that were pulling them in opposite directions. And that’s where the real sadness is: Eurylochus and Odysseus were so close — so damn close — and it all fell apart because neither of them could face the truth of how broken they both were.

It’s the most tragic thing.

[eyesofthethrone]

So inspired by @meanbossart and his art of his durge Drow I wrote about 2k speculating on Drow's relationship and feelings towards Orin the Red and after showing it to him in private I now feel comfortable posting it publicly. Thanks for sharing your art with us man and creating such an interesting character xD

TW: Detailed descriptions of canibalism, suicidal imagery

The congregation all spoke of it, some were quiet, while some were too enraptured in the murder-bliss of Father staunch their words that spilled like blood and blood from the blessed sacrificed.

His sister, his cousin, his priestess, how could he not look upon her except with awe? How his eyes must shine like maggots in the torchlight, gleaming, following her. Obvious to all that look, even the hollowed out eyes of the skulls, fly-licked and stinking, could see it.

All did wonder did he take her to bed, did his mouth fall down upon her in reverent worship? Did she take her brother and lord inside herself? Might there not be a chance that the divine blood might mingle and quicken and the faithful might empty their throats into golden goblets so that they might be raised in celebration of a new Spawn?

Crass. Ugly. Short-sighted creatures. Pathetically mortal despite their feverance. None could ever despoil the most beloved and blessed Orin. Her changeling form was a gift from the Father himself and he had decreed that his daughter would never be violated or deformed in such a way. A beautiful doll, their Father’s perfect puppet. It was why she was perfect, for was it not anathema to their Father to give life? She could not, would not, thus she was purely a vessel for murder.

Oh how he loved her, dressed her in jewels, combed and twisted her hair till it coiled about them like intestines from a split gut. Her smile was the edge of the blade, her voice was the music of the last whimpered gasp of the dying. It seemed profane to him that it was he who was Chosen, and not her, for surely he was a mugger’s cudgel to her executioner’s axe, but he knew not the mind of their Father, could only thank him in prayers that he had deigned to make his sister live at the same time as him. To make his sister love him as he loved her.

Not to say he didn’t dream of intimacy with his beloved Orin, but it went far, far deeper than the dreams and lusts of these base creatures who clustered and fawned and crumpled so easily, so boringly beneath his fingers.

When all was said and done, and their Father’s war was won, they would be the last two living creatures beneath a dead sun, the blood of the graciously murdered would swim about their ankles and the yawning nothing of the void beyond the powers of the slain gods would rush to claim them and there, in that triumphant moment of annihilation would he finally be as of one with her.

Alas, that the moment of death was so brief, he would have just a second of her that way, when he snapped her neck. Perhaps as the last god of the dead world his Father might stretch out that moment of time so that they both might enjoy it, when he murdered her. To spend eternity holding her in his arms as the light left her eyes and the breath gasped between her teeth would be a reward beyond all riches, and while he did not serve out of a desire for reward, if that did happen he would be more than satisfied.

If not, there were still yet other intimacies available to him. He dreamed about it. He imagined what it would be like to peel her skin from her flesh, layer after layer, as fine and as translucent as silk. He might wrap it around himself, cocoon himself in her so that every inch of him was caressed by her. How paltry the pedestrian thought of running fingers through hair or gripping thighs seemed in comparison.

Then with her tender lamb flesh beneath bare, then, oh then would he begin to know her as a lover might. He would run his tongue over every strand of sinew, carve the path of each individual cord into his own unworthy heart. The flesh would be wet and warm as he peeled back each individual layer, quiver in necrotic anticipation of each touch of his lips. The fluids spilling forth her he would suckled and lap at. Just imagining the noises that would make made his spin tingle and his loins ache.

The thought of where he would make the first bite on occasion paralysed him, so many wonderful, tender spots. Her throat, the thin, soft film of flesh before the tough gristle of her larynx. Was that not a perfect metaphor for her? At first glance she seemed so small and delicate, but she was hard and tough, gristle and bone.

Her breast? The softest of meat, full of shimmering fat and so tender it would melt between his teeth and slide down his gullet without him even needing to swallow. To devour her there, to take sustenance would be poetic in a way, to draw nourishment like a child never would.

(Not that he didn’t consider a child, in the darkest and deepest places within him. That their Father might somehow bless them with his seed, and her belly might grow where he could kiss and worship it. That he might be privileged to hold a daughter of Orin in his arms who gazed up at him with his own eyes. But such a thing was anathema to their Lord, so he only held those thoughts in the dark, hidden cracks within his very soul where the Blood of Bhaal might not reach.)

The belly was traditional, of course, a knife parting the delicate sack of her guts so that they might lunge out of her towards him, tangling him up in an embrace, her miles and miles of intestines wrapping around him and holding her closer to her than a woman had ever held a man. Now this, this was true intimacy, close to it. The breathless rapture of holding her where no one else had even seen, let alone touch. He imagined wrapping them around him like a girl with ribbons, wet, soft and supple. Sometimes he thought how wonderful it would be to choke himself with them, to hang himself from the hooks of the temple. The poetic symmetry spoke to the romantic in him, for her to kill him after he had killed her and be left for all eternity as a symbol for those who would follow after. Bhaalist couples would point to their remains and coo “Oh, the greatest of romances, the most ardent of lovers,” for what could be a more perfect devotion of love than to die together in that moment of bliss, a perfect moment that would last an eternity, a true blessing from their Father.

He never would, of course, because as poetic and fairy-tale as that would be, it would be disrespectful to her, to her death and her body and he worshipped her (not as he worshipped Father, of course. People could be so foolish when they said you could only devote yourself to one thing, as if love was finite and not a wellspring eternal in your throbbing meat-heart?)

For the truest expression of his devotion would be to consume her, to catch the edge of a sinew where it met the cartilage, between his teeth and gently, lovingly pull it from her bones. He would not be as crass as to use a knife or even his hands. Only with his kiss would she be defleshed, the long, arduous work of days, even months, but he would do it, he would do it for her. Swallow down every inch of her and hold her safe in his belly like a child, perhaps his gut would even swell up and become round and gravid? That he might place his hand upon it and feel her within him. He would cradle her, sing to her, dream of her, all those things that a mother might do with her unborn child. For such was the depth of his love for her that it moved beyond the common and mundane categories of mortals. Sister, mother, daughter, lover, it was all the same to him, to them.

Her meat would be sweet and lean, soft and easy to swallow, like lamb or veal. He would lick her bones clean of all specks of flesh, he especially looked forwards to the feeling of her eyeballs popping between his teeth and then running his tongue around the inside of the socket. Then her brain, her wonderful, clever, cunning mind, always scheming and plotting. He loved her mind and her thoughts like rot loved the damp. He pictured her seeping into him like mold in a cellar, little black dots swarming over his insides. Would he know her better, understand more once he had finished eating her brain?

The heart was cliche, but cliche for a reason. Before he had come to know his sister a little better and her preferences he had tried presenting her with the hearts of his murder victims like a cat with a broken bird. His beautiful, untouchable Orin had not understood the suggestions of his actions but had accepted the tokens as offerings to their Father. How could he not love her for that? For her clear-minded devotion to something greater than herself. There was so much to be admired in that. When he eventually drew her own heart from behind the lattice of her ribs he would show it just as much reverence.

Her tongue would be another delicacy, when she lived it was sharp and acidic and honest. He loved her mouth, her tongue, her words. Words were just pieces of your soul fleeing your body to try and crawl into others like carrion flies. If he ate her clever tongue would he consume her soul completely?

No, no, he was getting ahead of himself. Not yet, not that yet. First he would have to eat the difficult parts. Not even a drop of her blood would go to waste and that meant he would have to eat her hair, her beautiful, long hair that shimmered like gold in the moonlight, always wet and healthy from the blood that sprayed into it. It would be an ordeal to swallow it all down, he knew he would gag and choke, be forced to swallow down his own bile again and again from the texture but he would do it, he would do it for her, a sign of devotion.

But her bones, her lovely, graceful bones would be the real test. Were he less faithful, less devout he would snap the cartilage and suck the marrow from within but he would take all of her into himself. He could cheat by waiting for them to dry out where they would break apart easier but no, every second wasted, every moment he made her wait would be an outrage. His lips and mouth and throat would be torn open by the shards, they would churn in his belly like, tumbling over and over like stones till they were worn down by the acid, lacerating his insides in the meantime. The agony would be exquisite, each spasm a kiss from her. Perhaps the agony would make him wish for death, perhaps it would actually kill him? It would be poetic for her to kill him from the inside, burrow her bones through him like worms.

Once she was consumed, once he had fully taken her into his body, he would lay down in the bed he had once wished to share with her in the heart of their Father’s temple and hold her within himself. This was why Bhaal was the god supreme, why their Father would one day rule the cosmos as was his right, because what other god permitted such an expression of love like this. This, the most blessed and perfect of unions. His stomach would not swell but shrink, his lovely living in his gut would not be expressed out but absorbed within.

When his stomach was empty, their matrimony would be complete, he would have unified with her completely. Her flesh one with his flesh, her blood running through his veins. For what we eat nourishes us, becomes part of us. He pictured her body dissolving into him, strengthening him. He would never have to eat again he knew because their love, partnership, sibling-hood would be all the sustenance he would need for the final act. He would be privileged that she was going to be the last thing he ever tasted.

For once it was done, Father’s plan realised and he truly was the last living thing in the universe, he would lay down amid the blood and gore and the dead, take his dagger and with a single strike through his own heart commit the final murder and thus murder all of reality, where all would be united in oblivion. No past, no future, just that single shining moment where he was Orin and Orin was him and that would be all he would ever know.

It was beautiful, perfect, poetry, more transcendent than the dreams of lesser mortals who desired such carnality, who believed that a mere exchange of fluids was the ultimate expression of ardour. No vision, no imagination.

What could be better? Except perhaps if the roles were reversed?

Sometimes, in the dead of night, when even the rats and ghosts slept, he would creep over to where Orin lay to watch her sleep, and pray over her, pray that one day it would be she who would eat him.