#i feel almost physically sick with anticipation

[pinktinselmonstrosity]

[aajjks]

loser ≠ lover (m)

synopsis. He wants you so much, even if you’ll destroy him, because he’d let you.

fem reader x yandere oc.

warnings. yándere, öbsession, masochïstic tendencies, mentions of physical, emotional abûse, unhealthy thöughts, èxtreme obsession, obsessive thoughts.

note. MY FIRST OC!!!!! UHHH IM SO SO NERVOUS BECAUSE IM NEW TO THIS KIND OF THING BUT I HOPE YOU ALL WILL GIVE HIM A CHANCE. HES ALL YOURS TO INTERACT WITH, send fanart?!?? Please I’d be honoured, send asks talk to him!!!! 😭💌

second instalment x

loser boy who worships the ground you walk on!

Who licks off the dirt that trails off your shoes as you walk down the school hallway.

loser boy who is so obsessed with you that he can’t breathe if he can’t get a look at you.

loser boy who can’t feel anything but love for you, passion that pumps so hard in his veins for you, who can’t say a word without stuttering except your name.

Loser boy who follows you around like a lost puppy, who doesn’t care if your ‘friends’ cuss at him, if you call him a dirty dog.

At least you’re talking to him! God, he’s so lucky!

“Goodness fuck off! You sicko! How’d you find my address!?” You spit at him, your eyes filled so beautifully with hues of disgust, your luscious lips curled up in annoyance. He smiles so brightly at you, God, you’re so beautiful.

“O-Oh please! C-Call me more names! P-Please!” He begs, on his knees, his raven hair falling on his grey orbs, his lashes wet as he begs you.

You feel embarrassed, He notices, yet he feels his heart burning from the need to hear you insult him.

It’s been too long.

And that’s why he’s here, at 1 am right infront of your door, begging.

“Fucking masochist! You’re so disgusting! FUCK OFF.” The way your shoe hits his jaw, makes him moan out your name like a prayer.

You groan in anger, he gets up again, you struggle against him, your nails scratch him, the burn feels euphoric, he missed you so bad.

“You don’t understand huh?!? LEAVE. ME. ALONE.” You try to get away from him, the boy doesn’t let you, instead he grabs your legs, wrapping his arms around them, “n-no please! take me back please!” He’s sobbing.

Yet his heart loves the thrill of your resistance, it turns him on so much, his pants feel so painfully tight, “NEVER! You ARE NOT GOOD FOR ANYTHING! You are of no use to me anymore!” you keep insulting him, it makes him feel so relieved.

You hadn’t been talking to him for so long, he almost went insane without you.

“Y-YN p-please kiss me!” He stands up, “p-please!”

“FUCK OFF Ezekiel!” His mind blurs.

His tongue lulls out and he whimpers as you finally utter his name out, it sounds so good, so erotic from your mouth, His name was made for you to call out.

He is so obsessed with you.

“S-Say it again… p-please!” Ezekiel stands up, his knees wobble, the stormy grey eyes are full of lust, craziness.

You roll your eyes at him again, it only makes him so much more excited, he loves your rejection so much, he always has.

Because it’s a unique bond between you, you treat him special, he knows.

“fuck off weirdo.” Ezekiel doesn’t say anything but pushes you against the door of your house, “YN…” he brings his face so much closer to you, he feels scared yet thrilled.

You’re so unpredictable, it makes him shake with anticipation.

“P-Please don’t leave- don’t-don’t abandon me! I-I’m sorry I disappointed you b-but he deserved it.” You raise your eyebrows at his ‘apology’

“No. Get away from me you sick freak! You had no right to beat him up like that, who are you huh? My boyfriend? Please…” you scoff, “you’re nothing to me Ezekiel, absolutely nothing.” You spit again at him.

God.

“You’re just a pathetic man who gets me off. You’re just a pastime you get that?” You point your finger to his chest.

“Y’know you’re lucky you have a big dick and a pretty face. sometimes you’re obedient too and you make good punching bag.” You laugh so cruelly, venom drips in your words.

Yet he takes it as words of praise.

“You’re like my dog.”

Yes he is.

“S-So please just take me back? I-I’m so sorry YN…. Please punish me but not like this! H-HIT ME.” He takes your hand and swipes it hard across his cheek.

You gasp in surprise, Ezekiel looks at you with pure desperation. “Please! I-I can’t live without you,” he bites his lower lip, the mole under his lips becomes more evident.

“I-I can please you! I can help you get off! Please let me- give me a chance- I’ll make you cum as many times you’ll want to- PLEASE GIVE ME A CHANCE AT REDEMPTION!”

“P-Please!”

[sanchosgf]

gentle reminders

in which jude can’t seem to understand the weight his injuries have on his girlfriend

word count: 1.2k!

warnings: none i think! this isn’t proofread and i’m a little rusty so go easy on me please

heat tricked down your spine as you observed jude, his hand clasped in the medics as they moved his shoulder around. you knew he’d still play, they could tell him his arm had fallen off and even then you knew he’d be determined to continue the game.

your heart remained in your throat for the remaining minutes, unable to appreciate your boyfriends game as your whole body shook with nerves anticipating the weight of his injury that he seemingly was unable to grasp.

this wasn’t the first time you were left worried as jude played through an injury, each time ending in an inevitable argument as you pleaded for him to rest and take care of himself, and you were sure this time would be much the same. however thoughts of fighting were lost upon you as you finally spotted jude walking down the tunnel, his eyes lacking their usual post game spark as he pulled you in for a tight hug, his head nestled comfortably in the crook of your neck.

the hug was short lived, as you pulled back swiftly, hands settling on his cheeks as you inspected every inch of him, noticeable worry swirling your eyes.

“i’m okay baby, promise, just a little hit yeah?” jude comforted, placing a soft kiss upon your forehead a gentle reminder of his love for you. his attempt to console you however was futile, shaking your head back and forth as you peered up at him - now standing back at his full height as your fingers slipped from his cheeks.

“but it wasn’t a little hit jude, you shouldn’t of played on it!” you tried to keep your voice down as you admonished him, arms crossed over your chest, his missing warmth and the physical disconnection making your heart twist.

jude sighed, shoulders slumping as he looked at you before swiftly looking around. “let’s not do this here, please.” his eyes bore into yours, pleading almost as his hand rose to stroke your cheek, catching a tear you didn’t even know had slipped from your eye.

hesitantly you nodded, leaning into his hand and kissing it gently as a silent apology, one he swiftly accepted, throwing his arm around your shoulder and leading you to the car. no words were shared between the two of you. the silence filled with small glances and shaky breaths, neither of you willing to address the impending argument.

silence followed the two of you into the house, the air tense as you actively held your tongue, wanting nothing more than to get cosy in jude’s arms and forget about the game - jude however had other plans.

“are you going to say what’s on your mind, or continue trying to knock my head off with your mind each time you look at me?” judes voice was heavy, sleep coating ever syllable as he looked at you with hooded eyes.

“it doesn’t really matter if i say what’s on my mind, we know you never listen to me when it comes to your injuries. it’s like teaching a baby to drive jude, can we just go to bed?”

jude’s eyes widened significantly at your sudden admission, all sleep leaving his body as he stared at you, mouth agape. though it wasn’t an unwarranted statement, jude knew he dragged you through hell and back with stress each injury, continuously playing on each injury despite your incessant pleas for him to rest. each time ended much the same - you being right and jude being out longer than necessary.

despite the truth jude scoffed “tell me how you really feel babe” his tone was snarky, sending daggers straight to your heart as you finally looked up at him.

“j you know i didn’t mean it like that, but you also know that each time we end up in this situation i end up being right! i’m sick of watching you exhaust yourself and play on injuries which only leaves you out for longer. i hate seeing you hurt and i hate that you can’t see how much it hurts me. i’m tired of it jude.” your voice wobbled slightly as you spoke, desperate to feel jude’s warmth against you, however all you were met with was his icy glare.

“maybe i should sleep in the guest room tonight, let us both cool off.”

his suggestion saw another bout of tears gather in your lash line, eyes searching his own for any trace of a joke.

“if that’s what you want” you choked out, defeated and too tired to argue further. jude’s facade cracked at your defeated expression, however with a lingering kiss to your forehead he left you for the guest room, leaving you with a cold bed and tear stained cheeks.

neither of you could sleep, and as the clock hit 2 jude finally got up, desperate to make amends with you and let you know how much he truly cared for and loved you, disappointed that he failed to do so earlier.

his cold hands met your cheeks softly, thumbs rubbing comforting circles under your eyes as they opened slowly.

“hi baby…” jude’s gentle whisper cut through the silence of the room, as you sat up slowly pulling jude beside you and placing your head right against his heart. it was shameful how quickly you folded at the smallest of touches, however you’d been craving his touch for hours and close now was not close enough.

jude’s lips pressed small kisses to your forehead, knowing how much you adored the small action, and making a note to shower you in an abundance of forehead kisses the next day. “im so so sorry my love… i hate putting you through this, and i don’t show you enough how grateful i am for all you do for me, especially when im injured. i hate that im the reason for you tears tonight sweetheart.”

your eyes fluttered open at his admissions, head tilting ever so slightly to catch his gaze, moonlight illuminating his features. “it’s okay, i get that it’s hard and you just want to play, but you deserve to rest as well y’know? i just wish you’d give yourself a break”

jude nodded at your words, one of his large hands coming up to cradle your cheek, tilting your face up until his lips hovered over yours. impatient with his slow movements, your hand wove to the back of his neck, pressing his lips onto yours as you relished in the warmth the provided, a gentle caress of his own over yours that sent your heart into overdrive.

the kiss spoke volumes for the two of you, as you both lost yourself in it, basking in the intimate connection after hours without any touch.

jude was the first to pull away, forehead leaning against yours as he looked at you intently.

“i love you, y’know? more than anything.”

his words were solidified as he placed his lips against your forehead once more, not faltering as you spoke the same words back, voice slurred as you felt your body succumbing to sleep.

“can we sleep now? i’m tired and i’ve finally got my favorite body pillow back.”

jude let out a tired laugh at your statement, nodding his head as he guided the two of you to lay down, your head nestled right over his heart and under his chin as his arms wrapped securely around you - your small fight long forgotten. his lips provided a gentle pressure against your forehead, a small reminder that even though you two fought, you truly were his best girl, and he’d do all he could tomorrow to show you just how much he loved you.

[lilylovestowrite]

Could I request Gepard with a chef! reader who enjoys cooking for him?

Reader loves to spoil Gepard with homemade bread or cake. Upon realizing that he skips meals, reader decided to take action and make him boxed lunches.

SWEET LIKE BUTTERCREAM! ୨♡୧

PAIRING ୨♡୧ (Gepard Landau x Gn! Chef! Reader)

WARNINGS ୨♡୧ None

SYNOPSIS ୨♡୧ Your husband has been neglecting himself, and you decide to spoil him rotten. 

WORD COUNT ୨♡୧ 1.5k

A/N ୨♡୧ Thank you for the request, Anon! I know you didn’t specify whether the reader was married to him or not, but Gepard is so husband material that I couldn’t help myself. Hopefully you don’t mind! Please enjoy!

Divider by @/cafekitsune

“Honey,” Gepard echoes through the entryway to the kitchen, “I’m here.” 

You can’t hear him through the chaos, but he can hear you barking orders at your coworkers. Even your yelling soothes him to a certain degree. Still, he wants you to talk to him, so he shuffles through the tight squeeze in between the kitchen island and the ovens. Honestly, even though he’s a guard, his workplace is almost as dangerous as yours. The smell is heavenly, saffron and spices waking him (and his stomach) from a stress-induced daze, but the discord is immeasurable. 

He can hear you asking (shouting) for someone to check on the tiramisu, followed by a louder, “Thank you!” which makes him chuckle. That’s what the blond first noticed about you: even in dire situations, you never forget your manners. The memory of a rainy day in Belobog flashes through his mind: on his daily rounds, he finds a figure dressed in an adorable frog raincoat, beating a thief with their matching frog umbrella, hollering tearful apologies with each strike. Whilst as a Landau, his teachings have raised him to believe that ‘manners maketh man’, that scene was a rather overexaggerated use of the phrase. Nevertheless, the second he met your teary gaze, he was so enraptured by you that he nearly stumbled into a puddle. He’s about to melt into one too, watching you work away with that little look of concentration that makes him want to scoop you up. 

“Darling?” Your husband calls once more, just metres away from you. Finally, you turn around. Meeting his deep blue eyes, taking in his tired tiny smile and outstretched arms, you leap right into his arms. You’re not one to throw yourself at people, nor are you one for physical touch, but of the many years you’ve known him, Gepard will always catch you if you fall. It’s that trust that allows you to dive into his embrace every time he visits you at work, he’s just so reliable. 

“Hello handsome,” you hug him so tightly he nearly stumbles backwards, “back from work so early?” It’s then that you do a double take at him. Gepard is never home from work early. He’s a doting husband, yes, but he’s an equally hard-working Captain. You hug him harder and realise just how much skinnier he’s gotten. “You must be sick, sit down. Let’s get you to the private lounge.” You take a deep breath, ready to yell once more, and Gepard shuts his eyes in anticipation of another wave of noise-barrier-breaking-banter. “Jiaoqiu, I trust you’ll keep things running?” The new foxian chef nods, and you leave your domain with your husband behind you. 

Working as a chef in a hotel is a stressful job: entitled customers who plant hairs in their food to get a discount, waiting staff who hand in an order that is completely illegible, the loud hustle and bustle of the kitchen. It’s not for the weak, and your employers are appreciative of that fact and give the cooks a little lounge. Even for a five star hotel, it’s amazing they even considered it in the first place. You take full advantage of their kindness and lead your husband to one of the cream coloured couches. The sea is visible from the lounge, full glass windows making you feel as if you’re trapped in an ice cube. The hues of sunset begin to paint the sky, light red casting light on the hollows under Gepard’s eyes. 

“Geppie, you haven’t been overworking yourself and skipping meals again, have you?” 

He looks away, slightly red: “It’s not that bad. It’s just a few meals.” He winces, his soft voice jaded from fatigue. To make matters worse, his stomach rumbles ferociously. He covers his stomach with white gloved hands, blue eyes widening with panic. “Listen, go back to work, love, I promise I’ll eat once we get home. Just, don’t do that thing where you go insane trying to cater to me. You work a full-time job too, don’t let me get in the way. I’m a grown man, I can take care of myself.” 

“You’re a grown man when I saw you are, Geppie. I’m bringing you pasta, just the way you like it.” You flash him a pout, frustration building up inside of you. You hate seeing your husband neglect himself like this, every time you see him convince people around him when he’s fine when he’s obviously struggling, it hurts. You two lead your lives in effortless synchronicity, like a perfectly executed ice skating performance, so observing his health deteriorate when you two are so close it’s like you share the same chambers of your heart is hurtful to you too. You’ve given him his space, but now it’s time for an intervention.

“You don’t have to cook me pasta, darling, I can cook too, you know?” 

You grab both of his legs and rest it on the white fancy coffee table in front of you so suddenly, he startles and jumps back like a frightened rabbit. You fetch him a blanket from the hotel cabinet and drape it over him. “I know you can, love,” you run your hand through his soft hair and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut in ecstasy, “but just let me handle it tonight, okay?”

He yawns, finally giving in. “Okay honey, but only for tonight.” Gepard replies, his Captain’s authoritative lilt leaking into his words. 

But that voice doesn’t work on you, it seems, because the next day during his patrol, you bound up to him like a puppy. Gepard may walk into you at times, and you will greet each other, maybe share a kiss. But you know not to interrupt his work, as any lack of diligence may result in casualties in rare cases. But Gepard doesn’t want to take that gamble. Today, however, in this picturesque sunny day, the sky the shade of his eyes, there is something hidden behind your back. 

“Darling, hello! Are you enjoying your day off- oof!” The second he reaches out to kiss the back of your hand, you smack an adorably wrapped box into his arms. Although he is in his uniform, perfectly built to protect him, he does stumble back slightly. He assesses the box, unwrapping the floral pink fabric that holds it, and finds a bento box. “Wait, love, I love your cooking but we have food at work, don’t waste your day off on-” His voice trails off, because as he looks in front of him again, you’ve already vanished. He shakes his head dismissively, “What a sly fox.” But a few of the Silvermane Guards at the same post as him watch as a wide smile breaks out on his face, along with a blush that turns the tip of his ears a deep pink. 

It has become a daily thing now. And although Gepard feels a bit ashamed that his partner is babying him, the complete truth is that on your days off, he intentionally ‘forgets’ his bento box just so you can find him and hand it to him then. It’s no different three months later, when you stomp up to him in your wellie boots, under your frog umbrella. “Hello, love.” He greets, ruffling your hair and taking the bento box. He looks at the fabric that decorates it and tilts his head to look at you better. “I like the ducks on this one, it’s cute.” When he laughs with the same softness as a tiny bell, you swoon softly, even more so now that he’s gained some of his baby fat back on his cheeks after your rigorous diet schedules. It makes him seem so much more peppier, and now that things are a bit more difficult for you at work, he’s been stepping up and taking care of you too. It shows now more than ever that he’s less overworked. There’s a pep in his step, all signs of tiredness in his face replaced with a healthy glow and rosy tint in his cheeks. He makes your cheeks bloom with heat when he kisses the back of your palm, his common Prince-like greeting. “So, what did you make this time?” 

“I made some linguini and I had some leftover battenburg cake, so that’s in there too! It’s a bit chilly today, so wrap up warm, sweetheart. I’ll get going now, I have to pick up some groceries.” You’re about to turn away, but Gerpard calls your name in such a way, it resembles the light and sweet taste of buttercream. 

“Wait! Before you go,” he sets the bento box on a nearby bench and lifts you up for a kiss. You meet his lips and exchange a cold kiss that ends up warming the both of you up significantly. “I’ll see you at home, angel.” He smiles, putting you down. You say your goodbyes and walk away, heart swelling with affection and excitement for the next time he opens the door to your house so you can leap into his arms once again. 

[slytherinshua]

I'LL TAKE CARE OF YOU

genre. fluff. sick fic. warnings. reader is sick (fever, headache, nausea). food mention (soup). pairing. sungchan x fem!reader. wc. 754. request. requested by anon: currently dying atm... would live for sungchan taking care of me rn :( a/n. just me continuing to write sungchan as the most boyfriend material™️ to ever exist. also i swear im gonna be finishing those event drabbles soon i'm just sidetracking skdjks help.

“You need to eat, baby.” Sungchan coaxed, holding up a spoonful of soup for you.

“Don‘t want it.” You mumbled in response, close to tears at just the thought of eating anything. 

You had felt nauseous almost all day, accompanied with a raging headache and a rising fever. Sungchan had dropped everything to come take care of you as soon as he heard you were feeling under the weather. You appreciated that you didn’t have to be alone in your misery, but you wished that your boyfriend would yield to your suggestion of just sleeping all day instead of taking medicine and food.

“It’s good for you. Come on, Y/n, please? Don’t make me have to do the airplane.” He held the bowl a little closer to you, hoping that the smell of fresh hot soup would persuade you. It did almost the opposite.

“Eating anything right now sounds like a nightmare, Sungie. Especially this soup…” You wrinkled your nose, trying not to breathe in any more of the aroma that on a normal day would make you salivate. Being sick was the worst.

Sungchan seemed to finally give up on the soup, placing the bowl and spoon down on the bedside table and slumping back to the side of the bed. He reached out for your hand, rubbing his thumb along your knuckles. Just the small gesture made you infinitely more sleepy than you already were. You would’ve just succumbed to the tiredness if Sungchan hadn’t opened his mouth to say something.

“You have to eat later, though. Okay? I can make you something else if you really hate the soup, but your body still needs nutrients.” He frowned at how exhausted you looked, even though you had done nothing but sleep and watch shows for the past day.

“I’ll try.” You closed your eyes again, considering the conversation done for now. You weren’t sure what Sungchan would do now. He had offered to cuddle with you many times, but you had outright refused each time he brought it up. You’d feel even worse if you got him sick, so you were trying to limit your contact as much as you could. 

Plus, from prior experience, you knew Sungchan had the worst cases of man colds known to the universe. Taking care of him when he was sick was listening to him whine and complain 24/7. No matter how much you loved him— even when you had to take care of him— you would always prefer healthy Sungchan.

“You must be cold sleeping by yourself.” The words came almost as a whisper, and much closer to your ear than you anticipated. You were too tired to open your eyes again, but you could feel that Sungchan had gotten on the bed with you, laying behind you to spoon you, one hand on your waist pulling you closer to him.

“Go away, I don’t want you to catch it.” You said meekly. You and Sungchan both knew you wouldn’t fight for him to leave in your state, though.

“I want to nap with you. I’ll keep you warm.” He said softly. He shifted even closer to you so that he could plant a kiss on your shoulder. You could hear him giggle slightly and feel his warm breath hit your skin. 

It felt nice. Even though your body probably felt hot to the touch, you had been freezing under 2 blankets all day. Nothing quite kept you as warm as Sungchan. His bordering on giant height and broad shoulders served their purpose in keeping you embraced completely; like your own personal heater in boyfriend form.

“You’ll get sick…” You mumbled one last time when you felt Sungchan start to press more kisses to your skin. You knew it would accomplish nothing. He was as stubborn as you were, and if it came down to it, he had at least 10 times the physical strength that you did, especially when sick. 

“I don’t care.” He muttered, his kisses steadily trailing up towards your forehead. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, silently willing your headache to go away. 

You were sure that there was no real way that his kisses could actually relieve the ache in your head, yet in your half-asleep state, you felt as if the pain almost completely went away the second his soft lips came in contact with your burning skin. With the comfort of Sungchan next to you, slipping away to your dreams felt easier than breathing.

↳ riize taglist: @eternalgyu,, @kangtaehyunzzz,, @weird-bookworm,, @haecien,, @seolboba,, @cyberpunksunwoo,, @cosmicwintr,, @chiiyuuvv,, @evalevaeva,, @lecheugo

[wolftoken]

bunny • vessel x reader x iv

a/n: i slept like 4 hours last night, im sick, but at least i have smut. i also made bread. i don’t think i’ve written a threesome fic before so im sorry if this is awful lol

word count: 1667 • tags: gender neutral reader, reader has the petname ‘bunny,’ threesome, unprotected sex, oral sex, creampie, face fucking, deepthroating, praise, rough sex, edging, dom vessel, sub reader, sub iv

• masterlist •

you felt pretty exposed like this, fully naked on all fours with your resting on Vessel’s lap, who sat in a plush chair in front of you.

“you look so perfect for us, bunny,” Vessel’s soft voice interrupted your thoughts and you felt his hand come down to cup your cheek. he was always so soft with you, physically and with his words. he stroked your cheekbones with his thumb and grinned down at you excitedly, momentarily forgetting the other figure in the room.

you felt IV come up behind you, his hands coming to rest on your hips. he was fully naked and fully hard, his dick poking up against your tummy which made you both shiver in anticipation. the two men looked at each other, and you wondered what they were thinking. Vessel felt you press your face on his thigh impatiently and brought his gaze back down to you, taking a deep breath before he gently sat you upwards.

lifting his hips up off his chair, Vessel slid his boxers off to reveal his hard and aching cock that had already started dripping for you both. he was so excited to do this with the two of you, but neither of you could match IV’s eagerness to get started. he loved to be in charge of your pleasure while also taking orders from Vessel.

“go ahead, pretty boy. fuck our little bunny,” Vessel barked at IV while stroking his hand slowly over his leaking cock. your mouth watered at the sight and you so desperately wanted to slide your tongue over his tip but every thought seemed to vacate your mind as soon as you felt IV’s dick slowly sinking into you.

he was thick, and it burned slightly before the pain turned into overwhelming pleasure. of course they’d prepped you before hand but it was always a struggle to take the guitarist’s cock for the first few moments. shuddering at the feeling of you so tight and warm around him, his breaths quickened slightly as he awaited Vessel’s permission to begin fucking you. you couldn’t see, but he was staring up at the man with those pleading eyes that Vessel loved to see.

redirecting your attention to his own cock, Vessel took your chin in his hand and pressed his thumb into your mouth. wordlessly, you sucked on the digit, eagerly awaiting for it to be replaced with something bigger. the singer groaned at the sight of you, stretched out on his friend’s dick and sucking on his fingers.

“you have no idea how perfect you are, pretty thing. now open wide for me, yeah, that’s good-“ Vessel had to pause when your tongue rolled out to taste his dripping tip, trying to focus on keeping steady so you could take him into your mouth. you heard IV whine behind you, surely straining to keep himself back, too. to have both men like this, naked and staring at you like you’re the only thing in the world, it excited you beyond belief. you wanted to make them feel good, you wanted to make them proud, so you took as much of Vessel into your mouth as possible and pushed back on IV’s aching cock at the same time.

a symphony of moans filled the room as the three of you began to get lost in each other. you whimpered around Vessel which caused him to grab a hold of your hair for leverage so he could thrust up into your mouth. he didn’t go to far or fast just yet, preferring to enjoy what you were giving him in the moment. however, IV was quick to tighten his hold on your hips with an almost bruising force and shove his cock as deep inside of you as he can get it.

IV is the kind of guy to fuck you however you want, slow or fast, rough or soft, as long as he gets to be deep inside you. he swears the feeling of being buried to the hilt is the closest he’ll ever get to heaven.

he’s he swearing under his breath and so entranced at the feeling of you he almost forgets what Vessel had told him earlier. that is, until, Vessel takes it upon himself to remind his guitarist of their agreement.

“IV, you remember what i told you, fuck- what i told you before this? huh?”

the man only looked into Vessel’s eyes with desperate hunger, keeping up his erratic pace.

“you only get to cum after i do. you’re gonna keep fucking our pretty bunny just how they like it but you’re gonna keep control of yourself. can you do that or do i have to make you?” Vessel asks, an edge of ferocity in his tone but you both know it’s only because IV likes it that way.

“fuck, Vessel, i can- ahh, i can do it. please let me do it!” he begs, beginning to slow down his thrusts as he calms himself down.

“good boy. now bunny,” Vessel paused to take your jaw in one hand and your hair in the other, “think you can take all of me? wanna feel me fill up your throat?”

you can only nod with pleading eyes as he smiles softly at you, taking his dick in his hand and guiding the tip to your lips. you think he’s going to go straight into fucking your face but he drags the leaking tip across your lips, watching his hooded eyes as his precum glistens on them like lipgloss.

“so pretty, yeah? let me ruin you.”

you don’t have much warning before he’s shoved past your lips and down your throat. it’s nothing you haven’t taken before but it’s a feeling you’re still getting used to. you do your best to lick along him but he lets you know it’s easier for you to just relax and take it like a good little toy.

feeling IV’s hands smooth up your spine, you squeeze around him just to hear the breathy groan he lets out for you. you know he loves this, having Vessel tell him what to do while he fucks your face relentlessly.

“you’re making us feel so fucking good, baby. shit, i cant take this much longer,” IV whines, and you appreciate he’s taking the time to sing your praises in his current state of desperation. you can feel Vessel getting closer, the way his thighs tremble under your hands and his ragged breathing let you know it wont be long until he’s painting your throat with his cum.

you let out a high pitched moan that reverberates into Vessel’s cock, making him let out something akin to a growl as he holds your face flush against his pelvis, burying himself as deep as he can go. you feel his cum fill your throat as he twitches inside you. both your chests are heaving when he pulls out, smiling fondly at your tear stricken face and beautiful shining eyes looking up at him when you swallow. taking your face in his hands he leans down to press lazy kisses to the top of your head.

“you’re so perfect, our little bunny taking us so well. you think IV’s just about ready to burst, hmm?” he teases, directing his heady gaze to the man gripping your hips intensely. he’s still awaiting permission, but also waiting for you to recover from Vessel’s ministration. resting your head on one of Vessel’s soft thighs, you push back on IV and clench around him again. the singer only chucked darkly and nods at IV, bringing a hand to rest on your head to brush stray strands of hair out of your eyes.

more desperate than you’ve ever felt him, the guitarist picks up his pace to fuck you as hard as he’s been wanting to all night. all day, really. you’re all he could think about and now he finally gets to have you the way he wants he’s not wasting any time. he’s still sweet to you, though, stroking his strong hands up and down your back and praising you between sharp breaths and whined expletives. you look back up to Vessel, who’s already got his eyes on you. grinning wickedly, he looks back up to IV to give him one last order.

“hey pretty boy, why don’t you play with our bunny, hmm? make them cum nice and hard around you. you’d like that, sweetheart, right?” Vessel asks both of you but IV doesn’t need to be persuaded. his hands practically flies down to stroke at you, focusing on getting you to feel as good as he does. spurred on by your pretty noises, his perfect fingers find a rhythm that has you seeing stars and twitching wildly against your lovers. you whine in sync with him, your thighs tensing up as he gets you closer to your peak and you don’t even have to capacity to warn him before the dam breaks and you squeeze his cock and paint his fingers with your cum. leaning over you now, he has an arm around your waist and he’s going thank you thank you thank you but if it’s to you or to Vessel you have no idea. with a loud groan he slams his hips into yours and cums deep inside you, his pelvis stuttering and legs shaking as he fucks his cum into you until you’re both whimpering from the over-sensitivity.

Vessel slides down from his chair to join the two of you on the floor, leaning your body against his while IV hugs your waist.

“my perfect little bunnies, you’ve worn each other out. lets get cleaned up and head to bed,” he says, pressing kisses to both your heads as his soft hands run over your back and IV’s hair. neither of you make any attempt to move and Vessel can only smile affectionately at the sight of you both.

he could probably carry both of you, right?

[fryday]

they spend so much time in eachother's space they must pick up on so much little things, i definitely think they almost without realising give eachother things or reach for stuff or all those things

if they clean their trinkets always go back on the same shelves in the same order

dan probably has taken phil's contact lens lid off the tap so many times it's muscle memory

they grab eachother's phones and coats and cards on instinct when they have to go somewhere

phil reaches out for dan when they're editing or working on separate laptops and he leans in on instinct

just,,, the sheer thought of how entwined they are in eachother's lives makes me a bit ill, of course i've given you your glasses without you havign to ask because i saw you squinting, of course i brought a cool glass of water with me from downstairs cause i know you get thirsty, of course i put your eyedrops back on your bedside table, of course i have your passport in my bag cause i knew you'd forget, i'm going to be fucking sick

I -

Okay.......

Stunned moment over, anon, you have to understand how this is possibly THE dearest sort of domestic/intimate HC to me. The concept of oneness. Of anticipating without having to be told, especially when the anticipation isn't even really anticipation anymore - it's reflex, it's muscle memory (as you said). When the other person's wants or needs are yours by extension because you've partially taken them on for them. I love everything about this concept and the way it ties into both the tangible Stuff of a shared life such as the contact lens boxes and the keys and the glasses of water, etc. As well as the physical aspect of it - the leaning in even as the other person is reaching for you. The way they probably move together / around each other without even a second thought to it when they're in the same space (making breakfast in the kitchen, using the bathroom to get ready, tidying up). The deep Knowing of each other that's so a part of you it's just subconscious at this point.

Anyway. I have feelings about this. Normal ones.

(Send me your domestic dnp HCs/observations!)

[wreckedandpolemic]

34, 3, & 17 for white and gold matty please <3 <3 <3

good girls go to hell - matty healy

(mdni) in which you take it like a good girl. part of the white and gold universe. 1658 words.

warnings: daddy kink (a given at this point), praise, degradation, orgasm delay, overstimulation

You haven’t had an orgasm in six days. A hundred and forty-seven hours and eighteen minutes, to be precise, but who’s counting? All that to say, when Matty texts you that he’s driving home, you almost moan out loud and scramble to get yourself ready for him. Clad in nothing but blush-pink lingerie, you literally, physically kneel at the front door — as much as you’d love to be bratty, punish him for leaving you, you aren’t going to give him the chance to deny you again. So, it’s good, sweet, obedient girl; at least for now.

Excitement hums in your veins as Matty’s key turns in the lock, tangible relief flooding you and melting into arousal at the sight of him physically in front of you. His breath catches in his throat as he takes you in, inhaling deeply and dropping his suit jacket to the floor. “Hi, beautiful,” he says, the low timbre of his voice washing over you and making you fucking throb with need.

“Hi, Daddy,” you say shyly, gazing up into his adoring face. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too, princess. Missed you so much. C’mere, let me kiss my pretty girl. Such a good girl, waitin’ on your knees for Daddy,” he praises, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch sends a shudder down your spine, thighs clenching in anticipation.

You get to your feet clumsily, Matty’s hands steadying at your waist as he pulls you in for a messy, starving kiss. Pressing your body into him, you can’t hold back the need that pours into the kiss, one of your hands raking through his curls as one of his finds your ass and squeezes hard. “Daddy, I—” you swallow your desperation, determined not to give any reason for him to tease or punish you.

Matty grins wolfishly against your mouth. “Yeah, princess?”

“I— Please, Daddy,” you whimper, breathy and submissive and syrupy-sweet.

“Please what, angel?” he smirks, dipping his head to kiss your jaw. “Use your words.” Sick fucking bastard.

Your head lolls back, giving Matty free reign to lick and suck and bite at the tender skin of your neck. “Just want you so bad.” you groan. “I’ll do anything you want, promise. Gonna be so good for you.”

He snaps the elastic of your panties against your waist. You jolt, gasping into the charged air between you. “So fuckin’ needy. Did you touch yourself while I was gone, princess?”

You shake your head wildly. “No, Daddy. Was a good girl, promise. Haven’t cum since you left.”

Grinning widely, Matty trails a hand up to squeeze one of your tits. “That’s my good girl. God, bet you’re fuckin’ gagging for it. Doin’ such a good job being sweet for me, baby, I know how bratty you get when you’re needy f’me.”

The bottom falls out of your stomach at his dangerous smirk, the one he gets when he just wants to push your fucking buttons. “M’not a brat, Daddy, promise,” you say frantically. “Just wanna cum for you. Always make me feel so good.”

“My needy little girl,” Matty coos. “So sweet. Can you jump for me, baby? Gotta get you in bed, yeah?”

Obediently, you jump up and cross your legs behind Matty’s back, clinging to him and savouring the blunt pain of his nails digging into your thighs. You can’t resist grinding your clothed cunt against him, letting out whining little gasps against his lips. “Thank you, Daddy,” you murmur, head swimming in slick desire that pools between your thighs. He sets you gently on the bed, leaving you gazing at yourself in the wall mirror.

You look exactly as desperate as you feel, flushed and panting with lipstick smeared across your mouth. “Strip for me, sweet girl,” Matty orders, and you obey unthinkingly, pinching at a peaked nipple with one hand and sliding your panties off with the other. “So fucking wet, angel,” he says, voice breathless with admiration.

“For you, Daddy,” you say instinctively, spreading your legs and smiling proudly up at him. You watch his thick fingers deftly loosen his tie, moaning openly at the thought of having them inside you for the first time in what feels like eternity.

“Such a little slut,” Matty murmurs fondly, climbing onto the bed behind you so your back is resting against his chest. The heat of him soaks into your bare skin through his shirt, and you twist your head to gaze happily back at him. “Mm-mm,” he chides softly, taking hold of your jaw and turning your head so he can meet your eyes in the mirror. “Look at yourself, baby. Look at us,” he urges.

The pair of you paint a filthy picture, Matty still fully dressed with you naked and flushed in his lap, his fingers trailing up your thigh and your cunt glistening wet. “We look so good,” you say breathily, fighting not to grab Matty’s hand and pull it to where you need it, your blood scorching under your skin.

“That’s right, baby. God, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on your tits as your chest heaves. “Gettin’ me so fuckin’ hard, princess,” he groans, rolling his hips up against your bare ass.

“How do you want me, Daddy?” you breathe, cunt pulsing wantonly as desire drips stickily down your spine.

“Touch yourself for me, princess,” he orders, the words sending a gush of arousal dripping from your cunt. “If you remember how,” he adds with a low, mean laugh. Your cunt is so soaked that it accepts two fingers greedily, a third joining them seconds later as you throw your head back against Matty’s chest. “Eyes forward, princess. Want you to see how pretty you look fallin’ apart for me before I’ve even touched you.”

With momentous effort, you pull your gaze back to yourself, a red flush spreading across your chest as you fuck yourself wantonly, your thumb coming up to circle your clit. Electricity shoots through you, burning you from the inside out, every new touch sending sparks of pleasure jolting deep in your bones. You’re close so fast your head is spinning, days of denial bringing you to the edge of your world in minutes. “M’really close, Daddy,” you whine, thrashing your head as your hips grind hard against your fingers.

“Stop,” Matty says coolly, and a pained gasp slips from your lips. “Angel, I said stop,” he adds, danger laced in his tone as you struggle to still your frantic motions. “Princess, I know you’re a dumb little slut, but I asked you to stop. Do it, or m’gonna have to punish you, okay?”

Finally, you manage to stop yourself, pulling your fingers out with an obscene, slick sound. “M’sorry, Daddy,” you gasp, frantic with fear. “I didn’t mean to be bad. Just felt so good, and I missed you a lot, and—”

Matty grabs your wrist, pulling your wet fingers up to your mouth to silence you. Moaning as the taste of you hits your tongue, you suck eagerly and watch him in the mirror, swirling your tongue like you’re sucking him off. His hand slides down your stomach, your skin erupting in goosebumps in his wake. Without warning, he shoves three fingers deep into your cunt, fucking you brutally and tearing a pleasured scream from your throat. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare cum,” he growls. “If you’re gonna be a greedy little slut, you’ll let me do whatever I want to you, okay?”

You nod wildly, sweat dripping down your face as Matty fingers you ruthlessly, calloused thumb scraping over your clit as your legs buck helplessly. “I w-won’t, Daddy. M’good, I promise. Your good little slut,” you gasp, nails digging into his arm as your belly tightens and your cunt throbs. “Shit, feels so fuckin’ good, fuck!” you cry, tears brimming in your eyes. “Daddy, m’gonna cum if you don’t stop, fuck.”

His fingers still inside you and you whine, blinking as tears spill over your lash line. Matty brushes them away with his free hand, crooning softly. “Oh, baby. If you want to come, you better beg,” he says quietly, and the words stumble in your mouth with how fast they fight to spring free.

“I wanna cum s’bad, Daddy, please. Need you to make me cum, only one who can. Missed you so much, missed you inside me, need it so fuckin’ bad, please!” you cry, clenching hard around Matty’s fingers to urge him to just move.

And he fucking does, fingers slamming in and out of you at a frantic, uncontrolled pace, staring deep into your eyes as your jaw goes slack. Spit drips from your mouth, landing on your tits as fire licks between your thighs, charring your bones and pulling you to that glorious void. “Go on, baby, cum for Daddy,” Matty orders.

Your scream echoes off the walls, violent as it rips free. Liquid ecstasy spins through you, thick and choking in your lungs as Matty’s fingers keep their punishing pace. Cunt throbbing, you squirm under his cruel touches, overstimulation bordering on pain. “Daddy, s’too much, I can’t take—” you gasp, but he just shushes you, slowing his thrusts slightly but not stopping.

“Yes, you can, princess. Thought you wanted to cum?” he teases meanly, rubbing your sore, sensitive clit and laughing as you whine. “Gonna take everything I give you like a good girl, yeah? Colour?”

“M’green, Daddy. So green, I promise,” you say dopily, the pain fading as a bright spark of pleasure cools into something hard and sharp in your chest. “Thank you,” you add, your words coming out slurred through the pleasure filling your lungs and throat.

Matty lifts your drooping head, forcing your gaze back to his in the mirror. “So polite,” he murmurs, pleased. “Such a good girl. Gonna cum as many times as I want you to, okay?”

Your vision is hazy as you nod. “Yes, Daddy.”

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

Replica (Part 5/Finale)

Summary: You finally accept his love.

Perturabo/fem!Reader

Warnings: incest (kinda), possessive behavior, manipulation, smut, dubious consent.

Word Count: 2426

It was an interesting experience. It's very sad to say goodbye to this story. But there will be others. You know, I thought that my beloved traitor-primarch Konrad Curze. But judging by the way I described these two, probably my favorite is Bo.

Song: Mitski - Washing Machine Heart (I can't even describe how perfect this song is for this story)

You didn't know how much time had passed. A couple of minutes or several hours until your quiet tears turned into sobs. The Iron Lord, who had been lying next to you all this time, looked at you with displeasure. He expected you to either fall asleep or be happily drawn to him after such closeness. But the primarch’s face quickly smooths out after you speak.

"It's hurt".

He carefully examines you from head to toe. A semblance of fear flashes in the eyes. Perturabo quickly gets up and lifts you from the bed as light and gentle as a feather. All you can do is press yourself against his massive chest. Blood is still seeping from between your legs. You almost don't feel them. While belly and bones are almost burning with pain. You wanted to tear off the lower part of yourself and throw it away just to stop experiencing these torments. Your body doesn’t listen and all you can do is close your eyes and fall asleep. Hoping that you'll never wake up.

But the Iron Lord decided otherwise.

From now on you live in the primarch's chambers. According to the man, he needed to monitor your condition, and now there is no point in you living separately. You thought he would call an apothecary or a mortal physician but Perturabo was quite knowledgeable about how to treat you. He gave you the best medicine. He fed his own blood so that the wounds would heal faster. You couldn’t help but think that it tasted exactly the same as your rations.

You could already feel your bones and your hips hardly hurt. The bruises were almost gone, which greatly pleased the primarch, who could not deny himself the pleasure of touching the exposed areas of your skin with his fingertips. A lot of time passed, but the man was in no hurry to make love to you again.

The primarch was too keen on the idea of ​​trampling his main enemy into the mud and spending almost all his free time at work. But you, seeing his gaze, felt how much he longed to enter inside you again. But Perturabo waited, savoring the anticipation of the desired victory. You were supposed to be a reward for his efforts and pains, which no one appreciated.

And if the body gradually developed, the spirit was broken. There was no way you could get his behavior out of your head. How he took you. Appropriated you as his lover. He loved you. But along with this... someone else.

You've never heard this name. Didn't know who this girl was. But one could guess that it was someone important to the primarch. So important that at the moment of closeness he remembered someone else. And the worst thing was that at the same time he called you his... sister. That guess alone made you feel sick, and you desperately hoped you were wrong.

It's no wonder that you soon became withdrawn into yourself. Perturabo did not notice the quiet depression, focusing on your physical state. And of course, in his main goal in life. Creation of the Eternal Fortress. The greatest masterpiece that could break the body and spirit of his sworn brother Dorn.

You lay on his massive bed, putting down the book about architecture that you were reading with interest. But when the primarch speaks, all your attention must be focused on him and only him. No excuses. Perturabo enthusiastically told you how his Legion and slaves were completing the final work on Sebastus IV. Soon the fortress will be ready and the noble Rogal Dorn will fall into a trap. The Imperial Fist will lead his legion to destruction and will finally be humiliated.

“Who is Calliphone?”

You couldn't stand it. No, you couldn't do this anymore. You never asked questions, never contradicted him, and obeyed him in everything. Even when Perturabo lay in bed with you, you didn’t resist, although you were scared.

Silence reigned in the room. Perturabo sat at the table with an unreadable expression on his face. For a second you thought he was going to explode in rage. But he remained frighteningly calm. Moving the drawings aside, the men approached the bed on which you were lying, wrapped in a blanket. Sitting down on the very edge, the man carefully began stroking your knee.

“I see that human memory is failing you. The flaw of your kind, but how can I be angry with you.” - the primarch looks straight into your eyes with a grin. - "It's you. My adopted sister from Olympia.”

You feel a lump forming in your throat. Sister. He called you his sister when... when... You shudder and pull your legs up to your chest. Disgust and denial overwhelmed with renewed vigor. You wanted to hide under the blanket like a little child. You're almost babbling.

"It's not me"

“No, it’s you, my dear sister. Daughter of a tyrant, maiden of Olympia... Forgive me.” - the man, clearly not understanding the whole gamut of emotions, speaks the cherished words almost with a breath. With difficulty and with relief. Completely opening the soul that was closed from everyone. Giving his hearts to you alone. - “Please... forgive me. How could I think that you are nothing to me? You are the only one who has loved me all these years. Not one of my brother primarchs is worthy to spend even a second with you. Especially him.”

Bo moves closer and softly whispers your real name. Almost purring with pleasure, inhaling the smell of your own hair. You look at him in disbelief. Weren't you his sister a few seconds ago? Why did he suddenly remember your real identity now? The man carefully twirled your curl in his hands.

“The False Emperor always preferred Rogal to me. He wore his mark, built him a Palace... and he had you. He dared to hide you from me. To pick you up while a decrepit old woman lived at Olympia. Daring to be insolent to me. A pathetic replica, incomparable to the original. Frankly, now the memory of how I broke her neck brings only pleasure.” - all the primarch’s envy and irritation immediately disappear when he meets your gaze. The man takes your face in his giant hands, smoothing your cheeks with his thumbs. - “I will make them all regret it. They will all suffer. For you. And now I want you to sing.”

Perturabo climbs onto the bed and for a second you think he'll rip your clothes off again. But instead, the man slowly lifts your dress to your knees. You see his steely eyes mist and his mouth moves closer to your lower lips. Oh. You want to pull away, but the man squeezes your thighs forcefully, leaving new bruises that only recently disappeared from your body.

You feel his tongue slowly running along your insides. These were not passionate and uncontrollable caresses, but cold calculations. He knew exactly how he wanted to touch you, how to make you squirm. The primarch kissed you as if he was planning another attack. Measuring every movement, stoically and impartially. As if it wasn’t your moans that caused the pain in his crotch.

If only your soul were as submissive as your body. All this time he saw her. All this time he spoke to her. And in those moments when you were different from Calliphone, Perturabo saw you. And he accepted. Because you are not made of iron, you bend, you curve as it suits him. Melting under his gaze, not challenging him. You are a twisted memory of years gone by. A living replica, an imperfect but improved version. And you can't wonder. Is he kissing her now or you?

But your thoughts are lost as soon as Perturabo accelerates. A shiver runs through your body, you moan loudly, feeling your body relax after a minute of tension. And again you feel the heat, feeling how someone else’s tongue greedily collects your juices, not wanting to leave even a drop. You feel bad, scared and sad. But at the same time it’s so good.

Didn't he promise to take care of you and cherish you? This is exactly what he is doing now. You just need to let go. You no longer wanted to tremble and cry from horror or sadness. You wanted everything to be as before. So that he can show you his wonderful inventions again. So that you can talk again about the books you read, drink wine and eat fruits with him. You wanted to see a smile bloom on his gloomy face and if you are the reason for this. Then why are you still resisting? It doesn't matter who you are. He loves you. And you him?

The man, having finally had his fill and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, hovers over you. With one hand leaning on the bed, the other grabbed your waist possessively. Perturabo carefully, almost analytically, watches your tired but pleased expression on your face. The corners of the lips tremble, ready to stretch into a smile of pride.

“I have dreamed for so long that we would become truly close. But I couldn’t even think that it would be so.” - almost growling, he touches your lips with his, tongue penetrating inside. There was little tenderness. Perturabo wanted to subjugate you, appropriate you, brand you so that everyone would know who you belong to. And you…

You kissed back.

***

This place was wonderful. Your little personal paradise. Where you can be safe and no one will ever hurt you. Bo took care of it. He himself recreated your chambers in his native Olympic style. Massive columns supported a gigantic ceiling, and the snow-white walls were decorated with golden birds. Your chambers were exactly like the golden cage you saw on the first day you met Perturabo.

He often visited you after he took care of business. The rest of the time you were devoted only to yourself. Alas, the servants could not entertain your pastime. The Iron Lord took care to rip out their tongues and eyes. Slaves should not offend your ears with their voices. Should not look at the property of the daemon-prince.

You stood on the balcony, leaning on the railing. The Fortress of Hate had the best view of Medrengard. Absolutely black buildings were buried in smoke and fire from constantly working machines. Neither the smell nor the heat could touch you. Perturabo has ensured that your chambers are well protected from the stifling surface temperatures.

You could see the Iron Warriors arriving from the Imperial world with a new regiment of slaves. Frequent guests, the Dark Mechanicum, were already leaving the residence with a very satisfied look. It appears that the meeting with the primarch ended satisfactorily for both parties.

There is no limit to the genius of the Iron Lord. Only he could create such a truly terrifying fortress world. The Imperial fists were not one iota able to create such perfection. Remembering your young years on one of Rogal Dorn’s controlled worlds, you could only marvel at your naivety.

No, you were from Olympia.

You hear the massive door of the chambers open and a menacing voice orders the slaves to leave the chambers. You almost choke on air and with incredible difficulty restrain the desire to joyfully run out to meet the primarch. But until the servants leave, you must save face.

But how happy it was to see Bo again. He has come to you! You can see him again, hear him. Feel the touch on your body. As a sister, as a lover, but you are not his sister either. To feel with every fiber of the soul his demonic presence, his divine greatness. Only when the door closed behind the last servant did you exhale. It turns out you weren't breathing all this time.

A mutated hand, blessed by chaos, rests on your shoulder. Claws gently touch your delicate skin. The blood of a primarch with rejuvenation drugs did not allow you to fade away. Bo said that you, like him, cannot grow old, cannot die. No, not just can't. Should not.

“Another world of the Corpse on the Throne has fallen. Soon the galaxy will be cleansed and you will never feel in danger.” - the mechanical rumbling voice hardly turns to a whisper. - “I remember you saying that you could become a remembrancer of Dorn. How long ago it was. But you became mine. Always was."

Oh, yes, you were his former captive from your homeworld Rudah. You will always be. You've never seen Olympia. It was Perturabo who told you about the wonders of his home world, and you fell in love with his culture. Exactly. How could you forget? Bo himself didn’t remember who you were.

He says your name. It sounded like a cacophony of sounds the most beautiful melody. You turn around and look at him adoringly. He's so handsome. Black flesh with red veins fused with iron. The once human face resembles the symbol of the Iron Warriors.

Perturabo was with you again. You will drink wine, he will talk about his grandiose plans, and then you will either go to the baths or end up in bed. Or maybe all at once. You hug the primarch tightly around his wide waist, unable to clasp your hands.

“Bo, I love you so much.”

The daemon-prince rumbles with pleasure as he allows the frail mortal girl to touch him. The claw gently lifts your chin, forcing you to look straight into the black eyes of the primarch. Perturabo kneels down to be at eye level with you.

“As always, you can’t contain your emotions, dear sister.” - the man pulls your small seductive figure closer to him. Even in his world, in his tower, he strives to hide you from everyone. The iron mask opens slightly and a long black tongue touches your neck. The skin hisses with the primarch's saliva. - “But enough words. It's time to get down to business."

You just smile happily, holding back so as not to moan at the top of your lungs. The personality is bursting at the seams, sticking together again like plasticine, as soon as Bo tells who he sees you. Whom does he desire right now or in the future.

And you will be anything for him.

[yeyinde]

SEA, SWALLOW ME | Simon Riley x GN!Reader

No one wrenches you open, leaving you raw and exposed, like Simon. A wound that never heals. A sickness that never dissipates. You carry the weight of him between your ribs and thundering heart. A place of safekeeping, protecting this precious knot that gnarls inside of you from everything else out there that might want to hurt it. It thrums now, dizzy with the feeling of him so close to you.

》 WARNINGS: 18+ – MATURE, SMUT | GN!Reader: no use of pronouns, gendered language or anatomy; very soft smut; light breath play/choking but. It serves a narrative purpose.

》 WORD COUNT: 9,4k (of pure, unadulterated nonsense)

》 NOTES: UM. This was meant to subvert standard D/s | Predator/Prey dynamics for Ghost but became a mess of nonsensical metaphors instead.

As far as missions went, this was slated to be amongst the easiest assigned out to your group—a standard hostage rescue of a foreign diplomat. 

It's a sequence you've played out many times over in basic training. The steps, drills, are already ingrained in your memory with minor changes to suit the situation unfolding in a place you'd never been before, and probably will never see again. Rudimentary. Boring, almost. 

The chance of injury was minimal. The probability of death is even infinitesimal. 

And yet—

He pulls you into an alcove in the safe house you've been holed up in for the last twelve hours, alternating between bouts of sleep, and pouring over each minute detail of your roles. 

Price's voice cracked an hour ago. 

It was Gaz who called it with a soft chuff. "Guess that means we're good to go, eh, cap?"

"Off with you, then," he groused, reaching for a bottle of water. "We'll head out in an hour. Be ready." 

You meant to sneak away to the gym and exercise some of the anticipation pooling inside your veins—a physical outlet to exert the antsy feeling that made your fingers tap a soundless beat against your shaking thigh; a post-mission ritual to saturate your brain in those feel-good chemicals caused by the rush of adrenaline. 

But you were stopped by a hand on your wrist. One that snaked through the tenebrous of the storage closet that housed the guns, weapons, and ammunition, all spread out on the walls with a bench in the middle. 

Simon leans back against it, guns spread out on the surface behind him. The hand not curled around your wrist is pressed flat, bare, to the granite top, only inches away from the collection of knives he meticulously tends to before each assignment. 

His sleeves are rolled up to his forearm, ink coloured in a hazy smear of yellow from the lamp spilling across the table in the corner. Your eyes are drawn there first—the shadows cast over the thick veins running along his forearms, hidden beneath the charcoal. 

The other flexes around your wrist, rough skin scorching when it presses against yours. Seeing the bulk of his palm swallowing the entirety of your wrist and half of your hand has your mouth running dry.

There's something about him, about the fold of his massive frame condensing itself into a nook much too small for him to fit, that feeds into a part of your head that aches to fly. To scale mountains, to reach the summit. To be the first person to stand on top of the highest peak, and gaze down at the world shaded in blues, greens, and greys below. 

Staring at Simon fills you with summit fever. 

"Did I scare you?" 

It's hard to rip your gaze away from him with so much of his flesh bared to you. He's usually dressed by now in his jacket and vest. Always prepared for the next slaughter. This—

This is new. Unusual. 

You huff, rolling your eyes toward the domed ceiling, and struggle to stave off the influx of anxiety that gnarls inside of you. A break in the routine. It unsettles you. "Hardly." 

He makes a low, starchy noise in his throat, muffled partially by the balaclava covering his mouth. "That so?"

He runs his thumb over your pulse, drawing your attention to the rapid thud of your heartbeat under his finger. It's a slow, meticulous circle, and his eyes dance with derision when you scoff, a touch embarrassed, and curl your fingers into a fist as if that would somehow stop the thundering in your chest. 

"Whatever," you murmur, defensive. "I drank an espresso. It's just a natural, bodily reaction—"

His hand twitches again, fingers lifting from your skin as he slowly peels away from you. The chill against your flesh makes you shiver, already missing the intensity of his heat. 

"If you say so," he volleys, settling his hand back on the table, palm cupping the thick ledge, fingers tucked under the surface. The motion makes his muscles quiver. 

Goosebumps prickle along your flesh. Your throat runs dry. 

"Got somethin' for you."

It's standard, benign—the words are flat considering the weight behind them, the potency. They're all he'll allow in this brief window of privacy when everyone else is busying themselves with their pre-mission rituals. 

Price leans against the wall in the corner of the room, fingers curled into the straps of his tac-vest. His chin is dipped low, eyes fixed on the table a metre away where the files lay open, floorplans exposed. Despite the evenness of his brow, and the squared set of his shoulders, you can see the weight of everything circling in stormy blue. 

The success of this will be shared amongst everyone, but the loss will be solely his own. 

On the opposite side of the room, Soap picks over every centimetre of your weapons and tactical gear. Scouring every iota in an effort to make sure nothing will fail anyone. 

Gaz, as the youngest, shoulders it all, and pours over the blueprints, committing each exit and entrance point to memory. He won't be caught unawares if a route is compromised. He'll get everyone out to safety. 

By stark contrast, Ghost does nothing. 

He doesn't look over the documents, but he doesn't need to. The blood vessels streaking through jaundiced white speak of a sleepless night staring at the photos of the men you're supposed to hunt down. The people you're supposed to rescue. 

Before he slips on his gloves, you catch ink stains on his thumb and inside his forefinger. The thick scent of gunpowder and oil clings to him. His weapon is sleek: gunmetal grey and cleaned. Meticulous. His attention to detail is unyielding. 

He did everything he was supposed to do last night when he didn't come and sneak into your room.

But he never does. Not before a mission. 

You sometimes wonder if he likes to torture himself with the if only or the what if that lingers whenever you split apart, left to your devices and wholly dependent on yourself for survival. He keeps his distance. Doesn't want, nor need, the distraction.

Some might think it cruel that he avoids you like you're already caught in the clutch of the Reaper; skin shading a sickly grey as your blood rots from within. But you know him. You know Simon. 

And when he hands you your gun, you can feel that it's already been loaded, and tended to. There's a fine sheen of oil glued to the tight folds of metal from where his meticulous cleaning couldn't reach. 

Your tac-vest is packed with everything he deems necessary for your own survival (and even a few things he doesn't but you do). 

He hands you a knife, too—one you know is from his personal collection. It fits into the palm of your hand like it was made for you, and you wonder—with a small smile blooming across your cheeks—how long he took looking over them before picking this one. A perfect fit. 

"Thank you," you murmur, low and soft. No one is paying attention to you at all—there is no time to do so when you can feel the seconds ticking down. "I'll do my best not to get your pretty knife dirty." 

He snorts. "Defeats the purpose, doesn't it? And it ain't mine." 

"My knife, then." 

You glance down at the smooth curve of the blade, sharpened to a deadly point, and twist it in your hand to stare at the handle. It's black. Two stems jut out from the hilt, extended a bit longer than the blade. It's triangular and pitched in the centre before tapering off to a sharp point. It's the length of your forearm. Longer than the tactical knives issued by the weapons branch in the SAS. Bound in leather. The stitches look much too similar to the ones he threaded through your gaping skin in Jakarta. 

"Fairbairn-Sykes," you say, glancing up at him. "Thought they stopped using these?"

He rolls one massive shoulder. A man with his girth shrugging insouciantly is a strange sight. You almost expect to hear the distant roar of an avalanche. 

"Much better'in the cheap ones they give you."

"Oh, yeah? Kinda hard to hide, though—"

"If you don't want it—" 

Simon reaches for it, but you pull it close to your chest, grinning. 

"You can't take my knife away." 

He huffs, lowering his hand back to the table. His eyes are piercing. Heavy. "Then stop complainin' about it."

A fly buzzes by your ear. A bead of sweat drips down the nape of your neck. Something about the look in his dark, shadowed eyes sets your teeth on edge. 

It wells on your tongue, then—soft words not meant to be uttered in a room saturated in contracted death—and the astringent flood strips your enamel until your teeth ache with the urge to let them out, or swallow them down. You wonder what he would say if you let them free. If they slipped from your tongue and filled the room with the stench of your poisonous wants, ones left to rot inside your chest, your throat. 

The burn of them blisters your esophagus, leaving behind open wounds leaking infection into your bloodstream, into the vessels that run to your lungs, your heart. 

The tremendous weight of them makes your knees quiver, struggling to stay afloat in the thick atmosphere that sits, oppressive and unignorable, between you. 

It's all one-sided, of course—a hunger felt only by you. He doesn't acknowledge the gossamer of tension that bleeds into the room, wrapping tight around your neck like a phantom noose. To Simon, nothing is amiss; nothing is wrong—

And it isn't, you think. This spooling knot inside of you, wound tight into a ball, isn't wrong. It isn't bad to feel this way, but it's terrifying. 

Being with Simon is a bit like climbing a mountain. 

But there is scaling one in a harness, secured safe and sound with ropes and pitons, and then there is this: 

A free solo up the side of a chossy. 

The chalk on the tips of your fingers clumps together under the stickiness of your damp palm. One slip, and you'll be a wreck at the bottom before you can even try to hold on. 

Jagged rock at the bottom gnashes its teeth together in anticipation, eagerly waiting its chance to grind your flesh into pulp, and offer your spilled blood to Thanatos. 

Melodramatic, maybe, but something about Ghost brings out a sense of morbid sentimentality from within you. The feeling is a harsh juxtaposition to who the man really is. 

A mythological being who lingers in the foreground like a psychopomp, but gives you whittled knives from his personal collection, carefully whet to a fine point, and cracks stupid jokes in a deadpan manner as if the world around you wasn't raining bullets and reeking of gun cotton. 

Your gaze wavers, falls. There are a lot of things you are meant to say now, and many more that are forbidden. None of them brim through the humus that sticks to your throat. Disturbed dirt in a lonely graveyard. 

A flurry of motion snags your attention. In the corner of the room, you catch sight of the fly sitting on top of an intricate web. It runs its hands together, waiting. Mischievous. A morsel of food is still tangled in white lace. It feasts without worry, unaware of its impending demise as its feet glue to the threads woven below, shaped like the cracked skulls in a catacomb. 

As the fly feeds, the spider cocks its head up from a darkened crevasse, a multitude of eyes gleaming in the flushed light hanging overhead. 

It waits. 

Poor thing. 

"Thanks," you say again, wrenching your eyes away from the opening maw of the ossuarium in the corner. The sight unnerves you. 

It's not meant to be any more sincere than the first utterance of your gratitude, but you say it—if only to fill the stifling silence, and wonder if that carefully curated mask would shatter into pieces, revealing the bare-faced man (human: flesh, bone; vulnerable) beneath, if you uttered the words pulsing against your vocal cords like a pizzicato. 

He levels you with a flat look as if he, too, hears the whine of c minor screaming in your chest. 

"Hilt is new. Try not to get it dirty." 

You fight a shiver. Force yourself to give some facsimile of a smile in response.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Lt."

(A liar.)

You tuck the pretty knife in a tawny leather sheath into your pocket. 

"I'll take good care of it." 

(A thief.)

Behind smeared grey, charcoal black, his eyes narrow. Pensive. Considering. Something rears, lurks. Hidden in shadows. Cut into brimstone. It's the same shade of death that only surfaces when he's on the battlefield—no longer Simon, but—

"See that you don't." 

A ghost. 

(Just warmer than most.)

Your eyes stray back to the corner of the room where the black spider prowls closer to the hapless fly struggling to be free. 

Yeah, you think, a touch dazed. Your fingers tighten around the leather-bound hilt of the blade. Me, too. 

You dirty his knife. 

The chance for an injury is minor, but never zero. You find this out when someone grabs you from behind, knife pressed to your jugular. There is no fear, no terror. 

Just—

Embarrassment. Stupid. You know better than to leave your six unchecked. 

It ends with a paper-thin cut to your skin, and your knife buried in flesh. 

The hilt is bloodied. Authentic leather stained red. Grotesque. Garish. You can't tear your eyes away from the droplets that stain the handle. 

Plastic, usually. You know this because you looked it up. Polymer-covered wood. 

The leather was handmade. Sewn with thick, black thread. Glued to the stripped wood. 

Wrapped up pretty just for you. 

(Just for you.)

And you ruined it like you promised you wouldn't. 

(A liar. A thief.)

It makes you wince, and the burn in your chest hurts more than the sting in your neck. You thought you heard death and his fiddle this morning, but who knew his boney, rotted fingers would wrap around your wrists like it was the hilt of a conductor's baton. 

Simon doesn't say anything, but there's a weight in his silence. A soundless ticking in the background as he watches, placid, as you make your way to him. 

Nails bite into your palm until they're sticky with the blood that pools between your fingers. It's meant to be grounding. Replacing one hurt with another, but the biggest injury is the one to your pride, your ego. It's burned, blistered, and not even the swell of something you feel roiling through you at the sight of Simon, steady and sturdy—faultless despite the roaring that seems to echo around, the scream of the tide trying to pull you under—is able to quell the sting of humiliation. 

Your hands are stained just like them. Scars mattered across soft tissue, and despite the way they spill over your flesh like Orion, you still feel the pull of torn flesh beneath your armour. 

This—

This was an accident. Unfortunate. Unforgiving. It lingers between aching teeth, and tastes of raw wire. 

You won't let the shame dip its talons into your pride despite the bruise forming on the side of your veneer. 

Your chin lifts: defiant, almost. As if waiting for him to say something. 

Anger, you think, is easier to wield than culpability. 

There are a number of derisive, droll words he can pin you with, and your mind runs through the possibilities, the ones you heard barked out over the comms. Things like: rookie mistakes. Shoulda checked your six. How'd this happen? Thought you were better than this. Another scar to add to your collection, then? Better stop before you end up lookin' like me.

It surprises you, then, when he says none of them. 

"Alright?"

His hand lifts, and a weight settles against your jaw, lifting your chin. It's barely a cat scratch, and doesn't even need stitches, but it stings something fierce when he stretches the skin around it. Pulling, tugging. You clench your teeth, swallowing back a wince. 

He catches it, anyway. 

Stupid. 

You wait for the rest. For the or what? that traditionally follows a simple alright, but nothing comes. 

His hand drifts, palm cups the side of your neck, and—

It's indescribable. A rush, maybe. A raw, pulsing wound throbbing inside your throat where his heavy, rough hand sits. A plinth. You can't lower your chin with it in the way. Stuck, you think, and then—

You shiver. It's instinctual. The curve of your neck is vulnerable; a sacred place. Animals protect their jugular, their soft bellies, from attack, and something primal in you tenses up. Waiting for the strike. For the snapping of jowls into your soft skin. 

None come. Stupid. Of course—

"Jus'a little scratch."

His hand leaves almost quickly as it appeared, and you drift aimlessly, unconsciously, after it. 

Snapped out of your strange reverie when Price calls out your name. Paperwork, probably. You've been hurt, and as a response—or a sneaky punishment—you have a mountain of forms to fill out, t's to cross, i's to dot. 

The weight of Ghost's gaze on you is almost as heavy as the heft of his hand, and you linger for a moment in that strange, phantom noose, wondering what it would feel like if he held on just a little bit—

"Go on, then," his chin jerks toward Price. "Get cleaned up." 

Something shifts inside of you. The open of a proverbial floodgate. 

It's instant:

The weight of his palm, the press of his fingers—you feel them against your skin, a phantom whisper. A breath. 

There's something almost comforting about the danger of exposure, you think. About bearing your neck to the biggest predator around. 

It's not an act of submission. You'd never submit to Ghost, much less anyone else, but—

There's a sense of vulnerability there. Trust. 

(It's that unseen edge of danger: a spark of life in a world that's always shades of muted grey, and draped in the folds of calamity. Death sits only a hair's breadth away no matter where you go. So close, you can feel the ghastly chill on your skin; always cold. Always freezing. You can set fire to your flesh, but your teeth still chatter.

For the first time in years, the skin on your neck burns with feverish heat.)

(The warmth fades. You chase it, pressing your fingers flat to your pulse, but still feel the icy drift of the waiting Sheol against your skin.

Cold to the touch once more.)

His fingers ghost along the skin of your wrist, skimming over your pulse. It’s soft. Gentle. A light brush that has no other meaning or purpose except to gain your attention— 

—and oh, doesn’t it just. 

Simon doesn’t let it linger. He pulls his hand away when your chin jerks toward him, and slides them into the pockets of his trousers. Hidden away. Out of reach. 

Your wrist burns. 

"Could've just said hello." 

His eyes are heavy under the hood of his sweatshirt and lined with the grease paint he couldn't scour off. Maybe he never even tried to. Glacier blue framed in ashen blonde. His eyes remind you of the sandstone cliffs that line the Corfu shore. Stark white. Deep blue. 

They're weighed down with something—exhaustion, maybe. The last you'd heard of him, he was chasing after leads that might link you to Shepherd with Gaz (who sent a dry text in the early morning, between the keds and the dad jokes, I don't know how anyone could be scared of this Manc; and: does the man ever sleep, or is he fuelled on Tenzing and spite alone?). And now—

“C’mere.” He murmurs, eyes heavy and lidded, sparking with something sharp, acrid. Humour, you think, heart stuttering in your chest. 

The word is uttered just as softly as the touch against your flesh, and the sound—the phantom memory of the featherlight brush—burns with the heat in his gaze, the warmth that seeps through the gloves, and into your skin. Bone deep. You can feel the burn of him congealing in your cartilage. 

"Finally gonna do me in?" 

It earns you a dry scoff, the barest hint of an eye roll. "If I wanted to, you wouldn't see me coming." 

"You could have just said no, never," you mock, stifling down a grin. "Or—I wouldn't even think about hurting you—"

The rest of the words are cut off when he steps closer. Liquid agility: he moves quickly for a man cut from Everest, sifting through the shadows with no more than a soft thud of his heel clipping the linoleum. Ghost looms before you in a blink, head tilted down to gaze at you. 

His hand lifts, knuckle grazing the swell of your cheek. It's softer than he has any right to be. A warm brush across cold skin. The Agulhas current colliding into the Somali. It ripples across your surface and rattles the rotting bones below. The empty husk of you trembles. 

"No," he murmurs, words distant and warbled under the roaring in your ear. You watch a flicker of something tremble across his face. A frisson shuddering too fast for your sluggish, mortal eyes to discern. 

You can't find the remnants of that ugly, gnarled thing that sometimes stares back at you when he's unaware. A beast hiding in a forgotten bivouac, creeping through the desolate ruins of a travesty that reek of upturned humus. A ghost disinterred from its slumber. 

But when you stare at him, bare-faced and uncertain, you see a darkening edge in the cuts of blue: deep canyons and crevasse that warm when your reflection swims in the glossy curve, wide eyes and parted lips filling the tenebrous, the shadows. 

The things, disentombed, are at rest. Clouded over by the shocked face that swims in endless pools of blue. 

"Never." 

"Oh," you murmur, honeyed sweet and viciously coy. "How sweet of you."

(It takes you a moment to realise he's mocking you.

Your heart still thunders like the words were true.)

Simon cleans the hilt of the knife for you, bare fingers scouring away the blood that stains the leather. He lets you watch as he works, content to lean against the wall in silence as he dabs a cloth in a petri dish filled with cleaning solution, and gently scours the stain from the hide. 

The motions are gentle, and familiarity bleeds into each swipe. This isn't the first time he scrubbed away the rotting blood of a dead man, and some part of you aches, stupid, knowing that it won't be the last. 

A testament to the age-old woes of an occupational hazard. 

Watching him work, silent and unbothered by your intrusion ("of all the bloody gits, you're somehow the least annoying. For now;"), fills you with a strange sense of comfort. Of longing. 

(Domesticity makes your teeth ache and your cheeks burn.)

His knuckles are bruised. He won't tell you how it happened. Doesn't say much outside of, it's done, already, so no sense in worryin' about it. 

You suppose he's right. No sense in dwelling over what you can't change. But the sight of his hands—bruised, cracked and bloodied—makes your mouth dry, and your heart race. 

There's something about his hands that captivate you.  

You can't stop staring at them. The memory of what his molten flesh felt like against your icy skin sears into you. The weight of his palm on your neck. Steady, solid. 

Something predatory had risen from within you, and cocked its head to the side, allowing him an ounce more of your flesh for him to take. To touch. 

A bear will seek the warmest cave to slumber after gorging itself on flesh and bone. A moth will kill itself just to touch an open flame. 

There's something alluring about heat. Flames. Fire. 

(Ghost smells of cedar embers: pyrolysis.

You're cold enough to want to burn the tips of your fingers in the open flame. To immerse yourself in the fire that'll char your flesh, and blacken your bones. Hollowed marrow, now filled with charcoal and brimstone.)

Your knuckles twitch. You curl your fingers into fists by your side. 

"Done," he says, sitting back in the chair, and shaking you from your reverie. 

He turns to you, the knife perched in his upturned palm. The leather is dark, wet, but the blood is gone. 

On the table, the water in the Petri dish is diluted pink. 

You let yourself linger when you reach for the proffered knife, knuckles grazing the rough flesh of warm, bare palm. Greedily catching tendrils of heat on the tips of your fingers. 

"Thanks."

His eyes brim with something you can't name. "Try to keep it clean, or you'll ruin the leather."

You want to say, no one told you to make it pretty for me in the first place, but you don't. You think, instead, of summit fever, of scaling walls. The view from the top of a mountain must be worth the risk, the danger. To see the curve of the earth, and pure blue of the horizon yawning for you. As close to god as a mortal can climb with their bare hands.

It hits you like a punch to the gut. The rock crumbling. The chossy wobbling. Your feet giving away, fingers scraping against the granite as you fall to the rocks below. 

He waits, eyes narrowing in that same shade of pensive contemplation as before. 

You're lingering too much. Touching him too openly. Greedily. You wonder why he lets you when you pull away, shamefaced and meek. 

(How much of it, you wonder, is an act and how much of it is real. Subconscious submission. Meek and unassuming. It rears inside of you, a skittish animal. But you're not scared. Not of him. Never.

A sick joke. Mortal folly. Something inside of you wants to know you're alive, and so—

Roll over and he'll think you're prey.)

You manage a shaky smile, mind racing to the same tremulous crescendo as the arrhythmic drum of your heart.

You don't meet his gaze. Can't when there's a deluge of something—ugly and awful—roaring through you at the sight of his hands, and the scars that cover them. Some, you note, deep enough to knick bone. False starts. Your teeth ache at the sight. Stomach knotting. Churning. 

Something vicious gnarls through the rotten entombment of your living heart. 

Gaze lowered. Neck bared. 

Hook, line—

"Got it, Lt." 

He fractures his fingers in Medellín after chasing a man through the barrios. They're cracked on the concrete when he jumps from the roof and catches it on a metal rod sticking out from the ashlar. 

Those same ones that tilted your jaw back, bones creaking under the strain of his grip.

Ghost doesn't flinch, of course—you don't even know they're broken until he asks for gauze and a splint at the safe house you're holed up in. You just see him swing that same hand out, catching the man by the throat when he tries to slip past. Steady. Solid. An expert killing machine, numbed to the pain, the carnage. 

Simon holds him tight to the wall by his jugular, barking out coarse questions, demanding answers. His voice carries (who are you working for? Where are the others? Gimme a reason not to snap your neck right now—), and you watch it all unfold from your perch on the rafters beside the alcove. 

Watching his six—supposed to be, anyway—but you can't stop staring at the way he dwarfs the other man. The curve of his fingers, long and thick, around his throat. It fits like a scarf. A neck brace. 

Simon's so—

Massive. Undeniably so. And seeing it like this is mesmerising. Hypnotic, almost. 

Whatever the man says is swallowed by the roaring in your ears; the rush of the wind whistling through the houses below. 

He gasps something out, eyes wide, and whatever it is, it makes Simon nod. 

Right, then. Target acquired. 

The moment his jaw snaps shut, information unveiled, he barely has a chance to beg before Simon's hand twitches. 

You hear the sharp snap from your perch above him, and barely have a moment to collect yourself before the man goes limp. Simon pulls away from him, a half step back, and without his support, he falls to the ground with a soft thud. 

His hand falls to his side when the man falls, and it's then, in the fading ochre streaking through the concrete, you notice the drops of red staining his gloves. They catch in the light—a Rorschach of brutality and death—and you can't stop staring at them. At his hands. 

A small thing, really. It's hardly anything noteworthy considering the litres of blood that saturate any of you on a particularly gruesome day, and yet something about the red smears on the back of his hands, staining the worn, faded white metacarpals catches your attention. Eyes glued to the way he shakes his big hand, as if throwing off the sting of split bones. 

(Even with splintered fingers, he was still able to snap a grown man's neck. The thought shouldn't be as enticing as it is.)

Later that night, you sit on your knees between his broad thighs, and gingerly take his bruised hand into yours. The contrast is laughable—his palm alone swallows the entirety of yours up. A cantaloupe to a satsuma. The mental image makes a smile crack on the corner of your mouth, a little twitch. 

He catches it. Always, always—

The hand that isn't several shades of indigo and burgundy lifts, settling on the curve of your jaw. Long, thick fingers splay out, stretching from the slope of your bone just below your ear, down to your chin. The entire expanse of your face cupped in his palm. 

Simon is a big man. Massive. 

(You sometimes forget that he's a direct descendant of Everest.)

Something inside of you gnarls, and tightens. There's always that thread of unease whenever he's juxtaposed to mortal men, to yourself; a lingering remnant, an atavistic fear for the beings that are bigger, broader than yourself. The primal instinct to run from the things that look like they could snap your bones into pieces with just their bare hands. 

It's a small thing, considering, and always washed away by the surge of desire that pools in the space it once occupied. 

He's big. 

(You've always had a fondness for heights.)

"Does it hurt?" 

If it does, he'll never admit to it; but you murmur the words, anyway—if only to feel the power in his hands when you move your jaw under his palm; the gentle resistance that meets you when you lower your chin, and hit the warmth of his skin.

"No," he says, and you fight back a smirk. "Are you finished yet?" 

His question pulls your attention back to his swelling hand, skin already turning glossy from the tumescence of inflammation. Irritated. Pulpy. The knuckles are split in the valleys; a deep divot of plum red. 

He has pretty hands, you think. 

Peached-tinged ivory dusted in a fine layer of coarse, flaxen hair, and broken into streams of scars and welts in a mosaic on his rough skin. Thick veins in ballpoint blue run from his knuckles to his forearms; all intersecting rivers that cross and meld into a confluence near the bend of his elbow. 

It's layered with fading charcoal ink pushed beneath his dermis. 

The slide of his palm is rough with a patchwork of scars that cut through his life line. Jagged little marks from the sharp end of a knife. Pockmarks from cigarettes. 

You like the way they feel on your skin. The weight behind them, the heat. The way they bend, and contort. Curling around the butt of a cigarette as he snipes game plans back and forth with Soap. Then the hilt of a rifle when he steadies it on concrete; playing God with gunmetal. 

The way they curl into loose fists by his sides when he's displeased, tense and ready for the impending alternation. 

How soft they are, then, when he slides the back of his hand against yours. Touches the small of your back, fingers curving around your waist when he pulls you close. 

The way he sometimes holds your face between his palms. 

You cover them up with the starchy gauze before lifting your chin to catch his gaze once again. 

His eyes are stagnant seas. 

You might think it's tranquillity that keeps the midnight blue surface from succumbing to the pull of the moon, and the tides; but that would be a fallacy. A death sentence. 

There's nothing calm in those depths. Below the thin film sits an endless abyss torn up by currents that carry the same inescapable grasp as the churning hydrology of a waterfall. It'll snatch you the moment you plunge into the blue, ripped through the water until it suctions you into a crevasse. 

But—

You hold his gaze as you lift your chin up, notching it higher until his hand slides down your jaw, palm now resting on the side of your neck. 

—You've never been afraid of drowning. 

"That's good," you murmur, tilting your head to the side until your neck is cupped in the palm of his hand. Algae blooms in those unfathomable depths when your pulse thuds against his thumb. "'Cause I was kinda thinking it would be nice to get your hands around my neck one of these days."

His hand twitches against your pulse. 

The usual caustic, derisive barbs and brackish quips are bereft from his hidden lips. You might mistake him as unbothered. Uninterested. But you've always been good at scraping off the veneer people tend to wrap themselves in, burrowing under their dermis, and the flash in those murky eyes—widened slightly at your words until it's a pretty polynya: icy white around a puddle of midnight blue—gives him away. 

His thumb slides down the column of your neck until it's pressed tight to the little jut of your jugular poking through thin, delicate skin. Ashen lashes flutter when you swallow against the soft press of his fingers; eyes flickering down, liquifying, as he takes in the way your muscles tense in his hand. 

He could close the entirety of his palm around the convex curve of your throat, and—if he really wanted to—his thumb and middle finger might meet in the back, nestled just above your spine. 

There's a heat simmering in your veins, stroked by the flex of his fingers as he mulls over what you're asking him for. The smooth, almost pensive way he brushes his thumb over your neck; an unconscious action, you think, with the way his lids dip, cresting over liquid black. 

His silence doesn't last long. Whatever conclusions he draws in that brief lull are tucked away, hidden from view, when he shifts in the old wicker chair.  

He leans forward a little—enough, you note, to hide the growing bulge in his slacks—and lifts his heavy gaze back to yours. 

"That so, pet?" 

It's rare you ever find Simon speechless, but you've known him long enough to know how to catch him off-guard. 

You swallow when his fingers thread through the loose hair along the curve of your ear, scratching his short nails along the skin of your skull. His thumb presses against the spot below your eye, lower lashes spilling over the tip of his finger when you blink up at him, eyes lidded with the weight of your want. Despite the languid, almost kittenish, way you tilt your chin until it's plinthed into his warm palm, your eyes are razors. Sharpened on the whetstone of your conviction. 

"Yes," you breathe. Your tongue runs across your bottom lip, as if chasing the words from lingering in the seam of your teeth. "That's so, Lt."

His fingers twitch at your words, eyes narrowing into those same contemplative slits as before. Then slowly, deliberately, he drags his hand down to rest once more over your jugular.

—sinker. 

Your nails dig into the hard flesh of his bicep until the skin breaks: crescent moons pool beneath the tips of your fingers. Red, raw. 

It makes him suck in a slow breath, the sound heavy in your ear. 

"Keep that up," he rasps, a livewire pressing into your naked chest. "And I'll have to do somethin' about it, pet." 

It's not an empty threat. You know Simon enough by now to know he never says anything he doesn't mean. But you still toss your head back, laughter slipping from your blood-red lips. High, you think, on the thrill of him. 

"Yeah? Promises, promises, Lt—"

A flash in liquid black. Napalm embers. 

One hand lifts, leaving the back of your knee. You know what's coming. Asked him for it, even, but it still takes you by surprise when his massive hand slips between your chin and neck, fingers curling until he has a perfect grip of your throat in his palm. Your head is forced back, pulse beats against his thumb; a frightened bird struggling in the grip of a predator. 

He isn't squeezing—not yet—but the hold he has on you is firm. 

You meet his stare, quivering in his arms. 

"Lay back." 

A slight pressure. You gasp. He feels the inhale under his hand, the thick swallow you take when he begins to push you down slowly. It makes him groan again when you lock up around his cock, tight and throbbing like the pulse under his fingers. 

"That's it." He holds you against the pillow. You don't test his grip, but you know it's ironclad. You're shackled to the bed. At his mercy.  

Tears burn your eyes. It's not fear, panic. The moisture leaking into the crease of your eyelids is involuntary. You want to tell him this, to let him know you want this, want his hand on your vulnerable neck.

You gasp quietly, the air barely slipping past the curl of his fingers—naked, warm, rough—on your skin. 

"Simon—"

"Relax," his voice is liquid sin; velvet draped over a kindling fire. The crackle floods you until you're panting, breathless. "C'mon…you can take it." 

Your fingers unfurl from his biceps, tips soothing along the irritated flesh, ghosting over scars—bullets, fire, knives, cigarettes: his flesh is a mosaic of history you're barred to ever uncover—but the way his muscles coil under the softness of your hands makes your chest lurch. 

You trail them down until you reach the thick forearm bent over your sweat-slicked chest, nails catching on the throbbing veins until you hear the rasp of his breath under the mask. 

Your palm is tiny, almost fragile, in comparison to his wrist. Wrapping your fingers around the thick of him is like holding onto the end of a bat. Your hands can only cup the width; a perfect crescent. 

It's that—the immense power, the strength of him, buzzing under his storied skin that makes your belly burn with the fever of your want. He's so—

Massive. 

Strong.

You can feel it, now. Fingers brush over the veins on the back of his hand, a seal around your throat, and you know that he's holding back. Has to. He could snap your neck with an ease that should terrify you. You've watched these same hands throw knives into men's throats. Watched them wrap around their necks, crushing the bones until the struggling ceased with a gut-wrenching snap, and they fell, limp, to the floor. 

His eyes flutter when you swallow, when your small, delicate throat works under his clutch. 

He has the capacity to ruin: 

Simon—Ghost—can break your neck without a flinch. 

And yet—

You meet his eyes, lips trembling, and then you slowly tip your head back. 

Submission. You give yourself to him wholly. 

(A toil—

come closer, pretty thing.)

Simon's breath stutters in his chest, his hand tenses. Eyes widened. The whites are stained with tendrils of red. 

His next breath is a snarl that bludgeons into your core. He leans down, cock jarring something inside of you that has the cosmos burning into your retinas. 

When he speaks, his words are raw. Scoured with sandpaper. It's almost animalistic when he growls your name, adds:

"So good for me, pet."

He matches the praise with a sharp jerk of his hips, sinking in deep until you can feel him throbbing in your sternum. 

When you clench, spasming around him, his fingers flex. 

It starts slow. 

He readjusts his grip until you're a perfect fit in the palm of his hand. A little bird begging for respite in the claw of a hungry lion. 

Ghost has never been a man of mercy. 

(And you'd long learned to stop trying to barter with a hurricane.)

There is no rhythm to the way he fucks you. An interrogation expert, skilled in torture, he keeps you on the edge the whole time. Left to do nothing but cling to him, and take it. All of it. Whatever he wants to give you. 

You suck in a breath, but it is stopped when his hand squeezes. Tighter, now. The air in your lungs is compressed, forced out until they're empty. 

His pulse beats against your throat. His heat is an inferno, a fever; he presses into you until you're panting, head soporific and gummy under the intense blaze of his body. Hard, firm: there is no give when you notch your knees to his ribs, pressing your caps into his flesh. He's unmovable. Unshakeable. 

Liquid pleasure spumes from that unfathomably deep place he batters into with his cock, and the tips of his fingers as he burrows both into your flesh. 

It's too much—

His hand drops from your knee, resting on the pillow beside your head. It brings him closer—now, almost chest to chest—and smothers the air from your lungs completely. His eyes, however, steal the last wisp of your breath away. 

Standing on the edge of a singularity, gazing into the event horizon. Black holes ready to swallow you whole. 

Bereft of oxygen, you begin to crumble in his hold. 

"That's it," he rasps, fingers tightening. "Fuck—you're so tight—gonna strangle me, pet—"

Your breath is clinched by the palm of his hand. Futile gasps, hiccups, spill from your lips as he shifts inside of you, bracing his knees on the bed, and driving forward until you see stars. Until you claw at his wrist, back arching like a bow. 

The cosmos tastes of gunfire. Smoke. The heavy scent clogs your throat until you're choking on the embers that seep from his skin.

"I'm not done with you, pet." His timbre pitches, low and sultry; a rough graze. A scraped knee. "I could do this for days."

It makes you whimper. Makes you thrash. He means it, too. Always. Always. He'll hold you down until you're drowning in it. 

Your head swims. Hypoxia bleeds into your eyes. 

"Simon…" you whimper when his hips slot into yours. "Simon. I'm—"

The words are swallowed down when he ruts into you again, driven mad by the clutch of your body, and the vulnerable way you look at him. His head drops, moussed hair tickling your nose. 

"Fuck, pet—," it's chiselled out of him. A warning, perhaps. Don't. Don't say any more. Don't—

His voice is polar when it drifts over you. The chill alone freezes the words in your throat. 

"You like this, don't you?" Detached. Distant. He can't let himself feel the quiver in your voice, the ache in your throat. If he lets himself have this, even a meagre amount of it—

You don't think he'll be able to let go. 

The words are tucked back into the pocket carved out in your ribs just for them. They'll sit until he's ready, until the storm in his Rorschach eyes dissipates—if, of course, it ever does. You'll wait for however long that might be, even if it lasts a lifetime. 

(closer, now—)

Your fingers spray wide over his skin, soothing and gentle—calm pets over a ruffled plumage—until you feel the tension bleed from his coiled muscles; softening back into the pliancy you've come to expect from him. 

He'll run if you're not careful. Flee. Disentangle himself from the weaved knots spooling between the fibrils of your bodies, atoms merging and moulding together in a joined entity. Severe himself even if it means losing limbs. 

You think of old dogs, strays. The ones that weave through the villages with matted fur, and battle scars; the wizened, grizzled muzzles from a short lifetime on the run. Wild, feral. Touches that don't cause hurt are bewilderingly foreign—the idea of a hand that doesn't maim, doesn't break is as unfamiliar to them as living inside of a home. 

The only way to gain their trust is patience. Perseverance. 

And so, you pull back. Let him breathe. 

"I love it, Simon."

The breathy utterance falling from your lips makes him twitch deep inside of you, a groan spilling out of the cage of his chest when he feels the vibrations of his given name against his naked palm. 

"Fuckin' hell, pet—," you might call it a snarl, a growl; a mangled curse in your likeness dipped in the palpable ache of his pleasure. 

He says nothing more. A man of little words and heavy actions, he shows you what he won't say, what he can't. 

His cock hits something deep inside that makes you see white; a nebula of bliss pooling deep inside of you until you're spasming over the absurd thickness of him. 

Ghost holds it for a moment, and it's that—the midnight hour pooling in black, covered in grease paint, and clothed under a thick balaclava—that, the subtle way he takes, takes, that makes you all too aware of who is fucking you right now. 

You're not fucking Simon. It's Ghost. Deadly. Dangerous. His eyes gleam in the light; dark and empty. Black holes pulling you in. 

He drags you to the edge until your eyes cross—hazy and unfocused, slipping into that blurred realm of semi-consciousness—and it's when you begin to slip down that precipice, head numbed and full of him, he pulls back. 

His cock bludgeons into you, seated deep, and when the head kisses the deepest part of you, grinding sharp, and intense, his grip on your neck eases. 

Air floods your lungs so quickly it hurts.

His name rushes out of you on the deep exhale, a wrecked, aching plea. It sounds like a hymn when you breathe it out, and the reverence of it makes him shudder. Makes his hand clench, and his cock throb. 

You feel it all. The deep twitch inside of you. The spasm of his knuckles. The way the air clicks in his throat, catching in his larynx. A thick swallow. Another spasm. You take it all. Everything. 

No one wrenches you open, leaving you raw and exposed, like Simon. A wound that never heals. A sickness that never dissipates. You carry the weight of him between your ribs and thundering heart. A place of safekeeping, protecting this precious knot that gnarls inside of you from everything else out there that might want to hurt it. It thrums now, dizzy with the feeling of him so close to you. 

His hand lifts from your thigh, reaching down to snag both of your wrists in the wide expanse of his palm. He drags them up, arched high above your head on the pillow stained with your sweat. The brassbound grip of his hold, locking you tight in the cup of his hand when he presses them into the pillow steals the last vestiges of air from your lungs. 

The hold on your neck eases. His long, thick fingers brush over the smooth column of your throat. You suck in a deep breath, letting it fill the vacancy of your lungs, and take the rich, dewy scent of him in until it clots to the fibrils inside. 

Filled, you think, to the brim with him.

He smells of chemise, tonyon, and dried hawthorn. Wet chaparral after a wildfire scorched the thicket to cinder and ash. 

With him perched above you, now drenched in the fullness of him—his smell, his touch, the way he sounds when he fits deep inside of you—you find the once unutterable words again. 

They've been buoying up and down for months now, maybe even years. Always left to rot in their esophageal prison, but as your airways open up, as this moment of utter vulnerability and underlying trust brims inside of you, hotter than the bliss burning through your core, they slip out, tangled up in the way you breathe his name. 

The orison rings with the palpable weight of your wants, oiled in the gossamer of your pleasure. It lingers in the scant space between you. 

Simon shudders as it tickles against his skin. A featherlight whisper over naked flesh stained with the brine of sex. 

You gaze up at him, burning the sight of him arched above you like the fruition of your yearning carved in flesh and bone, and a part of you selfishly hopes the barbed hooks of those words you're barred from saying sink into his pale flesh. Piercing deep enough to sink into his bloodstream. 

Infectious. Incurable. 

It's dark, and awful, and full of that ugly longing that makes your teeth ache to mark him up for the world to see, to know, that he's been conquered, claimed. Stupid. Silly. Infantile. You can't own a person, can't chain them to you through ichor and offerings, and yet—

Ghost groans when your teeth find purchase in the meat of his shoulder, a rough noise that rattles through your empty bones, and fills the barren space where humanity once beat. 

—You spill his blood on the altar. A sacrificial offering. Yours to keep. 

"Fuck," he rasps, the word sticking to the side of his raw throat. "Tryin'a give me a new scar, pet? Don't got enough already?"

Despite the weight of the words, they're uttered with a caveat that's almost indiscernible had you not the wherewithal to know him as intimately as you do. Equivalency bleeds in the vowels. 

It comes as no great surprise, then, when he huffs in your ear, dips his chin, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse point, just above the place where his thumb rests. 

(Matching offerings. A tangled web.)

The sharp sting condenses into a blistering pleasure: a damnable bliss. It's the victory of your acquisition, the satisfaction of your merger. Your release bludgeons into you—a mix of euphoria and pain—and the world around you wobbles, narrows. There's a pinpoint where only the hazy shadow of ashen hair fills your periphery. The dark silhouette of a man you itch to pry open and burrow inside. 

A muted noise spills from the back of your throat. His name, maybe (Simon, Simon, Simon), but it's swallowed by his wet groan—blood-drenched and bitter. 

Maybe it's the bitter tang of you on his tongue, or the dribble of red on the corners of your mouth, caught when he flickers his gaze up to your own, catching the smear of his blood staining your lips, but he shudders above you. Rumbling like an earthquake. The clash of plates grinding together. It splits you down the middle, and shakes the chill from your bones until you're a molten mess of liquified limbs: polymer bones, bubbling blood. 

You melt into the mattress below with a hymn of his name—a blasphemous orison that has no place amongst the debauchery of sex-soaked sheets, and blood-stained teeth, but fits like a second skin when it brushes past your lips. 

Simon follows. He says your name—a rough and gritty howl in the back of his throat—and then he's burying himself so deep inside of you that something breaks apart, gives, and the consuming hole, the vacuum he wrought, is filled with him. Him, him. A void. A cenote. 

A gaping chasm of rot, need. Unquenchable.

"Fuck—" he snarls like a beast, the words crushing your ribcage, and leaking brimstone in your empty marrow. "Feels so fuckin' good, pet—"

There's something alluringly victorious about catching the biggest predator in the pen. A man made of death now bowing at the knees with just a flash of vulnerability; the slightest tilt of your delicate neck. 

A string coils around your finger, pulling taut when you tug. 

Bones ache when you move. Muscles scream when you swallow. Still, you lean forward, and syphon the heat from his skin, the blood from his veins. 

Your spoils to keep, wrapped up prettily inside a diaphanous web. 

Your nails rake across his flesh when you pull him close, curling around him in a spooled knot. When you grin, you feel the thick film of blood on your teeth. Vicious, victorious. "We match now, Simon." 

He might run.

But you've always been good at running: a long-distance sprinter in perpetual motion.

(You'll catch up, no matter where he goes.)

And when he breathes your name through the wet fabric of his mask, trembling with his release, you know that some things are worth chasing after. 

"You, uh… got anything to tell me?"

Gaz can't keep his eyes from straying to the moulted bruise on your neck—a startling smear of charcoal, flaxen, and indigo, broken in a perfect crescent of teeth—and each glance feels like a physical touch to your sensitive, inflamed skin.

It's childish. Immature. 

(You wear it proudly, flaunting your win to the world.)

"Not really," you shrug, body buzzing with heat. It simmers in your veins now. Syphoned warmth that spools in your bloodstream, leaks from your marrow. "Just tamed a stray over the weekend. You know how it is."

There's a strange cut in melted brown. A look you're much too familiar with. One might mistake it as condemnation, scorn, but you know Gaz. The quirk of his lips gives him away. 

"A stray, huh?" He intones contemplatively, timbre breezy, light, as he was mentioning the weather in Birmingham. Light drizzle, should clear up in the aft'. "Don't come aggin' to me when this backfires on you, yeah? Some never learn to stop biting." 

Gaz pointedly looks out toward the table where Ghost and Price pour over another set of documents—shoulders drawn tight as they toss ideas and plans back and forth—before turning back to you. 

"But I guess you know all about that already."

The barb in his tone—equal parts admonishing, and scathingly facetious—prickles against your skin. You offer a small smile, a languid shrug, and let your gaze drift, dragged back to Ghost. 

His hands are wrapped in white, his mask pulled over his neck, hiding your mark from the world. Another scar on top of a storied history of others, but far kinder than anything else he'd ever received. 

It prickles in your gums when you see him, and makes heat fill your chest when his eyes list to you, to Gaz, as if he can feel your stare, even when you're tucked away in a hidden crevasse, watching, waiting.

He won't come closer. Not when everyone else is around, but you catch the hunger in his gaze when you tilt your chin, exposing the soft, vulnerable curve of your neck, baring the bruise for him to see. It's rough, abrading. His eyes scrape over the varicoloured smear with a rapacious greediness that burrows under your skin. 

"I'm learning," you murmur, words muted, heavy with something that tastes like triumph when it slips out. "Baby steps, right?"

Ghost turns away first, tearing his gaze from the bruise on your neck, muscles tensing as he ducks his head, and forces his attention back to Price. 

In the corner of the room, a spider reaps the spoils of its fruit: a webbed sarcophagus around an exhausted fly that has long since given up on the struggle to get free. 

It opens its maw, fangs glinting in the jaundiced light.

Vicious, victorious: it feasts. 

(You drag your tongue over your warm lips, and feel the stirrings of hunger gnarl inside you once more.)

[endless-ineffabilities]

never tear us apart

Aemond Targaryen x f!Reader

part five of the prūmia va perzys (heart on fire) series

part one: don't you love me? - part two: and what of your love? - part three: the flames that divide - part four: the aftermath

themes/warnings: injury, language, dragonrider!reader (her house is not stated)

word count: 6.1k ▪︎ masterlist

The Blacks make an attempt to lift the curse cast upon the reader. Aemond does everything he can to reach Dragonstone, in hopes of seeing the reader again. A sinister plot forms, threatening to cast everything into further chaos. Or set everything right. Only time will tell.

Alys Rivers is no stranger to pain.

When she was discarded by her mother at the steps of her apparent father’s castle at a tender age of 10, she felt it.

When her father did not completely recognize her as his daughter, relegating her to be one of the workers of his estate, she felt it.

When she had to fend off an attacker, using all of her meagre physical strength, digging her nails into the man who attempted to overcome her and take her girlhood, she felt it.

Pain is no stranger. And it is no friend, either.

But pain was something that she merely accepted, until she found the Lord of Light. Her mother sought her out years after she abandoned her, telling her that it needed to be done. She needed to leave Alys, so that she might be able to devote her days and nights to the one true Lord.

Alys should have been angry. She should have wept upon seeing her mother again, hurled questions and accusations at her as to why she left her only daughter. But strangely enough, she could not find it in herself to do so. She did not feel it was important then. Does that make her emotionless, devoid of even the slightest connection towards her mother? Perhaps, perhaps not.

All she knew was that she understood her mother’s motives. She found a sameness in how her mother was ready to sacrifice everything to Him.

The Lord of Light. The Red god. Alys found him, but already knew of her. He already knew of her pain, and he promised to take it all away. He promised her a saviour carved out of the very same pain, and strength, and sapphire-blue. The one chosen for her as a vessel into the light. Whether to love or to use as a mere tool to spread the Lord of Light’s power, she does not believe it to be in her hands. What matters is, her one-eyed prince would come and her very being would be devoted to him.

What Alys Rivers did not anticipate was that her one-eyed prince’s heart would already be spoken for. The flames did not impart that she would have to fight tooth and nail for it. For him.

She did not know that Aemond Targaryen’s heart would already be yours.

But then again, she is no stranger to pain. She felt it in the way Aemond squeezed her neck, in the way he dug his fingers into her skin until she almost turned a sick shade of sapphire-blue. Its talons buried themselves deep in her heart when her prince beloved Aemond, in all his unbridled rage, promised that he would never truly love her. Not in the way that he loves you.

No matter. He is merely lost, and I can bring him back into the light. Her delicate fingers graze the bruises on her neck, feeling him. She has already set her plan into motion, but nothing is certain. There are ways to bring you back, and she is aware of this. Her best hand is yet to be played, and there are things about to unfold. Things that will bring untether Aemond from you.

He will be mine, once y/n is consumed by the flames. After all, how can he still love you when you are gone?

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

Aemond has always been perceptive, ambitious, insightful. Eager to overcome any slight that his disability has added on to his existence, real or imagined.

Even before the fateful injury, he has already possessed a similar sense of pride. Self-preservation, borne out of being a Targaryen prince without a dragon, who also stands to inherit nothing. The second son. Everything he wants, he has had to carve out for himself. To take for himself.

As if to pour salt on the wound, it is clear to everyone that he is far more capable and more suited to the throne than his older brother Aegon. But this matters not, at least not whilst Aegon survives, and his sons along with him.

This thirst to prove himself, to make sure that whoever encounters him sees him as worthy, has always stayed with Aemond. He did all he could – ensured himself to be knowledgeable about the histories, philosophies, High Valyrian, battle strategy and combat expertise, the religion of the old gods and the new, and all else. There isn’t one important volume in the castle's Great Library that Aemond has not gotten his hands on, living and breathing the words, memorizing them.

Every bit of knowledge, each newly honed skill, forms into a new facet of his being. Making him better. Making him whole. All Aemond ever wanted was to belong. To be whole.

But he never thought he could achieve this without effort. Without strife to overcome. This invisible yet ever-present need to prove himself became something like a burden he has to carry. He never felt that he could belong, truly, until you.

But you had seen him. Accepted him. Aemond did not need to woo you with any embellishment, he did not need to tell you how he had memorized the histories of the Seven Kingdoms. It mattered not that he might be the most skilled swordsman of his age, having painstakingly trained each day since his tenth nameday. The allure of his status, of the power of his family, was not something that drew you to him. He quickly discovered that he never needed to impress you, he only needed to love you.

Aemond tried to fight it, but that did not last long. After all, is it not useless to deny oneself what calls out to the heart?

The day Aemond Targaryen allowed himself to love you, and be loved in return, was the day that he finally belonged.

And without you, the one-eyed prince would be unanchored.

Aemond remembers the night that you first met as he sits in his chambers, waiting. Years ago, you had rolled your eyes at him, at a prince of the Seven Kingdoms, when he said something out of turn about your friend Rhaena’s lack of a dragon. You were quick to retaliate, sharp and biting with your words. But the morning after, when you came across him sitting all by his lonesome in the library, you apologized.

Granted, you demanded his apology first, but there was something in his violet eyes. A certain awareness, a melancholy. There might be some darkness creeping in Prince Aemond’s heart, but there is an undeniable light there, too. A remnant of lost innocence. You caved in, and curiosity got the better of you. For hours, you spoke to your heart’s desire, each new subject brought up only increasing your interest in the one-eyed prince. And his interest in you was piqued in turn. From then on, countless days and nights were spent together in the comforts of the great library.

His heart swelled, perhaps for the very first time in what felt like forever, when you had fallen asleep on his shoulder one night, as he read to you about the chronicles of Princess Nymeria.

He hasn’t been the same since.

The night that has passed since he has heard of your affliction has been long and torturous, leaving him increasingly restless and stricken with worry. He had wanted to take Vhagar and fly to Dragonstone right away, without any mind to what his arrival in enemy territory would entail for him. He almost relinquished his part to play in the war. This ceaseless game that is being played out for the Iron Throne is what drew the two of you apart in the first place.

Until his mother stopped him, promising a better plan.

And so he waits.

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

At the height of the hour of the owl, in one of the royal chambers of the castle in King’s Landing, something is evidently afoot. The room is bathed in warm candlelight, the shadows reflected on each individual’s sombre faces. Their voices are low, in hushed whispers, ensuring the matter at hand to be clandestine.

Alicent is stern when she commands, “You shall help your prince in this matter, Lady Mysaria. You are, after all, in the debt of your King, and by extension, our family. Whatever slights you had to endure by our hand, we implore you to forget them. Have we not made good upon our word to eradicate the fighting pits in Flea Bottom? To ensure the safety of all the children?”

Mysaria studies the Queen, her shrewd eyes taking her in. She knows that she is not being presented with a choice, not truly. Not with this matter. She notices the grey shade of exhaustion right below Aemond's empty, glazed eye, caused by hours upon hours of worrying over you. His stance is taut, like a viper prepared to strike. Eagerly awaiting whatever impediment will stand in his way, so that he might destroy it swiftly. He would do whatever is needed, even the most distasteful of actions, simply so she would assist him in reaching you.

Aemond continues to say nothing. His eye boring straight through Mysaria. She knows right away that he does not give any mind to her. She is merely a tool for him to use, so that he will see you again.

Mysaria says, in her silky, sly tone, “I know you understand our arrangement, my Queen. I come and go as I please. I give you information as I please. You have had much use for the whispers that I provide. If I were to help you now, it will be of my own volition.”

Alicent purses her lips, “Of course. That it not being contested - ”

Aemond interrupts her impatiently, “Know this, White Worm. I am commanding you to do whatever you must so that I can reach Dragonstone, discreetly. Although,” he stalks towards her, “I will see y/n again, with or without your aid. Should you choose to help me, you shall continue to walk free. Otherwise,” he turns his head away, knowing his point has already come across, “hmm.”

“Are you threatening me, Prince Aemond?”

Slowly, Aemond turns to look at her once more. Mysaria was initially resolute in meeting his gaze, showing him that she will not cave easily. But his eye darkens, his expression a quiet type of menacing, but shadowed with a sense of grim that brought a chill to her very bones.

At once, Mysaria realizes that her Prince Aemond is not to be trifled with.

“I can get you to Dragonstone soon,” she starts.

“Today,” Aemond emphasizes, determinedly.

“On the morrow,” Mysaria counters, “there will be the timed arrival of resources by ship on the island. I can arrange to have you on that very ship, accompanied by some of my trusted… whisperers.”

“That’s not soon enough.” Aemond paces away from her, not satisfied with the solution.

“You should know, my prince, that the Blacks have employed the aid of a certain priestess of the Red religion. Someone who might be capable of countering the effect of the curse laid upon your paramour. They will attempt to conduct a healing ritual tonight,” Mysaria says, knowing every word strikes true in Aemond, hope slowly creeping in his expression.

“And this priestess… Can she be trusted?”

“She has not shown any sign of being otherwise. Rest assured that once you land on Dragonstone, I can have the Lady Y/n in some place which can be easily reached by you,” she pauses, careful to add what follows, “That is, if she will awaken.”

“She will.” Aemond’s eye snaps straight to hers, burning through. “She must.”

Mysaria merely nods once, before addressing Alicent, “Queen Regent, I trust that our arrangement is to your satisfaction? Now that you know how your son will be transported to Dragonstone under my care, do you still wish to move forward with this plan?”

Alicent takes a deep breath, knowing that no matter what her decision might be, Aemond’s mind is already set in stone. He will get to you, one way or another. Better to do it in the safety of the shadows, away from the malicious notice of the Blacks.

Alicent did not fully trust Mysaria, but she trusted that this Mistress of Whisperers understood, that should she play a hand in harming Aemond, then she would not hesitate in subjecting this waiflike serpent from Lys to the worst torture imaginable.

“If Aemond wishes it, then it shall happen,” Alicent finally says, looking to her son for confirmation. Aemond straightens, before nodding, “I shall await your counsel regarding this journey. I trust that you will get everything done right, won’t you, White Worm?”

There is a vague threat lacing the end of his words, one that does not go unnoticed.

The corner of Mysaria’s mouth lifts in acknowledgement, and she curtsies slowly, before making her leave, her translucent skirts billowing behind her.

A mere moment passes, before Alicent strides closer to her son, and takes both of his hands in hers. “Aemond, this will no doubt be perilous. There is no way of knowing what the Blacks might do should they discover you. Is this truly your desire?”

Two seconds pass, four, five. It is not the first time that Aemond has been on the receiving end of his mother’s worried pleas, and he knows it will not be the last.

Taking a deep breath, and comfortingly squeezing her hands in turn, he only has you on his mind. “Yes,” he finally says, “it is.”

Alicent need not ask why. She assents, “Alright. I trust that everything will go well, and you will return to us afterward.”

The last sentence, she says mostly to herself, in desperate need of reassurance. In hopes that no harm will come to her favoured son.

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

The atmosphere in the room is thick with despair and anticipation. A mixture of strange aromas infiltrate the air, making it hard to breathe.

From one side of the room, Daemon Targaryen’s face scrunches in disgust. And a whole lot of impatience. His fists are clenched on his sides, one foot tapping as the bloody witch continues her work on the seemingly vital concoction.

The Lady Cerrah kneels by the side of your bed, a small cauldron fuming by her side. Her voice comes out in deep, hushed whispers, as she performs the bulk of the spell. Her eyes are shut, and for a task of such importance, she does not seem to give off any sense of worry or agitation.

That fucking witch looks so calm. Daemon paces to another corner of the room. How the fuck can she look so calm with y/n’s very life on the line?

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra beckons to her husband, reaching for his hand, “she will be alright.”

“She best be in perfect health after all this sorcery,” he huffs in response, “otherwise, a certain witch won’t be leaving Dragonstone in the same state in which she arrived.”

Still with her eyes closed, Cerrah calls out, “Make no mistake, my prince. My hearing works just fine. We would not want to distract me from my work, lest it lead to any complication. It would not bode well for the poor Lady y/n here.”

“Our apologies.” Rhaenyra replies, also on behalf of her sulking husband, who continues to irately glare at Cerrah as if she possessed two heads.

“The rest of it, if you please, Maester.” Cerrah says, and Maester Gerardys walks forward and places a wide silver platter beside the cauldron.

Cerrah studies the contents, her fingers drifting over them as if feeling for a pulse. She takes a handful of charred wormwood and drops it in the cauldron. Next, she takes the sliver of dragonscale, retrieved from the hide of a slumbering Fyraxes, and it follows suit. The mixture hisses and bubbles as a result, the fumes growing ever stronger and more pungent.

“Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla prūmia.  Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla ñelly.  Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla ābrar.” Cerrah’s chanting increases in intensity, her tone sounding harsher, the words muddling over one another like a single drawn out command.

A cold, biting gust blows inside the chambers, causing the shivers to erupt on the skin of its occupants. The flames of several candles flicker then die out.

Rhaenyra’s hand tightens around Daemon’s, as she senses his distress resurfacing.

Cerrah lifts the chalice of young goat’s blood from the platter, and pours it in the cauldron, which suddenly begins to expel a bright, blue flame. It rises several feet high, the resulting heat so searing that it warms the entirety of the chambers.

Maester Gerardys and his two attendants have to wipe at their foreheads to keep beads of sweat from entering their eyes. But the Targaryens stand still, unperturbed by the blazing heat. The blood of the dragon rings true.  Queen Rhaenyra’s violet eyes mirror the flames in their vibrance, fierce and unblinking.

“Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla prūmia.  Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla ñelly.  Āeksiot Ōño, gūrogon ōregon hen zirȳla ābrar.” The words echo again and again, as Cerrah lowers her fingers into the cauldron, her face struggling to mask the pain it brings. Her fingers come out stained, and she stands, relentless in her chanting. She drags the potion from your hairline to the tip of your nose, painting your skin deep red, the colour of the god R’hllor.

Cerrah’s words wash over you, prayers to her high beloved. “Lord of Light,” she pleads, “take hold of her heart.” The ritual is centered on the healing of your heart, as it had been the target of Alys Rivers. Your heart had to cease, to symbolically be set in stone, so that it will not yearn to be united with its other half. The very one belonging to Prince Aemond.

Love has been the catalyst of all this pain, and only love can bring you back. The Lady Alys never would have set her tainted sights on you, had you not been the keeper of Aemond’s heart.

As you still are. As you will always remain.

“Āeksiot Ōño,” Cerrah rasps, passion punctuating her every word, “gūrogon zirȳla prūmia lenton.”

The flame in the cauldron disappears, as does all the flickering candlelight around the room. Everything is enveloped in shadow, with only the pale moonlight peering through the shutters.

All is silent, save for Cerrah’s hushed whispers.

A long moment passes, until Daemon’s growl breaks the stillness, “Why will she not awaken? This procedure has taken up nearly the entirety of a fucking hour.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra chastises, “perhaps you should wait outside.”

Daemon sulks, lowering his head, “No. I want to be here when she awakens.”

Rhaenyra comfortingly strokes his back, almost amused at his disposition, “Very well then.” She understands his qualms over the situation, over the notion of entrusting your wellbeing to this strange priestess. But they were at their wits’ end. They needed you back, hale and healthy.

Cerrah’s chanting stops abruptly. She lays a hand atop your nightgown, just above your heart.

“Is something the matter?” Daemon asks.

“There is… something missing.” Cerrah sighs. “I can feel the Lord calling out to me in return, but he cannot fully take a hold of myself and the Lady Y/n. It does not seem as if he can heed my plea due to a missing piece.”

“What piece, my lady?” Rhaenyra questions, growing nervous.

“A piece of her heart.” Cerrah breathes. “I need a piece of her heart.”

“You’re bloody demented, witch, if you think I will allow you to cut her open like some fucking boar.” Daemon strides forward without much thought, allowing his emotions to overcome him.

“Daemon, don’t - ” Rhaenyra tries but her words fall to deaf ears.

“You said you would bring her back to us,” Daemon grabs Cerrah’s shoulders, gripping tightly, “so, bring her back.”

“I said I would try, Prince Daemon.” Cerrah meets Daemon’s eyes unwaveringly, unperturbed by his anger. “I just need a piece of her heart. Not in the literal sense, mind you. If only you would give me a chance to explain myself first.”

Daemon releases her, stepping back, “You are in no position to reprimand me, my lady.” He adds the title mockingly. “Tell us what you need.”

“I can’t be certain about the object,” Cerrah muses, addressing everyone in the room, “but I need something that she owns, or something that was given to her out of love. A piece of her heart. Something laced with love. True love. Yes… yes, that is what we need.”

“Laced with love,” Rhaenyra whispers, something coming to mind.

Maester Gerardys looks perplexed, unable to come up with an answer. Daemon looks around, his eyes landing on your sword resting on the mantle, “What about her sword? She has fought with it since her youth. Surely it holds a special place in her heart.”

“That may not be enough.” Cerrah shrugs.

“Wait,” Rhaenyra says, before walking over to the round desk in the middle of your chambers. On top of it rests the boxes sent many days prior, the ones containing gillyflower from your own secret field. A thin layer of dust is displaced as Rhaenyra lifts the lid of one, revealing the remnants of wilting gillyflower inside.

She takes them gently, careful not to crumble the fragile flowers in her palm.                                                                                                   

“Laced with love,” she declares, meeting Cerrah’s eyes across the room. The priestess only nods in understanding. She does ask any questions. She can feel it, feel that the dull flowers in the Queen’s palm hold something more vivid that anything else in the room.

It is, in essence, a piece of a heart. From your Aemond, for you.

“It will not work.” Daemon grumbles, gripping Rhaenyra’s wrist as she approaches Cerrah, “Look at y/n. How can that one-eyed idiot claim to love her after having caused this.”

“We have no other choice, Daemon.” Rhaenyra shakes out of Daemon’s hold, and extends her palm to Cerrah, surrendering the gillyflower.

In one swift motion, Cerrah lowers the gillyflower in the cauldron. She resumes her chanting, her confidence renewed, “Gūrogon bisa jiōragon.  Iā piece hen zirȳla prūmia.  Iā object hen drēje jorrāelagon. Dovaogēdy, mijegon sȳndror, vok.”  Take this offering. A piece of her heart. An object of true love. Unsullied. Without the strain of darkness. Pure.

She dips her fingers once more in the deep red mixture, and flits them over your lips. With your mouth now stained crimson, the flame reignites in the cauldron.

From the shadows, your spirit awakens. You faintly hear an unfamiliar voice, a woman calling out to you from the void. You sense a light, glowing in the periphery.

“Ivestragī jorrāelagon jemagon se ñuhoso.” Let love lead the way, you hear the voice again.

You gather your strength, aching to find home in your body once more. Struggling against the haze that confines you to weightlessness, disconnecting you from reality, you will yourself to return.

For the final time, the flame dies in the cauldron. The room is neither warm, nor cold. Everything becomes still. Quiet.

All at once, your crimson-stained lips part, panting for air. Your fingers curl at your nightgown, seeking to feel something again, anything.

Nobody can attempt to conceal their amazement.

“Gods be good,” Maester Gerardys gasps in awe.

“God,” Cerrah haughtily corrects, all the more feeling that she has a right to, as she gazes upon the result of her work.

“Silence.” Daemon commands, as he walks over to your bedside, “Y/n?”

At the height of the hour of the owl, nearly a fortnight after being cast in the shadows by Alys Rivers, the Lady Y/n finds her way back to the light. To the living world filled with suffering and bliss. Of hatred and desire.

Ultimately aided by Aemond Targaryen’s love, you had been coaxed out of the darkness.

In the caves underneath the castle in Dragonstone, one particular dragon shakes back into consciousness.  A deep, resounding growl builds in Fyraxes’ chest, threatening to escape.

When it does, it reaches even the farthest corner of the island.

Finally, you open your eyes.

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

Your muscles ache as you reorient yourself with movement, leaning against the windowsill. The cool morning air is nothing but a welcome sensation, and you cannot resist taking deep breaths of it, the smell of the sea creeping up your nostrils. Rolling out your neck, you let out a faint groan.

“You should rest, y/n. The maester has advised you from engaging in strenuous activity of any kind.” Rhaenyra suggests. She and Daemon have steadily kept you company since you had awoken, themselves forsaking the comforts of slumber.

“I’d wager that the maester prefers me to not make any movement at all,” you jest, walking over to the table, and sitting down slowly. You take another plum from the plate brought over by your lady-in-waiting, and devour it eagerly, juices flowing down to your chin.

“Easy there, y/n,” Daemon chuckles, “or you might just exhaust Dragonstone’s supply of fruit.”

The doors open, and in enters Jacaerys, a relieved expression on his face.

“Y/n,” he rushes over to you, and squeezes you with both arms, “don’t you ever do that to us again.”

“Alright,” you smile, “I’ll try not to be put under some inexplicable curse. What a burden it turned out to be.”

“Right,” Jace nearly punches your shoulder in jest, but catches himself at the last second, “I am glad you are finally awake.”

“Jacaerys,” Daemon says, “why don’t you arrange for Fyraxes to be taken at the eastern coast, somewhere close to the docks, so that y/n might reunite with her dragon as well as enjoy the morning sunlight.”

Your face lights up at the thought, “She is okay? I would love to see her again.”

“Of course,” Jace nods in agreement, before quickly planting a kiss on your cheek, “leave it to me. Y/n here could benefit from a bit of fresh air. Besides,” he winks at you, “you kind of reek of stale sheets and sweat. The outdoors should do you a world of good.”

A hearty laugh escapes your lips, the first one after a very long while.

“You arse,” you call out to Jace’s retreating back.

“You mean, royal arse.” He counters lightly, humour lacing his tone. He politely nods to his sires, before leaving the chambers.

It is not long after his departure before Rhaenyra decides to address the low hanging question, “Perhaps we should talk about this… curse that you were dealt. A grievous harm had befallen you, and by extension, us. Rest assured that the one behind this assault will be put to justice.”

“I trust that you have some inkling as to who possesses the ability and the motivation to harm you, y/n.” Daemon adds, looking out the window in thought.

Rhaenyra says, “We have determined that it had been the work of a priestess - ”

“A demented witch.” Daemon interjects, sneering.

Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, before continuing, “It was a priestess of R’hllor who did this to you. The consensus seems to be that it may have been Alys Rivers, Aemond’s apparent consort. Well, at least she was. Word has reached us that the wedding has been called off, by none other than Aemond himself.”

So, he has followed through on his word. You straighten, letting the news settle over you. They are not to be wed, but what does this entail? He did mention something about keeping her in his employ.

“And if it is that wretch who placed a curse upon you, then it must have been at the behest of her master.” Daemon determinedly says, not a trace of doubt in his mind.

You feel empty. In the literal sense, as you had not been able to consume anything for too long, before this morning. Your head feels light and floaty, like you are a newborn babe finding her bearings.

But it is another matter entirely, the way that possibility makes you feel hollow inside. That Aemond may have been behind this ploy. That he had tricked you, and is not to be trusted.

“He couldn’t.” your voice comes out weak, tinged with doubt, “He would never do this to me.”

“I must admit that I feel inclined to agree with you, as it was the gillyflower sent by him that rendered the ritual effective. We needed something given out of love, and it worked.” Rhaenyra reaches for your hand, “However, it might be best if you do not see him. Even if he did not play a hand in the curse, as you believe, he could still lead Alys to you.”

You shut your eyes, leaning back against your seat. Nodding your head once, you attempt a smile at Rhaenyra, but it does not reach your eyes, “I wish to see Fyraxes.”

“Of course,” Rhaenyra stands, “I shall fetch someone to escort you.”

“No need,” Daemon says, “you’ll find Ser Erryk waiting outside. I had anticipated your desire to see your dragon, y/n, and I have already alerted the knight to keep a close eye on you.”

Rhaenyra pauses, this knowledge not having been shared with her, but she lets it pass. After all, Daemon truly cares about you, and would only be attending to your needs, especially in your fragile state.

“Thank you, Daemon.” You take his arm as he escorts you out of the room at a sluggish pace, your body still lacking its former vigour.

You hope that seeing Fyraxes might keep any thought of Aemond at bay, even though you already know that it will be for naught. Sooner rather than later, he will find his way back to your mind. To your heart.

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

The waves have been harsh and unrelenting, the wind threatening to make Aemond’s hood fall to his shoulders. He kept a tight grip on his cloak, as he sat in the quarterdeck of the hunkering supply ship. His royal garb has been exchanged for commoner’s clothing. All measures had to be taken to conceal his true identity.

The White Worm’s supposed whisperers were a pair of fishermen, regular workers on the ship, responsible for gathering the greater part of their freshwater fish reserves. They had stood to the side, always a few feet from the Prince, should any trouble come up.

But fortunately, it did not. The long journey from King’s Landing to Dragonstone remained uneventful. 

The ship had docked nearly half an hour ago, and the two fishermen led Aemond further onto the island. The small group had only been walking for a quarter of a mile, before one of the men turns to address Aemond, “Continue down this path,” he gestures forward, “for just a good few minutes, my prince. Then you will find what you came for.”

Aemond looks to where the man is pointing, seeing nothing but the same jagged rocks. There is no path. This might as well be a fucking ambush.

The taller of the men notices the prince’s hesitation. “Head down this way, Prince Aemond. It is understandable if you think that your trust is misplaced in us, but know that the White Worm does not turn back on her word.”

Aemond turns away in contemplation, watching as the waves slam against the eastern edge of Dragonstone.

“Hmm.” What other choice does he have, if he wishes to reach you?

Mindfully keeping his hand on the dagger by his belt, he marches forward, tilting his head in acknowledgement to both men as he passes them by.

Aemond is only partially giving mind to any potential threat, his focus unconsciously straying back to you. He is not even certain of what he will find as he walks further, but he wants only one thing.

To see you again. He holds on to the hope that whatever ritual conducted has been successful, and that you are free from the clutches of  Alys’ spell.

That is the one thing that can set things right. The very thing keeping his sanity intact.

You are the final strand of light keeping Aemond from completely yielding himself into darkness. 

Not too far away, Fyraxes stretches on a clearing amongst the rocks. Your hands glide over her scales, the feeling of her immediately making you at ease. She groans in satisfaction, mirroring your relief.

Your brow furrows as you notice her tense abruptly, craning her long neck to the side, seemingly sensing a new arrival.

“Skoros iksis pirta?” What’s wrong?

Leaning against her, you can’t help but brace yourself against danger. Dragonstone might be a steadfast fort, easily defensible against explicit attacks, but you now know better than to underestimate the reach of dark magic.

Fryaxes groans, not one of displeasure or alarm, but rather, recognition. Familiarity. A call you knew all too well. Whomever she sees coming is far from an enemy. Could it be Daemon? Rhaenyra? Surely it cannot be Ser Erryk, who has just taken leave to allow you some time alone with Fyraxes.

You take a few steps toward the direction she watches in anticipation, the faint sound of rapid footfall reaching your ears. You think to call out to ask who goes there, but the words never leave you. You see him.

Aemond comes into view, and your knees almost buckle from underneath you, your body seemingly remembering how delicate it has become.

His familiar shapely lips are parted in amazement, taking you in. Reaching up, he lowers his cloak, his silver hair a stark contrast to the dark cloth.

“Aemond,” is all you can say. And that was all it took. Aemond’s legs move on their volition, drawn to the sound of your voice. He pauses right in front of you, his hand reaching to caress your face, and you cannot find the strength to protest. You are not certain that you even want to. Whatever peril he might pose, your skin still yearns for his touch.

His hands gently hold either side of your face. He notices how you appear slightly gaunt, frailer, and it torments him. Immediately, he is compelled to punish the woman who caused you to be this way.

But for now, he relishes in the elation that only you can bring him. 

“Y/n,” he whispers, his voice breaking. Carefully, as if fearing that you might break against him, he presses his forehead to yours. 

“Aemond,” you say, stronger this time. A hundred questions threaten to spill from your lips, but you reel them in, save for just one. “What are you doing here?”

He laughs in disbelief, shaking his head. “What am I doing here?” He repeats, making it sound like the answer is supposed to be the most obvious thing in all the realm.

“What am I doing here?” he scoffs, repeating the question yet again, and right away, you know. 

“Avy jorrāelan,” Aemond says, quelling whatever worry remains in you, “That is why.”

I love you. Of course. It truly is the most obvious thing in all the realm.

Your lips meet, finding home in each other once more.

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

In another part of the sprawling castle, a clandestine meeting takes place. At the bottom of a turnpike stair, at the end of the long and narrow hallway, there lies a room cloaked in shadow.

Three individuals stand inside, only able to speak freely to one another in this very room. At least, when it concerns Aemond Targaryen… and you.

“Has he reached the island?” The mastermind speaks. Who else can it be but the Rogue Prince himself?

Mysaria replies, “Indeed he has. He is convening with Lady Y/n as we speak. Everything is unfolding according to your plan, my prince.”

Daemon sneers, “Very good.” He turns to the other person in the room, “And you made certain that the Queen remains unaware of what transpires?”

“Queen Rhaenyra does not know that Prince Aemond is on Dragonstone, my prince.” Ser Erryk affirms. “I swore fealty to the Queen, and as you said, this plan is solely carried out in her best interest. I will not turn my back on this.”

Daemon’s pride swells. Soon enough, his beloved nephew will atone for his crimes.

And the rest of the Greens shall fall.

So who suspected that Daemon may be up to his usual serving of chaos? Alys Rivers will still play her role, but the more realistic threat to yours and Aemond's romance will be our very own uncle-daddy. You guys seriously didn't think that he would just everything slide, did you?

Wow did this take so long to post!?!?! I still don't think that long of a wait was worth it, and I'll try my hardest to get the next part done sooner :)

Thank you thank you to all of you who follow this series, routinely flooding my inbox with requests for the next part when I take too long. 🖤 Hehe yous are aces.

Apologies if I missed anyone on the taglist - it has gotten all too long (which is a good thing, after all) but I suck at organizing it, so I hope this post finds you well if I failed to tag you. 🤍

Series taglist: @crazylokonugget @xinyourdreamsx @raging-panda @zelzablues @whitejuliana1204 @caught-in-the-afterglow @a-demon-daughter @meilikki @carlottalhn @aemondswh0re @afro-hispwriter @xcinnamonmalfoyx @ietss @writer-lee5 @solacestyles @noneedtosearch @umavvitch @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @inpraizeof @evye47 @kellzlib @janelongxox @daydreamerblues @hearmeout-inc @marrianena @poisonedsultana @lithebunnyq @nushy @foras @thesheelfsworld @abcrosia @anangelwhodidntfall @kyrieshoka @katefullerrr @gxthicwxrm @bluscryn @lwqfhp @vampxra @jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels @justsumtuffstuff @verycollectivecreator @chiyausu @mistalli @buttercupstrand @cullenswife @blacpiink @darylandbethfanforever9 @pockcock @alexayoonlee (continued in comments)

[v3nusxsky]

Mommy knows

*Authors note~ long time no see people! This is definitely inspired by the last week of so of my life, and I thought this would be the perfect fic to get me back into posting for y’all again. Apologies to the anon for adding things they didn’t specifically mention. Come along for the tornado of emotions with me and enjoy the ride*

Trigger warnings~ mommy dom (LW) subby (L) pinning love sick Lesso, distance, phone sex? Sexting, slightly bratty Leo degrading praise slight angst? Hints of age regression easily skipped over

Prompt~see ask^^^^

The Dean of Evil could never have anticipated she’d be in this state right now, after all the clue was in her title. Evil. Yet right now she couldn’t look the furthest thing from evil even if she tried. In fact, one could say that the salty tear drops caressing her pale cheeks, the almost childish way she’d clutched on the blanket wrapped around herself as she tried to make herself look smaller and the intricate tangles of her fiery curls made her look quite pathetic actually. Weak she’d argue. But there’s nothing weak at falling to the curse of love sickness.

Larissa left for Nevermore 10 short hours ago, and Leonora was missing her lover terribly, so terribly that eating, sleeping, showering and drinking were all things that made her feel physically Ill. The pillows still smelt like her blonde lover, the blanket she was snuggled up in being a poor attempt to mimic the blondes arms, all meant leaving this bed was not happening. Perhaps if she stayed in bed Larissa would strut into the room like she had the previous weeks before. Droplets of water falling from her enchanting locks of hair, towel snuggly tied just above her milky white breasts that Leonora adored so much. The towel of course just kissed the tops of Larissa’s thighs due to her height, something Leo found herself missing. She was jealous of how the towel would be close to Larissa (instead of her) which of course would have had the blonde woman chuckling before joining Lesso on the bed.

Memories seemed to plague the red head, her phone holding photos and videos of their time together only seemed to make her crave her girlfriend more. If one thing Leonora was sure of, it was that distance from Larissa Weems was something she hated entirely. Watching the blonde leave as they both sobbed was now ingrained inside her mind, a constant reminder of much fun they’d had together, that had now ended. Of course both women knew it would end, school semesters were approaching and Nevermore wouldn’t run without it’s amazingly devoted principal weems, and of course it was Lesso’s job to help create a balance between good and evil this year. But now, three days before the semester is due to start, lesso can’t find it in her to care, so what do good wins again? If she has her Isa then that’s all that counts.

Arriving back at Nevermore was bittersweet for sure. On one hand the blonde was glad to be home but on the other she’d left her heart back at the school for evil. Now wandering the halls of Nevermore she felt numb. Alone. Numb. Lost. A shell of her former self before her holiday trip. Much like her lover, nothing felt right anymore, she found herself looking for Leo, to be waiting for the next bratty comment so she could swiftly put her sweet girl back in her place. But it never came, because she was alone.

Larissa had warned two close friends of hers she would be in need of assistance upon her arrival, Marilyn and Mortica Addams seemed to have forgotten that as they were no where to be seen. All staff had to be back at the grounds today to prep for the students arrival within the next 48 hours. So it hurt to feel so alone even though she knew people who were meant to care were around. What hurt Larissa most was to see both her friends happily chatting away in the halls while she could hardly keep herself upright due to the ache in her heart. If only Leonora was here, then she wouldn’t be alone at all. Perhaps that’s why Larissa made her way to her office and locked herself away from the world. Who wants to see love and joy when they’ve had there’s taken away by a long distance.

Texting and calling felt wrong now. How can something that had been a life line before, feel so empty and wrong now? It should’ve been like going back to normal but instead it felt new and well odd. Things didn’t change, Larissa still reminded her dove to eat, drink and to try not to kill anyone every day, just like she had every day since they took this step together. And sometimes Lesso would listen, but only sometimes. Yet both women could feel the ache the presence of their other half had left. This well and truly sucks.

Eventually, life got back into the swing of things, both women being overloaded with work meant there wasn’t much time to overthink the ache in their chests. But Larissa had noticed a few things, as busy as Wednesday Addams had her, she could never not notice her Doves needs. See Larissa often knew then before Leonora did. It had been weeks since the last bratty smart mouthed comment, weeks since she’d seen Leo let her guard down and slip out of the dean head space. So it would’ve been weeks of headaches and built up emotions that the red head was locking away from the world, herself, and her mommy. And that just wouldn’t do, so naturally the blonde found the needed solution.

Lesso could not sleep. She’d been trying for hours now. The problem? She wanted Larissa. Well mommy, but now wasn’t the time for those thoughts, no matter how much she craved her mommy’s touch or her ability to always know just what to do. Yet for hours all she could do is think and crave and battle this problem. A dull vibration caught her attention, immediately she knew just who caused it.

“Dove, why aren’t you sleeping? It’s much to late for my sweet girl to be up”

Damn it! How did she always know when lesso broke a rule. Immediately a quick smart response was sent on its way, and this continued back and forth.

“I don’t want to. And I’m not sweet”

“But you are my darling girl, and you need to sleep sweetheart, you promised to look after yourself until I can come home to do so”

“I don’t care anymore. You can’t make me”

“Oh but I can Dove, don’t be a brat and listen to mommy”

“Fuck you”

The bubbles popped up and disappeared a few times as the red head was sat worrying her bottom lip waiting for the response that never came, instead the shrill ringing sound filled the room instead. Fuck. Taking a quick breath she hit answer.

“Care to repeat that dove?” She growled out causing the red head ti shake her head negative before remembering that Larissa couldn’t see her. “Leonora, do not make me repeat myself” quickly followed her silence.

“No mommy, I- I didn’t” she stuttered now only realising her mistake of letting her temper flare.

“You didn’t what baby? You didn’t mean to be a brat? You didn’t mean to get my attention in the wrong way because you can’t use your big girl words? Or you didn’t mean to hurt mommy? Which one is it my darling?” By the tone she could tell her mommy wasn’t happy and that made the guilt start to bubble in the lower part of her stomach.

“Last one, I’m sorry” was whimpered into the phone as her eyes glassed over with a sheen of unshed tears. Truly, she didn’t want to hurt her lover’s feelings but the emotions had built insanely high and craved release in the way only she could provide.

“Oh so you aren’t sorry for being a bratty dove? Hmm? That just won’t do now will it?” The sentence itself looking like a question but deep down the redhead knew the implied meaning just by the sheer tone of voice.

“No mommy, I’m sorry I’ll try to be good! Just miss you really bad” Leonora whimpered into the phone, not sure what she wanted other than to go back and be Larissa’s good dove. The tell tell beeps of the phone hanging up was enough to shock Leonora back to reality. She’d really been hung up on…

But she wasn’t alone with her thoughts for long, pictures and messages filled her phone, her mommy show casing everything Leonora could have had. Every picture and every dirty text message detailed how Larissa wanted to play with her slutty toy but was a solid reminder of just what she’d lost.

“Mommy! Please I’m sorry I’ll be good I’m sorry mommy” the redhead begged after attempting to call her girlfriend back only to be ignored, she knew just what Larissa Weems would be doing, her own private quarters had mirrors everywhere, the angles were perfect and lesso knew how heavenly her whines and mewls of pure pleasure sounded like, this wasn’t fair at all.

An hour. 60 whole minutes. That’s how long the torture of begging and being ignored or denied went on. It was safe to say lesso was going insane until Larissa finally answered her call, out of breath with her signature teasing tone that was just for Leonora. “Poor baby, did you need mommy? Poor little whore of mine wanted mommy to let her see hmm?”

Tears started to fall as her need to be corrected, loved and comforted back to one piece again rose to the fore front of her mind. “I’m sorry mommy. Please help me I’m sorry I needed that, I’ll be good now I promise let me be good for you.” With a quick click of the button the phone call became a video call. Larissa being as naked as the day she was born, a beautiful flush covering her pale body due to her previous activity. “Be a doll for me then and get mommy’s favourite toys for you to use on yourself” she instructed as lesso scrambled off the bed to do so, “but crawl pup! Show me what a pretty bitch you can be for me.”

Stings of humiliation was soon covered by pride as Larissa groaned at the sight of the strong put together woman on her knees because Larissa demanded it, she’d made her lover feel good and that never failed to encourage the dean. Perhaps that’s how she ended up with the special dildo that Larissa had gifted her for Christmas magically thrusting in and out of her needy cunt. Her magical ability being used to mark up her pretty thighs at Larissa’s demand. All while Larissa murmured the most filthy words possible to her bratty girl.

“Mommy! Hurts! Please wanna cum” the poor woman squeezed while trying to squirm away from the magical toy. She knew the rules and would do near enough anything to follow them. Having her mommy’s attention now, she most definitely didn’t want to lose that. “Poor baby, is mommy hurting you?” The faux concern drew a whimper from Lesso, “no I can’t be, look at how you’re soaking my thick dick with your slutty juices sweet girl, look at your pretty cunt for me.” On instinct both pairs of eyes focused on Leonora’s sex soaked core.

“Good pup for me aren’t you dove? My good girl? Such a perfect slut for me. Mine. You’re mine Leonora, say it” Larissa almost growled causing the dean to fall into submission. “Yes mommy’s. I’m mommy’s please please please!” By now all she knew was Larissa. This sweet torture finally breaking down her walls, all the heartache, the fear, the sadness and the loneliness was gone and replaced with Larissa. This, them making each other feel good, would always be right. “That’s all my sweet baby needed hm? You needed mommy to break you down huh? My good little pup, let go darling, cum for me my love” was all the permission she needed as her inner walls milked the faux cock for all it was worth and Larissa’s praised flew around her brain, creating the beauty of sub space.

Sub space was one of Leonora’s favourite headspace’s for sure, she was safe,content, loved and well fucked. Normally Larissa would be met with a dopey smirk and soft lingering touches as her girlfriend cling to her body. Not having this safety blanket was what caused the red head to start sobbing as she came back to reality. “Oh my darling girl, what’s wrong Leo? What can I do sweet girl? What can mommy do?” Larissa coed down the phone hoping to somehow help. Truly seeing Leonora so upset was devastating. “Want you” was gasped out as the tears now consumed her body and breathing was a struggle, “please” she whimpered so quietly, sounding absolutely heartbroken. “I know sweet girl, I’ll be back soon my love, you must talk to me darling, don’t keep this all bottled up inside. I miss you terribly too Leo. Much more than I have missed anyone before. I love you my sweet little dove.”

They say time heals all wounds, but this time all time did was provide a simple bandaid, simply holding the hearts together until they could be back in one piece. A temporary solution to a temporary problem. Naturally this situation occurred more than a few times while both women had to be apart, and it soon became more normal but odd at the same time. But every day was that one day closer to being able to hold each other again. To be home.

Word count~ 2376

[trulybetty]

Flings | Frankie Morales x f!Reader

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader (no use of Y/N) Word Count: 3,975 Warnings: Mature, no smut smut, but illusions to maybe some smut? Talk of food, alcohol, and a little angst - I think that's it, I apologize if I've missed something, please let me know if there's something needing adding. Summary: Five times things were supposed to be a fling between you and Frankie until it wasn't... AO3: Linked

A/N: Bookstore Frankie has taken on a life of his own, the original piece that this all came out of will be finished soon and I hope it lives up to expectations - I'm determined this week to get my WIP list down!

Fling. noun 1. a short period of enjoyment or wild behaviour. - a short, spontaneous sexual relationship.

1. Just a Fun Night Out

You had thrown caution to the wind and sent Frankie a text message that night after Cat had left your apartment. As she had said, different was good and what was the worst that could happen? No sooner had you sent the message, you had a response almost instantly. 

Frankie: I thought I wasn’t going to hear from you Maverick ;)

You hadn’t gone to bed until three am and called in sick the next day.

When he wasn’t participating in ‘military stuff’ the two of you were engaged in a back-and-forth of messaging. Seeing him again would have come sooner, but between the both of you, your schedules didn’t align until two weeks later. It had been intentional on Frankie’s part to arrange to meet at the same bar you’d had your first chance encounter.

Neither of you were under any false pretenses that this was going to be more than just a night of drinks, laughs and maybe, just maybe a nightcap at your place when closing time was called. 

No sooner had you closed the door behind you his hands were in your hair, his body pressing you up against the door. It was a furious tangle of limbs as you both tried to free one another from your clothes. His hat was the first thing to go, thrown across the room. His fingers fought with the button of your jeans causing him to curse furiously in Spanish before your fingers took over. The air was thick with want and need, your bodies aching for each other. With precision, you unbuckled his belt and slid it off him, throwing it aside after his hat. 

As you stumbled down the hallway towards your bedroom, the anticipation between you and Frankie grew more intense. At the edge of the bed, his hands roamed over your skin, leaving a trail of hot kisses on your neck and collarbone.  The atmosphere was electric as his hands slipped under your shirt, swiftly pulling it off. Your hands mirrored his actions, fingers deftly navigating the buttons of his shirt. Desperate to feel his skin against yours, you made quick work of them.

Together, you fell back onto the bed in a tangle of arms and legs. Taking a moment to catch your breath, Frankie framed your body with his, his arms holding him up over you. He dipped his head to kiss the tender spot between your neck and shoulder. His lips tracing your neck before his teeth nipped at your ear.

Your fingers snaked up his back, his shoulders before they tangled in his hair and with a tender tug you pulled his face to yours, your lips meeting his in a hungry and passionate kiss. There was a weight behind it, something more that neither one of you were able to think straight about, more focused on something more physical.

“I’ve been thinking about doing this since the moment I saw you tonight,” he said, his voice low and rough when you finally broke apart.

You smiled at him and ran a hand through his hair. “Likewise,” you replied.

As Frankie kissed you goodbye in the morning, you’d both smiled and agreed to meet up the next time Frankie was in town.

Somehow, conveniently, your schedules never had an issue of conflict from there out again.

2. A Chance Meeting in a Different City

A couple of months later, fortune seemed to pull you and Frankie together again in a momentous twist of fate. You found yourself in San Francisco for a work trip, your nose buried in a book at a coffee shop down on the pier. Frankie was there too, a coincidence that neither of you could have planned. Military aviation drills were taking place that week, and he was in the area for the events.

The day had been long, and you were lost in your thoughts when an imposing shadow suddenly crowded your space. Annoyance bubbled up inside you, but as you looked up, ready to voice your irritation, you were stopped in your tracks.

Standing there, looking just as surprised as you felt, was Frankie.

“Maverick,” he said, flashing that teasing grin of his.

“Frankie!” You exclaimed, jumping up and nearly knocking over your coffee. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you.

The initial shock quickly turned into pleasure as you both recognized the serendipity of the situation. Plans were hastily rearranged, and the two of you decided to seize the opportunity to explore the city together.

Over the next few days, you found yourselves walking the bustling streets and enjoying the tourist sights of San Francisco between conference meetings and Frankie’s own commitments. 

Nights were spent in your hotel room, it seemed no matter the city you both seemed to gravitate towards your bed. The past months had consisted of frequent visits to Seattle by Frankie and you'd even made the journey down to Pierce County to see him once or twice.

“You ever think about how this all started?” Frankie murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

“With your pilot pickup line?” you teased, snuggling closer to him.

He rolled his eyes, “Yeah, that, and everything else. I mean, what were the odds we'd meet like that? And then run into each other again here?”

It all felt so natural, so effortless, that neither of you questioned it.

3. New Year's Eve

Cat and her husband were throwing a New Year's Eve party and you had casually asked Frankie what his plans were two days before. He had told you that he was free and so you’d asked him if he wanted to join you, and you told yourself it was because no one should be alone for the new year and that was the only reason you’d extended the invitation.

The insanely large Costco-sized TV illuminated the living room playing the start of the countdown of the New York Times Square ball drop.

Ten.

You laughed at the party hat Cat had just unceremoniously placed on Frankie's head, she told him that it was strange seeing him out without his standard hat on, so in her tipsy state had written Standard Oil on the paper cone hat in Sharpie and plopped it on his head before giving you an equally garish one to wear also.

Nine.

The bubbles of the champagne tickled your lips as you brought it up for a tiny sip, ready to toast the New Year once the countdown was complete.

Eight.

Frankie reached around you to grab his own glass, he shifted closer, his hip knocking into yours, he didn’t step back.

Seven.

Your heart started beating a little faster, a mix of excitement from the impending new year and the unexpected intimacy of Frankie's proximity. The scent of him, familiar yet always exciting, mingled with the festive air around you.

Six.

The room was getting louder as more people appeared from around the house to watch the ball drop. Frankie’s hand rested on your hip as he turned you to face him.

Five.

You tried to dismiss the fluttering in your stomach as just the champagne, but deep down, you knew it was something more to do with the man in front of you.

Four.

The countdown was nearly over, and the room was filled with anticipation. But the only thing you could focus on was the look in Frankie's eyes.

Three.

As the countdown was close to reaching its climax, the room started to fill with shouts of excitement. But amid the festive chaos, you were drawn into an intimate bubble with Frankie. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, and whispered, “I'm glad I came tonight.”

Two.

You turned to face him, your eyes locked, the world around you forgotten. “Me too,” you whispered back, your voice filled with emotion.

One.

As the crowd around you erupted in cheers, and the New Year was ushered in, Frankie's lips met yours in what started as a sweet kiss before your arms wrapped around his neck and his around your waist. The kiss deepened and the two of you tried not to spill the drinks in your hands.

“Happy New Year Mav.” he grinned as he pulled back to look you in the eye.

“Happy New Year Frankie,” you echoed, your voice catching a little.

Frankie's hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. He leaned in to kiss you again, happy that you had messaged him two days before with an invitation to see in the New Year's. He hadn’t cancelled plans so fast before, furiously texting Santiago that something had come up and wouldn’t be attending the arranged party on base.

“Want to get out of here?” he asked before draining his glass. 

You nodded enthusiastically as you finished your own drink, “Let’s go.”

4. Valentine's Day

The salty taste of the bacon from your sandwich left its mark on your lips, and Frankie couldn't help but admire your quick tongue poking out to lick them away. In response, he licked his own lips appreciatively. 

You were both in your bed, the sheets dishevelled and the only reason Frankie wasn’t as naked as you were was because of the breakfast you were both eating. He’d not long returned with the food and coffees for you both from the bakery down the street after the two of you had enjoyed a lazy morning bed. You'd fallen back asleep and the breakfast was a welcome surprise.

What had also been a pleasant surprise was the bouquet of red roses that had turned up at your door the day before his arrival in town, Valentine's Day, with a card attached that simply said: “Just because.” You hadn’t questioned him on them. Just breathed in the aroma of the fresh flowers before finding something to put them in. Then spent the day working from home admiring the display out of the corner of your eye

You glanced up shyly from your sandwich as Frankie’s gaze on you grew more intense. 

“What?” you asked, feeling the heat creeping up your skin.

He leaned forward and brushed his thumb over your bottom lip before pressing his own to yours. He pulled back, smiling. “Nothing, I just can’t take my eyes off of you.”

You feigned indifference to mask the effect his words had on you, trying to make light of it.  Placing your now empty plate on the bedside table you looked back to Frankie, laid out on the bed next to you. His arm was folded under his head and you could see the bottom half of his tattoo poking out from under his shirt sleeves. The lines of which you had become very familiar with over the past months.

Shuffling over you straddled his hips, your knees nestled on either side as your hands pushed up his shirt to pepper kisses over his chest. With little fight, it wasn't long until his shirt was up and over his head and flung to the floor. He buckled his hips up and there was no missing the small "mm" that escaped from his lips. 

“Mav,” he breathed as his hands pulled you down to crash his lips against yours.

His kiss was a sudden rush, igniting butterflies in your chest. Your lips parted instinctively, and the soft touch of his tongue against yours sent shivers down your spine. In that moment, all resistance melted away as he gently guided you onto your back, his weight settling above you.

“Thank you for the flowers,” you murmured quietly as he trailed your jaw with kisses.

You could feel the smirk forming as he continued his trail to your ear where he nipped your ear, “No clue what you're talking about.”

5. A Wedding

You weren't sure when you both started relying on phone calls rather than texting one another. But it had become commonplace for either of you to carry out everyday tasks with the other's voice in your ear, chatting about any and everything.

It was during one of those calls that Frankie had asked if you would be his plus one. Get out of town for the weekend, free drink, free food, good company and two nights in a swanky hotel he'd jokingly said he had no business staying in, and maybe your presence alongside him might bump up his status allowing him to get away with staying.

You don't know what made you say yes - but you did.

You'd danced, flirted, enjoyed one another's presence and finally met the elusive men that formed the operative group Frankie was a part of.

“So,” you grinned over the glass of wine in your hands, “you're all real then.”

“Yes ma'am,” Will replied from across the table, tipping his drink to you.

“For a while here Francisco,” you said his name slowly and deliberately, savoring the way it rolled off of your tongue. You'd noticed that each time you called him by his full name, he'd let out a slight smile at the corner of his lips, “had me believing that his whole pilot thing was some elaborate ruse.”

Frankie chuckled, taking a sip of his own drink. “I'm not that good of a liar,” he said with a wink. You knew he was telling the truth about being a pilot; after all, the private tour of the barracks he'd given you shortly after you met cleared that suspicion.

You shook your head smiling, “No, you're not.”

Santiago smiled widely as he gave Frankie a friendly pat on the back, “She's a catch, Frankie.”

Frankie held his hand out to you, beckoning you sincerely. “C'mon Mav, come dance with me.”

So you allowed him to lead you out to the dancefloor, it was a slow song that the two of you swayed along to. His hips pressed against yours, his hands at your waist, yours around your neck.

As the song ended, Frankie didn't release you from his hold. Instead, he dipped his head down, his lips brushing against your ear. “You look stunning tonight,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “Thank you for coming with me.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, his words sending a shiver down your spine. “You don't look too bad yourself,” you replied, a hint of teasing in your voice. “and you're welcome.”

Amidst the laughter and the champagne toasts, you both found yourselves watching the newlyweds with a strange sense of longing, though neither of you mentioned it to the other. Choosing instead to brush it off as nothing more than a fleeting emotion, but it lingered, nagging at you both for the remainder of the weekend.

The One Night.

He never came into town on a weekday, it was always between a Friday and the weekend. That should have been your first indication that something was up. He also hadn’t used the ridiculous nickname he’d bestowed on you, Maverick, that outwardly you voiced your displeasure at but inwardly you had grown quite fond of it. 

The other bigger tell that something was going on was the fact that he hadn’t kissed you. He’d kissed your forehead when he’d walked through the door, hugged you a little longer once he made it through the threshold and was now sat as far as possible at the other end of your sofa.

It was just a year shy of the night the two of you had first met.

Your relationship had defied conventional labels, existing in the spaces between dates and casual encounters. Though words had never been exchanged, the unspoken understanding between you both was a bond that had grown stronger over the last year. But with the way he was acting, you were convinced this was it. That this was him telling you that he'd met someone.

So when the words, “I'm being stationed in Colorado next month.” came out of his mouth, he'd had to ask if you'd heard him because you were still processing that there wasn't another person. 

“You're...what?” you finally managed to stammer, looking at Frankie, his eyes filled with a complex mixture of excitement, fear, and uncertainty.

“I've been reassigned to a new base in Colorado,” he repeated, his voice firm but his eyes soft, searching your face for a reaction, “but I... I don't want to go without talking to you about it.”

You blinked at him, your mind still reeling, the weight of what he was saying sinking in slowly. This was more than just a fling. It was more than just a casual thing between two consenting adults. This was real, and the very real possibility of losing him was hitting you like a sledgehammer.

“You want to talk about it?” you asked, your voice trembling, tears threatening to spill over. “What is there to talk about? You're leaving.”

Frankie's face fell, and he moved closer, reaching out to take your hand. “It's not that simple, and I know you know that.”

“Know what?”

Removing his hat and tossing it onto the coffee table, he ran his hand through his hair with a frustrated sigh. His gaze fixed on you with a mixture of exasperation and affection. “Come on Mav, I know you're not this obtuse,” he stated with a playful grin, as if the answer to the unspoken question was written across your face.

You swallowed hard, “Frankie, I–” you attempted to find the words as your brain struggled to catch up. 

“Look, whatever this is,” he didn't wait for you to find your voice, “I'm not ready to walk away, at least not without at least asking you first,” you watched his shoulders raise in a deep sigh as it let it go slowly, “will you come with me? To Colorado, will you come with me?”

The air was sucked out of your lungs and the room was filled with silence, your mind racing as you processed what he was saying. It was true, the two of you had become more than just a fling, but this was big. This was a life-altering decision.

You stared at him, disbelief written all over your face. “Come with you? To Colorado? Frankie, I have a life here. A job, friends, family.”

“I know,” he said, his voice cracking, “I know it's a lot to ask, but I can't imagine being there without you. I, I can't imagine my life without you.”

The tears were flowing now, and you were unable to stop them. A year of emotions, a year of denying what you felt, what you wanted, was crashing down around you, and there was no escaping it.

“You're asking me to give up everything,” you said, your voice filled with doubt. “You're asking me to take a huge risk.”

Frankie wiped away your tears with his thumb, “I'm asking you to decide if this is something you want, if you're willing to take a chance on me, on us… me.” he took in a deep breath, “But if you're feeling anything like I do about you, then you know that I'm serious about this, about us.”

When you didn't respond he sighed, “Look, I'm going to go and let you think about this. I'm not leaving for another month. If you don't want to come, then–” he drifted off, he hadn't really contemplated the possibility of you saying no, “then it's been an amazing year and–” his voice caught in his throat, “and I think I can be happy with that.”

He leaned in and kissed you. It was a deep embrace, his lips lingering on yours. His stubble gently scratched your face as if it were the last time he would feel you this close to him. He lingered for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he took in a deep breath before he stood and left your apartment.

You sat in the silence of your living room, the click of the front door an echo as you processed what had just happened. 

Frankie was leaving for Colorado in a month.

Frankie had asked you to move to Colorado.

Frankie loved you?

You looked at the coffee table, Frankie's hat was still there where he'd left it.

You snatched the hat from the table and grabbed your keys before sprinting to the door. With no time for an elevator, you took off down the four flights of stairs. When you reached the lobby, it was empty. 

You opened the door to your apartment building and frantically scanned the street, looking for Frankie. There he was, standing beside his truck down the street, his hand in his pocket for his truck keys. You watched him run a hand through his hair and curse when he realized he didn't have his cap. You didn't waste any time as you watched him fish his keys out of his jacket and unlocked the door of his truck.

“Frankie!” you shouted, he looked up startled, his hand on the door handle.

You continued to run towards him, your heart pounding in your chest. When you finally reached him, you practically collided into his chest, wrapping your arms tightly around him. He stumbled back a few steps, but quickly regained his footing and returned the embrace.

You were talking into Frankie's chest, a rapid, breathless spill of words that tumbled out in a rush. He couldn't make out what you were saying, but he held you close, his arms strong and reassuring around you.

“Mav,” he said gently, trying to calm you down. “I can't understand what you're saying. Please, slow down.”

You stepped back, your eyes wide and filled with a mixture of fear and determination. You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

“Frankie,” you said, your voice trembling. “I'll go with you. Wherever it is, I'll go with you,” you said with more conviction to your voice. “I don't know how this is all going to work and logistics,” You said with a small laugh, “but I do know,” you took in a deep breath, “I love you and I'm not okay with the idea of this between us just ending here.”

“That's all I need to hear,” He dropped his forehead to yours, there was no missing the smile that lit up his face, “I love you too Mav.”

He slipped one hand around your waist as he softly thumbed your lips with his other, before leaning in to kiss you. The kiss was sweet at first, but soon turned into something more. Something hungry, something desperate to make up for the both of you failing to acknowledge what had been growing between you for so long.

“Do you have to be back on base tonight?” you asked breathless.

He shook his head, letting out a laugh. “I took a couple days off,” he admitted with a shy smile. “I wasn't sure how this was going to play out—it was either ending in your bed together or drinking beer in mine alone.”

“I think I have a couple of sick days I can cash in if you still want to finish this in bed? I mean, I have beer too.”

Frankie chuckled, “I'd like that,” he leant down to place another kiss to your lips, the admittance of your feelings for one another giving him no restrictions in letting you know how he really felt. “I think we have some catching up to do,” he said softly

You nodded, smiling through the tears that still lingered. “Yeah, we do,” you murmured, and hand in hand, the two of you headed back to your apartment.

[aurora-starwars]

Being The Daughter Of The Winged Sky People And Making A Date With Neteyam and Lo’ak Hcs

Part two to Being The Daughter Of The Winged Sky People And Winking At Neteyam and Lo’ak Hcs

Pairing: Lo’ak x fem!reader, Neteyam x fem!reader (separate)

Warnings: none <3

A/n: Not a massive fan of this one either, but I have written it! Please enjoy! <33333

Masterlist

Neteyam:

Neteyam was overjoyed when he learned that [Name] was going to show him and his siblings around.

The winged girl made up many of the sky people living on the floating islands who had grown wings

Neteyam found it more than impressive

Neteyam found a certain beauty in the wings

Not only the wings, but [Name]

Neteyam could only describe her as glowing as she stood in front of his view of the sun

She smiled at his siblings before lingering on him a little longer

Neteyam could feel his stomach flip and a bright smile adorned his face

Kiri could only elbow him at his obvious reactions, she smirked to herself, shaking her head

Neteyam followed her blindly as she lead them around the small village

the sky people had seemed to have adopted few of the na’vi architecture and based a lot of their functionality off of what they had learned from the neighbouring clans

hammocks strung between branches of large trees

the people of the sky people clan seemed to all sleep in these hammocks the same way the na’vi would

Neteyam watched [Name] point to where they would rest as a family

Neteyam looked at her with absolute awe

she really was the most gorgeous thing he had ever seen

as she went to walk off, letting them get settled, Neteyam stopped her

Neteyam wasn’t sure what he was doing but something called from inside him

so he steeled himself and he committed,

“I’m Neteyam,” He said moving to shake her hand, he knew this to be a sky people custom.

“And I’m [Name],” [Name] smiled, shaking his hand. “But you knew that, what can I help you with?”

Neteyam took a deep breath before saying, “I was wondering if you wanted to hangout sometime?”

[Name] giggled, she looked up at him smiling. “I would love that, Neteyam.”

She looked away for a moment before seemingly changing her mind, turning back to quickly kiss him on the cheek

as she began to run off,

a run that quickly turned into flight,

Neteyam watched her with a love sick smile, his heart racing once again

he had just landed a date

Lo’ak:

Lo’ak always thought of himself of something of a ladies man

despite having no ladies, he sure had the confidence that he could pull any

but the moment [Name] came out of the sky like a seed of Eywa,

his faux confidence was out the window, revealing a more genuine Lo’ak

days after he met her, he was still reeling

he was giddy and waiting in anticipation for the next time he would meet [Name]

just when it seemed unlikely that he would see [Name], is when she would most often show up

she swooped down from a high branch, landing right next to him

Lo’ak almost physically jumped before he tried his best to prepare himself

[Name] looked up to him with a smirk,

“Hey, Lo’ak.” It had been the first time the spoke outside of pleasantries and introductions

and to say that Lo’ak was over the moon to have [Name] approach him was an understatement

Lo’ak took a moment to respond, not believing what was happening

“Hey, [Name]. How can I help you?” Lo’ak tried to act casual, as if he felt at all casual.

“It’s nothing much, just was wondering if you wanted to hang out, or get to know each other?” [Name] spoke at first with confidence, but as she neared the end of her sentence, her confidence wained.

“I want to get to know your family since you are staying and so we should hang out!” She added, seemingly needing to tack the last sentence on as a cushion to fall on.

“We can absolutely hangout, friends or not,” Lo’ak smiled, resting his hand comfortably on [Name]’s shoulder

[Name] only smiled shyly, hiding her face as she nodded softly

she didn’t hang around long after, taking flight almost immediately

Lo’ak wasn’t really sure if he had gotten the date or if she did

either way, he was smiling like an skxawng

A/n: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! <33333

Master-list

Tag list: @korizzybee @lwesodra @nyotamalfoy

[lavendertales]

Hello my love! I was wondering if you could write something angsty about Din Djarin. He and the reader are in this “will they or won’t they” type of situation, anytime they get a little too close or too deep in something emotional Din just pushes the reader away cause he can’t expresses his feelings well? It could end in fluff or angst its up to you! Thanks babes

not sure if it comes across as angsty but I do hope you like this fluffy piece, love❤️

tales of the heart—Din Djarin x gn!reader

word count: 833

Joining Din on his missions carried no expectations from either side. You simply provided him with medical assistance when needed and tended to the ship while he was gone and nothing else.

But several situations arose where you truly believed something might happen between you and Din.

You’ve grown close over the course of several months; that much was to be expected. And he had grown very fond and protective of you, but spending so much time with him began to stir a craving deep within you, one you hadn’t really anticipated.

Each touch of his, while innocent, set your skin on fire; each moment spend in proximity to him, pure torture. Even his voice, velvet-like and tender yet raspy, caused your heart to tremble and your body to almost spasm out of control. But you realized that such interactions might be the most you’ll ever get out of your relationship with Din, so you settled with those. Always around you, yet never enough.

One evening, after you made soup for the two of you, a big thunderstorm began. You weren’t a fan of those, and the loud thunders only made you nervous. But Din took notice and instantly wrapped his arms around you, holding you close to him. He didn’t ask you anything, but simply held you. You knew in that moment you were in love with him. But how could you ever let him know that? He was a Mandalorian, a sworn soldier that didn’t care for silly matters of the heart.

But then he brought you even closer to him and removed his chest plate so you’ll have a more comfortable place to rest. Bewildered, you searched for his eyes underneath the helmet, beyond touched.

“Din…”

You weren’t even sure where you were going with that. All you knew is that you needed him to know how you felt, even if it wasn’t mutual. Gods, you were so close to him that if the helmet wouldn’t have been in the way, you would’ve probably felt his warm breath on your lips. The realization made you delirious.

“Din, I—“

“We should… get some sleep. It’s getting late.”

The way he immediately backed away stung and ached, but it wasn’t within reason. He was probably unaccustomed to having people so close to him until you came along. And now even you were under a question mark.

Instances of the same sort kept happening; holding you too close to him seemed to be triggering Din’s fight or flight, in which he chose the latter. He fled from your touch with every chance he got, and the sting you felt turned into a full on bleeding wound. You feared you may have overstepped some boundaries and thus made Din uncomfortable. That must be why he was pushing you away.

You had to settle this before he’d grow sick of you and throw you off the ship.

“Din? Can I ask you something?”

He didn’t answer verbally, but rather with a simple nod of the head. With a knot in your throat, you went on.

“Why are you avoiding me?” you asked, voice already shaky. “It seems you go out of your way to avoid any physical contact with me, even eye contact. You don’t even look at me. Have I done something wrong? Said something?”

Din shook his head almost violently so. “No, no you didn’t.”

“Then what is it? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect anything… personal. I just… I like being with you.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I feel safe with you, and… I like you. I’m… fond of you.”

Underneath the helmet, Din blinked several times, his lungs nearly running out of air.

“I don’t understand,” he confessed.

“What?”

“How you can be… fond of me. You don’t even see me.”

“I don’t need to see you.”

He’s never heard such sweet words from anyone, let alone from someone as wonderful as you.

“It wasn’t something you did. Or said,” he confessed. “It’s me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not skilled with words. They often fail me, especially since I’ve met you. You’re… very kind and lovely, and… I’m afraid I might be… too fond of you.”

Eyes wide in disbelief, you stared at him for what felt like an eternity.

“I am sworn to the Creed,” he continued. “I only know of loyalty and weapons, making my way through the galaxy. It’s been lonesome, I must admit. But… with you, it is less so. If you’ll have me… I would pledge my loyalty to you until our time in this galaxy runs out.”

Mouth ajar, you kept staring at him in great shock. You didn’t know what else to do.

“Words fail you?” you managed to ask. “What—that’s your idea of not being good? What would it sound like if you think you’d be good?”

Din chuckled, visibly more at ease. “I meant it.”

“So did I. Then… you don’t have to avoid me anymore.”

“Definitely not.”

[ghostclangen]

Marshlily’s head swims as she stares at the scene in front of her. She’s aware, dimly, of what’s going on—the blood spilling from Hornetstar’s torn throat, Fireflash’s chest heaving with grief—but her brain refuses to process it, as if there’s a layer of fog between her eyes and her head. Her body knows, though. Her stomach clenches with disgust and worry, and her breath is shaky.

“I’m sorry,” Fireflash whimpers, though whether it’s to her or to Hornetstar alone, she’s not sure. “I’m so sorry.”

Marshlily drifts in and out of awareness, her brain having to re-notice the situation every few moments, as if it’s spitting the knowledge back out over and over. Hornetstar is spasming on the ground now. There’s no light in her eyes. Marshlily had blacked out when she herself took one of Hornetstar's lives, and only now does she come to realize how merciful that was. 

She’s unsure how long it takes, but at some point, Hornetstar opens her eyes again, as if life has been physically breathed into her lungs. They look different, though. There’s no warmth behind them; instead, it’s a heat, something akin to fire, if fire could feel frantic. Marshlily’s ears ring with the words of the voice from the dream she had moons and moons ago: Hornetstar’s not here. As much as she tried to deny it, she always knew the meaning of it, and here it is, right in front of her. There’s nothing left in Hornetstar’s eyes but an animalistic rage.

Still, when Fireflash unsheaths his claws again, she calls out, almost involuntarily: “Fireflash, stop! She only has one life left.” 

Fireflash doesn’t look at her, still braced in anticipation of Hornetstar’s claws on his flanks. “We need to do this,” he says tersely. “Look at her.”

“But she’s not always like this!” Marshlily protests. “And- and what if she does get through it? We can’t just give up on her!”

“I don’t want to do it either,” Fireflash says, backing away from Hornetstar as she rises unsteadily to her feet, “but I have to, okay?” His voice cracks on the last word.

“Look, I’ll- I’ll figure something out. I’ll go to the Moongem. I’ll consult with StarClan.” 

“She’s dangerous now,” Fireflash points out, then growls lowly at Hornetstar as she approaches on unsteady feet. 

“I’ll get poppy seeds,” Marshlily says. “Our whole stash. Just get her to eat them.” 

“Marshlily, I love you, but you’re crazy.”

“Don’t you want to help her!?”

“Of course I do!” Fireflash shouts, turning sharply to face her. There isn’t anger in his eyes, though, not really; mostly, it’s a mix of fear and crushing grief. “But she’s right. I have to do this.”

Marshlily gives him a stern look, falling silent for a few moments. Then, she says, “Can you please just trust me? I won’t be long.”

The corner of Fireflash’s mouth twitches, and he turns back to Hornetstar, who thankfully is still too unsteady on her feet to be too much of a danger from so far away. “Just- just get the seeds. Right now.”

Marshlily nods. “And … and if something happens while I’m not gone …”

Fireflash glances back at her, shooting her a meaningful look, and nods. “Right. I will.”

Marshlily is only dimly aware of the shards of glowing crystal that dig into her pawpads as she runs down the path toward the Moongem. She’d made sure Hornetstar was subdued by a large dose of poppy seeds before she left, having practically shoved them down her throat, but she still has to hurry. 

Although GhostClan’s camp isn’t too terribly far from the Moongem—it’s the same cave, after all, and the mountain is only has so much hollow space—it still feels like an eon to get there. Somehow, though, she does, and finally, Marshlily comes to a halt in front of the giant blue crystal. She takes a moment to brace herself, but only a moment; she doesn’t have time to waste. Heart pounding, she settles down next to the Moongem and presses her nose to it.

“You have to help me,” Marshlily says, swinging around to look at Nettledawn, desperation in her eyes. “Hornetstar is sick. She killed Charredtail.”

She’s yowling before she even opens her eyes into Silverpelt. “Nettledawn!” she cries. “Nettledawn, we need your help! Please!”

Trembling, she waits, claws digging into the ground with impatience. It’s only when she hears Nettledawn’s voice from behind her that she allows herself to relax the tiniest bit. “Marshlily? What’s going on?”

Nettledawn’s eyes fall into a compassionate frown. “Oh, not Charredtail …”

“We’ll have time to grieve later. I need you to help me.”

“Look, I know some about Waterfur, but-”

“Why did I live when so many others didn’t?” Marshlily demands. “What do I have that they didn’t?”

Acquiescing, Nettledawn sits down and turns her head to one side, thinking. “What was it like, breaking free of the curse?”

“I- I was- I was in the Dark Forest,” Marshlily says. “Waterfur was screaming in my head, worse than ever, and I was coughing up blood. But then I heard my Clanmates’ voices calling for me.”

Nettledawn’s tail swishes anxiously from side to side as she thinks. “What then?”

“I followed their voices,” Marshlily says softly. “They lead me to a wall of fog. I jumped through, and … I woke up.”

With a sharp shake of her head, Nettledawn squeezes her eyes shut tight and says, “I don’t … The rest had clanmates, too …”

“That’s exactly why I don’t know!” Marshlily snaps, though she’s not truly frustrated with her. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be. I just don’t understand.” After a second of thought, she asks, “Which clanmates did you hear?”

“I … I heard Hornetstar.” Marshlily’s own voice as she says her name; she forces herself not to cry as she continues, “And Celebi, and Crageagle, and … and Charredtail.”

“You’re close with them?”

Marshlily nods. “They’re my closest friends. I’d be lost without them.”

Nettledawn thinks for a few moments before her eyes widen again, not with shock but with the excitement of discovery. “Did Wolfstrike and the others have any close friends?”

“I suppose I am pretty well-liked …”

“I …” Marshlily tries desperately to recall, dragging her brain through the fog that surrounds it. “I think- I think they mostly kept to themselves. They didn’t have mates or anything, or anyone I’d call their best friend, really.”

“I think that’s it, Nettledawn says. “You have bonds, connections. Plenty of them. Right?”

“Well, maybe that’s it.”

Marshlily nods as she realizes what Nettledawn is saying. “I wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint it if there weren’t so many voices… I would never have found the way back.”

“So, then …”

“They died,” Marshlily says, “because they were alone.”

“Well … I can’t say for sure. It’s a hypothesis.”

“I’ll take a hypothesis,” Marshlily says, then nods sharply, trembling with renewed energy. “Look, I gotta get back. Just look out for us, okay?”

“Good luck,” Nettledawn says, worry in her voice.

“Thanks. We’ll need it.”

Her clanmates’ eyes fix on her as Marshlily runs across camp toward the leader’s den, leaving small spots of blood on the stony ground beneath her paws. Paying them no mind, she bursts into the small niche, panting with exertion. To her relief, Hornetstar is still passed out on the ground—though not peacefully, from the looks of it; even in her sleep, she spasms and growls. Fireflash stands over her, eyes fixed on her flailing body. Charredtail’s body has been taken away somewhere, though his blood still lingers on the ground. 

“Fireflash,” Marshlily calls softly, and the other cat turns and lifts his head. “Is she okay? Did anything happen?”

Fireflash turns back to Hornetstar and shakes his head again. “She’s been sleeping since you left.”

Marshlily breathes a deep sigh of relief. “Okay, good. Um, I think I know what’s going on.”

Fireflash stretches, his whole body looking exhausted, and pads over to her. “Did StarClan say something?”

“Nettledawn helped me figure it out, we think,” Marshlily says with a nod. “Wolfstrike, Scratchpounce, and Stormfall were all sorta loners, right?”

Fireflash cocks his head to the side to think for a moment, then nods. “Right.”

“But people like me,” Marshlily continues. “When I broke free of the curse, I was in the Dark Forest, but my friends’ voices lead me out. Except it took time to figure out where they were coming from, right? I needed a lot of help.”

Just like Nettledawn had, Fireflash opens his eyes wide, hope glimmering in them. “So you’re saying she’ll survive if she has enough cats that love her?”

“Well, it’s technically only a hypothesis,” Marshlily admits. “But it’s the only thing we could think of. And Hornetstar has a lot of people who love her, too. Me, you, Crageagle …”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Fireflash says, turning his head back to Hornetstar. “So, what are we supposed to do about it?”

Marshlily falters, worriedness sinking in again. “I didn’t really come up with a plan,” she says. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do besides wait and see.”

Fireflash swallows with apprehension. “Right. I guess … Can you wait with me?”

Marshlily huffs a humorless laugh. “You thought I’d leave her side?”

With an equally humorless smile, Fireflash shakes his head. Then, with a deep, anxious sigh, he buries his face into Marshlily’s plush fur.