#how to remove hard water stains

[windowcleankits]

5 Strategies for Cleaning Hard Water Stains on Windows...

#removehardwaterstains #removehardwaterstainsfromwindows #hardwaterstainsonwindows #hardwaterstains #howtocleanwindows #windowcleaningtips

[gibberishfangirl]

Omg I love love loooovvee your wind breaker hcs! Could you do girlfriend reader leaving lipstick kisses on the boys? 😘💋

WINDBREAKER | love marks

Characters ✰ Haruka Sakura, Hajime Umemiya, Hayato Suo, Akihiko Nirei, Kaji Ren, Toma Hiragi, Jo Togame

Contains ✰ indirectly getting caught, teasing, reader did it on purpose in some scenarios, content of the boys getting confronted by their friends

Haruka Sakura ᡣ𐭩

❤︎ unfortunately Sakura failed to realize the stain your nude pink-ish colored lipstick left on the corner of his lip before leaving to meet his friends

❤︎ “oh my Sakura~ i do wonder what you were doing before getting here” Suo immediately teased with a charming smile

❤︎ Sakura looked at Suo and his friends suspiciously as they were all grinning ear to ear at him. the man hated being put on the spot which is something they were painfully aware of

❤︎ Nirei was the first one to crack while letting out a nervous laugh and saying “Sakura you got a little something here.” while pointing at his lips

❤︎ Sakura bolted out of his seat to run into the restroom as his friends all laughed at his sudden movement

❤︎ his face had a furious blush scattered across his cheeks as he spotted the mark on his lips

❤︎ he roughly scrubbed off the make up for about five minutes with water and a paper towel. jeez— who knew removing make up can be so hard?

❤︎ he yanked his phone out of his pocket to send you a message only to find that you already texted him one of your own

❤︎ your message read: hope you enjoyed your little surprised Haru <3

❤︎ why you little—

Hajime Umemiya ᡣ𐭩

❤︎ Umemiya was a different case, this man was so shameless it was actually hard to make him be embarrassed of anything

❤︎ so when Hiragi finally told him about the pink kiss stain on his cheek he didn’t have much of a reaction and continued the meeting as if he didn’t receive such information

❤︎ it was only after the meeting that he decided to wipe off the stain with the palm of his hand

❤︎ update: it didn’t work, he simply just smeared it around with that motion instead of it actually working

❤︎ he didn’t bother to remove it after that, he simply just shrugged and chuckled with a “i guess that’s that.” while Hiragi facepalmed

❤︎ since he couldn’t get it off the first time he just walked around the whole day with the smeared kiss mark on his cheek

❤︎ no one else really dared to point it out so he nearly forgot about it until he had seen you again and you let out a gasp

❤︎ it was safe to say that you were more embarrassed than he was as you began to apologize profusely

❤︎ “i’m so sorry Ume!! i didn’t see that on you before i left!” “it’s okay, i barely even noticed it.” is the only thing he��d say in response before leaning in for another kiss

❤︎ he never really learns, does he?

Hayato Suo ᡣ𐭩

❤︎ Suo was so suave and calm most of the time that it was hard to even imagine that he’d miss something like this

❤︎ you thought about all the ways you could catch him off guard just to see him not be able to smoothly charm his way out of things

❤︎ that’s when the idea came to you; to plant a kiss mark without him noticing. you did it while you hugged him goodbye so the mark landed on his jawline

❤︎ surprisingly enough no one actually realized he had the mark or even caught onto it. not even Nirei saw it despite standing the closest to him the whole day

❤︎ Suo eventually saw it once he saw himself in the mirror at the end of the day. you had left the mark around 8am just for him to barely notice it at 10pm—

❤︎ he almost missed it but then once he tilted his chin higher the mark became more visible

❤︎ he simply shrugged and snapped a photo of it to send it to you as he assumed it was an accident

❤︎ “hey love, i think you accidentally marked me XD” “YOU JUST REALIZED THAT?” “what you mean ‘just’? O.O” “nvm”

❤︎ he took another look at the mark and reconsidered the possibility of it being an accident. the only words he mumbled out was “how sneaky” before a small smile caught his lips

❤︎ he’ll definitely remember this as he plans to get you back another day

Akihiko Nirei ᡣ𐭩

❤︎ Nirei spends a lot of the time looking at himself in the mirror so he notices it pretty fast in comparison to all the other boys

❤︎ it’s hard to catch the man lacking when he spends a lot of the time looking at his outfits for hours. of course he notices every small detail about himself

❤︎ he was glad he caught it in time he most likely would’ve became a stammering mess if any of his friends had been the one to point it out

❤︎ at least he was glad until he realized he couldn’t get the product off

❤︎ he scrubbed and scrubbed but the make up was super strong. it wasn’t coming off even to save his life

❤︎ he unrelectuntaty had to go meet Sakura and Suo with the mark smeared around his lips

❤︎ Sakura noticed it immediately and asked “did you bust your lip??? who did that to you?” already getting ready to find whoever hurt his friend

❤︎ Sakura was a dimwit when it came to these things so he didn’t realize what it was and automatically assumed it was a busted lip

❤︎ Suo let out a sigh and chuckle to Sakura’s reaction since unlike him, Suo was fully aware of what it actually was

❤︎ despite knowing what it was Suo didn’t expose Nirei in the moment and left Sakura in the dark. however, that didn’t mean Nirei was safe. Suo was definitely going to bring this up again some other time

Kaji Ren ᡣ𐭩

❤︎ Ren was always careful about how his appearance looked like. not that he actually cared but mainly because he didn’t need anyone else catching onto what activities he may have been participating in with you

❤︎ he typically made sure he didn’t look disheveled before heading out but today was different since he was in a rush to get to a meeting

❤︎ he had gotten so carried away in his heated make out session with you that he didn’t have enough time to pamper himself and needed to run out the door

❤︎ his hair was a slight mess which he was able to easily fix with his hands as he smoothed out the mess before seeing Hiragi

❤︎ Hiragi quirked an eyebrow up while letting out the smallest smirk. it was so fast Ren almost missed it. keyword: almost.

❤︎ “what’s that face for?” Ren immediately put up a defensive tone. “nothing, just seems like you been having a lot of fun.” Hiragi teased before yanking on Ren’s collar to expose the red mark on it

❤︎ Ren’s face slightly dropped before pulling himself back together. he shoved the collar of his shirt into his hoodie trying to hide it while mumbling the quickest lie he could think of.

❤︎ “i got into a fight before getting here… must be some old blood” “oh yeah, it must be in that case.” Hiragi sarcastically responded sparing his friend the embarrassment

Toma Hiragi ᡣ𐭩

❤︎ his whole group of underclassmen were on his ass as soon as they all spotted the mark on his neck

❤︎ he cursed the day he was born before taking some medication for all the headaches they were giving him that day

❤︎ “tsk. kids. you wouldn’t understand, none of you can even get a partner if you tried.” is the he only thing he would tell them if they continued to pry into getting him to say how he got the mark

❤︎ of course that response gathered an uproar from the kiddos as they took the insult to the heart. some hurt because they knew it was true with their lack of flirting skills

❤︎ the teasing got so bad even Umemiya had to tell them to back off after some time, knowing how stressed and overwhelmed Hiragi can get

❤︎ definitely not one of his most finest days but didn’t dread on it for long since things happen

❤︎ you were very apologetic once you heard about the day he had from others

❤︎ “i’m so sorry Toma!” you’d embrace him in a hug while nonstop apologizing

❤︎ unfortunately for you, your boyfriend could be quite a tease at times so a smirk made its way up to his lips before saying “it’s okay, maybe you can make it up to me by leaving me another?”

Jo Togame ᡣ𐭩

❤︎ it took Togame the longest to realize the kiss stain on his shirt out of all the boys

❤︎ due to his previous reputation, no one knew whether or not they should point it out. they weren’t too fond of the idea of getting beat up by the giant man so no one told him anything

❤︎ the only one who finally pointed it out was Choji as he asked why Jo had a chocolate stain on his shirt (you had been wearing a brown nude shade of lipstick which is why Choji mistakes it for chocolate)

❤︎ “huh? i didn’t eat chocolate today.” Togame would respond confusedly to his short friend while pulling on his shirt to find the stain

❤︎ “oh, then what is it?” Choji was genuinely intrigued by the conversation now as he wanted a response.

❤︎ Jo’s face turned a small shade of light pink remembering the prior events that occurred earlier that day

❤︎ “…nevermind. it’s chocolate. i just forgot i had some before coming here.” lies

❤︎ despite how bold Togame can be he most definitely did not want to have that talk with his longest friend

❤︎ Choji gave his friend a look that read ‘seriously?’ which Togame decided to ignore. he had bigger things to deal with… like finding you and getting more kisses

[felibrary]

wish you were sober

synopsis: in which you drunkenly confess to aventurine and he doesn’t believe you, rather believing that he’s not worthy, less even deserving of your love. despite that, his insecurity, you're under the belief that aventurine deserves all the love in the world. love - something that you want to introduce to him and show him “what it means to love you.”

pairing: aventurine x reader | wordcount: 2.3k (i’ve gone insane) | content & warnings: hurt/comfort, alcohol; they're both drunk, insecure aventurine, unestablished relationship, they label themself as friends but reader barely knows anything abt him LMFAO, dual pov, DO YALL GET THE REFERENCE IN THE SYNOPSIS LMFAO??, rushed ending icl, half assed-ly proofread; oneshot

a/n: yesterday i listened to wish you were sober by conan gray and was like “damn.. this’d fit sunday” but then i asked azul what he thinks cause i couldn’t decide between su**day and <aventurine3. and they replied with that it’d be so much more angsty with aventurine (okay not quote on quote but you get the msg) and i dislike su**ay anyway!! so boom! (y’all are still getting another sunday fic..yay..ig.....)

tags: beloved @azullumi <3 and @cherieiu (stop punching me)

“i love you.” 

your confession doesn't come over as surprising for aventurine, he anticipated it. just like how the ebb awaits the flood, yearning for it but disappearing as soon as it arrives. missing out on each other for just a split second, as the other party sweeps and slips away from the grasp of the other. nevertheless aventurine is glued to his seat on the rich sofa. 

colorful poker chips are splattered around the rich mahogany floor tiles, bottles of vodka and wine, some already with their cork removed and empty, others who haven't even been opened yet. a chandelier adorning the ceiling of the big room, its lightbulbs glowing dimly in the caliginous room, illuminating it.

one of the lamps flickers while the others continue to shine brightly - too brightly aventurine thinks, if he were to watch them any longer he’d feel like melting. the closer he got to you the sun, the deeper he'd fall into the bottomless pit he managed to crawl out of.

the room reeks of alcohol. is the temperature rising? he feels like every time the last number on the digital clock changes the warmer it gets. his blond bangs stick to his forehead and beads of sweat are running down his flushed cheeks - that answers his question.

it’s hot - humid even. he's not sure if he's able to bear the heat in this narrow atmosphere any longer. he tries to blow the sweat away by waving at his face with his hand, trying to cool off his face - a futile attempt. god, what's this a/c even good for, if it can't do it's damn job.

he opens his mouth with the intent of wanting to say that you're lying, that you shouldn't say stuff like that when you're drunk and that you'll regret later. but he doesn't, he refrains from doing so. instead he gulps down the words immediately, letter for letter. they're a bitter pillow to swallow. flowing down his throat like the wavering water running down a stream - intoxicating, similar to the alcoholic liquid you've downed.

the blond looks at you through half lidded eyes. you lift yourself off the ground, he takes notice that you have a hard time doing so, legs slightly trembling as you remove them from the floor tiles. (you've always been a lightweight he thinks)

as you make your way over to him, standing up and wanting to sit yourself next to him on the large black leather sofa. you clumsily bump against one of the almost empty shot glasses that still lies on the floor. tripping over the small glass as your foot comes in contact with it. the glass that still contained some of the red wine you've poured in, not too long ago, tumbles as easily as a domino tile, falling upon the smallest touch. making the flimsy piece immediately meet the ground.

it breaks into a few sharp shards and the remaining alcohol starts seeping out of it, staining your once white socks with crimson colored alcohol. “ah m’sorry!” you mumble as you quickly bend down to gingerly pick up the fragments, placing them in the palm of your hand carefully, so that they won't cut you and leave slits.

aventurine takes another peek at you as you tidy up. your face is flushed, your cheeks tinted in a bright red and you let out incoherent sorrys, blabbering incomplete phrases. he wants to tell you that it's alright. that he feels the same and reciprocates yours feelings, that you don't have to apologize and he'll help you.

but he freezes.

the words that he wants to tell you, the ones he's been longing to say don't leave his mouth. neither does he move. instead he coughs, continuing to watch you while you clean up. a tissue has found its way into your right hand, helping you soak up the alcohol. (its his hand that should be intertwined with yours, not the tissue)

his throat hurts. 

(he's not in the right mindspace to acknowledge if it's because of you - the unsaid words that he didn't reveal to you yet or because of the alcohol.) 

it's dry and lacks any kind of refreshing liquid that'd quench the drought that occurs in his throat. he contemplates, thinking about the choices he has. swallowing down his own spit isn't worth it, it makes his throat burn even more.

he comes to the decision to pour himself another glass of alcohol. (debatably his worst decision until now.)

twirling the almost translucent liquid in his glass, before fully gulping it down in one go. a bit of the alcohol escapes the depths of his mouth, running down his chin and messily staining his porcelain-like skin. 

he doesn't like the bitter taste, he can't seem to befriend himself with it. (neither can he befriend him with himself) although it's not the worst, he's just not able to find a reason to like it. after all, after a single sip it starts to sting as it enters his mouth.

the scent isn't great either, it smells strong, too strong for his liking, a scent that reeks of cleaning detergent and not to mention, it prickles on his tongue and burns as it slides down his throat when it makes its way into his blood. but there's one thing aventurine can't deny: it's efficiency.

it fulfills its purpose well making him lightheaded and dizzy, to the point of forgetting everything.

all sounds are drowned out. even the lame pop songs playlist you turned on because you insisted that “it'll set the right mood” is barely audible for him now. his ears hurt hellish, he wants to put his hands over his ears to escape the white noise. the sound that plays in his ears is similar to the one of when an airplane starts boarding - an unpleasant noise.

the only sound that remains for aventurine’s slightly drunk state is your voice. it echoes through his ears. your drunk confession playing over and over in his mind like a broken record, anticipating the day it'll be fixed, so the misery it is in ceases. 

his sloppy and sluggish movements - the way his hands tremble as he pours himself another glass, the nervousness that forms inside his body and the blush that spreads as quickly as a wildfire on his cheeks - they're tormenting him, and he blames none other than the alcohol for it. 

“a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, drunk words are sober thoughts, when you're drunk you reveal your true desires” his ass. the both of you are just friends. friends that are acquainted through work, nothing more, nothing less. aventurine couldn't bear to lose his only friend, after all he's already lost everything.

(anything he'd never want to lose will eventually be lost. it is as if fate had decided that everything that is worth wanting, everything that he wants to have and keep, will be lost the moment he gets his fingers on it. to aventurine there’s nothing worth pursuing at the cost of prolonging a life that is full of anguish.)

his father whom he never got to meet, his mother and sister whom he was forced to leave behind and kakavasha, his younger self. all will be lost - everything was lost. if he wasn't careful now, one slip up on the thin ice or feet accidentally trampling over the floor full of eggshells, he'd not only lose himself in the process, but you too. his one and only friend.

crossing this line he set for himself, as he drew it along the earthy ground with his calloused fingers, trembling as they traced over the mud.

walking past the border that was created to keep everything and everyone distant from him, as he stood on the other side turning his back from the world, walking away and waving, to bid his goodbye from them.

the wall he built around him to shield him from the world, protecting everyone from the ugly thing that was kept inside , protecting himself from the people that only want to torment him.

forgetting all of these things, leaving them behind for you would mean showing you who he really was. a frail human being that hides himself behind a mask. the theater curtains revealing the person who played the role of the man who had called himself aventurine for the past years. placing him in the spotlight and giving the audience a show they'll never forget, like the fool he is. 

aventurine doesn't think that he is loveable, that he's undeserving of love - your love.

you think that aventurine deserves all the love in the world. providing him with said love, embracing him and showing him how pure love can be. 

the blond caught your eye right away. he was charming, funny and handsome. aventurine turned into your little work crush, your motivation to convince yourself just to see him.

the road was rocky and full of obstacles, set up by none other than aventurine. it gave you a better perception of who he really was and it intrigued you even more. why does he hide himself away from the world? why does he convince himself to not get anyone close to him even though he longs for the touch of another person? who is aventurine, really?

you can't answer any of these questions and neither are you certain if aventurine really can but that doesn't stop you. you continue to climb up all the way to know who he is, who the person you fell in love with really is. 

love, is weird isn't it? it comes in all different shapes and forms.

if someone were to ask you why you like him, you wouldn't know how to answer, because neither do you know.

but nevertheless you still like him. why? how come you like someone that you don't even know, someone that is foreign to you, almost like a stranger. even though the both of you label yourself as “friends.”

you're not sure what the color is that infuses his irises, he keeps them hidden beneath his glasses. despite that, you long to stare into his eyes and let all the plain and dull parts of your life get painted in the same colors of his hues. a color that brings you comfort and cures your sorrow. it's the hues that you want to stare at as you tuck a golden strand of hair behind his ear, in return he grants you a small but genuine smile.

a smile that you want to see more often, one that you want to keep for yourself. 

as for his scent, every person has their own unique and special scent. you plead to the gods above that he’ll let you bury your head into the crook of his neck and absorb his smell so it becomes the only scent that lingers around your nose. 

there are so many more things that you want to know about him but you're unaware of. one might say that you're odd for liking - no, loving someone that you barely know.

a stranger, a foreign person whom you know little about to almost nothing about, is the person that you love. absurd isn't it? but love is weird, love can be pure and ridiculous, but it can also be painful and heart wrenching. love is a feeling that not only brings joy to oneself but also causes pain. but it's a feeling that you never want to get rid of - not until you introduced aventurine to it. showing him what love has to offer and has in store.

in the iridescent light aventurine remains to look as ethereal as ever. a scent of vodka lingers around aventurines figure, the smell is strong, but you couldn't care less. his hair is disheveled but nevertheless continues to shine in the dazzling light. he lets out a tiring yawn and you couldn't imagine aventurine any more beautiful than in this moment.

vulnerable and for your eyes only. making it unable for you to tear your gaze away from the sight before you. 

he's like a shooting star, if you don't continue to watch and follow it and blink, even if it's just for a single moment - it's all over and you'll never see it again. 

“stop looking at me like that.” aventurine mumbles quietly, almost whispering. upon hearing that, you make your way over to him, glass shards long forgotten as you place them on the small coffee table in front of the sofa.

your arms reach out to aventurine, clutching your hands on his shoulders. your grip is sluggish but you don't falter and continue to hold him. “like what?” your lips are slightly parted and your gaze is drowsy as you counter aventurine's question with a question of your own.

“like that.” he placed the hand that just rested on his thigh, on your cheek, slightly caressing it. “you're just gonna hurt the both of us if you keep this up any longer.” he's not sure where the boldness came from, he blames it on the alcohol once again; it finally seemed to kick in.  

“‘m not lying” you hiccup. tomorrow i’ll tell you how much i love you, no matter if it's once” a cough exits your throat “or a hundred times.” the words that leave your mouth are slurred, they're incoherent and muddled up. your grip on his shoulder weakens, hands slipping off and head falling against his chest.

..did you seriously just black out?

aventurine can only sigh at that. a small smile finds its way onto his face. he snakes his arms around you waist, snuggling his face into the crook of your neck and hugging you with the remaining power he had left before falling asleep. guess there'll be a lot to unpack tomorrow but for now he allows himself to indulge in this shared moment between the two of you. 

© VYNICITY 2024. stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms or feeding them to ai is not permitted.

e/n: hope yall enjoyed this as much as i hated writing this!! (i wanted to throw up) i acc hate how i wrote this. it's not as choppy as when i started writing it but it still feels so rushed and so idk.. anyway reblogs with comments are very much appreciated! >< ALSO that one paragraph written in brackets..guess whose speech it was inspired byyyyy (hint: bsd!!)

[milkloafy]

HYDRO DRAGON, HYDRO DRAGON, DON’T CRY — WRIOTHESLEY

⋆｡˚ ❀ summary: in which wriothesley finally asks you out on a first date and neuvillette ruins it by crying over his pet goldfish. ⋆｡˚ ❀ contents: fluff, “ruined” first dates, hydro dragon is crying :c, mentions of sick pet fish trigger warning, gn!reader but they are wearing a sundress and makeup!!  ⋆｡˚ ❀ wc: 1.3k+ ⋆｡˚ ❀ a/n: so on vacation i was out for a nice dinner in a dress and heels and then on the way back to the hotel, it started to storm. and it was windy so no umbrellas helped. and no cars there, only walking. and the roads were flooded so my feet were submerged in like dirt puddles and i was tripping over rocks i couldn’t see in high heels hahaah i was going thru it… but at least it spawned this idea ;-; pls enjoy !! also give neuvi a hug for me ok and me too we both need it t-t

Fontaine was a peculiar place to live in.

Most regions in Teyvat succumbed to the whims of the archons and elemental dragons, but in your experience, none were quite as inconvenient as the region of the hydro dragon.

The Iudex was a sensible and level-headed individual, but he had his moments like everyone else. But unlike everyone else, his sad moments impacted the whole area of Fontaine. 

Unluckily for you, one of Neuvillette’s sad moments happened to be when you were running late for your first date with Wriothesley. 

Wriothesley had messaged you saying he was at the restaurant already, and you were running down the streets of Fontaine to make sure you were too late for the reservation. It wasn’t your intention to be late, but the pressure of a first date set your nerves aflame and you ended up trying on your entire closet until you found the perfect outfit. You didn’t even want to think of the mess that awaited you when you returned home. 

Still, the hassle was worth it. In your eyes, at least. Your hair was styled to perfection, makeup touched up to look effortlessly pretty even though you spent over an hour on it, and the sundress you wore hugged your body in a way that showed your curves yet left the gaze wanting more. 

You were certain that once Wriothesley saw you, he definitely wouldn’t mind that you were a couple minutes late. 

As you turned the corner and saw the restaurant at the end of the street, you immediately perked up, tucking your hair behind your ear and preparing yourself for this date. You skipped on over to the store, but within a few steps of the way, the clouds turned an alarming shade of gray and an immediate downpour began. 

The water droplets were huge, leaving stains of tears on the pavement. The rain was indiscriminate, landing on both the buildings on the street, and the individuals walking around there. 

You blinked as you felt particularly large droplets land on your face, instantly knowing the makeup you worked so hard on would begin to wash off and smear in the rain. The water landed on your hair ruined how each strand was placed to perfection and your dress looked soggy and almost translucent. 

As if possessed, you sprinted to the restaurant and entered to take cover from the showers outside. The restaurant was dimly lit with chandeliers and candles on the tables, the tablecloths adorned with a vase of fresh flowers and empty wine glasses at the ready.

In other words, the place was much too fancy for your current state. 

Your eyes landed on Wriothesley, who immediately jumped out of his seat at the sight of you. He rushed over with a concerned look on his face, promptly removing his outerwear and draping it over your shoulders without second thought.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said meekly, feeling a shiver run down your spine as a cold breeze made its way into the restaurant. 

He shook his head, brushing your cold hair out of your face and grabbing a handkerchief from his breast pocket. “That’s the least of our concerns right now. Are you okay? It seems you are completely drenched.”

“I’m okay,” you sniffled, accepting his handkerchief and dabbing the water droplets off your face and neck. “It was just nice and sunny one minute, then gloomy and pouring the next.” 

A look of understanding crossed Wriothesley’s face as a dry chuckle escaped him. “The Iudex’s work, most likely.”

You nodded in agreement. “First, he encourages me to go on a date with you, then when it finally happens, he cries and ruins it all.” You sighed, but after a moment’s thought said, “I hope Neuvillette is alright. The rain seemed really bad with no build up or warning… I hate to use devices during a date, but is it okay if I message him to check in?” 

“Of course,” said Wriothesley, waving off any concerns you might have. As you got your communication device out from your purse, he placed his hand on the small of your back and guided you to the table. 

Y/N: neuvillette… why are you crying??? 

Y/N: is everything okay?

Neuvillette: Frederick wasn’t eating and seems to be floating up instead of swimming.

Neuvillette: I am concerned. 

Y/N: oh no!! :((( not your goldfish… do you want to ask sigewinne if she can help disgnose and cure him??

Neuvillette: I do, but I am too worried about leaving Frederick alone right now. 

Y/N: hmm…

Y/N: i’m supposed to be on a date with wriothesley right now :’( but i don’t want frederick to grow ill. 

Y/N: i’ll ask wriothesley to take me to the fortress of meropide and inform sigewinne!!

Neuvillette: During your date? You should be enjoying each other’s company. Frederick and I will be fine. 

Just then, you heard the downpour from outside grow even louder. You sighed, looking at Wriothesley apologetically. To his credit, he seemed to have the patience of a saint as he simply smiled encouragingly at you. 

Y/N: i’m sure neither wriothesley nor i could enjoy a date knowing our friend is in this much distress.

Y/N: we will go. don’t worry, neuvillette 

Neuvillette: I am sorry for the intrusion, but thank you. I appreciate it. As does Frederick. 

Clutching the handkerchief in your hands, you looked up at Wriothesley with concern etched on your face. 

“Is everything okay?” he asked. 

“No,” you shook your head. “Neuvillette is worried about his goldfish, Frederick, being sick.”

Wriothesley frowned, his brows crinkling. “That is terrible.”

“I know! So, I may have offered that we go to Sigewinne and ask if she can help Frederick somehow,” you said sheepishly. “I know this isn’t how I expected our first date to be, but it seems urgent. I promise, I’ll make it up to you!” 

Standing up from his seat, he patted the top of your wet hair and shook his head. “Helping friends is important. Neither of us could have known Frederick would have complications right now— There is nothing you need to make up.” 

You nodded, but a guilty look still flooded your face. It wasn’t enough for you to be late to your first date with Wriothesley. Instead, you also showed up looking like a hot mess, and immediately cancelled the date within five minutes of being there. Fiddling with the buttons on the coat Wriothesley gave you, worry gnawed at your stomach. You were looking forward to going on a date with your long-time crush, and you would be devastated if this ruined all your chances. 

As if sensing your concerns, Wriothesley smiled and offered you his hand. Startled you looked up at him, slowly sliding yours into his. It was warm and dry, a stark contrast to your cold and damp ones. The heat enveloped you and you immediately felt your worries melting away. 

“I, for one, find it incredibly selfless of you to offer to help Neuvillette like this,” he said in admiration. “Your looks are not only beautiful, but your heart as well. So please, do not feel guilty at the change of plans. Let’s make the most of it. We can always have a fancy dinner date another night.” 

Your eyes widened, cheeks flushed at his compliments. “So, you’re saying I have a chance at another date?” 

Wriothesley chuckled, brushing the pad of his thumb across your knuckles. “It’s a guarantee, if you’ll have me, that is.”

“I’ll have you for as long as you’re offering!” you said in excitement, too happy to pay attention to the bashfulness creeping in at your words. 

“For you, I’ll always be offering,” said Wriothesley with a smile as he led you out of the restaurant and apologizing to the staff for the sudden cancellation. “Now, let’s go save Frederick.”

“Let’s do it!” 

[glitterjay]

⭒ sub!sunghoon, getting caught, humping, denial of orgasm(?, suggestive content under cut, mdni

⭒ c's note: this was requested by an anon in my ask! i hope it's good enough, yes yes. feedback is appreciated and needed as always. i also invite you to check this out if you do like this, hehe

⭒ taglist: @hollyoongs @moon7jay @wondipity @defnotfertilizedtoesw @kwiwin

you had left for a business trip that would last about a week, maybe a few days less if everything went smoothly. this was actually hell for your boyfriend, sunghoon. it was established before you left that he was not allowed to touch himself until you were home.

he was a good boy. he set his mind to do what he was told so you could reward him once you were back home. boy, was it hard with all those texts telling him you were missing him and his body so much.

those calls where you were clearly touching yourself to his voice, yet sunghoon couldn't do anything about his own problem.

he'd usually take a cold shower to get rid of his hard on, but he lost his mind on this specific day, when you sent him a voice message praising him for waiting so long, and how you were already on your way home from the airport.

sunghoon ran the cold shower once again, his hands desperately fighting the urge to grab his cock and please himself. it hurt, it really did. the ice water didn't seem to work anymore. it was as if his body had grown inmune.

when he was out, his dick was still hard as rock. he put on a fresh pair of boxers and sweatpants, his underwear getting stained with the precum that leaked from his tip when his mind thought of you.

the corner of the sink seemed very appealing to him, his mind already going insane. sunghoon had seen people humping tables and objects with corners in porn videos. it didn't hurt to try, right? the drive from the airport was far anyway.

-

he removed his sweatpants, leaving his boxers on, and carefully positioned himself so that his hard on rubbed perfectly on the surface of the sink. the corner o my added to his pleassure, hitting his balls from time to time as he grinded.

sunghoon didn't want to cum. he just wanted to satisfy the feeling of desperation growing within him, or so he thought. he was going painfully slow, eventually picking up his pace, too drunk in the pleasure to care about the set of rules he gave himself before starting.

hidden moans filled the room and the whole house. it was a surprise when you opened the door and heard the noises coming from upstairs. the traffic wasn't as bad as you thought it would be, so the drive home was cut short by around 5 minutes.

-

the view from your shared bathroom with your boyfriend would have given anyone a wave of pleasure. a handsome man, his hair falling over his eyes, shirtless, holding onto the sink for dear life as he humped the corner of it.

the veins in his arms bulged from how tightly he was gripping the furniture. his head hung low, and his entire body trembled. it seemed as though he might collapse at any moment.

you cleared your throat, crossing your arms as your boyfriend looked up at you with wide eyes. to make matters worse, his movements didn't stop at all.

"was being such a good mhm! boy, promise!" he said.

his eyes glistened due to the tears welling in them, threatening to fall at any second. "such a good boy, haven't cummed yet," he repeated.

"and you won't." you said firmly.

sunghoon sobbed when your hands touched his body. he was in such desperation to feel any part of you that a mere touch had him seeing stars. tou positioned yourself behind him, your hip making contact with his backside.

your arms wrapped around his torso as you started moving him again, rocking both of your bodies back and forth. your boyfriend was a whimpering and crying mess by this point, saliva dripping out of his mouth as he screamed and yelped.

"you won't cum until i say so, understood?"

© glitterjay | tumblr

[yiichan]

effortlessly ; lee chan | dino

pairings. yandere!stalker!leechan x male!reader word count. 1.3k. genre. yandere, smut.

warnings. mdni, stalking, obsessive behaviour, chan is delusional, reader is oblivious, perv!chan, watching through hidden cameras, masturbation, kidnapping/abductation, use of drugs(?.

thank you @sousydive for beta reading.

network: @mansaenetwork

masterlist | navigation | main page | kofi | ao3

Chan leaned his head against the wall and listened to the sound of rushing water with his earphones. His eyes were closed, and he squeezed the phone in his hand. 

In his head, the image of a naked you rubbed your body sensually as soap was spread over your soft skin. Chan moaned loudly, picturing that it was his own hands that were traveling over your skin. From your neck, across your chest, and all the way down to your cock.

Fuck. 

Chan pulled his own cock out, stroking the shaft as he continued his unfiltered imagination. He would pull you close, his lips claiming the skin upon your neck. His hand would go up to the rosebuds on your chest, pulling and nicking at them until they stayed perky and hard. The other one will slowly make its way to your cock, stroking them softly like how he is doing to his own right now. 

Chan would push you onto the wall, his tongue intertwined with yours as he firmly grinds against your plush cheeks. He'll grab your wrists and hold them up above you, watching you struggle in helplessness against him as his finger breaches your hole, preparing you for the whole of him. The sound of running water stopped in his earphones, accompanied by humming and shuffling. 

Chan threw his head back, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he spurts release all over himself. The white sticky substance stained his finger as he lifted them to his mouth, imagining that it was yours instead.

"Yummy..." He licked his lips, letting out a long sigh of contentment. Shifting his gaze toward his phone's small, cracked screen, Chan watched as you dried off and put on your clothes. His eyes raked over your body—from your delicate face to your toned muscles and abs. 

He couldn't wait to have you all to himself.

But his hyungs had taught him that a good hunter is rewarded when he’s patient.

With a slow breath, Chan removed his earphones and reached for the tissues, wiping himself with little care before tossing them aside and changing into fresh clothes. A light hum escaped his lips as he checked his reflection in the mirror, adjusting his shirt, then his cap. Everything had to be perfect.

The night was eerily still. The warm wind swept down empty streets, carrying with it the faint sounds of distant traffic. Chan’s footsteps were muffled as he walked along the gravel path beneath your apartment, his cap pulled low over his face. He paused, glancing up at your window. The dim light from your living room poured through the drawn curtains, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your shadow moving inside.

Heat flushed through Chan’s cheeks as his mind raced with the possibilities. Tonight was the night. Tonight, he was finally going to have you. All to himself.

You sank into the couch with a sigh, letting the familiar comfort of the cushions cradle your tired body. The latest episode of your favorite variety show flickered on the screen, and for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to relax. It had been a long day—dealing with workplace disputes, navigating meetings with clients. Exhaustion weighed heavily on your shoulders.

Maybe an early night wouldn't be so bad.

Ding dong.

You frowned, your gaze shifting towards the door. Who could be visiting at this hour? A glance at the clock confirmed it was well past the time for casual drop-ins. Stifling a yawn, you dragged yourself off the couch and made your way to the door.

Peeking through the peephole, you spotted a figure standing outside. A stranger, his face shadowed by a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Something about the situation struck you as odd.

You cracked the door open halfway, just enough to get a better look. He glanced up at you, his expression neutral yet tinged with something unreadable.

"Sorry to bother you," he began, his voice soft but steady.

You blinked, curiosity stirring as you took him in. Now that you could see him more clearly, you noticed he was leaning on a crutch, his posture slightly strained. He was good-looking—almond-shaped eyes, raven-black hair peeking out from under his cap, and full lips pressed into a tight line. As he adjusted his cap, you couldn’t help but notice his toned arms flexing beneath his shirt. He pointed upward, towards the direction of your balcony.

"I just moved in upstairs a couple of nights ago," he explained. "I think some of my clothes fell onto your laundry line by mistake. Do you mind grabbing them for me?"

"One second..." You hesitated, your thoughts swirling. Something about him made you pause—a subtle, gnawing feeling that something was off. But he looked so sincere, so harmless, standing there on that crutch. Compassion began to override your initial discomfort.

You relented, opening the door a little wider. "Would you like to come in and rest for a moment while I grab them?" you offered, gesturing toward the couch. "It won't take long."

"Oh," his eyes lit up briefly at your invitation, but the brightness quickly faded. "Wouldn't I be bothering you? I can just wait here..."

"No, I insist," you replied, missing the flash of something darker that passed through his eyes. "Please, come in."

Now, the door was fully open. You stepped back, silently welcoming him inside. The man hesitated for a moment before hobbling in slowly with his crutch. You offered to help him, but he shook his head with a slight smile. "It's okay, I got this."

You led him into the living room, watching as he lowered himself onto your couch with careful movements. "I'll go get the clothes," you said, trying to sound casual. He nodded, his eyes never leaving you, sharp and intense, like a hawk tracking its prey.

But just as you turned your back, you felt something soft and damp press against your mouth and nose. Panic surged through you as an arm snaked around your waist, pulling you tightly against a solid chest. The sharp, medicinal scent of chemicals filled your nostrils, and you realized—too late—that it was a handkerchief soaked in something meant to knock you out.

You struggled, instinctively grabbing at the arm around your waist, trying to pry yourself free. Your legs kicked out in desperation, your fingers clawing at the cloth as muffled protests escaped your lips. But the man behind you was strong, his grip unwavering as he held you firm, pressing the handkerchief tighter.

The world began to blur. Your thoughts became sluggish, the strength draining from your limbs as darkness crept in from the edges of your vision. Still, you fought, the terror of the situation fueling your weakening efforts. But your body wasn’t listening anymore. The fight was slipping away from you, your limbs growing heavier with each passing second.

A low voice, almost soothing in its familiarity, whispered against your ear. "Shhh... Just relax. It'll be over soon."

Chan watched intently as your body went limp in his arms. He kept the handkerchief pressed firmly against your face for a few moments longer, ensuring that you were completely out before finally releasing his hold. He breathed in slowly, savoring the moment, a twisted sense of satisfaction curling at the edges of his lips.

With meticulous care, he hefted you up and over his shoulder, moving with an ease that belied his earlier act of frailty. The crutch clattered to the floor, a useless prop now discarded.

Whatever Chan wanted, Chan got.

Effortlessly.

He straightened, adjusting your weight on his shoulder as if you were nothing more than a possession—a prize he had claimed. There was no urgency in his movements, no hesitation. He had planned this carefully, and now, you were his.

And nothing would take you away from him.

© yiichan, 2024 origin of divider

[hopesangelsprite]

The Summoning

Pairing: Vampire!Illumi x Reader

Summary: Being immortal can grow very old, very quickly and Illumi's found that out the hard way. The only reasonable solution would be to find a suitable playmate, right?

Warnings: mentions of blood/death/murder, biting, size/strength difference, fingering, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, dacryphilia, breeding kink, degradation, female ejaculation, manipulation (vampire compulsion)

MINORS/AGELESS ACCS DNI

Viewer discretion is advised.

Oh, and my love

Did I mistake you for a sign from God?

Or are you really here to cast me off?

Or maybe just to turn me on

Illumi watched with half-lidded eyes as his servants removed a corpse from his feet, nothing left of the younger male but an empty, soulless husk. How many had he gone through now? 30? 300? Whatever the death toll was, it didn't matter. Illumi no longer cared for numbers, the sheer quantity of his years on earth drawing him to the conclusion that they were overrated.

"Bring me the next one.", he ordered while leaning further into the large throne chair he'd taken residence in, "If this one doesn't satisfy me, I'll be draining one of you in their place.". Illumi let threat roll off his blood-stained lips easily, keen on fulfilling it should he be presented another weakling.

There was a brief silence before the doors to his quarters opened, your figure edging closer uncertainly. The closer you got, the better he was able to analyze you. Unlike his previous victims, there were no tears in your eyes or trembling in your limbs. Though you eyed him warily, he sensed you were more curious than afraid. You were quite attractive, as well; with smooth curves just barely concealed by what was left of a skirt and halter top. As you finally got within arm's reach of him, you sank to your knees with fluttering lashes.

Illumi's cock twitched at the sight, the position giving him a perfect view of your tits and exposed thighs. "Do you know why you're here, pretty thing?", he inquired whilst making a mental note of just how fragile you were in comparison to him. To any mortal man, you'd be considered healthy, maybe even too much so for those on the weaker end of the male spectrum. To Illumi, however, you were nothing but a doll, a plaything he could bend and contort to his undead heart's content.

"I was running from my old life... I was promised shelter.", you answered after a moment and Illumi chuckled. He leaned forward, crimson tongue flicking over glinting fangs, and grasped your face with a large, ring-laden hand. "There's no safety for you here, little doll, only death or imprisonment.", he drawled out, keen eyes catching the way your thighs pressed together at his touch. With one hand, you removed his hand from your face, head turning to place a kiss on his palm. The other you placed on his dark denim-clad thigh, fingers tracing patterns into the coarse material. "Then I should aim to please, no?", you inquired as your hand crept closer to his belt.

'Cause these days

I would be lying if I told you that

I didn't wish that I could be your man

Or maybe make a good girl bad

A smirk graced Illumi's lips at your insinuation, lust deepening within him as you carefully undid his belt's clasp. So, he leaned back, dark eyes watching you like a predator behind inky tresses. He pushed his hips forward to allow you better access to him, reveling in the tiny gasp you let out upon freeing his cock. His skin was milky, fading into a pretty pink closer to his weeping tip; a few veins adorned his shaft, a little longer than he was thick. Your mouth watered at the sight, core moistening as you took him into your hands.

Illumi groaned at the softness of your skin against his, catching his bottom lip between a fang as you gave him a few experimental strokes. You shuffled closer, knees no doubt bruising from the floor's harsh surface. You placed your chin on his knees, inquiring eyes boring into his as you swiped a thumb over his leaky slit; you were seeking permission, how wonderfully submissive of you. "Go on then, have a taste.", he permitted with a lazy nod.

His breath caught in his throat as your warm, plush lips enveloped his cockhead, your tongue following shortly afterward. You kissed him wetly, the taste of precum unfamiliar yet welcomed. You took him into your mouth once more, this time sucking him as far back into your throat as you could. A deep, satisfied hum rumbled through Illumi's chest as he watched you begin to come up for air, a blood-stained hand tangling itself into your hair to stop your rising and push you down further. "Now, now. Don't underestimate yourself, darling, you can take a little bit more.", he mewled over the sound of your gagging, "Can't you?".

Illumi finally let you up after a few moments, cooing at the sight of tear-streaked mascara kissing your cheeks. Still, your eyes only held a strange look of awe and adoration; one that Illumi found himself mirroring as you continued to suck him off ever so sweetly. Illumi hissed as he pulled you off his cock, leaning down to catch your lips with his. He deepened the kiss as he guided you from the floor onto his lap, the taste of his arousal on your tongue only making him harder.

As Illumi broke the kiss, lips dipping to nip at your neck while his hands slipped underneath your skirt, a low curse escaped him as his fingers met your bare, soaked core. He found his sanity waning. "Nothing underneath?", he hummed as he brought your face close to his, "What a pretty little slut you are.". He locked eyes with you, eye contact unwavering as he pushed two long fingers past your entrance and began searching for that soft, spongy spot he knew would have you singing praises.

You whimpered upon the intrusion, thighs quaking as he began scissoring you open. Illumi took your bottom lip between his teeth and tugged, enjoying your breathy moans and the noises coming from your sopping cunt. "Feels good, doesn't it.", he chuckled as your hips began rutting against his palm, "I think we both know what'll feel much better, though.".

I've got a river running right into you

I've got a blood trail, red in the blue

Something you say or something you do

The taste of the divine

Before you could reach your high, Illumi pulled his fingers from your cunt. Without a second of hesitation, he shoved those same fingers into your throat as he pulled you down onto his cock, allowing very little protest as your pelvises met abruptly. More tears welled behind your lash line as you adjusted to the stretch of him overfilling your pussy, tip nuzzled snuggly against your cervix and g-spot. "Filthy fucking whore.", he spat as he pulled his fingers from your mouth and began manhandling you up the expanse of his shaft, "My filthy fucking whore.".

You cried out in pleasure as he pulled you back down, setting a quick and unforgiving rhythm. Illumi watched your tits bounce beneath the fabric of your top ruefully as he continued to use you like a doll. He growled as he tugged at its neckline, hips bucking up into you as it freed your breasts with a loud rip. You shivered as Illumi leaned forward to take one of your nipples between his teeth, gently tugging at it before swirling his tongue around the sensitive flesh. He continued his ministrations, switching between left and right, with a single hand keeping a bruising grip on your hip while the other busied itself by rolling your clit between its thumb and index finger.

Illumi felt your soft walls flutter around him and he groaned into your skin, pulling your body impossibly closer to his. He released your tit with a loud pop, hips pistoning his cock into you faster as he licked a stripe up your chest and neck. It didn't take him long to find your pulse, suckling over the skin while imagining just how sweet you'd taste. Soon, his cock was throbbing in perfect time with your moans, his high growing closer and closer the more you called out his name and begged him to slow down. Instead, he removed himself from your neck, pulling your forehead against his to lock eyes with you.

The air between and around you quickly grew tense, a steady thrum of energy bringing you closer to your high as Illumi's dark eyes melted into a bloody, crimson shade. "Cum for me.", he moaned into your mouth, head dipping to pierce your skin with his fangs. Without warning, your orgasm washed over you like a tidal wave, curses and pleas tumbling from your lips as the stinging pain of being bitten melded into overwhelming pleasure. Your mind grew numb as you came, your arousal spraying over Illumi's lap as he drank you in. And you let him, body trembling and unable to come down from the violent high he'd brought upon you.

You've got my body, flesh, and bone

The sky above, the earth below

Nothing to say and nowhere to go

A taste of the divine

Illumi released your neck after a long moment, tongue lapping up a few stray beads of blood as he pulled your hips flush against his and filled you with his seed. Another tremor crept down your spine at the sudden hot, sticky substance filling your womb, Illumi whispering sweet nothings and pretty vows into your ear to coax you out of the trance he'd locked you in. You blinked once, then twice, to clear the white spots and tears from your vision.

"There you are, little one.~", he purred before placing a kiss on the now bruising bite mark he'd given you, "Was afraid I lost you for a second.". All you could do was whimper, slumping forward to rest your head in the crook of his shoulder. Your scent faintly mingled with sex and iron filled his nostrils, tempting him to finish draining and breeding you. He let you rest, though, leaning back into the chair with his cock still plugging you full as he, too, drifted into sleep for the first time in centuries.

Besides, the venom and cum in your system would need time to take effectively.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Mission Control 22

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

It’s not calm. It’s just nothing. You’re not afraid, you’re not angry, or sad, or anything. Just empty. The tension clings to his touch as he draws away and you’re left just like that. Numb, but not quite. 

You turn onto your back as the soldier stands. You watch him in the strange haze of your existence. Your eyes close as the fire crackles around the fresh log he lays on it. You sink into the depths of your heedless mind. 

When you rouse again, it isn’t for long. He’s dressed in black. As always. But you know by his stance, by his armour and cowl, that he is on his way out. He pauses to pet your head before he goes. You don’t react. 

You shut your eyes again and let the sleep take over your addled body. The pain recedes to a dull thrum and your thoughts slow to a placid ripple. Hours unfurl in shadowy ribbons. When you wake again, you can sense the time passed. Close to a day. 

He is still gone. 

You get up, keeping your injured foot off the floor, and hop around in search of your keeper. You lean on the wall to keep your balance as you make your way through the cabin. You stop in the bedroom door and stare at the blood stain on the wooden floor. You quiver at the memory of the intruder’s fate. 

You retreat to the kitchen and sit for a while. Your appetite sours your stomach. You don’t know how as your thoughts threaten to make you nauseous.  

You flinch as the wind rattles the windows and whistles just outside those battered walls. The world slows and so do your thoughts, just enough to sort them. How did that man find you? How did he get past the traps? Is he the only one? No, you can’t believe that the villain who took you has only a single enemy. 

You get up and go to the fridge. There’s a covered plate with a note on it. ‘Eat’. You bring it to the table and remove the foil. Two hard-boiled eggs, a peeled and separated orange, a cup of cottage cheese, and whole wheat crackers. It’s not fancy or especially tasty but it’s more than enough. 

As you wash the plate, you notice the mug. Another note. ‘Drink’. There’s a packet of instant coffee tucked behind the paper torn from the same notebook he kept by the bed. 

You add boiling water to the mix and gratefully down the caffeine. The familiar taste is comforting. You stay at the table for a while, your eyes skimming the front room. The place is as bland as the meal. 

Then you see it. It wasn’t there before the chaos. You stand and hobble through the open doorway and across the room. You stop before the armchair and the stack on the seat. There’s an unopened package of pencils, a sharpener too; beneath, several puzzle books, another book of blank pages, and a rubik’s cube. 

Under all that, is something else. A dress. Yellow linen, with eyelets around the waist and short sleeves, and buttons down the front. The buttons are pearl and you can tell it is true vintage. 

You leave it on the chair and take a puzzle book. You open the box of pencils and sharpen it to a point. You open the pages and the smell of paper invades your nose. It’s nice. You love that smell. It’s the best you’ve felt in weeks just tasting that scent. 

You sit and do a puzzle. You stop as your cheeks ache. You’re smiling. Something so simple is the most amazing thing you’ve ever done. Just writing the letters. Knowing the answers. You close the book and hold it in your lap as your eyes glaze over. 

You sit hunched on the couch and sob. It could be the pain, it could be the horror of what you witnessed, it could be the terror of what’s to come, the isolation of this cabin, it is everything and anything. Your grief bubbles over and constricts your ribs to the point of breathlessness. You let it all out until you are spent and your cheeks are raw. 

You shakily set down the book on the side table and stand. You angle over to the chair on one foot and lift the dress. You look down at the dark shirt; his. You don’t even remember him putting it on you. 

You strip it off and pull on the dress. It smells like laundry detergent. It’s soft. It’s lovely. It makes you feel a little more human. 

You limp, touching only the toes of your wounded foot to the floor, and go into the bathroom. You can only see to just below your chest in the mirror. Your face and your hair are a disaster but you don’t care. The dress is nice. It’s cute. 

You just watch yourself as you run your hands up and down the fabric. You stay there until you can bear to stand no longer. You come back out, hopping again, but before you can reach the front room, there’s a clatter at the door. 

You cry out as your heart lurches. You search around for anything, something to defend yourself. What if it’s not him? What if it’s another villain? 

The door swings open but does not assuage your fears. It is the soldier but he is not himself. He has his cowl still in place and his body seems to steam as his chest rises and falls rapidly. His muscles are tense beneath the taut fabric, bulging in his armour. 

You cannot see his expression but you can imagine it by his posture. He marches forward mechanically and you whine as you throw up your hands. He grabs your head between his large hands and you struggle with him, dancing on your toes as you cry out in agony. 

“No, please,” you beg. 

That little bit of joy flies out the door and fades into the billowing winds. You push against his stomach as he tries to pull you closer. You ball one hand and beat on his chest as you strain to keep him from smothering you. 

“No, don’t! No, no, not like this,” you plead as you snake your hand up.  

You writhe in his grasp as you get a thumb under his cowl. You slide the strap from his chin and the mask shifts. You continue to push against him as you flip it up, getting it just above his mouth. You tear at it again and unveil his face. 

You look up at him as his eyes fall to you. His scar is a torturous shade of white as he clenches his jaw. His eyes are dilated and dark. Just like the first time he returned. Your insides quake at just the thought. 

He clutches at your dress and pulls you closer. You squeak and shakily press your hand to his cheek. You caress him with your fingertips as he crushes you again him, your arm folding between your bodies. You brush through his sweaty strands and tremble. 

“Please, be nice,” you quaver. “Be soft to me, soldier. Please.” 

He squeezes you until you can’t breathe. You flutter your fingers around his ear and whimper once more. Then he slackens his hold on you and unhooks his arm from your waist. His eyes clear and his hands rest lightly on your hips. 

He opens his mouth and outlines a word with his lips, ‘soft’. 

[cameronsprincess]

needy blowjobs w Rafe 😫😫

i want to suck the soul out of this man, so i love the idea of needy blowjobs with him😮‍💨🤤

warnings: smut! 18+ oral (male receiving), praise.

you loved sucking rafe’s cock. it was probably your favorite thing to do.

whether it was road head, or in the bathroom during a family dinner the two of you couldn’t wait to leave, or waking him up in the mornings, or late at night. it didn’t matter. you loved having his thick cock shoved down your throat. tears falling down your face, mascara stained cheeks and lipstick smudged from drooling.

you also loved how rough he was with you while you sucked him off. his fingers dug into your hair, a grip so tight it was bruising, neck pulled into the most uncomfortable positions while he rammed himself down your throat. the most painful thrusts, as his swollen head repeatedly beats at the back of your throat made your panties soaked.

the thoughts of sucking him off run wildly through your mind as you search for your boyfriend, the need to taste him strong.

“rafe?!” you shout, your feet carrying you up the spiral staircase. you make your way down the long hallway, pushing the door to his room open and glancing inside.

no rafe.

you sigh, running a shaky hand through your hair and walking back down the stairs. you make your way into the backyard, spotting rafe in one of the patio chairs, his phone pressed firmly against his ear.

“rafe…” you say softly, running your hand across his back and sitting yourself in his lap.

he glances at you, his free hand wrapping around your waist and pulling you into his firm chest. you lean forward, placing a kiss to his neck, your teeth nipping at the lobe of his ear before you whisper, “wanna taste you rafe, please”

he’s mid-sentence with whoever he’s on the phone with, but his words become fumbled. he slowly turns his face toward you again, an eyebrow raised and a sexy smirk on his lips.

“uh, hey i’m gonna have to call you back”

he gives the person on the other end no time to respond before he’s quickly hanging the phone up and placing it on the table in front of him.

“my girl needy for my cock hmm? need to have me filling your pretty little mouth?”

you bring your bottom lip between your teeth, your thighs rubbing together as you nod your head, “yes, need it so badly, please”

you feel his cock growing hard underneath your ass, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip as his eyes scan your face.

you quickly stand from his lap, allowing him to slouch himself in his chair, legs spread wide. you quickly drop to your knees, the harsh concrete ground digging into your bare skin and making you wince, but you push the pain away and begin working at his belt.

once his belt is removed, you quickly pop the button of his denim jeans, his zipper being slowly pulled down right after. he lightly lifts himself from the seat, allowing you to slide the rough fabric down his legs, his boxers following behind quickly.

your mouth begins to water when you see his thick cock springing free, precum already leaking from the tip, “can’t wait to taste you” you say lowly as your hands fly to his cock, giving him a few slow pumps.

you place your thumb at the tip of his cock, spreading his precum around the head and dipping your head down to slowly circle your tongue around his throbbing tip.

rafe groans, “fuck, always such a good girl, taking care of me”

your pussy throbs at his praise, your lips wrapping around his head and sucking at it softly. you push your head down more, taking his entire length down your throat, the tip kissing at the back of your throat and pulling a small gag from you.

you take a deep breath through your nose, hollowing your cheeks and beginning slow and steady bobs of your head.

rafe’s fingers dig into your hair, lightly tugging at your locks as you continue your slow sucking motions.

“fuck baby, go a little faster, don’t be shy”

you hum around him, the vibrations from your mouth making his hips buck forward. you begin to bob your head faster, sucking and licking every inch of his cock. you force one of your hands between the two of you, cupping lightly at his balls snd squeezing.

rafe is groaning loudly, his hips bucking into your face, his cock pushing and pulling from your mouth. only the sounds of your slurps and gags, along with rafe’s low and raspy grunts fill the air around you as his hips begin to stutter.

you look up at him through your lashes, and the sight before you has your panties soaked— rafe’s head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut as curses and whispers of your name fall from his perfect lips.

“f-fuuuuck, ‘m gonna cum y/n, keep, keep doin’ that”

you squeeze at his balls harder, massaging them in your hands and you suck at him faster. his cock pulses in your mouth, balls tightening as he comes undone. his grip in your hair tightens, pushing your head down as far as he could and keeping you there, letting his cum spill into your mouth and forcing you to swallow it.

he releases your hair, allowing you to pull yourself off of him. you let yourself fall into a sitting position, wiping the drool from your mouth and smiling up at him, “thank you baby”

he grins, pulling up his boxers and jeans before standing from his spot.

“mmm, no thank you. now, sit in the chair, it’s my turn to please you”

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[mrsjellymunson]

The Biology Tutor

Independent Study 01: Art

Series masterlist

Pairing: virgin!Eddie Munson x fem!tutor!reader

Series summary: Eddie’s failing Biology class, so you decide to offer two different styles of tuition, textbook-based and *ahem* practical.

Chapter summary: Eddie reflects on your most recent study session.

WC: ~1.68k

C/W: 18+, SMUT, MDNI!! I don’t want to give too much away, so I’ll just say that Eddie has some alone time… (If you’ve read the rest of this series you’ll likely not be surprised by any of the content, but if anyone feels strongly that this part needs any specific cautions LMK 💙) No physical descriptions of reader, but she is described as wearing makeup (though this isn’t integral to the story and it’s only one line)

A/N: I know I promised you Lesson 3 was coming soon, but I couldn’t help thinking about how Eddie and reader might feel after their recent tryst in the library, so this extra was born (and you can shout at me about it in the comments if you wish, I would love it ISTG 😂).

As if it wasn’t bad enough already, he muses. Eddie’s been increasingly distracted, and even his Hellfire campaigns are starting to suffer. But ever since that kiss (oh fuck, that kiss) in the library, Eddie absolutely can’t stop thinking about you.

The situation only gets worse when he’s alone, and is compounded further anytime he’s naked.

He’s already jerked off to the thought of you so many times, and he’s certain you knew exactly what you were doing when you brought those (silky, stained) sleep shorts to school for him. (He’s ashamed to admit that he’d spent that morning break under the bleachers with them pressed up against his face, breathing so deeply he almost hyperventilated, and since he got them home they haven’t left his bed.) But he still feels like it’s somehow wrong for him to think about you like this, and he’s sure you’ll see it written all over his face…

This isn’t the first time he’s thought about you whilst he’s in the shower, either. In fact, that started even before you became his tutor - it just took you wearing a particularly short skirt to biology class and it rapidly became a favourite pastime of his.

But today, thanks to your unexpectedly steamy study session in the library, his his cock is already fully hard, standing proudly in front of him within moments of him stepping into the tub, and his mental imagery is especially vivid.

He manages a quick wash before the throbbing between his legs demands his full attention, and his thoughts inevitably turn back to you.

Taking his cock lightly in his hand, he imagines kissing you gently, slowly. He remembers how your lips and mouth felt against his, and how your hands crept up his back over his shirt just hours ago. He recalls every movement, every sensation, as if to burn it permanently into his memory. The feel of your lips, how you smelled, how -oh god- how you tasted. He thinks about how gentle and soft your tongue was, and how he can’t get the sensation of it sliding against his out of his mind. It’s jostling for space next to the thoughts of how much he wants to use his own to explore every inch of you, if you’d ever let him.

Then, in his mind, you’re going over more test questions with him, just like you were in the study room. Except now each time he gets a question right, you praise him, stroke his face… and remove an item of clothing.

Eventually your clothing is all gone and you’re kneeling in front of him here in the shower, the warm water cascading over you in sparkling rivulets. Your naked body seems to glow, and your skin has an otherworldly, fantastical iridescence. Your pretty makeup smears and runs, creating delicate streaks of colour down your cheeks. And you’re wearing a shining tiara made of precious metals and sparkling stones.

His Princess.

Your knees are spread, leaving yourself open, and he imagines how you’d feel on his fingers. Soft, warm, wet, waiting.

He suppresses a moan, lest any of his neighbours are passing by. The flimsy walls of these trailers are hardly soundproof.

He curses as he imagines your hands running over his taut quads, your lips kissing them, then your soft, warm tongue tickling up his inner thighs towards his cock.

Eddie strokes his fingers delicately over his sack, imagining it’s you licking him, looking up at him through your wet eyelashes as you promise,

“Let me show you what a clever boy you are, Eddie. How much of a reward you deserve for working that beautiful brain so hard.”

And then you’re running your tongue up the full length of his cock, all the way from base to tip, but this time you’re not using biological terms, not trying to educate him. This time, you’re just filling yourself with him, suckling on his swollen head and sliding your wet mouth down onto him, further, further, until the tip of him is nudging your throat.

He thinks back to the last time you were on his sofa, your last ‘lesson’, how good you looked and felt when you took his cock in your mouth and looked at him as he grasped your hand. How your tongue swirled so devilishly before you nodded so sweetly and let him cum down your throat. How you licked his release from your lips…

He feels his balls tighten and a familiar sensation stirs in his abdomen, but he doesn't want this to be over yet, so he grips and squeezes that part of his dick that he knows will stave off his orgasm, opening his eyes and taking a few deep breaths, focussing on the swirl of the soapy water as it spirals down the drain.

Breathing deep, Eddie allows himself to slowly and elaborately create a new fantasy, this time imagining he’s pressing you up against the tiled wall.

He wonders what your wet skin might feel like against his, and how your tits might feel against his chest, beneath his hands, in his mouth.

He pictures what it’d be like to nudge your feet apart, just a little, and slot his hips between those luscious thighs.

How it’d feel to push through your glorious folds with the tip of his cock, and slide slowly into your warmth and wetness. The thought makes his breath leave his body in a rush, and he has to stifle another moan.

He wonders how pliant you’d be, whether you’d tell him how talented he is, how much you love it when he does this, how good you’re gonna be for him.

He wonders whether he'd be sweet, telling you you’re so beautiful, how he'll always take care of you, and treat you like the princess you are.

Or whether you’d be filthy, spilling profanities as you urge him to fill you deeper, take you faster, go harder.

And whether he’d ever have the balls to talk dirty to you, and tell you how well you take him, how your cunt is so perfect for him, how much he wants you, and adores fucking you.

Dick slick with foaming shower gel, Eddie’s swollen member slides almost effortlessly into his fist. He braces himself on his free forearm, palm flat against the tiles, imagining your body is between him and the cool ceramic, moving you both with each thrust of his hips.

He imagines his warm chest pressed to yours, and how the water feels trickling over and between your writhing forms as it flows over his shoulders, across your tits, over his balls and down between your thighs.

He groans into the steamed up space as he bucks up into his fist, imagining it’s your wet and willing pussy. Would you cum like this? It’s his fantasy, so of course you would… He wonders how it would feel. Would it be like he’s read about, where you’d be tight around him, squeezing his length as you rode out your high?

He can almost hear your moans as the head of his cock hits that special spot inside you that - just as you promised the first time you came over - you taught him to find. His ego lets him imagine he’d be skilled, maybe the best you’d had, and he imagines how your voice would eventually crack as you'd breathily tell him, just as you did in the library,

“That’s it, Eddie! You’ve got it!”

All of it combined is enough to tip him over. His hips stutter and his abdomen tenses as he cums with a broken groan, his vision becoming spotty as his wet spend spurts high up the tiles, some of it almost reaching eye level, sticking to the wall in sweeping, dripping splashes and the rest running down over his hand and wrist.

He squeezes himself, milking his cock of every last drop, whispering your name as he leans his forehead against his forearm and rests there, catching his breath. He’s not sure if he’s ever cum that hard by himself, and he certainly never has in the shower.

Vision clearing, he appraises the evidence of his lust. Human art on ceramic canvas.

However, for once it’s not an artistic display of his that he wants anyone else to see. He makes a mental note to clean off the tiles higher up than he normally would, and begins to rinse off under the cooling stream.

Shit. Wayne’s gonna be pissed when he comes home to find he’s used up all the hot water, and he doesn’t even have an excuse.

As he sluices the mess he’s made down the drain and his post-orgasm fog starts to lift, Eddie starts to feel like the deviant perv he’s sure he must be. He also realises how increasingly difficult it’s getting for him to suppress the various feelings he has for you. How the hell is he supposed to face you after this?

Is this that thing he’s heard about? Post Nut Clarity, or something?

Coming down from his high, he wonders what you’re doing right now. Probably hanging with friends, or diligently doing your homework. Something innocent and worthy. Wholesome.

By stark contrast, as he considers the somewhat-uncomfortable, almost-permanent semi he sports when you’re anywhere near him. Or, when he knows you’re in school generally. Or, fuck, simply just whenever he thinks about you. Suddenly he’s grateful for the cooling water, as his dick threatens to get hard again just from the mere thought of seeing you in class, or passing you in a corridor.

But then there’s also… the other feelings. The ones he’s never experienced before. The ones that tell him there’s so much more to this than just ‘having fun whilst tutoring’. At least, there is from his perspective.

Because what if this is just a temporary arrangement, and once he passes biology class you’ll have had your fun and will move on. Maybe even with somebody else?

Or, what if you feel the same?

And honestly? He’s not certain which prospect terrifies him the most…

Thanks so much for reading! I hope you liked this little extra ❤️

Series masterlist

Prev parts: Lesson 1: Female anatomy Lesson 2: Male anatomy Extra Credits 01: Communication skills Extra Credits 02: French Next part: Independent Study 02: Creative Writing

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[bokutoko]

hello!! i really enjoyed your writing for kita! i was wondering if i can request one where reader (fem) gets really emotional over little things (ex. smth doesn’t go as planned) and kita comforts her?

smile

character: shinsuke kita (timeskip!kita)

word count: 792

warning(s): emotional dysregulation, kita is a blunt sweetheart, fluff, slight cursing

content: there's a reason your boyfriend is the farmer and not you...

a/n: hi anon!! thank you so much for the love and the req🫶🏻 this was healing for me to write bc i tend to get emotional over the little things sometimes too. i hope i did our fav rice farmer justice once again <333

Growing up around his grandmother, Kita always had a green thumb. Ever since he was taught that all life was built by small, daily acts, he was always patient with his crops. He made sure to be thorough with maintenance all throughout harvest—up until they reach the consumer’s hands. Because of this, he ensured the highest quality of rice.

You, on the other hand, were not-so secretly known as every plant’s worst nightmare. Of course, you didn’t mean to kill all your plants, they just always somehow died!

But you decided to give it another shot. Watching Kita work so hard outside made you feel confident; if he could manage countless acres of land, you could handle a little garden. You excitedly picked out your favorite fruit and vegetable seeds from the local market, and Kita was happy to build you a little enclosure for your plants.

Now here you were, standing before your little plots of soil with tears in your eyes. You’d tried so hard, but you forgot to water them for one day, and to just your luck, they all died due to an unforeseen heatwave in Hyogo. 

“What the actual fuck?” Huffing in frustration, your eyes squeezed shut, letting the first couple tears fall. Despite the extreme heat, a cold, harsh wave of embarrassment washed over you, and you couldn’t help but feel like a complete failure for messing this up. How was it possible that your boyfriend managed the entire farm, having a near-perfect harvest every year, and you couldn’t even take care of a 6x10-ft plot?

—

Out in the fields, Kita removed his cap, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and looked to the sky. With sunset approaching, he began his trek back home to see you after a long, satisfying day’s work—just a couple more months until harvest. 

As he stepped into the clearing behind your home, he was expecting to see you waiting for him with your usual bright smile that still made his heart skip a beat. But instead, you were standing with your back to him and your hands on your hips.

Uh oh. He walked up behind you, calling, “Evenin’, darlin’.”

You shot around, and he took note of the tear stains that you quickly wiped away. “Hi, Shin,” you greeted with the slightest quiver in your voice. 

“Everythin’ okay?” He looked down at your little plants that were vaporized from the sun, then back to you, noticing your glistening eyes.

“Why do all plants hate me?”

“Ya know plants can’t hate ya.”

“It sure feels like they do!” you snapped, immediately feeling guilty for your attitude when Kita did nothing wrong. You were well aware, as was Kita, when spurts of overwhelming emotions engulfed you—whether happy, sad, angry, embarrassed—your instinct reactions were to either get snappy or briefly cry. Or both, in this case.

Kita watched as fresh, hot tears rolled down your face as you whispered a soft, genuine “I’m sorry,” and he stepped forward to comfort you. You immediately wrapped your arms around his waist and smushed your face into his chest in defeat, mumbling, “I feel so dumb, Shin. What the hell am I doing wrong?”

Always to your rescue, Kita removed his gloves to gently tip your chin up to look into his pretty brown eyes. “Yer not dumb or doin’ anythin’ wrong. Sometimes, plants don’t sprout, an’ sometimes, the ones that do just die. Ain’t nothin’ else about it,” he assured as a gentle thumb wiped your eyes. “Somethin’ as small as this sure ain’t worth yer tears, though.”

You shut your eyes and released a small sigh, your bottom lip jutting out. “I know.”

Kita leaned forward and pressed three tender kisses against your forehead, signifying three words: I love you. “We can always plant some more. We can go ta the market tomorrow an’ pick out more o’the seeds ya want,” he suggested, “and I can help ya take care of ‘em.”

“But you already do so much for me,” you objected.

“It ain’t a big ask, sweetheart,” he reasoned with a loving gaze, “and ya know I’d do anythin’ ta see ya smile.”

You squished your face into his chest in a tight hug again. “You’re kinda cheesy, Shin,” you teased as you hid your reddening cheeks.

He chuckled, grateful that the slight sun on his face hid his own blush, muttering, “Guess I am.“

From that day on, Kita never forgot to give your garden a little extra love in the mornings before tending to the farm. It was worth seeing your big, proud grin when it was time to pick your first round of thriving produce. 

And to Kita, anything was worth doing to keep a smile on your face. 

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[amongsnot]

there are baby shoes in your drawer.

you don’t know how long they’ve been in there—a month, a year, perhaps even two—just that they are gently tucked into the right corner, taking space on top of a toddler onesie.

you sit down on the edge of your bed, cradling the shoes between your hands; cupped like a dove. you tentatively pick one up (turning it around with squinted eyes) and read the size on the back. it reads a number that you do not understand.

but you once did, and there are baby shoes in your drawer, and you are not a baby.

you are eighteen. you are eighteen with a job (to a store you’ve never bought a toy from) and a family (that does not love you) and a life (that does not feel like yours).

and the baby shoes did not belong to you eighteen years ago. they are new and shine and your mother would never buy you something this nice.

the baby shoes are chaste in the front from where a little kid took their first steps. the shoes are tied (double knotted with care and worry). the shoes were put in your bedside table with a precarious sort of caution. the shoes belonged to a baby that was loved, and you did not know that feeling eighteen years ago.

there are baby shoes in your drawer, and they are purple.

you frown and put them on top of your bedside table, next to the tank without fish.

you pull out the onesie that belongs to a toddler next, unfolding it and holding it out in front of you. it has a pun on the front that makes you smile. (“my brother mayde dis shirt!” it reads. then, in a small font underneath. “he cant spel.”)

and you know that this onesie does not belong to you either, because you never had a brother. your parents would rather kill you and then each other before having another kid. your mom still glares at you in the bathroom mirror when she looks at her stretch marks. your dad still forgets to unlock the door when you come home from school.

you would never have a brother; but that’s fine. it’s what you’ve grown accustomed to, after all.

so you would never have a brother, and there is a onesie in your hands.

and there are baby shoes on your bedside table.

you examine the onesie further, checking it for stains or grease marks or rips. you check it for signs that it has been lived in, and you are surprised to see that there are none. this is not the ending you want, though; it is not the ending that the kid with the onesie and the purple shoes deserves.

you run a hand through the neck hole and pull at the cloth from the inside, desperately searching for a sign that this kid had been loved. you glance upwards, through the entryway to your bedroom and at the mirror hanging on the wall in the hallway (there is no physical door to your room. your parents had it removed as soon as they could). you check your own clothes, noting the wrinkled creases and year-old stains. you look at the onesie in your hands and search for everything that you don’t recognize: grass stains from playing outside and food stains from yummy meals. rips from growth spurts and baby drool.

there is nothing, and you come to the terrifying realization that this kid will grow up to be just like you.

the world does not need another one of you.

perhaps you should do something about that. stop it before it happens.

subconsciously, you run a hand through the hole for the neck and check the inside, and then you run a hand through the sleeves, pushing something hard and sharp out of the other end.

you pull your hand out and grab the card, and you pull your hand away from it just to leave a red stain, but you do not care because youve had babysitter who have done worse damage.

(“happy fifth birthday poof!” the card reads, accompanied by a small doodle of a balloon.)

there are three lines that have been scribbled out, before the writer finally decided on a meek “i love you.” and your hand shakes. you can feel a tear run down your cheek, landing on the card next to a similar water stain.

you throw the card across the room and bury your face into the piece of clothing. you don’t know why you’re crying now, when you’ve never cried once in your whole life. you don’t know why you recognize the hand writing on the card. you don’t know why you know what the three lines scribbled out say (“i’m going to miss you.” “it’s better this way!” “you’re going to do great things, i wish i could be there to watch.”).

you don’t know why you bought a purple onesie with a card addressed to a person you don’t know.

you don’t know why you don’t know.

all you know is that there is a card on the floor of your bedroom, and a purple onesie in your lap.

and a pair of baby shoes on your bedside table.

[shaisuki]

“suguru...”

the name came out of the blue. your eyes closed and your head slumped to his chest. you're wasted. barely making coherent words but the the name came in perfect. he supports you with his arms. saving you from the demise of falling face first. he hears a sniffle then it was followed by burst of tears in your eyes. looking at him in a haze where you began to grab his cheeks. your body sways and he steadies you in his strong arms.

"careful." he mumbles and then you're out of cold. he smiles at your drunk form. scooping you in his arms and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"let's get you home." he says before walking towards the exit.

he gently place you in the bed. removing your coat and placing it in the chair before your shoes followed suit. he runs cold water in a small towel.

he looks at your sleeping form. how much did you change in the last years? you're not your old self anymore but your soft features remains. the dimple in your cheek where it sinks when you smile. he missed you smiling.

he sits down in your bed. the mattress dips from his added weight. wipes the sweat in your forehead, the dried tears in your cherubic cheeks and the stain of booze in the corners of your mouth.

he wasn't doing good in cleaning you up. taking care of someone. his lips forms into a thin line. you look so peaceful in your sleep and it's been a long time since he had seen you so serene, calm like you didn't carry the burden of your world.

gojo couldn't help but to bitterly smile at the name you were calling earlier. there's no way you could have mistaken him for another but with the influence of the alcohol. he understands.

he can't speak of it no more. it seems taboo. one could be cursed when he speaks the name of his deceased friend. your lover. he didn't look like suguru a bit. they were like day and night. the sun and moon.

he don't have suguru's hair. no ounce of coal-colored strands in his hair. it's white. snow white. no purples in his eyes instead he have the deep cerulean eyes of his whole holds the strongest power in the universe.

you shift in your sleep and gojo looks at you. sees a tear falls out in your eyes and he catches it with his index finger. it must have been so hard for you. to lost your other half who loves you truly.

you're good at hiding your sadness. your frustration, the disappointment of not being able to protect who you deeply loved.

then gojo realizes. you've been holding it for too long. gojo could applaud for how good you are at hiding it. the smiles you give to others but it doesn't reach your eyes. the abuse of body. empty wrappers of fast food flowing out of your trash bin. drown yourself in the pleasure of alcohol. a temporary escape for everything.

the suicide missions. where he finds you lying on shoko's table or a frantic call from ijichi.

you hadn't moved on. drowning yourself in work and the feelings still unreciprocated. gojo said he'll wait for you. mend the broken pieces of your heart but can it be mended when it's long gone?

he finds himself taking care of you. a feat he never bothered with anyone. he gazes at you. the years piling up on you.

"what have you done, suguru." he badly wants to ask his friend who left you.

he grabs your hand in his. feel the softness of your hand in his roughed hands. it's warm. you were the breath of life in suguru's. he remembers the nights with drinks in their hands. suguru would talk about you fondly. a new kind of smile in suguru's face with your name in his lips.

now, it was left of unshed tears. the words you could never say in your right mind. it hurts. it hurts everywhere.

gojo shouldn't be affected by this. he got things to worry about but when he sees you. it's a reminder he still have you and it's not the end of suguru's absence.

"fuck you, suguru."

time couldn't heal the damage that had been done. it will haunt him and you with the ghosts of the past.

your eyes flutters open, you find gojo holding your hand.

"i'm sorry, satoru. i shouldn't have dragged you into this." the tears streaming down in your cheeks.

he kisses your knuckles, wipes the tears in your cheeks and he leans forward. kissing your forehead.

"it's not your fault, (y/n)." he assures you. his face softening while gazing at you. it's not your fault. you learned to love and suguru returned it.

he says, love is most twisted curse of all. you cursed yourself with it for suguru. he finally understands why he didn't cursed suguru at the end but he don't have an explanation for it.

for the strongest like him, he exorcised the toughest curses and humans alike and yet, he couldn't shield himself from cursing himself to you.

if loving you is being cursed, then so be it. he don't care even it lasts for a lifetime.

[lazyjellyfish300]

for the event: washing eachother’s hair with shiu? (Unrelated to the prompt but wanted to share the thought of how handsome he’d be in a light autumn coat 😭 )

Ohhhhhhh don't I know it 😭😭😭😭😭 he is sooooo very handsome he would look so fine and fancy in an autumn coat and just about anything 🔥🥰 thank you dearest nonnie for that lovely thought hehe 💕 TY for requesting 🖤💐 my Flufftober requests are open all October 🎃

"a sight right there..."

CW: xFEM!READER, suggestive, nudity, minors dni, fluff, mention of blood , smoking

Words: 1.5k

The cascade of ample raindrops on the roof of your ornate home was competing with the steady stream of free flowing water from your shower. A nighttime soak to wash away your worries and unwind slowly from another hard day of being the adored and devoted wife of Shiu Kong. Not expecting him for many hours, you took your time today and spoiled yourself in all of the best ways possible. 

Shiu opens the door,  weary and exhausted pants exiting his mouth, moving as though his limbs were made of molasses as he removed the trenchcoat with one damning stain on the front pocket, kicking off his shoes slowly at the door and trudging towards the laundry chute as he chucked his sins promptly down it. 

He combed a stressed hand through his hair and sighed as he reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, squeezing tightly then letting go in feeble defeat, tossing it on the counter as it could not have been ten minutes since his last partaking. He strode back to the hallway, seeking the more tangible release in the form of his adoring wife whom he surmised was indulging in an evening rinse just up the stairs. 

----

The steam of the shower drapes fog around your figure as you lean back and sigh. The temperature rolling from faucet to skin and settling deep inside your bones. Unknown to you, your husband stares at you from across the bathroom, lips parted and eyes hooded as the sight in front of him works quickly to rid his head of any woes that plauged it earlier. The water trickled and hugged your contours like a creek, with you the supple earth underneath it.

His mouth practically waters as the drops chase one another, creating weeping trails until they land and roll off of the curves of you he adored so much. A literal sea goddess plucked from an island of water nymphs. The kind of body men used to start wars over. 

"Now there's a sight right there..."

You sense him without seeing him and turn with a beam as your bewitched Shiu walks up to the clear glass. 

"Hi baby, won't you join me?" 

"Gladly, dollface..." He responds as his tie is already loosened. 

You smile and watch from the warmth of the shower at the sight of your husband stripping down, a smirk on his face and a look that certainly portrays a series of scenarios going off in his mind of what he'd do when the distance was finally closed off between you. 

As he steps in, your brow temporarily falls in concern, "Honey, you've got..." 

Shiu's hand wanders to his cheek. "Dammit...." He hissed as the bloodstain coated his hand, smudging like ink. "Dammit dammit dammit....." 

"No, let me..." 

He flinches but the sureness of the grip of your hand convinces him to relax as you guided his hand underneath the water, calmly washing it away. Shiu's breath grew slower and slower as the stain cleared, bubbling down the drain. 

"You know I hate when you see me like this..." He muttered, eyes cast downward in shame. 

"And you know it doesn't bother me as much as you think it does, my love...," you retorted gently. 

The illicit nature of his profession was no secret to you. Shiu didn't think twice about getting his hands dirty before, but when you came into his life, it mortified him the idea of someone as precious and innocent as you being mixed up with the complicated messes he found himself in. So he tried to separate them, at whatever cost. But he was floored at how accepting and loving you were anyway. How much grace you afforded him and loved him like it was breathing. 

When he was clean, you hummed as your hands trailed all over his body, his frame and lean muscle you committed to memory on countless occasions across countless days yet seemed to start over anew bringing something you had not yet uncovered with it each time you embarked. 

"Close your eyes..." You hum gently as you back Shiu underneath the water before reaching for the bottle of his shampoo, cedarwood scent filling the space between the fog on the glass. It seeps into his midnight tresses of his scalp and trickles to the dark stubble on his neck, his chest. You take in the sight of your husband at peace as he gently throws his head back, succumbing to the spell of your fingers as they work into his hair, removing worry and leaving peace in their diligent wake. 

"That's nice..." His eyes stay closed as his hands run up and down your hips, loving the way the skin underneath them has turned to silk under the meniscus of the water. "You got magic in your fingertips, dollface."

"Just doing what I can to help my darling husband," you murmur. 

Soon you admire your completed handiwork as Shiu looks down at you, those deep darkened eyes like a starless night seeking the cosmos that were embedded in yours. 

"Wash mine too?" You softly request. 

"Don't need to ask me twice," Shiu whispers. 

Before he begins, he cups both sides of your neck and brings you in, uniting you with the warmth of his wet lips. Soft, tender, and unspoken as the kiss inevitably deepens, the steam of the shower and bare skin left more tantalizing by the water bringing you closer together as your tongues become a little more seeking, hands a little more exploratory. 

When you break it, a feeble whimper squeezes past his lips, mourning the loss of you. 

"That's for later, darling. The night isn't going anywhere." 

Shiu smiles at you, shaking his head and accepting his defeat with a subtle bite of his lip. "You're a damn minx, dollface." He brings you closer so your body is flush against his. "But I've always been a patient man. My turn to wash you." 

You smile and tilt your head back, taking your turn for the water to douse you completely, while the florals and marula oil of your shampoo and conditioner work in tandem with your husband's careful fingers. 

Shiu had a technique to it, somehow the crests of his knuckles were more precise and methodical while the tips of his fingers were lightweight and purposeful like a paintbrush. You could still hear the storm outside, October raindrops relentless with the arrival of the wet season, further endearing you to the warmth of the shower and the touch of your beloved Shiu. 

He hummed gently, "Your Song" by Elton John reassuring against your ear. Unknown to many, your husband could carry quite a tune, but you did not mind if that fact remained only known to you. 

 And when the embrace of the fresh sheets on your bed claimed you at last, your basset hound, Stella in a caramel blob at your feet, brewing nighttime tea, and some warming pumpkin cookies since both of you were feeling more indulgent, mindless reruns on the television, you could not sink into anything but just one another. 

"How bout we go into the city tomorrow, dollface?" He says softly as his fingers touch your nape intermittent between long drags on his cigarette. "See a movie and share that popcorn you love so much...get some pasta together." 

"Oh, I'd love that baby, could we?" 

"It's a date, baby." 

"Oh Shiu..." His name from your lips like undying melody. "You make stars fall from the sky just for me." 

Shiu grins widely. "You're such a poet baby..." His lips press against your neck, enjoying that shampoo scent that lingered there, a couple damp strands of hair by your ear tickling the edge of his nose. "You been reading too much of those romance novels." 

"That one came from me, darling." You smile. "Your love has a way of doing that. I can't help being in love with my husband." 

"My mistake, dollface." His gaze like the latent fire burning in front of you underneath your walnut mantle. "All beautiful things come from you. Everything is better after you've touched it." 

"Awhh, I see my poetry is rubbing off on you, darling." 

"Well, you lit up my world the second you walked into it, dollface. How can I be anything but the lovesick fool I am?" 

"That's a very eloquent way of saying you're getting laid tonight, but I think you knew that already." You tease. 

"There you go again, making my heart jump outside my chest." He purrs as he extinguishes his cigarette, replacing it with the calmly building flame within him. You could not tell if the smoke or the eternal pull between you was responsible for the huskyness in his voice, but it didn't matter. 

"Get closer, baby..." 

And the raindrops could not drown out the passionate love that unfolded in that room by the fire, rather the dark and sensual backdrop as the autumn night bowed into late hours, the shake of the wind prompting streaks of red, orange, and green melding among the indigo of the night to settle into a heap outside the window of your tranquil home. 

. 

[doomhands-jr]

The Devil's Advocate - Chapter 12

Pairing: Delinquent!Noah Sebastian X Pastor's Daughter!Reader

Summary: Noah is a delinquent with a lot of anger at the church. You're a pastor's daughter plagued by moral perfectionism, charged with overseeing the community service he's been sentenced to complete. You've never encountered true temptation before. How will you fare up against Noah, who not only isn't bound by the same rules of purity as you, but actively scoffs at them?

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Nothing but fluff, baby.

Masterlist

Thanks to @flowerynerds for the banner!

Thanks to @throughwoodsanddirt for the beta!

___________

The New England winters tended to hone its inhabitants like an axe against a grindstone, sloughing off the weaker bits until you were left with only the hardest, sharpest edges of the soul. 

The anticipated nor’easter was due to hit sometime in the next few days. Local newscasters said it was likely to be severe. Currently, it was the calm before the storm. The weather was still, like all the substance had been sucked out of the air so the storm could dump it out again once it hit. 

On the ground, gray-stained slush clung to sidewalks and frozen lawns, still leftover from last week’s snowfall. The bitter December air stung at your nostrils and turned the tip of your nose red, and Noah Davis’s hot breath drifted out of his open mouth in billowing clouds as he looked down at you from where he stood in his door frame. 

It was early morning—three days after you’d spoken with Nick. The western edge of town had all but cleared out, having been comprised mostly of students, who had all gone home for the month-long winter break. 

Noah sniffed, blinking down at you and you cleared your throat. 

“I, um…I have your stuff.” 

You held out the clothes he’d let you borrow, freshly washed and folded, stacked neatly in a pile on top of your mittens. 

Noah stepped to the side and gestured for you to enter, which you did, apprehensively. Something about being in his space felt off-limits to you, yet he welcomed you in without hesitation. 

Briefly, you surveyed the space before you. A worn sofa and two overstuffed armchairs surrounded a stained coffee table littered with empty beer cans, paper plates, and ashtrays with the spent butts of cigarettes and, you suspected, joints. 

The mess was contained to the coffee table, however. The rest of the living room was fairly clean. A large-screen TV sat atop a dark glass stand. An array of gaming consoles and controllers decorated the shelves below it. It was off, and you could see a shadow of your reflection in the black glass of the screen. 

Noah cleared his throat and you spun around to look at him. He regarded you with intention, surveying you up and down, but his face didn’t betray whatever information he gathered from the act.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked. 

“I’m good,” you said, and immediately regretted it because it wasn’t until after you spoke that you realized how dry your throat had become. “Water, actually.” 

He let out a breath somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle, moving to the open-concept kitchen space to fetch a glass out of the cupboard. “Have a seat,” he called over to you without looking. 

You took a seat on the brown tweed couch, shrugging off your coat and removing your mittens, and bundled them into a neat pile on your lap. 

The acrid smell of stale cigarettes stung the inside of your nose and you discreetly nudged the ash tray across the coffee table. 

Noah appeared at the other side of the table, a glass of water clasped in his outstretched arm and you took it gratefully, working hard not to look at him too much. 

Though this wasn’t the first time you’d seen him since your one and only sexual experience, it was still a shock to your system. Noah stood in front of you, looking regrettably Jesus-like with his long hair cascading down his shoulders. His clothes were unassuming—gray hoodie and black jeans, but they fit him effortlessly well. 

He took his seat on the armchair to your left, legs about six inches too long to fit comfortably between the chair and the end of the coffee table. He rubbed his shins, friction offering more warmth than the sputtering vents and the furnace that whined in protest. Even your ancient dorm with its concrete brick walls could stay warmer than the drafty rental Noah and the band called home. 

You noticed a distinct absence of sound or movement in the house. 

“Just you today?” you asked. 

“Folio and Ruffilo went home for the holidays,” he said, settling back into his chair and sipping from a mug of black coffee. 

You didn’t need to ask why he wasn’t doing the same—with all the baggage he carried from his family, you’d be surprised if they even exchanged Christmas cards. 

You bounced your knee, knowing there was a conversation to be had, but not wanting to approach it. 

“I’m surprised you’re still in town,” he remarked. 

This time you chanced a look at him. The coffee mug obscured part of his face, but his eyes still held the same intensity they always had. 

“My parents are on a missions trip in Africa,” you said. 

He quirked his head to the side, forehead wrinkling in confusion, and something about the crease between his eyebrows had you looking away again, too overstimulated by your own attraction to him. This was going to be harder than you thought. 

“What’s a mission trip?” he asked. 

“Missions trip,” you corrected. “It’s where groups of people go and build schools and stuff in small towns that don’t have enough resources.” You said this into your glass of water, thankful for something you could anchor your focus on. 

“That’s pretty sick, actually.” 

“Yeah,” you said, taking a sip to quell the tightness in your throat. “Yeah, I mean, it’s all sort of religiously-motivated though. The real reason is to spread Christianity.” 

You almost felt his face twist with displeasure. Glancing over at him confirmed it. He didn’t say anything though. He didn’t need to. You understood what that look was about and you felt the same. 

A few awkward moments passed while you tried to think of anything you could say that wasn’t the one thing you came here to say. 

“How were your finals?” Noah asked, coming to your rescue. 

“Good,” you answered too quickly in a rush of air. You cleared your throat and forced your next words to come out at a more conversational pace. “They were good. I think I passed all of them.” 

If Noah noticed anything off about your energy, he didn’t let on. Instead, he smiled. “I’m not surprised.” 

You gave him a questioning look. 

“You’re really smart,” he explained, setting his coffee on the table in front of him, sans coaster, “and you seem like the type of person to study hard.” He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair while he said it, resting his chin on the palm of his other hand. 

You smiled back because he’d clocked you. “Does that make me boring?” you asked, finally relaxing into the usual back-and-forth of your conversations with Noah. 

His smile grew wider, and you were stuck by just how sharp the corners of his mouth were. “I don’t think it does. I mean, if that was all there was to you, it might, but you have more layers than that.” 

“Like an ogre,” you said. 

His face fell and he blinked, waiting for you to explain. 

“From Shrek.” 

“Get out.” 

Your composure cracked, and through the fissure erupted a fit of giggles, surface tension finally breaking into something warm and homey. Noah snickered and at last, the shields were down—both of you disarmed and ready for what lay ahead. 

It took several moments for the energy in the room to settle where it needed to be. When it finally did, you regarded Noah with your full attention for the first time since arriving. 

He looked tired. The light bags that usually hung around just under his eyes had deepened into something sadder. Patchy stubble dotted his chin and upper lip, and his hair looked stringy and unwashed. 

“So,” he began, drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair. 

“So,” you parroted. 

In the span of a few seconds, the air around you folded in on itself and grew twice as thick—dense with unspoken sentiments and the possibilities for what could come out of this conversation. 

He fixed you with a serious look, assessing your demeanor before speaking again. You’d been on the other end of that look before, but every time it happened, it struck you just how large and intimidating Noah’s presence was. 

“Should we talk about it?” he asked. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, leaning back in your seat. When you opened them again, you were staring at the ceiling. “No….” 

You heard Noah huff a laugh through his nostrils. That was good. At least he was amused by your discomfort. Without lowering your head, you shifted your eyes over in his direction. He smiled at you, and it took the edge off. 

“I promise I won’t make this any harder than it has to be.” You appreciated the gentle tone he took—a nurse soothing his patient before administering a shot. 

You said nothing, but no longer protested. He took it as his cue to go on. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

You exhaled deep. “I know,” you replied, unable to look anywhere but your hands. His apology didn’t make you feel any better about what happened. It was more for him. 

“I know you know,” he said. “But I want to explain why.” 

It was already too much. You squeezed your eyes shut and blinked them back open. You hated everything about this situation. “Why you ghosted?” 

“Why I’m sorry,” he said. 

You looked at him with trepidation. He had your attention, but you were still wary and unsure if you wanted to hear what he was about to say. You almost hated yourself for being stupid enough to give him the chance to apologize. 

If he got it wrong it would feel like reopening a wound. 

He took a deep breath. Somewhere behind his eyes, an unnamed heaviness settled in and you had to look away. The last thing you wanted to do was empathize with the man who hurt you.  

“I’m not the best communicator,” he began slowly. 

“Ya’ think?” You couldn’t stop the sarcasm from slipping out. His face went from soft and patient to something more frustrated.  

“Sorry,” you muttered. 

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat before he resumed. “Things like honesty and vulnerability? They were weaknesses in my book for a long time. I could go into detail about why, but that’s not really important.

“What’s important now is that you know that I’m trying. I understand that I fucked up. I hate that I did it. I wish I wasn’t that person, but it’s a shortcoming that I’m learning to deal with.” 

“I also hate that you fucked up,” you said, matter-of-factly. You didn’t say it to hurt him, but it was true, and it was important to you that you no longer filtered your thoughts to protect his feelings. 

Noah, being Noah, saw the humor in your statement and huffed. “Your honesty is refreshing. If not a little cold,” he said. A half-smile painted his face and God, if you didn’t want to slap it off him so that you’d no longer have to look at it. 

Letting his face fall neutral again, he continued. “You’re not the first important person that I’ve hurt because of this,” he said. “But hurting you did force me to pay attention to how that feels, and I don’t like it. I’m tired of being an asshole, and I think, moving forward, I want to be more honest. Not just with you, but with myself. I think I’ve been fooling myself for a long time about what’s important to me, and I’m starting to realize those things don’t make me happy.” 

You resisted the urge to ask him what things he was talking about. You wanted to break out of the habit of giving him more attention than he’d earned. That had always been a problem for you with men, and you suspected it was what got you into this mess in the first place. 

You could see on his face that he almost expected you to ask him more, and when you didn’t, he faltered for a moment. “Good,” you said with a nod. 

He deflated, but ultimately melted into a smile. “Thanks,” he said. You could tell he meant it, and holy bricks, did that have you softening more for him against your will. 

A warmth blossomed between the two of you, slowly at first, but it grew with each passing moment. You could feel it in your bones, and despite your best intentions, you caught yourself smiling. 

You didn’t want Noah to have this pull over you. You couldn’t tell if you were relieved that he’d done a good job with his apology, or resentful because it would have been so much easier to write him off had he failed. 

“Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?” you asked, ready to be done with the conversation for the time being and beyond grateful it hadn’t stemmed into more intimate territory—you didn’t think you could handle that. 

“How are you?” he asked. “I feel like so much has happened since we last talked.” 

“Ha!” you said. “You could say that again.” 

Noah leaned back in his chair, shifting his weight to make himself more comfortable. “Tell me about it. Do you want to get some food? I’d love to catch up.” 

“Maybe another time,” you said, with only the slightest twinge of regret. It was for the best. “I’ve got laundry to do.” 

It was a lie. You had nothing to do, but as much as you wanted to spend more time with him, your intuition was telling you to go, and you’d promised yourself you’d start listening more. Something inside of you wasn’t ready to be alone with him for much longer. 

“I understand,” he said, voice dipping in enthusiasm, but clearly respectful of your boundaries. “What about tomorrow?” 

You didn’t have an excuse ready—the knee-jerk denial didn’t kick in at the idea. Perhaps that was a sign? 

“I…I can’t commit for sure, but I’ll think about it.” 

He seemed satisfied with your answer, offering a smile that was a little too sincere for you to handle and you had to get out of the room before you lost all sense of self. 

“Okay. See you around,” you said quickly, shuffling to grab your backpack and swing it around onto your shoulder while nearly tripping over the coffee table on your way to the door. 

Noah didn’t chase you—you knew he was going to give you whatever space you needed in order to be ready for him. 

And that might have been what scared you most. 

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

The tip of Noah’s nose almost touched the mirror with how close he was leaning over the bathroom sink. He’d been dealing with a very stubborn ingrown hair in a painful spot right under his nostrils. It was angry and red, but it hadn’t quite come to a head yet. 

Perfect. Just what he needed. 

He leaned back to get a better macro view of himself. The spot was definitely visible, but he was more than likely fixating on the small flaw. He couldn’t help it though—he was nervous. 

Letting his gaze drift over the rest of his face, he noticed he’d missed a spot while shaving. Fetching his razor from the shelf in his bathroom cabinet, he ran it under water and brought it to his face, moving it slowly around his jaw. 

Fuck! 

He nicked the skin. 

At first there was nothing, but then red began to seep out from the tiny cut and Noah had to grab a tissue and dab at the small drop of blood that had gathered around the wound. 

Steadying himself with a deep breath, he grasped at the porcelain sink with both hands before facing the mirror once again. 

This was stupid. He was stupid. You were just someone he liked. There was no reason for him to be so on edge. This wasn’t even a real date, you were just meeting up for coffee. 

Exhaling slowly through his nostrils, he brought the razor to his face once again, this time successfully removing the hair he missed. He finished up with moisturizer, giving one last menacing look at the angry red zit above his upper lip and recognized that it was a lost cause. There was nothing he could do about it now. 

He reached for the bottle of spiced oil he usually wore and then thought better of it. This was a special occasion. He had a small sample bottle of designer cologne tucked away in the back of his sock drawer. Normally he wasn’t the type to reach for expensive brand names, but he was nineteen at the time and he liked the way it smelled, so he shoplifted it from an outlet mall that wasn’t smart enough to keep their shit in locked displays.  

Noah smiled bitterly at the memory. He’d done a lot of stupid shit in his youth. He supposed he was still in his youth, because hardly four months had passed since his last petty crime—the one that had led him to meet you. 

He understood why he did it all. But lately the desire to act out wasn’t there, and he didn’t know why. 

Perhaps these days, there was a greater incentive to earn his joy. He no longer needed to steal it. 

Dabbing a small amount of the cologne on his pulse points, he stuffed it back in the drawer and shut it away. He could reflect on his shifting morality later. Right now, he needed to figure out what he was going to wear. 

________

Noah exhaled into his palms, warm breath serving to heat up the red, frozen extremities. It was a short walk to your dorm, but the air was bitingly cold and the snow was already ankle-deep. The storm was due to hit sometime within the next 24 hours, but he still had some time before the sidewalks grew too treacherous to walk. He wore the nicest outerwear he owned—a black pea coat and pair of black leather boots, but they were no match for the harsh December cold. 

He raised his hand and rapped three times on your dorm. 

He heard momentary shuffling on the other side before you opened the door in a flurry. The first thing he noticed was the light dusting of pink across your cheeks and the way your chest heaved with labored breathing. Try as he did to keep his eyes focused on your face, he let them drop for only a moment to take in the sight of you in your plain white top and faded denim jeans. 

You looked clean, comfortable, and unassuming, and for some unknown reason, it did things to Noah. 

“Hi,” you breathed and all at once, the moisture in Noah’s mouth evaporated, leaving a dry, scaly desert in its place. One hundred percent of his brain power was devoted to taking in the sight of you until it was satisfied that it had catalogued every inch of your presence. 

“Hi,” he said once his speech returned. His voice came out softer than intended. 

“You ready?” you asked, grabbing your coat from the back of the door. He tried to peek inside your dorm room—wanted badly to glean any additional knowledge of who you were when you weren’t with him, but you didn’t afford him the chance, stepping out and shutting the door behind you in one swift motion. 

“Yeah,” he replied, and then he didn’t say anything else because he’d apparently never had a single conversation in his life and had no idea how to begin one. 

You and Noah walked in silence, boots leaving two pairs of footprints in the snow. You wrapped your arms around you as you walked, and Noah noticed you wore mittens instead of gloves. He liked it. He liked that you wore mittens instead of gloves and it stuck out to him because he couldn’t remember ever liking any article of clothing worn by a woman that wasn’t about what wasn’t covered.

You observed the surroundings while Noah observed you, every once in a while commenting on a specific tree or building you liked, pointing to it with a mittened hand and Noah briefly wondered if there was a limit to how much time he could observe you being yourself before he got bored. He hoped he’d never reach it.  

“What’s up with you today?” you asked as the two of you rounded the corner that led to the coffee shop. “You’re quiet.” 

“Sorry,” he said casually. “Would you like me to talk more?” 

It wasn’t sarcastic, but a genuine question, asked in the way a server would if they found out their customer didn’t enjoy the meal. Did you want him to bring something more appetizing to the table? 

“No,” you said, looking down at your boots. “I just…want to know what’s on your mind.” 

The only thing on his mind was how physically aware of you he was. To ease the tension that had been pulling on his bones, he took a step closer to you. He wanted so badly to reach out and touch you in some way—grab your hand or throw his arm around you or something—but he refrained.  “Nothing,” he said with a shrug. “Just vibing.” 

You rolled your eyes, sighing as the two of you reached the entrance to the coffee shop and you pulled on the large brass door handle, gesturing for him to enter first. “Well, I take back what I said earlier then,” you said. “I do want you to talk more. I’m doing all the heavy lifting.” 

Noah smiled, tickled by how unapologetically honest you were. He liked this version of you. Not that he didn’t like every version of you he’s had the privilege of knowing, but something was different. You were less eager to please him. Almost like you wielded the sharper parts of your personality as a weapon, testing to see if its sting would scare him away. 

It wouldn’t. 

“What do you want to do after you graduate?” he asked as the two of you made your way to the counter. 

“Just jumping right in, then? No warmup?” you asked. Noah shrugged. “Grande cinnamon vanilla latte, please.” you said to the barista. 

“Medium black coffee,” said Noah. 

Noah was reminded of the first time the two of you went to this café together. You were wearing the same rubber boots and Noah was doing his best to flirt with you. He smiled to himself and pulled out his card to pay. You let him without protesting. Good. You knew you deserved it. 

“I’m not sure anymore, to be honest,” you said as the two of you slid over to the pickup window. “I used to think I would work at the church my dad owned. Be office personnel or something.” 

“That doesn’t seem like you,” Noah observed. 

You shrugged. “It was the obvious choice at the time. My parents both believe I belong in the ministry in some regard.” 

“Would you be a pastor one day?” Noah asked.

You let out a loud, bitter laugh. “I don’t think our church would ever be ready for female leadership. It’s so old-school.”

Noah frowned. He didn’t like hearing that. In his opinion, you’d make a much better pastor than any other religious person he’s met. You actually practiced what you preached. 

“So what do you think you’ll do instead?” he asked, trying to shift the subject away from religion. He got the feeling that those wounds were still fresh for you. 

You shrugged. “To be honest, I haven’t put much thought into it. I know I should, but so much has changed in the last few weeks—I’m still kind of wrapping my head around it.” 

“I get it,” he said, reaching to pick up the drink orders that had arrived. You led the way over to a small two-person table in corner of the otherwise empty café. Noah followed dutifully, trying his best to express with every single movement how completely present he was here with you. He was sure you didn’t notice, but that wasn’t the point. For him, it was about the intention. 

“You do?” you asked, sitting down. Noah sat across from you and indulged in a moment of unapologetic eye contact. 

“Mhmm,” he nodded. “I mean, not that I’m experiencing it or anything, but I know that when it comes to big decisions like that, I need a clear head. If there’s too much stuff going on in my life at one time, I don’t have the headspace to think about it.” 

Some of the tension in your shoulders slackened—not by much, but he was so hyper-aware of you by that point that he couldn’t miss it. He wanted to think it was because of him. 

Rather than responding, you sipped at your latte, closing your eyes and savoring it. He took another indulgent moment—this time, to observe how your face responded to the small moment of pleasure. It was almost sexual, he noticed, the way you tucked your lips between your teeth and smiled. He appreciated that this moment was clearly for you, but that you allowed him to witness it. 

His mind drifted, picturing himself drawing that same response from you with his touch. A hot coil tugged just behind his navel. Saliva pooled on his tongue and his thumb twitched with the urge to reach out and tug your bottom lip away from where it sat tucked under your teeth—until he caught himself. Lusting after you felt forbidden in a way he hadn’t allowed lust to feel since middle school. 

Noah sipped at his coffee, eyes trained on you until you were finished squeezing all the serotonin out of the taste. It was bitter, but in a good way—like he needed a palate cleanser to shock his system after the sickening sweetness of the last few moments. 

“What about you?” you asked eventually. “Are you planning to stay at your job?” 

“No,” he said. “The job is there to pay the bills while I try to find something else.” 

It had become apparent that he’d have to find something else sooner rather than later. As much as the piece work gave him time to think, all of the repetitive motion was taking its toll on his body. He came home at the end of every shift with back pain on his left side and he’d been having to spend more and more time in the gym evening it out. 

“What would something else be?” you asked, eyes trained on him and his neck grew warm under the intense observation. 

“I want my music to take off, if possible,” he said. “I’ve been working on a lot of new stuff. Actually, I’d love to show you sometime if you want.” 

“What kind of stuff?” you asked before taking another slow sip. 

“Different from what I usually write. More experimental. I like it, but I haven’t shown the band, so I’m not sure what they’ll think.” 

You nodded slowly, mulling something over in your head and Noah waited patiently while you found your words. 

“I think…,” you began. “I think I’d be okay with hearing it. If you wanted to share, that is.” 

Noah blinked a few times. “I mean, yeah. I’d love to share it with you, but why the hesitation?” 

You smiled bashfully, full lips still wrapped around the edge of your cup. “It’s hard to explain. And it sounds mean.” 

“Please humor me,” said Noah in earnest. He liked when you were mean. You deserved to be mean. He had a sneaking suspicion that you’d only ever been overly nice in the past and the more you dropped the façade and stopped worrying about being polite, the more he enjoyed your company. 

You licked your lips, staring down into your mug and smiled to yourself again. “I’m trying to be careful with how much attention I’m giving to men these days.” 

“Oh.” The word escaped in a breath from Noah’s parted lips. His eyebrows lifted up towards his hairline and he had to take a minute to digest this bit of information. 

Something that felt a lot like jealousy flared up in his stomach and he had to examine it. He didn’t like it, whatever it was. It felt hot, slimy, and thick, and it sat just below his ribs. 

“Other men too?” He couldn’t help but ask for clarification. Perhaps he was showing his cards by bringing it up, but he didn’t care. 

The way the corner of your mouth lifted in response to his question let him know that you caught on to the implications of his question. “If there were other men, yes.” 

“So there are no other men,” he stated, feeling a flicker of hope rise up in his chest. 

“They’ve all gone home for Christmas break.” The teasing smile never left your lips as you said it. 

Fine. You could play your cards close to the chest if you wanted. He was fine with that. Whatever. 

He liked it though. Underneath the frustration, he liked this version of you: empowered, a little bitchy, tongue like a whip, lashing him in penance for his sins. The sick, masochistic side of him wanted more. Needed more. [4] 

He took a deep breath to help him refocus. “So why the newfound caution? Not that I’m against it, it’s probably a good idea. But why?” 

You raised an eyebrow, wordlessly asking if he really wanted to get into it, and he did, so he held your gaze until you decided to grace him with the truth. 

“I think I’ve given men a lot of unearned attention. It’s come back to bite me many times over. I’m trying to learn my lesson this time.” 

Noah nodded. He knew he was one of the reasons. He was prepared to hear that. But then�� 

“What other times have you done that?” 

You tilted your chin down, narrowing your eyes in skepticism. “You mean aside from you?” you asked. 

He couldn’t help but smile, appreciating how resistant he was growing to the sting of your candor. You weren’t afraid to let him know just how much he’d messed up. 

He nodded. 

Your eyes flicked up to the ceiling while you thought. You sucked on your teeth while your gaze drifted across the room, picturing invisible figures from your past and the moments they’ve wronged you. 

“My dad, for one.” 

He was hoping you’d say that one. 

“How?” Noah scooted forward in his chair, elbows resting on the table between the two of you. Part of him was eager to know how his fuckup had fared in comparison to other men in your life.

“Even just listening to him preach every single Sunday. Sometimes the sermons would be worthwhile, but a lot of them were just him spouting his opinions on how people should behave. I don’t like that he has the platform he has. He doesn’t deserve it.” 

Your face had morphed into a scowl as you talked. Noah could see the resentment you held for your father and he wished there was something he could do—some word of comfort he could offer, but he knew it wasn’t his place, considering. 

“Isaac, too,” you said, and Noah rejoiced internally. He’d been hoping you’d say that even more.

“What did he do?” Noah asked, training his face and voice to appear calm and unbiased. 

“Oh my god,” you said, setting your cup down in front of you and clasping your hands together with a newfound focus. “I forgot you don’t even know!” 

“Know what?” 

“Isaac donated the proceeds of the showcase to a pro-life organization.” 

Noah had to force himself to swallow the sip of coffee he’d just taken. “What?!” 

You launched into the story, telling him all about how you’d been lured into participating because he’d said he wanted to donate the proceeds to charity, and how he’d been respectful the entire time, despite knowing how you felt about the subject. How he didn’t tell you about it beforehand because he knew you’d protest, so he went and did it behind your back, and how you didn’t find out until right before you were supposed to go on stage and sing. 

“Which I rocked, by the way, and you totally should have been there to see it,” you said, crossing your arm and fixing him with a scowl. 

“Something came up. I’ll have to make it up to you somehow,” he said. He didn’t have the heart to tell you he’d gone, but was too much of a coward to go inside the sanctuary. 

“Yeah, I know. That Something apparently lives in my dorm and had a lot to say.” 

Noah’s eyebrows pulled together. “What?” 

Apparently he’d struck a nerve. Within the span of a second, you were back to being closed off from him, arms folded across your chest and chin jutting out while you stared out the window. He probably deserved that. 

“I forget her name. Madison or whatever,” you said. 

Internally, his body hissed at him. He forgot he’d been trying to use Madison as a distraction. He hated that he’d done it, but at the time it felt necessary. He wasn’t sure how he could explain that to you, though. 

“So yeah,” you said. “I’m done with men for a while,” you said, still staring out the window and bouncing the leg that was crossed over the other. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry,” he said. “I should have been there. It was…not my best hour.” 

He could tell you wanted more of an explanation, but weren’t about to beg for one. He’d tell you what really happened eventually…just not yet. 

 “What can I do to earn your favor?” he asked. 

“Be worth my time.” You said it without missing a beat and Noah had to hold back a snort. He was not expecting such a no-holds-barred answer from you and it hit him like a bucket of…not exactly ice water, but something warmer. Kinder. You were giving him the information he needed, unafraid of whether or not it would hurt his feelings. God, there was something about that he couldn’t get enough of. 

“Noted,” he said. “Still, I can’t believe Isaac did that.” 

“Yeah, well…,” you trailed off, mouth still pulled down into a frown. A few beats passed where neither of you said anything, and in the silence, Noah realized what he had to do.

He drained the rest of his coffee, then stood up and collected his things. 

“I should get you home then,” he said. 

Your face morphed into one of surprise. “What?” Noah wished he could take a photo of how you looked right then. Lips parted in bewilderment. Eyebrows pulled together in confusion. It was cute. 

“Your time is precious,” he said. “I don’t want to take up more than I’m worth.” 

“That’s not…are you serious?” you asked, turning to face him. He was already setting his empty mug in the dirty dish bin at the end of the counter. He turned back to face you and nodded to the door, gesturing for you to follow. 

You dumped the remainder of your latte into your mouth and stood, shoving your arms into your coat and hurrying to catch up. “What’s the rush?” you asked. 

“Trying to respect your time,” he said, smiling to himself as you struggled to match his pace. 

“Noah,” you said firmly, grabbing his arm and turning him around to face you. You didn’t say anything else but studied him with your jaw set firm. 

He stared back, face calm, but unyielding. The wind picked up, blowing a few strands of hair across your face. The skin at the back of his neck stood on end in the cold. His nose began to run, and he sniffed it back. 

“Why are you doing this?” you asked. In the back of his mind, he registered your hand still wrapped around his arm. 

“I just got back into your good graces,” he admitted. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”  “Overstay? Noah, we’ve only been hanging out for an hour.” 

“I know,” he said, resisting the urge to pull you in closer. “It was an hour I wasn’t sure I’d get.  I’m grateful for that.” 

“Okay,” you said, looking off to the side when the eye contact grew too intense. “So, what’s the problem?” 

Noah searched for the right words, trying to describe what until now had only been a vague emotion that hadn’t quite surfaced. 

“The problem is that I will always want more than I’ve earned,” he said, softly, like he was only just now admitting this to himself. “An hour is already more than I deserve. Any more, and I’d get spoiled. But I would love the opportunity to earn your company again soon.” 

You processed what he said for a few beats and then rolled your eyes, lips stretching into a begrudging smile and if Noah had the ability to freeze time, he’d use it right then and there to study every inch of your face. 

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” you said, sighing and hooking your arm through his. You allowed him to walk you back to your dorm. 

“Maybe,” he said, enjoying the pressure of your elbow against his. “Hopefully a harmless one.” 

“Is this love bombing?” you asked, short legs still struggling to keep up with his long ones. “Are you love bombing me?” 

“I hope not,” he said. “That would be really fucked up if that were the case.” 

“It would make you a terrible person,” you agreed. “You better not be love bombing me.” 

“I’ll watch out for that,” he said, smiling to himself. “What counts as love bombing in your book?” 

You grinned, as if this was a special interest of yours and you’d been waiting for someone to ask you that exact question. 

“Showering me with compliments, for one,” you began. 

“Noted. You look terrible today.” 

“Ha!” you said, nearly skipping with energy and warmth bloomed in Noah’s body at the thought he’d made you happy. 

“To be honest, I don’t exactly know,” you said. “I think people who love bomb have this skill about them–where they can pay close attention to a person, pick up on what they want or need, and then give it to them. But it doesn’t come from a good place, and they can’t sustain that energy. They do it until they get what they want, and then they leave.” 

Noah’s stomach twisted, the warmth that had previously inhabited it sucked away in a vacuum, leaving only tightness. 

He’d done that before. Many times. Fuck. 

As the two of you walked back to your dorm, Noah’s conscious weighed heavy on him. You continued talking about red flags, but Noah’s ability to actively listen was compromised with the weight of his guilt. 

He had a habit of justifying his past actions to himself–if women were naive enough to fall for simple flattery, they deserved it, he told himself. 

His stomach rocked again and he felt like he was going to be sick. 

He couldn’t change his past. He was well-aware he’d done things he wasn’t proud of, but he could change how he was going to act moving forward. 

This time, he was determined to get it right. 

“I guess this is where I leave you,” he said, unhooking his arm from yours. 

You stared at the door longingly, and Noah hoped that meant that you weren’t ready to leave. 

“You want to do this again sometime?” you asked, turning to him. 

Noah nodded, swallowing the sinking feeling in his chest for now. He could process everything when he got back to his apartment. “This or whatever else. Whatever works best for you.” 

“It can’t all be about me, you know,” you said. Your hand rested on the door knob, keys dangling uselessly from your fingers. 

“I know,” he said.  

Your face grew serious as you studied Noah, looking like you were still trying to figure out if he was for real. 

“Why are you doing all this?” you asked. 

Noah didn’t have an answer at the ready for you, so he simply shrugged. “Feel like it.” 

You continued to regard him. He couldn’t help when his eyes dropped to your lips—full and flushed with pink from the cold. He had a feeling he was letting his cards show, but he didn’t have much incentive to keep them hidden from you anyway. 

He brought his eyes back up to meet yours and caught the second your eyes flicked back up from his own lips. When you realized you were caught, you averted your gaze to your shoes. Noah did the same. 

“I, uh. I should get going,” he said, reaching to rub at a spot on the back of his neck. 

“Yeah,” you said, side-stepping away to break some of the tension that had been building for the last thirty seconds. You fiddled with your keys, finding the right one and using it to unlock your door, but made no move to enter. 

This was the hardest part. He didn’t want to leave. From what he could pick up, you didn’t want him to. But it was important that he did. He knew it. He wasn’t going to fuck this up by being impatient again. 

Just when he was about to say his final goodbye, you beat him to it. 

“See ya,” you said. And then in one swift motion, you grabbed the lapel of his coat, pulled him down, stood up on your toes and gave him a peck on the cheek. 

Before he even registered what had happened, you’d unlocked your door and disappeared behind it. 

It took all of Noah’s willpower not to follow you.  _______ All rights reserved to @doomhands-jr, 2024. Do not copy, repost or translate.

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[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Ninety-Eight

“It is lodged quite deep into the muscle.”

The Queen sat on the edge of her bed, her posture tense as she gazed blankly at the wall. Her dragon rider’s outfit, once formidable in its protection and authority, now lay discarded on the floor, a heap of leather and scales stained with soot and blood. In its place, she wore a sleeveless tunic, its once pristine white fabric now marred by the deep crimson of her own blood, seeping from the wound just below her collarbone.

The room was filled with a tense, focused silence, broken only by the occasional murmurs of the junior Maesters who surrounded her. They worked with furrowed brows and anxious hands, taking turns attempting to remove the arrowhead embedded in her flesh. Each time one stepped forward, tools at the ready, the other would step back, watching closely as their colleague tried to extract the foreign object. But despite their best efforts, the arrowhead remained stubbornly lodged within her muscle

Aemond sat beside Maera on the bed, his arm wrapped tightly around her as if he could shield her from the agony that was tearing through her body. His presence was solid, grounding her as she endured the excruciating attempts of the Maesters.

Maera’s jaw clenched as she bit down on her leather glove, the thick material muffling the screams that threatened to rip from her throat. The pain was relentless, sharp and unyielding, each tug and twist of the Maesters’ tools sending fresh waves of agony through her. Her vision blurred, not only from the dizziness brought on by the milk of the poppy, but from the sheer intensity of the pain.

“How fucking hard is it to dig out an arrowhead?!”

The King’s grip on her tightened with each passing moment, his hand smoothing over her slick skin in a futile attempt to comfort her. His single violet eye, usually so composed and calculating, now burned with a mix of helplessness and fury. He could feel her body tensing against him, her muscles seizing up in response to the pain.

Each time a Maester failed in their attempt to remove the arrowhead, Aemond’s patience grew thinner, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. His jaw clenched tightly, the muscle ticking with the effort to keep his temper in check. The image of his wife, usually so strong, writhing in pain and stifling her screams was something he could scarcely endure. He felt as though a vice were closing around his heart, squeezing tighter with every pained cry that escaped her.

He glanced at the Maesters, his gaze hardening with each failure. The longer this went on, the more difficult it became for him to maintain his composure. As the Maesters exchanged worried glances, Aemond’s patience finally snapped. His hand shot out, gripping one of them by the arm as they prepared for another attempt. The look in his eye was a warning, his voice low and dangerous. The young Maester nodded quickly and withdrew, his face pale and drawn as he set his bloodied tools aside.

The bowl of water beside him was stained crimson as he washed his hands, the blood swirling away before he dried them with a piece of cloth. He let out a sigh, the weight of the situation heavy on his shoulders. “This will require more experienced hands,” he admitted, his voice low and filled with regret.

Maera knew what he was suggesting, but she was so exhausted from the relentless pain that she couldn’t muster the strength to argue. She lay back against the pillows, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, her skin slick with sweat. Every ounce of energy she had left was focused on enduring the searing pain in her shoulder. Her green eyes, dulled by fatigue, flicked to Aemond, who was watching her with fierce concern.

“No.” Seeing the state of his wife, Aemond acted on her behalf, his voice cold as ice as he addressed the Maesters. “My wife does not wish to have him attend her,” he reminded them, his tone brooking no argument.

Yet, as she lay there, blood still seeping from the wound, pride seemed a distant memory. “Aemond,” the Queen croaked, her voice barely above a whisper, but filled with a desperation that tore at her husband’s heart. “We just need to get it out. I don’t care how.” She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, and in that moment, he saw the depth of her suffering.

Aemond nodded, his jaw clenched as he turned his gaze to the other junior Maester across the room. His expression hardened, and there was no mistaking the command in his voice as he barked, “Well?! Don’t just stand there! Fetch him!” The young Maester didn’t hesitate, quickly scurrying out of the room, leaving the tense atmosphere behind him.

As the door closed behind him, Aemond’s hand tightened around his wife’s, his concern for her evident in the way he held her as if he could keep her anchored to him through sheer will alone. Maera, despite the pain, felt a flicker of admiration for him. He was being cruel, perhaps, but it was only because he cared for her.

Not a moment after the young Maester had left, the door creaked open, and Grand Maester Vaegon stepped inside, almost as if he had been waiting just outside the door. The Queen couldn’t help but let out a soft, delirious laugh, the thought flickering in her mind that perhaps her estranged grandfather cared for her more than he let on. But she quickly shook away the notion, attributing it to the blood loss and the fog of pain clouding her mind.

His chains clinked as he approached the bedside, his movements more hurried than Maera had ever seen him. Vaegon quickly settled onto the stool where the junior Maester had been before him. With careful fingers, he placed his hand on Maera’s collarbone, his touch surprisingly gentle as he began to feel the bones and muscles around the arrow wound. Maera winced and hissed in pain, and Vaegon watched her face intently, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed her reaction.

In this close proximity, the Queen studied him through her pain-hazed vision, unable to shake the familiarity those violet eyes stirred within her. They were the same eyes that had once looked upon her with the love of a mother, a connection to the past that brought both comfort and a twinge of sorrow.

The old man then turned his attention to his students, his voice calm but commanding. “How much milk of the poppy has she been given?” he asked, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

One of the students immediately answered, “Four spoonfuls, Grand Maester, but she cannot have any more so soon.”

Vaegon nodded, his expression unreadable as he processed the information. He turned back to Maera, his fingers still resting lightly on her skin, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—whether it was concern or merely clinical focus, Maera couldn’t tell.

Her green eyes tracked the Grand Maester as he moved with a deliberate calmness, his old hands steady as he selected a slender, metal tool from the array laid out on the table beside her. His fingers curled around it with the practiced ease of a man who had done this countless times before. He turned slightly to the juniors hovering nearby and asked, his voice a low murmur, "When was the injury sustained?"

One of the younger Maesters quickly responded, "A few hours ago, Grand Maester."

Vaegon nodded, then without another word, he bent over Maera, his expression betraying no emotion as he muttered a brief, almost inaudible apology. The moment the tool entered her wound, Maera's body tensed, a sharp hiss escaping her lips as she instinctively clutched at Aemond’s hand. Her grip tightened, her knuckles white, as she fought against the discomfort that flared up anew. She could feel the tool probing within her, moving her flesh aside, and the sensation made her stomach churn with nausea.

Yet, there was a curious lack of the searing pain she had expected. Vaegon was not attempting to remove the arrowhead—not yet. His movements were methodical, almost delicate, as he studied how deeply the metal was lodged within her flesh. It was as though he was assessing the battlefield within her body, preparing for the final, precise method that would dislodge the foreign object.

When Vaegon finally withdrew the tool, Maera couldn’t stifle the yelp that burst from her lips, her body jolting with the sharp pain of the movement. She gasped for breath, her vision momentarily swimming, and when she looked up, she noticed a change in the Grand Maester’s demeanor. His face, usually as unreadable as stone, had softened ever so slightly. His thin lips pursed as if he were on the verge of saying something—something personal, something beyond his professional duty. But whatever it was, he held back, shaking his head lightly as though dismissing the thought, and the moment passed. He resumed his detached, clinical focus, the mask of professionalism firmly back in place.

Vaegon straightened up, wiping his hands clean before gesturing to one of his juniors. "Fetch the pincer tool from my bag," he instructed, his voice calm and measured. The young Maester quickly complied, moving with haste to retrieve the requested instrument. As he waited, Vaegon dipped his hands into the nearby bowl of water, scrubbing them thoroughly.

Turning to the other junior, Vaegon’s tone took on a slightly testing edge. "Tell me," he began, his voice steady but with an undertone that suggested this was more than just a casual query, "how might one prevent infection in a wound such as this?"

Maera, through her haze of pain and exhaustion, watched the junior Maester closely. The young man’s face flushed as he struggled to find the right words. She could almost see the cogs turning in his head as he fumbled for an answer, finally managing to stammer, "Bryonia and thyme... they could be applied to the wound site, Grand Maester."

Aemond, who remained sitting beside her, his hand tightly gripping hers, suddenly growled, his voice thick with barely contained rage. "This is not a fucking lecture in the Citadel," he spat, his frustration boiling over. "My wife is in pain and needs help immediately."

Maera's eyes flicked between her husband and the Grand Maester, feeling the tension rise as Aemond took a deep, steadying breath. "Can it be removed?" he asked, his voice strained, though more controlled now.

Vaegon, unfazed by Aemond’s outburst, accepted the pincer-like tool from his junior with a nod of thanks. "It can be removed," he confirmed calmly, his violet eyes meeting Aemond's with a steady gaze. "However," he added, with a slight, almost imperceptible smile, "I prefer my juniors to learn with live subjects. It is how they truly develop their own practice.”

Aemond's patience had worn thin. "Just get on with it," he snapped, his voice sharp and desperate. The tension in the room was palpable, a thick cloud of dread hanging over them all. Vaegon, unfazed, nodded curtly and turned his attention to the task at hand.

"Hold her down, Your Grace," the Grand Maester instructed, his tone taking on an ominous gravity. "This next part will hurt."

Maera's eyes widened in alarm, her breath catching in her throat. But she quickly steeled herself, accepting the harsh reality that a short burst of unbearable pain was the price to pay for relief. She reached once again for her leather glove, hands trembling slightly, and stuffed it into her mouth. The taste of sweat and leather filled her senses, grounding her in the moment. With a final, determined nod to Vaegon, she braced herself.

The pincer tool glinted ominously in the candlelight as Vaegon carefully inserted it into the wound. The moment the cold metal touched her flesh, Maera's body convulsed, a scream tearing from her throat, muffled by the glove. The sensation of her muscles and skin separating under the tool was indescribable, a horror that left her mind reeling.

Aemond, his face twisted with panic and helplessness, leaned over her, using his weight to hold her thrashing body down. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he murmured over and over again, his voice breaking with each word. His hands, normally so steady, were trembling as he fought to keep her still.

Time seemed to stretch into eternity, each second of pain lasting a lifetime. But then, with a sickening, wet sound, Vaegon finally extracted the arrowhead. Maera's scream turned into a choked sob as the pain began to ebb, leaving her shaking and drenched in sweat, her body utterly spent.

A palpable sense of relief washed over the room as the arrowhead was finally extracted. The oppressive tension that had gripped everyone during the ordeal began to lift, replaced by a collective exhalation. Aemond held her close, his face buried in her hair as he whispered soothing words, though his own voice was laced with pain.

The arrowhead lay in Vaegon's bloodied hands before he placed it on the nearby table, a small but vicious piece of metal that had caused so much suffering. Maera, still trembling from the pain, felt the sharp edges of agony dulling, leaving her with a deep, throbbing ache that was far more bearable. Despite her exhaustion, a flicker of delight sparked within her—she had made it through. It was over.

However, the reprieve was short-lived. Maera groaned as Grand Maester Vaegon applied pressure to her wound, his hand wrapped in blood-soaked fabric as he pressed down with practiced care. The pain flared up again, though not as sharply as before, and she gritted her teeth against it. Vaegon turned to his juniors, who were watching with rapt attention.

“Once the bleeding has stopped,” Vaegon instructed, his voice calm and authoritative, “the wound can be stitched. Apply a paste of bryonia and thyme afterward to prevent infection.” The young Maesters nodded eagerly, one immediately beginning to clean the surgical tools, while the other started preparing the herbal paste as directed.

As Vaegon turned back to the Queen, a gentle smile graced his aged face, a smile that was strikingly reminiscent of Maera’s mother. The warmth in his expression was unexpected, and it stirred something within her. “You did well, Your Grace,” he said softly, his tone carrying a hint of familial pride. For the first time, Maera felt a small but significant connection to the man who was her grandfather by blood.

A warmth filled her heart as she met his gaze, a bond forming where there had once been only distance. “Thank you,” she replied earnestly, her voice still shaky but filled with genuine gratitude. She returned his smile, a faint but sincere curve of her lips that spoke volumes.

Lying there on the bed, her thoughts drifted to her brother Cedric’s words, spoken long ago. Vaegon was indeed an exceptional Maester, far more than she had ever given him credit for. In that moment, she understood a little more about the man who had always seemed so distant, and she silently appreciated the care and skill he had shown her.

The one-eyed King hadn’t left the Queen’s side for the rest of the day. He was a constant, silent presence, hovering near her as if guarding her from any further harm. Yet despite his proximity, Maera found it impossible to draw more than a few words or grunts out of him. He was more brooding than usual, his expression locked in a stern, unreadable mask. Maera understood that it was probably the sight of her in such unbearable pain that weighed on him so heavily. She had seen that look in his eye before, a mixture of anger and helplessness.

Throughout the day, Maera attempted to speak with him, to offer him comfort, to ease the tension that gripped him so tightly. She wanted to talk through what had happened, to reassure him that she would be all right, that it was over now. But the stubborn King, ever proud and fierce, was not receptive. His responses were curt, his gaze distant, and Maera eventually resolved to let him sulk for the day. She knew him well enough to understand that forcing the issue would only make him retreat further into himself. They would discuss it that evening, when the rawness of the day had dulled and he was ready to listen.

That night, as the household settled into the calm that followed the chaos, the nursemaids had to assist Maera in feeding Aemara. With the wound above her collarbone newly stitched, any movement of her arm caused a sharp twinge of pain, making it impossible for her to hold her daughter on her own. The nursemaids worked with quiet efficiency, gently cradling the babe and positioning her to nurse at Maera’s chest, carefully placing the weight off the injured area.

Maera watched in silence as her daughter fed, her heart swelling with both love and frustration. The pain in her shoulder was a constant reminder of her vulnerability, of how close she had come to something far worse. Yet it was Aemond’s continued brooding that gnawed at her most. She could sense the storm brewing within him, feel the weight of his unspoken worries pressing down on them both.

Once Aemara was done feeding, Aemond gruffly dismissed the nursemaid, his tone leaving little room for argument. The young woman hurriedly nodded, bowing her head as she scurried out of the room. Aemond then reached down to take the child from Maera’s chest, cradling her with surprising gentleness despite his rough demeanor. He began to rock their daughter, his movements slow and deliberate, a stark contrast to the stormy expression etched on his face.

Maera sighed softly, watching as her husband bounced their daughter in his arms, pacing the room with a careful rhythm. Aemara’s tiny breaths soon grew even and steady, her eyelids fluttering closed as she succumbed to sleep. Aemond continued to hold her for a moment longer, as if the act of rocking their child provided him some measure of peace. Once he was certain Aemara was fully asleep, he placed her tenderly into her crib, his gaze lingering on her peaceful face.

Sȳndor, the small black dragon that had been curled beneath the crib, chirped softly at Aemond’s approach. With a resigned sigh, Aemond reached across to the nearby table and tossed a piece of meat to the creature. Sȳndor snapped it up greedily, her sharp teeth making quick work of the morsel before she settled back down, her head resting on the stone floor, her eyes half-closed in contentment.

The King then moved to the edge of the bed, sitting down heavily with his back to Maera. He seemed lost in thought, his posture rigid, his gaze distant as if he were wrestling with something deep within. He stayed like that for a while, unmoving, and the silence began to grate on Maera's nerves. Her initial understanding and patience began to wear thin, frustration bubbling up within her. Finally, she could no longer hold back.

“I will not tolerate further silence,” she said, her voice firm, cutting through the stillness of the room.

Aemond looked over his shoulder at her, his eye narrowing as he snapped back, “I have not been silent.” His words were sharp, defensive, yet the Queen could see the strain in his expression, the turmoil that lingered behind his cool exterior. The quietness that followed was heavy, thick with unspoken emotions, as the two of them faced the inevitable confrontation that had been brewing all day.

Slowly, he began to disrobe, his hands moving with practiced ease as he unbuckled the black and green doublet he wore. The metal buckles clinked softly in the quiet room, the only sound besides their breathing. Once the doublet was undone, he slipped it off his shoulders, revealing the simple white cotton undershirt beneath. With a practiced motion, he pulled the shirt over his head, exposing the lean, muscular contours of his abdomen.

Rising to his feet, Aemond walked over to a nearby chair, placing his discarded clothing neatly on it. His movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic, as if the act of disrobing offered him some form of control over the emotions swirling within him. Maera watched him intently, her eyes following every motion. When he bent down to unlace his boots, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the rigid lines of his body betraying the anger he was holding back.

Once his boots were removed and set aside, Aemond stood up straight, his hands moving to the waistband of his trousers. With a final motion, he slipped out of them, leaving himself completely bare before her. No matter how many times she had seen him like this, the Queen felt her breath catch in her throat. His body, honed and strong from years of training, was a sight that never failed to stir something deep within her.

Softening her gaze, Maera decided to take a different approach. She offered him a gentle smile, trying to bridge the distance that had grown between them over the course of the day. “I know you well,” she said softly, her voice laced with understanding. Their eyes met as Aemond reached up to undo his hair, the straight silver locks cascading down as he freed them from their tie.

He then returned to the edge of the bed, sitting down once more with his back to her, as if he could hide from her the storm of emotions that brewed within him. Maera reached out to him, her fingers brushing delicately against the smooth skin of his back. The touch was tender, meant to soothe, as she spoke again. “You’re angry,” she said softly, her fingers tracing gentle patterns along his spine.

Aemond’s shoulders, tense and coiled with emotion, seemed to drop slightly at her words. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and removed his eyepatch, placing it on the bedside table before getting into bed beside her, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. Feeling the tension between them, Maera began to unlace her nightgown at the front, her fingers deftly loosening the ties. Once undone, she slipped the garment off her shoulders carefully so to not further injure herself, letting it cascade down her body before tossing it to the far side of the room.

She turned back to Aemond, offering him a soft, reassuring smile as she spoke, “This is war, as you keep reminding me.” Her voice was gentle, but with a hint of resignation. “I was bound to run into one of the Blacks sooner or later.”

Aemond continued to stare up at the canopy of their bed, responding only with a short, indifferent hum, his eye refusing to meet hers. Undeterred, Maera lay back down beside him, shuffling closer until she was facing him. Her hand reached out to trace delicate patterns on his chest, her touch light and soothing. She sighed softly, her gaze locked on his face. “It was hardly the worst injury I’ve sustained,” she said, trying to downplay the severity of the day’s events.

But as the words left her mouth, Maera noticed Aemond visibly wince. The slight tightening of his jaw, the flicker of pain in his remaining eye as his eye darted to her left shoulder, covered in the deep scar, before staring back up at the ceiling.

After realising what she said, Maera quickly grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes, filled with both concern and affection, searched his. “I’m fine, Aemond. Truly,” she assured him, her smile warm and reassuring. But even as she said it, the frown on his face deepened, his expression stubbornly refusing to soften.

Letting go of his jaw, Maera furrowed her own brow, her mind working to understand the deeper meaning behind his silence. She studied his face, the lines of tension etched into his features, and slowly, a realization dawned on her. There was more to his unhappiness than just the harm that had come to her. She blinked, the truth settling into her mind, and softly spoke, “You’re angry that I let her go.”

At her words, Aemond’s gaze finally met hers, the anger and frustration that had been simmering beneath the surface now clearly visible in his eye. The Queen watched as his jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he grasped at the sheets with white-knuckled hands. The tension in his body was palpable, a barely contained storm of rage and frustration.

When he finally spoke, it was with a low growl, his voice rough with anger. “Baela attacked you on her dragon, shot you with an arrow, and you let her go.” The accusation hung in the air between them, heavy with the weight of his disbelief.

Maera, feeling her own frustration rise, rubbed her face with her hands, trying to keep her voice steady as she responded. “Her dragon is dead, Aemond. She’s of no threat to us now.” She dropped her hands to the bed, meeting his gaze with determination, hoping he would understand her reasoning. But instead of softening, his expression only darkened further.

In one swift movement, the King turned to face her fully, their bodies now chest to chest, their breaths coming in heavy, angry bursts. The closeness between them did nothing to ease the tension; if anything, it made the confrontation more intense, their emotions clashing in the confined space between them.

“So many are dead because of Rhaenyra,” Aemond began, his voice tight with bitterness. But before he could continue, Maera cut him off, her voice sharp as she challenged him. “And should we kill another because of her sins?” Her words were a direct counter to his anger, forcing him to confront the cycle of violence they were trapped in. Their gazes locked, both refusing to back down. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken thoughts, the air between them charged with the weight of the choices they faced.

Maera’s eyes drifted across the dimly lit room, her gaze softening as it landed on Aemara’s crib. The steady, rhythmic sound of the baby’s breathing was a comforting presence in the tense atmosphere. A small smile tugged at her lips as she listened, a brief moment of peace amidst the storm. But as she looked back at Aemond, the smile faded, replaced by a serious expression. Her voice was gentle but firm as she asked, “If we apply your logic, should Aemara die because of all you have done?”

The words hit Aemond like a blow. He sat bolt upright, his eye wide with shock and anger. “Don’t you dare bring our daughter into this,” he snapped, his voice sharp with a mix of fear and fury.

Maera didn’t flinch. Instead, she sat up as well, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her. Her fingers were firm but tender as they held his face, her thumbs brushing gently over his sharp cheekbones, trying to anchor him to the moment, to her. She stared into his lone eye for a long, silent moment, searching for the man she knew beneath the anger.

Aemond’s tense muscles gradually began to relax under her touch. His breath slowed, and the fire in his eye dimmed slightly. He reached up, placing his hand over one of hers, the contact a quiet acknowledgment of the bond they shared. The connection between them, fragile as it was in that moment, held steady.

“I want to protect our daughter,” Maera said quietly, her voice filled with a deep, earnest resolve. “That’s why I let Baela go. I did it for her—for us.”

Aemond’s grip on her hand tightened as he absorbed her words, the tension between them slowly giving way to a mutual understanding, though the unease still lingered. Eventually, the tension between them ebbed, and the pair lay back down, facing each other in the quiet room. The flickering candlelight cast soft shadows on their faces, highlighting the mix of emotions that lingered in their eyes.

Aemond gently pulled Maera into his chest, wrapping his arms around her protectively as he buried his nose in her brown and silver curls. The familiar scent of her hair soothed him, grounding him in the moment. Maera, in turn, pressed her face to his chest, inhaling his scent deeply, a comfort she had always found in his presence.

Breaking the silence, Maera whispered into the stillness, “It has to end with us.” Her voice was steady but laced with exhaustion. “We cannot keep killing, tit for tat.” She tilted her head up, her eyes meeting his. “We need to be better.”

Aemond’s expression softened as he reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of her face with a tenderness that belied the storm of emotions within him. He pressed his lips firmly to her forehead, the kiss lingering as if to imprint his love and fears onto her skin. “I don’t want to give them the chance to take you both from me,” he whispered, his voice raw with vulnerability.

Maera sighed, her hand moving in slow, soothing circles on his back as she held him close to her.

“We’re not going anywhere.”

Two days before the turn of the moon, a raven arrived from King's Landing, carrying a letter which bore the seal of the three-headed dragon on black wax—the unmistakable mark of Rhaenyra Targaryen. It was late afternoon when the bird was spotted, its arrival causing a ripple of anticipation among the courtiers. The tension in Dragonstone was palpable, for they all knew what this message could mean. Rhaenyra had waited until the very last possible moment to send her reply, a calculated move to show her reluctance—or perhaps her defiance.

The raven’s message was quickly intercepted and brought directly to the Small Council. The room, usually filled with the murmur of discussions and the clatter of goblets, was eerily quiet as the sealed letter was placed before King Aemond. Every member of the council was present, their eyes fixed on the letter, waiting. The Queen and a few of the councilmen exchanged uneasy glances, their faces lined with the weariness of war, while a few openly displayed their impatience.

Aemond stood at the head of the table, his presence commanding as ever. The Conqueror’s Crown sat heavily upon his brow, a symbol of power that weighed on him both physically and metaphorically. His one remaining eye, sharp and intense, scanned the seal before he broke it with deliberate calm. The room, including Maera, collectively held their breath, the tension so thick it felt as if the air itself might shatter.

With a flick of his wrist, Aemond unfurled the parchment, the rustle of paper the only sound in the room. His gaze moved across the lines of ink, taking in the words written by a woman who was supposed to be his eldest sister, but was now was his greatest enemy. He paused for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he began to read aloud.

Maera,

Your letter reaches me in a time where peace seems as elusive as the dawn after a long, unending night. I commend your optimism, but I fear your proposed terms are not only unachievable but a mockery of the oaths sworn to my House. My father, King Viserys, named me his heir, and the Realm bent the knee to me. Those who have since turned their backs on that solemn pledge are nothing less than traitors, and traitors will be met with fire and blood.

The Queen sat with her head cradled in her hands, the weight of her crown pulling it slightly askew. The Valyrian crown, set with sapphires and rubies, glittered faintly in the candlelight, a reminder of her high station that now felt more like a burden than a privilege. As the contents of the letter were laid bare, a groan of dismay escaped her lips, muffled by the shield of her hands.

There may have been a path to peace, once. Even after the brutal slaying of my beloved son Lucerys, I harbored some small hope that the conflict could end without further tragedy. But now Jacaerys is dead, felled by the arrows of your fleet, and my youngest, sweet Viserys, has been stolen from me—no doubt also claimed by death. You ask for peace, Maera, yet you have taken nearly all that I hold dear. I do not desire peace; I crave vengeance.

Maera’s head shot up, her green eyes narrowing with concern. Her brother Dermot had written to her frequently, detailing the boy’s health and well-being after he had taken him hostage for the Greens. Prince Viserys was safe and well, and had actually grown quite fond of his captor, but his guardian constantly moved him from one hidden location to another across the vast expanse of Essos.

Dermot’s letters were filled with a constant undercurrent of fear—that one misstep, one breach of secrecy, could see Viserys fall into the wrong hands, for not all in Essos were friendly. A silver-haired boy could fetch a handsome price.

The horror I felt at the state in which my stepdaughter was returned to me is beyond words. While she lives, the scars she bears, both on her flesh and in her soul, are grievous, and her dragon, who was born to her, is dead. Aemond, your husband, chose you well, it seems. You both share a streak of ruthlessness, though you wield mercy as if it were a blade, sharp and cutting.

Maera’s gaze flickered around the room, studying the faces of the councilmen. Most of them appeared unperturbed by the letter’s contents, as though Rhaenyra’s rejection of peace was a foregone conclusion. In fact, there was a glint in some of their eyes, a barely concealed satisfaction. They seemed almost eager, relishing the thought of resuming the war with full force. To them, the rejection was not a setback but an opportunity—a chance to finish what had been started and claim victory, no matter the cost.

Under different circumstances, she would have risen to chastise them for their lack of empathy, for their blind craving for brutality that would only prolong the cycle of violence. Her words would have been sharp, reminding them of the lives lost on both sides, of the families torn apart, of the children who would never know peace. But as Aemond continued reading, the next words from Rhaenyra stole the breath from her lungs.

If you are wise, good-sister, you will continue to ask the Mother for guidance, for the day is coming when you will need it more than ever. Pray for Aemond's soul, for his sins are many and grievous. And I urge you to hold your daughter close, for in these dark times, children can be ripped away as easily as a whisper in the wind.

Rhaenyra Targaryen,

First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm

Her stomach dropped, the world around her blurring as the words echoed in her mind. She felt the blood drain from her face, her skin growing cold with the icy grip of fear. Her eyes instinctively sought out Aemond’s, desperate for some sign of reassurance, but all she saw was a fury that matched the fire of his dragon. His anger was palpable, radiating from him like heat from a forge, but Maera’s own fear was a different beast—raw, visceral, and utterly paralyzing.

Without a word, Maera stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor as she pushed it back. She took a few unsteady steps away from the table, her breaths shallow and rapid as she fought to maintain her composure. The walls of the council chamber felt as though they were closing in on her, the room suddenly stifling and suffocating. She knew she could not let the council see her like this, could not afford to show any weakness, but the tears threatened to overflow, her hands trembling as she struggled to keep her emotions in check.

Disgust churned in her stomach, a bitter taste in her mouth as she thought of Rhaenyra—the mother who had lost a daughter, who had known the pain of such a loss, and yet would threaten the life of another’s child. It was beyond cruel; it was evil. Maera could hardly believe it, yet the words were there, in black ink on parchment. Even if Rhaenyra had not penned the words herself, she had approved them, allowed them to be sent.

Across the room, she heard the smug, rasping voice of the Master of Whispers, Larys Strong. “I trust,” he began, his tone dripping with false civility, “that all present can now see Rhaenyra the Cruel cannot be reasoned with.” His words were calculated, designed to stoke the fires of war, and Maera’s heart burned with anger. She shot him a glare so fierce that it could have cut through steel. Her eyes locked onto his, brimming with contempt. But Larys merely lowered his gaze, seemingly in deference, yet Maera caught the briefest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Aemond’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, low and edged with warning. “Larys,” he said, his tone enough to make anyone else in the room flinch. The Master of Whispers quickly dropped his gaze further, the smirk fading as he adopted a mask of humility, but Maera could still feel the air of satisfaction around him.

Before she could gather her thoughts, the Hand of the King, Criston Cole, pushed back his chair and stood. His armor-clad form was a pillar of unyielding resolve as he addressed the council. “It is crucial, that we move forward with our plans immediately,” he said, his voice firm. “Too much time has already been wasted in these fruitless attempts to placate Rhaenyra.” His words were blunt, a rallying cry for the war hawks at the table, and Maera felt her heart sink further.

Maera’s eyes swept across the room as she returned to her seat, taking in the faces of those who surrounded her. The small council had become a gathering of soldiers rather than strategists. Lord Unwin Peake, her previous ally, had already departed for Tumbleton, intent on bringing the Dragonseeds to heel, and now it was clear from the letter that all remaining hopes for a peaceful resolution had been extinguished. Aemond, with his crown of Valyrian steel and intent to secure his claim, was ready to do whatever it took, and the lords present—each one hungry for power, for glory, for blood—were eager to follow him into battle.

She realized with a pang of sorrow that her own efforts had been for nothing. The letter she had sent, the mercy she had shown to Baela—all of it was dismissed, seen not as a last, desperate grasp at peace but as a weakness, a hindrance to the inevitable march toward war. The men in this room were too far gone, too consumed by their own ambitions and thirst for vengeance to see the value in what she had tried to achieve. Maera stood there, surrounded by powerful men, and yet she had never felt so alone. Then, a voice broke through the clamor of her thoughts, cutting through the fog of her despair.

“Rhaenyra believes another of her sons is dead,” the voice stated, calm and measured, yet laced with the kind of calculated thought that sent a chill down Maera’s spine. “Perhaps this could be used to our advantage.”

Maera blinked, her gaze snapping upward in surprise. The voice belonged to none other than the Grand Maester. He stood with an air of calmness that contrasted sharply with the urgency of the situation, his violet eyes scanning the faces of the other council members with the detachment of a man used to navigating the treacherous waters of power and politics.

For a moment, Maera was stunned. This man, her estranged grandfather, felt like a myth mere months ago, his appearance at court feeling like a rejection of her family through his abandonment of her late mother. But there Vaegon was, speaking up at a time when she had felt most alone, offering a perspective that acknowledged the significance of Rhaenyra’s letter in a way that no one else had. The older man also offered an alternative path, whilst ruthless in nature, could also be seen as brilliant. In Vaegon’s words, she heard a validation of her efforts, even if they had taken a dark and unexpected turn.

For the first time in what felt like hours, she allowed herself to breathe. The feeling of isolation began to recede, replaced by a new resolve. Maera straightened in her seat, her gaze meeting Vaegon’s across the table. He gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible, but to Maera, it spoke volumes.

The chamber, already thick with tension, grew colder as the council members reacted to the Grand Maester’s viewpoint. The older Lord Bryndemere, Master of Ships, sat back in his chair, his expression a mixture of weariness and impatience. He tutted loudly, shaking his head as if the entire discussion had been a waste of precious time. "It does not matter now. Rhaenyra has refused the terms."

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Alfred Broome, cleared his throat, his armored figure imposing as he addressed the room. He was a man of action, one who measured the weight of a threat by the steel he carried at his side.

"Grand Maester," he began, his voice steady but laced with an underlying fury, “Rhaenyra has done more than simply reject our terms. She has replied with a threat against the infant Princess. This cannot be tolerated."

His words hung in the air like a sword poised to strike. The room fell into a heavy silence, the gravity of the situation pressing down on them all. Maera, who had been silently absorbing the exchange, felt a sigh escape her lips. Only a few weeks ago, the part of her that believed in empathy and understanding might have pushed for Vaegon’s suggestion, clinging to the hope that some resolution could be found without further bloodshed.

But that was long gone. The Mother’s Mercy that had once guided her decisions had dried up the moment Rhaenyra’s cruel words had threatened her daughter. Maera was not just a queen; she was a mother, and no title in the world could overshadow that instinct. The thought of harm coming to Aemara awakened a fierce protectiveness within her, one that blazed hotter than any dragon’s fire. If even a single silver hair on Aemara’s head was harmed, Maera knew with a terrifying clarity that she would gladly burn the Realm to ashes, consequences be damned.

As these dark thoughts swirled within her, she felt the warmth of a hand gently resting on hers. Startled from her reverie, she turned to see her husband, Aemond, the King, standing beside her. His gaze, usually so fierce and commanding, was softened as he looked at her, a rare tenderness in his eye.

For a moment, the room and all its tensions faded away, leaving only the two of them. She was searching for reassurance, for something solid to anchor herself to in this storm of uncertainty. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "Aemond..."

Her husband’s gaze never wavered, his grip on her hand firm and steady. "Rhaenyra has made her choice," he said, his voice calm but resolute. "Now it is time to make ours."

There was no hesitation in his words, only the clear, unyielding determination that had always drawn her to him. In his single violet eye, she saw the reflection of her own resolve. After a long, steadying breath, Maera nodded. The softness in her expression hardened into something more resolute. It was time to prepare for the invasion.

Notes: right, let’s see how this goes then 👀 is anything ever straightforward?

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